Cries of Penance (27 page)

“But I have already stated my intentions. I am a Guardian.”

“I intend to retire. One hundred percent. My loyalty is solely to my family now.”

“Family.” She scoffs. “People like us cannot have families.”

“Yet you gave me your word and I fulfil ed my part.” If she hears the threat in my voice, she doesn’t comment on it. The remainder of the flight, al fourteen hours of it, we spend in silence. I’ve never been so happy for a plane to touch down.

We are met on the tarmac by her personal secretary and Zita.

She takes the dog, her voice changing immediately to Senator Abigail Wainwright-Ful er’s voice. “Baby! My beautiful! Did you miss Mama? Oh God, I missed Zita! No more business trips without my baby, I promise.”

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The little dog licks her face, happily, believing her promises with blind devotion.

* * * *

A mob of paparazzi witness our climbing into an SUV, they do not witness our smoke and mirrors exit just before our vehicle explodes, and our deaths are covered on the evening news. They are also not privy to Glorianna’s complete and utter emotional meltdown when she discovers her beloved Bolognese is missing.

With mascara-stained tears running down her face, she sobs. “Zita! Oh God, Zita! If anyone hurts you, they wil pray for death!” She turns to me, clutching my shirt. “Find my Zita. Please!”

She crumbles into an incapacitated bal of emotion. Fuck. Now what?

Indeed. What. Thinking fast I make phone cal s and create contingency plans on the fly. Several hours later, barely recovered, Glorianna takes me with her to the mid-range hotel where I am assured Garrett has been kept safe. I am not al owed to see him. Instead, we join a meeting already in progress, an update on the current level of threat.

An unidentified speaker is briefing the group. “Six assassinations have been reported and more than a dozen additional kidnappings.”

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As photos flash over the large screen, I hold my breath, hoping Celia and my children are not part of the official report.

“As much as I hate to have my fears confirmed, ladies and gentlemen, we are under attack. As of this moment we are at our highest level of alert, and we are at war.”

I back away, reining in my inner soldier that ral ies to the battle cry. I have to protect my children, my family. This is not cowardice. What of my duty?

Duty!

Damn it! Duty to whom?

Glorianna shakes my hand after shaking a dozen others. She could as easily be thanking me for my pledge to stay with the fight to the very end as passing me the room key for where Garrett is being kept. Our gazes col ide a final time, and al I see reflected in hers is regret. Her anger and sadness have been replaced by something colder and bitterer. “Have you ever felt the joy and peace that can only be found in unconditional love and devotion?”

My children’s faces al come to mind, as does Celia’s kneeled form at my feet.

I know it isn’t the answer she wants to hear because she’d rather believe such love isn’t possible but I whisper, “Yes,” just the same.

Her face starts to crumble but she reins in her emotion. “They took my dog.

My precious baby girl.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Protect those you love, my darling. They aren’t expendable.”

A woman enters the conference room, uninvited and is immediately surrounded, fear and suspicion creating chaos from nothing.

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“She’s fine,” I cal out, waving her toward me. “She’s with me.”

“Who is she?” Glorianna demands. “Why is she here?”

The young, dark-haired woman nervously approaches. “You cal ed My Darling Angels?”

“Yes. You received payment?”

She nods and reaches into her tote, I stil her hand. Turning to Glorianna, I stroke her cheek. “I know how important Zita was to you, and she wasn’t expendable either. And while I pray you recover her, I also hope you wil find room in your heart for a special boy that needs a home.”

As if on cue the woman lifts a smal puppy from her bag. He is a bal of black curls and wide dark eyes. “I’m sorry, we didn’t have any Bolognese available, but this Bolonka is very precious.”

He is smal enough he could fit into a tea cup.

“Oh! There’s been a mistake,” Glorianna argues, stepping back as if she’s been struck.

I lift the smal puppy to my shoulder. He barks and wags his tail. The other agents crowd closer, and it is evident that any distraction from the day’s worries is a welcome one.

“Does he have a name?” Glorianna asks, reaching tentatively to pet him.

“Mischa.”

I hand Glorianna the puppy. “Let him heal your heart while you continue your search for Zita.”

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“My baby girl is gone forever, you know, I know it. The damn bastards.” The puppy licks Glorianna’s cheek, and her countenance warms. “Aren’t you just the sweetest boy? Mischa. I’m your new mommy, and I wil never leave your side.”

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“When you realize how perfect everything is, you wil tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.”

Prince Gautama Siddharta, founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.

I breathe through breakfast, hiding the throbbing ache that has made my lower back its home, and every five minutes the contraction that reminds me I am in labor. I dole out cereal, pour on some of the milk I made from powder, and distribute spoons, each action measured. I cannot al ow the children to see my panic.

I pour myself a glass of juice and take it out to the courtyard. Looking up at the bril iant blue sky, I ask, “Is this your idea of a joke? I wanted a natural birth with a doula! I can’t do this by myself!”

What if something goes wrong during the birth? What if something happens to me and I can’t take care of the children? What if I die? God, we’re in a wilderness, the children could never find their way to safety alone!

“Auntie Ce?”

I turn to find Hektor, my constant shadow. Gripping my bel y and gritting my teeth behind a smile, I ask, “Is everything okay?”

He narrows his eyes, looking every inch his father. “The babies are coming, aren’t they?”

I shake my head. “I’m hoping it’s a false alarm. That happens sometimes.”

He goes back into the house. Pushing into my back, I sit on the stone wal and start laughing hysterical y. “This is beyond ridiculous!”

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Watching cottony white clouds cross the sky, I try to recal what I learned at the Primal Birth Center about the stages of labor and try to fit what I know and what I’m feeling into some schedule. The pain isn’t too bad, the contractions are stil spaced far enough apart that I guesstimate I have hours. I would have plenty of time to drive into town and find a hospital—and once there, I would have to reveal who I am and who the children are. I don’t know who was staking out the house or why but popping up on the grid seems like a horrible idea. I focus my thoughts to one: I need you, Thomas! I need you.

I breathe through another contraction, and then hurry to the bathroom. As I hurriedly get my pants down and sit in time, I remember reading that some women experience diarrhea at the onset of their labor but oh my God. I’m left worried about getting too far away from the bathroom as waves of cramps rol through my lower back.

I can’t go to town.

I can’t cal for help.

I have to do this—alone.

Cleaning myself up, my only thought is how I am possibly going to manage an unassisted birth surrounded by four young children. Potential y, this experience could emotional y scar them for life—but then I remember a young woman from the Primal Birth Center—Karina. She was pregnant with her third child, her previous two children under the age of five, and as crazy as it sounded at the time she was giving her presentation, she planned for her two children to be at her side, helping her, when the time came for her to deliver.

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Hearing a crash, I hurry to the kitchen to find a mess of uneaten cereal and milk on the floor. Grabbing a towel, I start cleaning it up. “What were you doing?”

“We were just putting our bowls in the sink. We wanted to help you,” Olympia explains. “Nikkos dropped his.”

I shake my head, wanting to yel and scream and cry with frustration. I don’t but it becomes immediately obvious too that I am not Karina. I force myself to be calm as I push damp cereal back into the plastic bowl with a towel. “Thank you for being so helpful this morning.”

Squatting beside me, Olympia asks softly, “Are the babies coming?”

I meet her gaze, finding wide orbs of wondrous anticipation. There isn’t much point in lying about it. “Yes.”

As soon as I admit the truth, I become calm. I fight back my tears and my panic. I take a deep breath, inhaling. Exhaling. Everything happens for a reason; I honestly believe that. When Jackie introduced me to the idea of Primal Birth and Garrett made it painful y clear that my only option was a hospital birth, I should have dropped it, but I didn’t. I’d experienced such a profound resonance with the program, just reading the material, I couldn’t let the idea go. Even knowing that attending the meetings irritated Garrett, my Master, I stil went. That has to mean something.

If the basic idea behind the Primal Birth premise is that any woman can give birth unassisted—no midwife, no drugs, no pain—I’ve spent months preparing for this very moment.

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“Everything’s going to be fine. Having a baby is a normal part of life,” I assure them. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! I cannot panic. As I stand, a fresh bout of diarrhea is the big distraction.

Sitting on the toilet with four wide-eyed children staring at me from the doorway, I am struck by the hilarity of the situation.

I’m real y not sure what to do. Should I boil water? I shake my head. Towels and blankets? I shake my head again. I need to build my birthing nest. I hadn’t given nesting much thought because without Garrett’s cooperation, I knew I’d end up in a hospital, most likely drugged and forced into a Caesarian section.

“Oh yes, be careful what you pray for.” I look at the ceiling, not as God-inspiring as the vast Nevada sky, but stil looking up to that place above God is watching down on me from. “Very funny.”

How many hours have I spent lying in the dark asking God to delivery me from just that fate? I laugh out loud, stil sitting on the toilet, realizing the liquid hitting the water in the toilet isn’t poo. My water broke.

“This is happening. This is real y happening.”

None of the children say anything as I manage to walk into the living room and then immediately turn to go right back into the bathroom, feeling like I real y need to push. Instinctively, I realize it isn’t diarrhea that wants to come out. I don’t go into the bathroom, I sit the children on the sofa; al four of them side by side.

“Don’t move.”

I feel horrible when Atso starts to cry and I can’t comfort her but as I hurry to the bathroom and close the door, I realize it isn’t an option.

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Grabbing towels, I lay one on the floor and sit on it, my back against the wal .

I keep a few more near me, not believing this is happening so fast. “This is not an acceptable birthing nest.”

When another urge to push hits, I push. Heart racing, I don’t scream even though I feel like I’m being ripped in two. Between pains—which isn’t nearly long enough—I breathe. What am I doing wrong? This is supposed to be pain free!

I close my eyes and take myself mental y back to the Primal Birth Center. I hear the facilitator’s voice: You can rule your labor or you can al ow your labor to control you.

She’s right, she’s absolutely right. Fear is creating this pain.

When the next contraction rol s through me, I open myself to it and drift along with it. Within seconds I am floating on endorphins. I know how to do this.

I need to create my nest and start considering my options. The facilitator had shown us so many options, boxes lined with disposable absorbent pads, or for the more green conscious—everyone in my group was very green—a plastic kiddie pool lined with blankets and towels. I don’t have either.

The sounds of panic from the other room escalates, and I throw open the bathroom door. I hear Atso screaming over al the other voices, crying, “Ommy, Ommy, Ommy.”

I think she has regressed in reaction to the other children’s panic, but as she runs across the room to grab hold of my legs I realize she is crying for me.

“Oh!” I try to not react at al versus over reacting. Looking toward the other three, I ask, “Do want to help Auntie Ce have her babies?”

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Al four children race forward, overwhelming me with their enthusiasm. I’m most worried about Hektor. He’s a boy, yes, a little boy, but stil …

“Do you understand what is going to happen?” I ask the two older children but find al four of them nodding their heads.

“Our mother had Athena-Sophia in the desert.”

I don’t know much about her delivery except that Thomas was there with her.

Lucky bitch. “Yes, she did. Did she explain to you how women give birth?”

“We were with her,” Olympia says shyly. “Al of us and our aunts and our father.”

I chuckle. “I could go for a few of your aunts being here right now.”

“Or our father,” Hektor adds, making a face.

Taking his hand, I pul him closer so that I can look him in the eye. “Is this okay? I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”

Lifting his chin he tel s me, “I wil help you in my father’s absence. He told me that my brothers are inside of you.”

Standing, the urge to push rears within me, and I know I need to move into a position where I can. I warn the children, “This might get messy, and I want you to know that if you need to leave the room you can.”