Once they got over trying to convince Mal not to go through with it, Kaia's medical opinion agreed that ingesting several times the recommended dose of Vitamin E, when combined with her regular period, would give the appearance of an early-to-mid-stage miscarriage. As of their last conversation, they were reasonably confident that the damage would be minimal and easy to correct: all Mal had to do was continue drinking her dosed vitamin soda, wait for the bleeding to start, and try not to think about all the things that could possibly go wrong.
After a tense morning of waiting with nothing to show for it, she had resigned herself to a potentially much longer timeline than she had promised Willow, but the warning shot struck not long after her lunch of crackers and soup; as she was dropping her dirty dishes into the sink, the low-grade cramps suddenly ramped up to a stabbing pain through her navel and out her back, and she doubled over the kitchen counter with a choked groan. Her hands latched onto her hips and instinctually pushed inward to try and relieve the pain: she didn’t remember contractions being this painful, let alone cramps. Her arms trembled at the tremendous force required for even modest relief, and gratefully fell limp when then stabbing receded — when it became clear that her pelvis was now cradling a mass of boiling water, she left herself sag against the countertop with a controlled, shaky exhale, seeking relief in the cool granite beneath her cheek. Her pager weighed about fifty pounds as she pulled it out of her waistband and dragged it to her face, arduously hitting SEND on her preselected message: see you soon. After a few minute of structured breathing, she heaved herself upright; another burst of pain radiated down her legs and up her back, and the pager slipped from her fingers to land between her feet. It may as well have fallen down a ravine, with how her body protested at the bend-and-lean to pick it up again.
Her bed was all the way across the room, agonizingly far away now that the plan was in motion and could not be stopped. Each step felt harrowing, and as she leaned down to pull her bag out of the drawer she caught sight of the dramatic bloom of red through the thigh of her linen pants. She squeezed her knees together fruitlessly and headed for the bathroom, her skin starting to sear — the cool porcelain was a balm to her senses as she slid into the bathtub, pressing her sweating palms against the sides to cool herself down. She tipped her head back, replaying how the last five minutes would look to the cameras, how she had doubled over and clutched her stomach, how she had only slightly exaggerated her yelps and groans: Render was probably already on his way with an ambulance.
The heat was being crowded out by an encroaching chill, soothing her for only a moment before her head started to pound and spin, weighing too much for her body to keep upright. She tipped back against the wall with a sharp thud, squeezing her eyes shut so she didn’t have to look at the blood smearing against the basin, stark and shockingly red. Her fists clenched around her bag, grasping and releasing to the rhythm of her cramps: she couldn't find a way to distract herself from the pain, no songs or poems coming to mind, no stupid little word games that her parents would use to test her vocabulary. All she could think of was Kaia, and of how much she wanted them at her side.
They had come across her like this once before, sitting in a strange place and trying to breathe through the pain of a fetus kicking her in the ribs. Once she had talked them down from carrying her to the clinic, she was beyond relieved when they took up the invitation to stay and feel the baby kicking: it had been a long two-and-a-half trimesters of keeping a mutual, respectful distance, and she missed her friend and their prodding questions.
“Have you thought about names yet?” they asked, now seated beside her and staring incredulously at the movement against their fingers, as though weighing the need to go and find the nearest trashcan — she couldn't blame them, not when she had to break her own sightline and do ten minutes of deep breathing whenever she caught sight of a foot pressing against the skin.
“I haven’t decided,” she said, a canned answer that was wearing out fast as the months slipped by. Just recently, every auntie in Kawehno:ke had come together to correct this issue, drafting a list of Kanien’kéha names for Mal to choose from; she had sat down with the list the day before to narrow down her top choices, and after an hour she had struck out every option on the list, thus giving her great incentive to avoid all of them until after the baby was born. She had half a mind to go to Kahnawake — surely Auntie Elodie would have some ideas for what to saddle the kid with, since she had been the one to name Mal. Then again, she might try and impart permission to name the baby after Gwenh, just like everyone else who didn't know the whole truth. The intricacies of honouring the dead in Kawehno:ke often evaded Mal's understanding, but even without asking she would guess that taking the name of someone who died by your negligence was frowned-upon. “Any suggestions?”
“I don’t want to overstep.”
“I’ll tell you if you’re overstepping.”
“Okay. What do you think of—” They gestured dramatically with their free hand, as though imploring her to imagine it splashed across a giant billboard. “Lily?”
“What kind?”
“Meadow? Actually, scratch that — what about Violet?”
“No. Next?”
“Rosemary?”
“I don’t think so.” The door opened and shut quickly, admitting Old Beau with his hacking cough that echoed through the empty community hall. "Hi, Uncle."
Old Beau waved absently as he passed them by, eyes watering as he coughed into a handkerchief, clearly on a mission that did not include pausing for pleasantries. Kaia drew their legs to their chest to make room in the walking path; they glanced down at their lingering hand with a jolt, and snatched it back from her stomach. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." She'd always liked their easy affections, the way they were always squeezing her shoulders or linking their arms, how they leaned heavily against her side or her back when they happened to be standing close to one another — no different than anyone else they deemed a close personal friend, but she had missed it sorely for the past few months while they kept their distance. "Everyone always wants to touch the bump, and you've got more a right than anyone else."
"It's still your body, I'm always going to ask permission." They shifted in place, searching for a more comfortable position against the floor. "It doesn't bother you?"
She shrugged. "Some people do, but I always like it when you snuggle up to me."
"I'm telling Murphy that I'm your favourite."
"Who says you're my favourite?"
"Oh, like you'd go to your second-favourite for a sperm donor. Don't worry, I'll get her a nice consolation prize, maybe a t-shirt that says 'silver's for losers'—."
"If you don't cut it out, I'm not letting you pitch baby names — and no more edible plants, you're making me hungry."
“If you don't like food names, then you definitely won’t like my next ten ideas.”
She laughed. “I’m going to end up naming the baby after a craving, at this rate. What do you think of Shaved Ice And Pickled Mushrooms?”
“I think that sounds like the reason why your kid won’t speak to you after they move out.” They stretched out their long, bare legs and leaned back against the wall with a sigh. After a long, heavy pause, they cleared their throat and directed their question at the floor between them: “May I ask why you don’t want to name her after Gwenh?”
“No, you may not.” Her tone was too harsh, and she refused to feel badly about it: Kaia knew better than to even brush past the most painful topic of Mal's life. She tipped her head back to stare at the rafters — this would not be a discussion if Gwenh had died any other way, but then lots of things would be different. "You already know why, anyway."
"Mal, you can't blame yourself for that—"
"It's not up for discussion." She desperately needed to stop this thread of conversation, to rewind to a safer topic, and even though she loathed the thought of asking permission — she hated the reminder that she was doing something wrong — she found herself doing it anyway, the only name she actually liked forcing itself past a barrier of painful memories. “What do you think about Clover?”
“I like that. I bet one of your aunties could put it into a name for you.”
There was already a name on her list concerning clovers, courtesy of Auntie Katherine — she had struck that one out on the first round. She couldn't begin to say why she was considering it at all: surely naming her child after Gwenh's favourite flower was as bad as taking her name itself? If she could just explain that to Kaia, surely they'd agree and steer her away, but now that it was out in the open she couldn't imagine the baby having any other name — she could only be grateful that no one else knew about Gwenh's tattoo. “Would you be disappointed in me if I wanted it to be English?”
Before Kaia could answer, she was lurching out of the daydream like it was an ice-bath, still cold and still bleeding. Her gut heaved in protest at the sudden curl of her spine, and as she gasped through her nausea she lolled her head toward the paramedic kneeling beside the tub, watching her lips move around a question — inaudible under the blood pounding through her ears. At her blank stare, the paramedic gently urged her to lean back and lifted her shirt, sliding the head of a stethoscope over her bare stomach and listening intently. Mal’s arms were achingly sore, and strangely empty: she couldn’t quite remember what she was missing, or why it mattered.
The paramedic calmly pulled the buds from her ears; the roaring blood had receded enough for her voice to be audible. “Do you remember what happened, Miss Y?”
Another voice made her jump, coming in loud and worried from the doorway: “I told you already, she—“
“I’m not speaking to you, Mister Render. Miss Y?”
“I had some vitamin soda,” she said thinly, once her brain comprehended the question and translated her answer into words. “I was having cramps, and I thought it would help settle my stomach, but then I started bleeding.” Every word stuck like dust in her parched throat. Her mouth felt utterly, irreparably devoid of saliva, and it was a miracle that she could gather the wits to maintain her cover: “Is my baby going to be okay?”
“We’re going to do our very best to keep you both healthy. Can you stand?”
She managed to nod and take hold of the paramedic's outstretched hands, every movement taking incredible effort to execute. Render, still hovering in the doorway, was wringing his hands to the point of bruising.
“I don't understand how this happened — no one has ever reacted this badly to the supplements—“
The paramedic carefully stood in tandem with Mal, supporting her as she wobbled out of the bathtub. “You know as well as I do how lenient Naloss Pharmaceuticals are with their quality standards, Mr. Render — just to the wheelchair, sweetheart, you’re almost there — and I'll bet you don’t typically employ pregnant Untouchables. All we can do now is get ahead of the damage, but I doubt it's more serious than a night's stay in your clinic.”
Mal whined in pain as she poured herself into the seat, barely listening to the conversation happening over her head. She could feel the towel beneath her soaking with blood, and wished that someone would bring her a rag and a clean pair of pants to change into. She shifted uncomfortably and let out another whimper.
Render looked stricken with fear at her noises, the colour draining from his face. “One of my other residents attacked her, just yesterday — could that have caused this?”
"Attacked how?"
Face twisting in discomfort, Mal rubbed the side of her throat, her nape, doing her best to look as pathetic as possible. Render hissed in sympathy, and answered: "The other resident would have broken her neck, if we hadn't intervened. A few days before that, she got in the middle of a scuffle, and ended up taking a fall. She refused to be checked over, on both occasions."
"This is information I would have liked to know at the start, Mister Render." The paramedic took the handles of the chair and sharply steered her toward the door. “We need to go to Sinai. I’ll need clearance to go straight through the exits, no delays.”
“Of course — here, make sure she keeps this with her.” Mal groaned as her bag was gently placed in her lap, barely present as Render manually wrapped her arms around its weight. She hazily flinched as he patted her cheek, his face swimming in her teary vision. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll see you soon, just let the doctors take care of you.”
***
As soon as the ambulance was moving, the paramedic was waving a fetal heart monitor over Mal's stomach, brow growing increasingly furrowed when nothing but silence replied to the odd, steady press of the wand. After a few more minutes of nothing, she strapped the monitor down and moved on, eyes flicking periodically to the displayed vitals as though the second heartbeat might suddenly appear, hands moving robotically through the task of preparing and pushing a dose of painkillers.
Mal squeezed her eyes shut against the disconcerting chill creeping into her veins, following the ambulance’s lurching path on the backs of her eyelids. She ignored the questions the medic tried to ask and the resumed press of the wand, counting the spiralling right-hand turns: seven streets, five avenues, one street, half an avenue, slow curve into the hospital’s ambulance bay. The baby's missing heartbeat had the paramedic agitated, and as soon as the vehicle came to a stop she was out of her seat to open the hatch-doors, calling out orders to the staff standing by, back carelessly turned in her rush to apply life-saving care. Mal sat up quietly, peeling the monitor from her stomach and the catheter out of her hand, working quickly to swing her feet down to the floor and get herself to the side-hatch. She paused there to muster her energy, until the paramedic leaned back into the ambulance to reach for the shelf over the door, leaving her with no choice but to rip the wires from her chest, all at once and set the monitors wailing: she was out the door and on the asphalt before anyone could stop her, sprinting away from the ambulance and dodging the interfering staff like her feet had wings.
The doctors shouted after her, yelled for her to stop, to wait, to calm down, but the voices were soon lost to the distance between them. Her head ducked low as she raced out of the parkade, taking a moment to orient herself before turning and flying down the road toward the coast. The drugs did nothing to alleviate how the scar tissue deep in her legs was tightening up like syrup in snow, nor did it dull the pain in every determined step. She kept her eyes on the road directly ahead, forcing one foot in front of the other, her thin shoes offering no protection against the unforgiving pavement: the pain was bearable if she focused only on the way the gritty air tore at her throat, or the tears flowing down her cheeks like raindrops.
Beyond studying the messy squiggles that Kaia had drawn on a since-destroyed napkin, there had been no time or opportunity to plot an escape route accounting for pursuing vehicles or blockades; Mal kept expecting to turn a corner and trigger some kind of alarm, for people to pour out from their vestibules with an understanding that she was a wanted fugitive to be captured dead or alive, but there was nothing. The sky was eerily quiet, with no aerial surveillance drones buzzing to and fro, the streets were deserted of pedestrians, and the occasional car she spotted was always more interested in getting to their destination than stopping and seeing what she was doing on the road. She briefly stumbled over a pothole, and felt safe enough to cautiously slow down and assess if her ankle was twisted. Could she have made her escape sooner, if it was always going to be this easy?
She shook her head and started to run again, feet stinging with every jarring impact against the pavement. If she let herself think on that, she'd wind up convincing herself to go back, to go against her deal with Gwenh and try to drag her kicking and screaming back to Delany — and all that would come of this day would be a failed escape attempt with the increased security to match. Making the most of her chance was the only option.
Even without a map, she knew that it was less than two kilometres to the pier, about twenty minutes at a walk — at a confused and erratic sprint, filled with wrong turns and retracing her steps and taking more wrong turns, it was almost thirty. Fresh tears of relief blurred her eyes as she approached the barrier, barely slowing down as she threw her hands out to push through. The false atmosphere stretched and flexed against her body, impossible to breach until it wasn't; her hands and knees stung as they struck the rocky beach, the caustic air branding into her unprotected lungs as she pushed herself upright. She staggered further down the shore and blindly followed the slope of the gravel: until her eyes adjusted she could only stare blankly at the uniform gloom, knowing the water to be close by the smell — the silence was eerie and disconcerting, her mind catching on the absence of chirping insects or croaking frogs, even the chop of the water seeming oddly muted. Gradually, her eyes began to adjust, and she could pick out the individual structures on the opposite shore, the movement of the water as it shifted and chopped beneath the brown sky, the little boat bobbing along not twenty feet away.
The sound that came from her throat was desperate and involuntary, high and thin with relief. The thick water sucked at her legs like mud as she waded into the channel, unconcerned with the damage that fumes might do to her lungs, uncaring to the chemicals soaking through linen to sit close to her skin. She tried to shout, and found that she could only violently cough as she waved her arms to beckon the boat closer, now up to her thighs in toxic water. Three silhouettes became visible in the dim light as the boat sculled closer — she tracked Willow's face first, watching the shore intently with his hands wrapped tightly around the long oar, then Kaia's as they asked her if she was alright, if she was hurt, if she was ready to go home, and then Goose’s as they wrapped their arms around her chest and singlemindedly pulled her into the boat. Thank God you're here, she thought, as Kaia pulled her feet in after her and arranged her to lie down flat along the keel, as Goose kept her grounded with a tight hold on her shoulder, as Willow kept an unerring eye on the shore. Thank God you're here to save me, who knows if I would have made it alone.
"Mal, are you with me?" At her aching cough of affirmation, Kaia's hands cupped her cheeks, sweeping the hair back from her forehead — their face was inches away from hers, by the way their hair tickled her cheeks. "I have to take off your pants, because if we leave them on the chemicals are going to start burning into your skin. Okay?"
She coughed again, working up the effort to tell them to stop wasting time and just get on with it, when Goose's frantic voice suddenly cut in:
“Wait, where’s Gwenh?” Their hand left her shoulder as they leaned back and peered toward the shore, squinting into the gloom to try and see a second figure that had somehow escaped notice. “Mal, where is she? Why isn’t she with you?”
The absence of their comforting touch was pushing her to tears. She tried to speak, but her throat felt like a pulled muscle, no longer capable of speech. She tried to push through anyway, and could only gasp pathetically: it felt as though the air was thinning, that she was somehow getting less oxygen even as she breathed harder and harder—
"Christ, where's her snorkel?" Willow's voice was terse in the way he was when things weren't going his way on the front-line, all hard edges and no room for error, his hair-trigger panic hidden beneath an uncompromising veneer of composure and control. "Who's the fucking doctor here?"
"Shit, sorry—" Kaia's hands paused in pulling the sodden linen down her hips to slide a snorkel over her face. "Goose, we don't have time, we need to get her home, right now."
"But Gwenh's still in there—"
The effort it took to lift her hand and find Goose's felt monumental — it felt like every muscle-fibre was tearing in two with the effort it took to squeeze their fingers. “'M sorry,” she wheezed, throat still burning even after the mask had formed a seal around her face. "She told me to leave her behind."
Kaia shushed her. “It’s not your fault — we're going to get you home now, okay?"
Goose's hand was limp in hers, and her grip failed her as they pulled away, as the boat suddenly rocked toward the shore. “No, no, we have to go back for her—”
"Absolutely not," Willow snapped, already standing to scull them back into the middle of the channel. "Sit down. The longer we stay, the more likely we are to be shot."
"And what does it matter to you, right? Kaia, please, it's not too late for her—"
"Goose." The boat stilled as Kaia persuaded them back into the centre of balance. “We can come back for Gwenh, but we need to get Mal back home first: otherwise, we risk losing everyone."
"She's my sister, Kaia!"
"And you know her better than anyone, so answer me this: if Mal couldn't convince her to go, do you think you stand a better chance?"
She pressed her hands over her ears as her gut spasmed, her teeth clenching — she wanted to agree with Goose that they had to go back, that surely between the four of them they could save Gwenh, but her teeth only clenched harder, refusing her even the notion of speaking. She couldn't say if her body was keeping the deal she had made out of respect, or if she was just too terrified of going back into the lion's den: whatever the reason, her voice stayed locked inside her throat as she laid below the swift and sharp exchanges, her stuck jaw only easing once Willow curtly broke the tie in Kaia’s favour.
Goose fell quiet in an awful way, turning cold and stony as they withdrew to the prow of the boat. Mal could hear Kaia muttering angrily as they stripped off her contaminated clothes, quickly mopping the traces of poison from her skin before wrapping her in a blanket for modesty. The boat rocked gently as Willow stowed the oar and gave the rip-cord a few firm tugs — on the fourth try, the engine purred to life, the vibrations buzzing through the length of her spine as Kaia settled down beside her, gathering her into their arms. Their breath tickled comfortingly over her forehead as they whispered, “We're almost there, just a little longer — Clover’s waiting to see you.”
She threw her elbows over her eyes, suddenly glad that no more pitiful noises could be wrung out from her aching throat. She was safe from onlookers: only Kaia could feel how her body violently shuddered through the adrenaline crash, and not even they could see how her eyes burned with fresh tears, never making it past her eyelashes — her linen sleeves were perfect for soaking up them up before they could fall.