Burning.
Fire.
Fire that must be straight from the pits of Hell the missionaries warned me about. That’s what I feel between my legs and in my asshole right now. Punishment for how this child was conceived, even though it happened against my will.
I can almost hear Mrs. Overstreet now.The lust of men’sflesh, Mara, wouldn’t exist if not for the wiles of women. Mind yourself in all ways so as not to tempt them.
But…
But it wasn’t my fault!I scream back to her in my head. It wasn’t my damn fault! All my bottled emotions erupt in a wail of anguish, one that has the bedroom door banging open again as Warren almost runs to my side. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“Warren...” Mrs. Smith fusses, but he refuses to be shooed away again.
He locks eyes with me as he grabs my hand, not even wincing when I grip it too tightly. “I’m not leaving. Not again. No wife of mine is going to go through this alone.”
Those words…
Damn those words for the way they wrap around my heart and soothe the pain for a few brief seconds.
“You Shay boys,” the doctor’s wife tsks in exasperation. “But the babe is crowning now. I can see the head.”
The curse of Eve, Mara,the voice whispers again.Punishment for seducing men and driving them to lust.
It wasn’t my fault.
It hurts so bad, but that’s the price all women must pay. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I roughly quote scripture to the ceiling by force of habit. “Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy...thy sorrow and thy conception.” Breathe. “In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children,” I sob, leaving off the rest of it as Jolene urges me to keep my legs back.
Thy desire shall be to thy husband. He shall rule over thee.
I have a husband even though I don’t want one, but there’s no desire within me to give to him even if I were able to.
Through clenched teeth, I quote another verse withpanting breaths. “For I the Lord thy God am a...a jealous God. Visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third...and fourth...generation.” Ready or not, this child is about to be born into this ugly world of mine. But is its little soul already damned because of me? Another sharp cry leaves me at the unfairness of it all. Would we not have found peace even in death?
“No, Mara. No.” Warren’s rough voice breaks through the pain as he wipes my sweaty hair back with his free hand. “This baby is innocent, and so are you. I know the Bible, too, and you forgot about this one—thesoulthat sinneth, it shall die. The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father. Not you, Mara, and not this child. That’s not how it works.”
“Do you promise?” My voice wobbles as I search his gaze in desperation and let him thumb away the mix of sweat and tears on my cheeks. I want so badly to believe him, but I don’t trust him.
Before he can answer, cold hands reach between my legs again to change out the hot cloths. “Oh, dear...Beatrice isn’t back yet and these pillows aren’t keeping you high enough. Warren, I need you to sit behind her. Don’t push on her, just let her lean on you for support. Jolene, hold her leg higher.”
I’m lifted up and then come back to rest on a firm chest. His chest. My…my husband’s. If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d stiffen at the contact, but at this very moment, it’s a reluctant comfort. “I swear to you,” he murmurs in answer as he holds my hair back. “I swear.”
And with my body and Mrs. Smith demanding I push, I dig my nails into his legs and obey. I push until dark spots float across my eyes as the burning grows more intense. I push until I suddenly feel the slightest bit of relief when someone cries, “The head’s out!”
Pain and joy taint my sob as I throw my head to the sideof Warren’s chest for a short breath. “Almost, Mara. You’re doing so good,” he soothes. “Keep breathing.”
Dragging the energy from the depths of my depleted reserve, I keep pushing until I feel my baby slip out of me in a rush of fluids.
“It’s a girl!” Jolene exclaims.
“You did it, Mara.” Warren gently dabs at my tears and sweat with a cloth. “You did it.” His gaze holds me captive as the sweet cry of a newborn babe fills the air, but when a bundle is placed against my chest, I only care about one thing.
“My little girl,” I sob. My little angel whose soul is too innocent to bear the sins of her father and mother. Unable to stop myself, I open the blanket to count her fingers and toes. Ten red toes on two wrinkly feet. And her fingers? Five chubby ones on her right, and five on her?—
Oh, no.
I bite my lip to silence my cry of anguish.
There’s a birthmark on her left hand.
