She’d questioned that decision during every contraction and nearly given in a dozen times. But now that the journey—harder, more exhausting, and more frightening than any she’d ever known—was finally over, she thanked God that she’d been able to deliver naturally. “Here,” she begged, reaching her arms out to hold the tiny bundle Brin had almost finished swaddling.
“Just a moment,” the Irishwoman said with a smile, tucking in the last bit of cloth before laying the baby against Neva’s chest. Her son—she had a son—took her nipple almost immediately.
And changed color just as quickly.
From brown to pink to yellow and back to brown, her boy’s skin tone altered—often unevenly—with each suck of his mouth, as if it were her milk affecting the changes, and not his heritage.
“Like a wee, breastfeeding kaleidoscope,” Brin whispered, then knelt to deal with the afterbirth. “Looks like you were wise to keep this to the two of us.”
Derek had offered to find a midwife, but Neva had worried the child’s blood would evidence itself in some alarming, unexplainable way. She wasn’t sure how she felt about being correct. “I’m glad you have some experience with delivery,” she told Brin.
“I’m the eldest in a big family, is all. How do you feel?”
Neva caressed her son’s head as it transitioned from stark white to jet black. She wouldn’t have chosen this for either of them, but his weight against her made it all feel ... right. Rearranged, but better for it. The void created inside her by birthing him, by ejecting a piece of herself, had been filled with a warm sense of completeness, a balm of happiness, solace, and ...
Love.
“I feel perfect,” she said truthfully.
“Good.” Brin eyed the mess on the floor. “I’ll get that later. I’m sure Derek’s anxious for news.”
Neva signaled her permission by closing her eyes. “I’ll be all right.”
Brin said something in reply, but Neva only heard “Be right back” before falling asleep.
IF ONLY.
Neva woke to an empty room, its bachelor’s furniture graying in the dim light of the early morning. At least she’d had the better dream last night, the bittersweet might-have-been—and not the nightmare that was closer to reality ...
On Brin’s third call to push, Neva did so with everything she had left, and her baby emerged into the Irishwoman’s waiting hands.
“Oh, dear God,” Brin whispered, setting the squalling little thing down as quickly as she could.
Neva shook her head, but the nightmare insisted on being a daydream, its images galloping gleefully through the ruts they’d worn in her mind ...
Her baby—if that was even the right word for it—had a mouth that continued to howl, yet no eyes, or nose, or limbs: just amorphous, pulsing flesh that wobbled like pudding with each cry. But only for a moment, until a river of blood burst from between Neva’s legs and swept the baby back, pinning it against the far wall, where the blob of corruption transformed first into Mr. DeBell’s face, then Augie’s, then—
“Neva?” asked Derek, saying her name as if repeating it. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head again, her vision clarifying on her brother, who stood by the door. “Yes. Sorry. Just the dreams again.”
He winced. “How’s your stomach?”
She put her hand on her midsection—her flat midsection. The pain was less today. “Better.”
“Good ... good.” His eyes wandered away from her and over the rest of the room. It must be strange for him to have her here. This was his home, a row house on the south side of Pullman Town. He was lucky to still have the lease. Despite several days of rioting and similar protests across the country—involving as many as a quarter of a million workers in twenty-seven states, proof that mobilizing a nation of laborers was possible—the federal troops President Cleveland had unleashed to get the trains running had won in the end, and the strike had been broken. Eugene Debs was in jail, and Pullman’s employees had been forced to accept his terms. Capital had triumphed.
For now.
“How is he?” asked Neva.
Derek knew whom she meant. “Eager to see you,” he said, hiding his reluctance well, but not well enough. “If you’re up to seeing him.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be. But I’d wait a day. Get some rest first.”
She didn’t need much convincing—she was still so tired. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow will be fine.” Seeing her eyelids sinking, Derek stood to leave. “Sleep well.”
If only.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING—EXACTLY one month since Augie had stepped from the Wheel—Neva was ready. She still hurt, aching in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, but the pain was bearable.
Time to get this over with.
Derek helped her down the front steps, a role reversal of the last moments at the Fair, when she and Brin had carried him clear of the blaze that had painted the White City red (and ultimately black, in an echo of how the Great Fire had ashed Chicago twenty years earlier). At the bottom, she withdrew her arm from his and tried a few paces on her own.
“Take it slow,” he said.
They eased down the block and then two streets further south, to a smaller row house Derek had known to be empty. The town seemed vacant too, but that was because everyone who’d stayed was back to work, laboring in the same immaculate shops for the same untenable wages.
Neva contemplated the steps up to the little house.
“I only have a few minutes,” Derek said. He’d reassumed his position as railcar designer—temporarily. He didn’t intend to stay on more than a few months. Just until they had things settled. Brin had offered to cover rent, but he refused to live among his compatriots without sharing in the consequences of the strike’s failure. At least he had work.
Neva gripped the stairs’ railing. “I won’t need long.”
Inside, the little house looked the same as it had during her visit last week: the walls unadorned, the furnishings sparse, the lighting poor.
But its occupant was
