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And then she pulls a baby out of the water, placing it on Indigo’s chest.
A full baby.
A minute later the baby cries. The midwives wait patiently, for what I don’t know, until I see one of them lifting a placenta out of the water, still attached to the baby by a springy umbilical cord. People swoop in to lift Indigo out of the tub, dry her off, and wrap her in blankets. They take her over to a low bed at the side of the tent, and she lies down gratefully with her new baby, the placenta sitting in a metal bowl beside the bed. It’s still attached to the baby. That’s it...birth on the commune.
The little kids run away, whooping and cheering, and the rest of the tent breaks out into applause. They keep cheering as they filter out, one by one, until finally we’re the only ones left with Rome’s dad and his stepmom.
And the new baby.
“A girl,” Indigo exclaims, after opening the swaddle around the baby long enough to take a quick peek. “I knew it!”
Rome’s father sits on the edge of the bed, smiling as he strokes the baby’s cheek. He looks absolutely elated, and increasingly I feel as if we’re witnessing a moment meant only for them.
“We should go,” I say quietly.
“Would you like to hold her?” Rome’s stepmother says. “Avery?”
I feel like refusing would be the rudest thing in the world. Like she’s spent all kinds of time baking an intricate dessert and pretending to be full would make me a complete bitch. I suddenly realize I’ve never actually held a baby.How can that be?
“Sure. Of course.” I step over to the bed and she carefully presents the new little bundle to me.
I thought I wouldn’t care. This isn’t my baby, and I’ll probably never see this baby again after we leave here. But something hitches in my chest and my eyes fill with tears. I had a baby brother, once. We buried him. I never got to hold him like this. I never got to hold him at all.
What’s the appropriate amount of time to stare at a newborn baby and trace her tiny features with a fingertip? I don’t know, but I do it longer than that. And then, reluctantly, I hand her off to Rome. I’m not surprised that Rome knows how to hold a baby. I’m only surprised at the softness in his face when he looks down at the new little life. He lost a baby brother, too. I still remember the flames outside my bedroom window, the way the sky lit up as the mansion next door burned and Rome’s mother screamed as someone restrained her from running back inside the fire to save her baby.
Rome blinks rapidly, his blue eyes glossy. The baby sighs, her little eyes slowly looking around the room.
And the world keeps going. It never, ever, stops.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ROME
We go to the after-birth celebration, avoiding offers of magic mushrooms, and gorge ourselves on commune food. There’s some kind of stew that’s fucking delicious and ten thousand corn muffins. Vegetables soaked in butter. The baby’s safe arrival is toasted and celebrated all morning and through the afternoon. The sun gets lower in the sky and both of us keep eating and people-watching until the choice is to either sleep or pass out on the spot where we sit.
Avery is quiet on the way back to our place, a low-slung house out beyond the yurts. I think the house was the original homestead here. The rest of the commune grew around it. Its best feature is how normal it is, except for all the glass. Glass windows. Glass ceilings. Whoever lived here wanted to be able to look at the outside world with all the beauty of the outside world looking back in. Back when it was built, there probably weren’t a ton of people wandering around outside. It’s a little like being in a fish tank, on display in every corner of every room. Even the bathroom is an exhibitionists dream complete with a rain shower and floor-to-ceiling glass, though thankfully the toilet is hidden away in a separate mud-brick alcove away from all the glass panels.
It’s loud outside, but peacefully so. Somebody is playing a guitar, and the sweet smell of weed wafts around as people laugh and talk.
We’re both tired. Avery disappears into the bathroom, water runs, and then I take my turn while she crawls into bed. When I get there she’s staring up at the ceiling. Glass. Open to the sky, but safe from the elements–and more importantly, the bugs. Those fuckers get pretty big out here.
“Is that your first sister?” Avery asks, lacing her fingers through mine after I’ve collapsed beside her on the soft bed.
I nod. “First sister. I’d say they kept going until they got a girl, but I’m pretty sure they’re just going to keep having babies regardless.”
“I had no idea your father was out here. Remarried. With a ton of kids. Whenever I imagined him, it was with your mom.”
Me too, I think to myself.
“He brought my mom down here after the fire,” I explain, my eyes firmly fixed on the sky above us. There is something incredible about watching the stars out here, far away from city lights. Just like last night, the sun slipped away slowly, then all at once, as if in the blink of an eye. Out here, the stars aren’t just pops of color against a midnight sky–no, the sky itselfismade of stars, a luminous blanket that drapes itself across the night.
“She’s not here anymore?” Avery asks gently.
Pain stabs into my chest as I think of my mother. She was beautiful, once. Smart and tenacious, she was the glue that held our family together.
Until she came unstuck herself.
Until the fire.
