Eve: In the Beginning (32 page)

Then my stomach twists again, lower and deeper this time. It’s not hunger: I’ve known hunger plenty of times. The pain radiates hot and fast through my stomach. My only thought is to get out of the shelter, to walk around, to see if the pain will lessen.

I try not to wake Adam as I leave. He is usually awake before me in the morning, busy improving our shelter or cleaning the skins from an animal caught the day before. We have an excess of dried and smoked animal flesh now. When the next winter season arrives, we’ll be more than prepared.

I walk out of the shelter into the early morning air. It’s cool on my skin, yet I know it will soon be warm, then too hot to stay beneath the sun. The pain subsides, and I take several grateful breaths. It’s gone now. I know it can’t possibly be time for the child to arrive. It’s been only five moons, and Elohim said producing a child would take nine. My stomach has grown, pushing my skin out, and I marvel at the tiny being who is maturing there.

Looking around at each familiar part of the dwelling, I notice ripening fruit on the nearby trees. They are the most beautiful fruit I’ve ever seen — more beautiful than even the fruit in the garden because they are not plentiful here, so they are greatly cherished. After enduring our first winter season, relocating our dwelling place several times, and learning that Lucifer is not the only being on this earth trying to thwart our worship of Elohim, I take pleasure in the smallest of things.

I walk to the nearest tree and tug off one of the green leaves. It’s cool to the touch, and I bring it to my nose to inhale its slight fragrance. It smells fresh and alive. The air is already beginning to warm as the sky lightens, changing from purple to pale blue.

The pain returns with force. This time it shoots heat up my torso and down my legs. I bend over, clutching at my stomach.

Dizziness swallows me, my vision becomes murky, and I reach for a branch to find steadiness. “Adam,” I call out — or I think I call out. I’m not certain that any sound has escaped my lips.

I gasp as my knees sink to the earth. The pain is overwhelming, and I can’t see or hear. I can feel only the pain as it fills every sense. I cry out again and again for Adam, but I’m afraid I am only mouthing words that he can’t hear.

I’m on the ground beneath the tree. I don’t know how long I writhe in pain until I feel Adam’s arms around me, lifting me and carrying me. When he sets me down, the pain finally turns everything black.

I awake, my body on Fire. I twist and cry out, trying to escape the flaming heat.

Adam’s cool hands grasp my arms, and his voice cuts through the haze in my mind. “Eve, drink this.”

His voice settles over me, and I realize there is no Fire licking at my skin. But there must be a Fire nearby; I feel so hot. Something touches my lips, cold and wet, and I open my mouth obediently. Water fills my throat, and I cough it up.

Adam reaches behind me and holds me as the water slides down my neck and chest. “Try to drink again. Come on, Eve.”

His voice sounds hoarse, desperate.

I open my mouth and manage to swallow once, but I am shaking so much that the water spills more than I can manage to drink.

Adam’s hand is on my cheek, then on my forehead. I can’t seem to open my eyes; the lids are just too heavy. I’m not sure if it’s day or night or if we are outside or in the shelter.

“Put out the Fire,” I say, my own voice raspy through my trembling. “It’s too hot.”

There’s a pause in Adam’s caresses. “There is no Fire,” he says. “The burning is from within your body.”

My eyes open now. Adam’s face is before me, his skin pale and moist, as if he’s been perspiring. “What is ... burning me?” I push Adam away and look down.

I start screaming when I see the blood between my legs.

Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field
.

Genesis 3:18

Silence. This is the sound of my sorrow, of my unwanted blood — a silence so deafening that even my own heartbeat is drowned out.

My grief has become a physical pain that I could have never imagined. The child is gone. Born too early. She didn’t even take a breath.

The leaves that were once beautiful and brought me comfort now seem placid and aloof. The rich earth is no longer moist and welcoming but dry and harsh. I feel as though it is pushing me away, rejecting my presence.

Adam stands beneath the heavy-laden branches, waiting. His eyes are half-lowered, but I know that he is watching me. He’s giving me the time I need to say good-bye.

The moment has come, and though I could put it off until tomorrow or the next day, since I know Adam will wait until I’m ready, I decide that I will never truly be ready. I must put one foot in front of the other and then do again. Somehow my body moves, somehow my legs function, although my heart has nearly stopped.

I see the flowers first. The flowers are only small buds of yellow that peek from their long stems, but I know their potential. They’ll crown the burial site long after we are gone. They will die during the winter, but Adam says the flowers will bloom full again in the next season.

Only a few paces away, I pause, then take another step until I am only one step away. My knees bend, and I sink to the earth. There is still a distance between the carved-up earth and me. I feel the sob start low, then press its way upward, but I force it back down. Now is not the time for this loud grief. I will bid farewell quietly. I will bid farewell in peace to the child that I never knew or was allowed to call by name.

Reaching forward, I smooth the dirt that is already smooth by Adam’s hands. I pull off one of the flower buds and cradle it in my palm. Then I lean down, putting my forehead to the dirt. Only a hand span separates me now from my daughter’s body.

Adam says her soul is with Elohim now — that she is looking down on us.

I want her to be proud of her mother, but I also want her to know how much I miss her — how much I will always miss her. I will never see her first step or hear her first word. I will never feel her arms around my neck or be able to kiss her cheek.

My eyes burn.

But still I don’t let the sob out.

I lift my head and inhale the scent of earth and flower. It will be the new smell that I’ll remember her by, not the smell of grief and despair. Then I look at the sky, searching for anything — any sound, any movement that might indicate she is there, watching.

Yet only the breeze and the rattle of leaves disturb the silence.

I exhale ever so slowly. Then I stand, my legs still weak, but at least I am standing. I want to collapse onto the earth, press my face in the dirt, and never open my eyes again.

It’s as though Adam knows my thoughts. His hand slides into mine, and his other hand goes around my waist. He doesn’t try to pull me away from the burial site but just stands next to me.
With
me. He has lost a child too. His hands have smoothed the dirt countless times.

How long we stand together I am not sure, but perspiration grows between my shoulders and our palms. I can’t breathe in this place any longer. It’s too heavy with grief. We must move on, as much as I’ve loved it here.

I turn to Adam and whisper, “Let’s go as far as we can— away from this valley, away from the garden, away from everything we’ve known.”

There is no hesitation. He simply says, “Yes.”

Then I slump against him. He holds me up since I can no longer manage alone. Then ever so gently, as if he’s ready to stop at a single word of protest, he leads me away.

I stare at the ground, putting one foot in front of the other, each step widening the separation with my daughter. I begin to breathe again, in and out. Adam and I don’t head back up the ridge toward the garden, from where we first arrived. We continue east through the valley. I don’t know how far we’ll go, but every step takes me closer to where I want to be.

When Adam stops, I am reluctant to stop as well. Behind us, I can still see the valley that we climbed out of.

“It’s nearly dark, Eve,” he says, his voice quiet and careful.

The shaking in my body starts now that we’ve stopped walking. “I don’t want to stop. If I stop, then I won’t be able to leave.”

“We’ll never forget her.” He draws me into his arms. “Leaving doesn’t mean we have to forget.”

I am so cold and shaky. If it weren’t for Adam helping me, I might fall to the earth, like a butterfly that’s lost its wings. “Why did she have to be born too early?” I have asked this question many times, and every time the answer is the same, but I need to hear it. Over and over.

Adam answers again. “Elohim knows why, and so we need to put our faith in him.”

I believe the words, but I still have questions. “Doesn’t Elohim trust me with her? Doesn’t he want our daughter to be with us?”

“Elohim trusts
you
,” Adam’s voice is soothing but firm.

“I would have taken good care of her,” I say, my voice breaking.

“I know,” Adam whispers into my hair. “And you will be a good mother to our other children.”

I can’t think of other children right now. It’s too painful to consider that I might go through this loss again. I don’t think I can survive it.

With Adam’s arms around me, I try to suppress the pain, but it remains below the surface of my skin. We spend the night on top of the skins that we have carried with us. I fall in and out of sleep, and I know that Adam does too. We seem to wake each other up time and time again.

I am relieved when the sun breaks through the morning dark. It means that I have survived the first night away from my daughter. Feeling calmer than I expected, I can truthfully tell Adam that I’m ready to continue on our journey.

Adam checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was near midday, time to stop for a rest. Eve quietly plodded beside him, growing more and more quiet with each day. He’d stopped asking her if she was sure she wanted to leave their valley dwelling. Her reply was always yes, but still he wondered.

“We should rest until the heat of the day has passed,” he said, turning to look at her. Her face was pale despite the time spent in the sun, and she had a delicate darkness beneath her eyes.

“All right,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Adam led her to a group of trees that grew close together. They’d traveled for many days already. They’d traversed over hills and through valleys, and now they were in a sparse area much like the region just outside of the garden. Trees were not plentiful here, and it would not be an ideal place to settle. Although Adam didn’t think he’d have to worry. Eve had indicated no desire to settle. She simply walked in silence next to him.

Eve fell asleep quickly in the shade, and Adam stayed next to her, one arm supporting her head. He was exhausted, but worry overrode the ability to sleep. He missed his wife — missed her laughter, her bright eyes, and her affectionate touches.

They had not been intimate since the child had been born. Without Eve saying anything, he knew that she wasn’t ready for the possibility of another conception. It was too soon. Adam smoothed her hair back from her face, which was moist from the oppressive heat. He couldn’t wait until the seasonal heat lost its strong grip. The winter was an extreme, more uncomfortable than this endless heat, but both the cold and the heat had their challenges.