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“Is there anything to eat?” I wonder as we make it to the kitchen. It’s chilly in the house, with our power skipping out every couple of days or so.
“I've put something together for us. It's not much, but it’s something.” The Alliance rations, little more than organized starvation, keep us just barely ticking as winter takes over Armstrong. Isa’s been particularly resilient at finding food since the frost took over her garden.
With my mother sicker than ever, and my ever-present belly slowing me down more every day, she’s taken on quite a load. Some days, she comes in shaking with cold, clutching a single can of tinned vegetables like it's a prize pig. I know not to ask where she came by it, she’d never tell me even if I did. But the toll the war takes drags on us more and more each day.
Isa takes me to the table where she has laid out a small meal. Her canned munga, stored and preserved from harvest, has become our daily lifeline. She’s pulled out a few things she’s been saving, like a jar of preserved fruit and some pickled shallots.
“Why, this is a real feast!” I declare in surprise. It isn’t much, but in relation to our means, it feels extravagant. “Can we manage all this, you think?”
“We have to have a Christmas meal.”
I turn to face her, eyes wide as it dawns on me. “That’s right. It’s Christmas.”
I had honestly forgotten. I suppose in my current state, I had too many other things on my mind.
Suddenly filled with longing as I remember past Christmases, I look at the table again, taking it all in. Along with the last of the sheebang bread, I see something we haven't had in months.
“Where did you get them?”
“Farmer, outside Sintaca, owed me a favor for helping him with the harvest last year. He offered me some extra work readying his fields this spring, too. He promises to pay in eggs as long as I come every day.”
“How will you manage that on top of all the other things you do?” She’s been looking more tired every day, with bags under her eyes from double shifts at the canteen. I wish I could do more to help us, but the pregnancy has me falling asleep mid-task as it is. The hunger doesn't help things, either.
“Don’t worry about that. Just eat. Feed that baby. And merry Christmas, Sophia.”
I smile sadly. It doesn’t feel much like Christmas, with Mama too sick to even come to the table these days and Drex not here. But I have Isa, and maybe that’s enough. “Merry Christmas, Isa,” I say, reaching out a hand to squeeze her arm.
She squeezes back, and I can feel the tears welling in my eyes. She laughs, but it’s thick and choked with emotion. “Eat! Eat, don’t let it go to waste!”
I can't argue anymore. The delicious eggs, hard-boiled and steaming on the plate lure my aching belly towards them. Sitting down, I cut into mine, filling with momentary joy as the bright yellow inside it pokes through.
“I can’t remember my last egg,” I confess through a mouthful of food. Isa devours half of hers quickly before moving the rest onto my plate. I’ve been fighting her on this for days now. “You need to eat, too.”
“It's for the baby,” she insists. The constant rumble in my tummy takes over, snatching the egg and downing it quickly. Weeks with only rations, and I've grown almost used to the nagging ache, the lightheadedness. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be able to get through the day.
“Can you start the tea?” I ask her, holding my tummy and hoping like hell the food will stay down this time.
“Of course,” she replies, turning to the cabinet and grabbing the fresh ground roots of the maybarre plant for Mama’s tea.
Since the Alliance broke the line, there’s been a bigger shortage of most of her medicines than ever. We’ve been creative, turning to herbal remedies for her aches, but the look that grows on her face every day signals the pain she’s in.
With less food and my condition, I can do little more than make her comfortable. Sometimes, just sitting in her room with her watching Holo-vision seems to cheer her. It's a poor substitute for medical care, but it's all we can do right now.
Walking into her room, she looks frail. She’s been sleeping quite a lot more, too. “Mama, we’ve got to get you to eat.” Presenting the egg with a smile, I hope, like I do every day, to convince her to swallow something.
We sit her up in her bed, nudging the egg in her direction, but she looks away out the window. Her forehead crinkles, telling us she’s in a great deal of pain.
“Mama, will you have some tea?” I plead, pressing the cup to her lips. After a moment she opens, taking in a little at a time. Her brows relax, if only slightly.
For a second, she reaches out from under the blanket, stroking my belly. It’s a strange comfort, I’ll admit, when the baby kicks at the pressure of her touch.
“Just let me sleep,” she begs through a strained breath. It’s all I can give her. Tucking the blankets under her chin, we step back into the living room.
“I’m really worried. She’s hardly spoken in days. If we could just find something for the pain, maybe she would eat.”
Isa’s face turns guilty. “My connection at the docks left Armstrong last week.” Her shoulders drop. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Isa, you’ve done so much for us. We wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
