Ione’s face falls.
“No,” she says. Birdie knows this. She also knows the chances of her surviving this are virtually nothing if they don’t get out now. “You’re gonna be okay, Birdie.”
“You don’t know that,” Birdie says through clenched teeth.
The idea that her own death is imminent sweeps over her like a curtain falling prematurely on an actor. She’s not ready. She’s not done. This isn’t how things were supposed to go.
For the first time since she was shot, Birdie allows herself to cry. A tear escapes and slides quickly down her cheek. Ione reaches for her hand.
“You’re going to get out of here,” she says. “I’m going to get you out of here. Whatever it takes.”
Birdie breathes rapidly, trying to imitate anything she’s ever seen about how women are supposed to breathe in labor, but it gives little relief. What a crock. The only thing that could make any of this bearable is an epidural. A needle straight into the center of her spine sounds heavenly right about now. The idea that it could inoculate her from the pain that she’s feeling is intoxicating though the thought is fantastical.
“I’m not going to make it out of here, Ione,” Birdie says as the contraction slows down.
“Yes, you are,” Ione is emphatic. She squeezes Birdie’s hand.
Birdie looks down at her friend’s knuckles, white in the moonlight. She notices there’s no wedding ring. Neither of them ever married.
“Do you have children?” Birdie asks.
“No,” Ione says.
Birdie didn’t think someone like Ione ever would. Even as far as they stretched from each other over the last seven years, she often thought of her. She pictured her, living her best life, and in Birdie’s imaginings, that never included children. Ione was destined for greatness. And for women, greatness required sacrifice. It wasn’t the same for men. They could have it all: the career, the family. But it was different for women. It was one or the other.
She wishes she had chosen differently. In this moment, when her child is about to come into the world, she feels regret. She hopes that the baby will be okay. She hopes that she will be okay. But there’s a part of her that acknowledges that this is not the life she ever wanted.
Another contraction seizes her. They’re coming closer together. She cries out and squeezes Ione’s hand.
She looks into her friend’s eyes. She wants to plead, as though Ione can fix this. As though she can erase everything that’s passed between them. She wants to beg her for forgiveness and apologize for how everything went so long ago. Scars fade but never disappear.
She allows the tears to come. She heaves, her breath quickening.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ione says. She rubs the back of Birdie’s hand.
It’s little comfort. Birdie knows she probably isn’t going to survive this.
“Hey,” Ione reaches up and turns Birdie’s chin to face her, the gesture at once tender and commanding. Birdie looks at her, tears fogging her vision. She swipes at her eyes with her good hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Birdie coughs through her tears.
“What? Why?” Ione is incredulous.
“For everything,” Birdie says. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” Ione says.
“How did you even know?” Birdie asks.
“The news.”
Birdie nods. Of course. The news. They had made the news. She laughs bitterly once more. Another contraction seizes her abdomen and she cries out, clutching it. The movement rattles her wounded shoulder, making the feeling that death is close by, clutching its black robe and ready to sweep Birdie into it so acute that she can’t think.
Ione clutches her hand, Birdie squeezing her friend’s knuckles so hard she feels and hears them pop inside her own. She grits her teeth, bearing down on her own molars with the pain. Suddenly, it passes. She breathes rapidly, soaking in the moment of reprieve, knowing that the next will come sooner than the last.
“Birdie?” Her name is a question. A summoning.
Birdie looks up at her friend.
“We have to get you out of here,” she says.
Birdie nods. And once again, she thinks she’s hallucinating because as her head bobs up and down, she can hear the rickety door creaking open once again.
IONE
“We have to get you out of here,” I say.
Birdie nods. And as she does, tears fill her eyes to the brim. Just then, the door creaks. At first, I think it’s a desert wind, sweeping through the compound, reminding us that the world is wild. That out here, nature rules. But when it doesn’t begin to swing back shut—when it hits the wall and footsteps follow it in—I know that we’re not alone. Not anymore.
“Birdie,” I whisper.
She nods again, ready for whatever I’m about to tell her, obviously hoping that it’s news of her salvation. I don’t bring such good tidings, though. But I can offer her the promise I made so long ago.
“I promised you a long time ago that I would always come back for you, and I’m here. We have to get out.”
Birdie nods, her eyes crinkling shut in pain. I look around the shelf that Birdie has leaned against, trying to figure out who’s in the studio with us. Through the shelving, I see a pair of boots, the leather glowing silver in the moonlight.
Tom.
Shit.
It’s my best estimation that Tom doesn’t think I’ve left the study. He probably thinks I’m still lying there, dried blood caked on my scalp, turning my blonde hair burgundy. I reach for the crown of my head and feel the knot there from the award that he bashed into my skull. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of confronting him. With the barrier of violence breached, all bets are off.
Blood thunders in my ears, making it almost impossible to hear his footfalls finding their way through the stacks of paintings. I think briefly about cutting to the chase, standing up and facing him once more. The thought emboldens me. A self-destructive streak running through me—the same streak that longs for and abhors the idea of its
