managed to stand on his left leg, but, reeling from pain ripping through his right one, almost fell, barely catching himself by grabbing the desk at the foot of the bed with his left hand. He stood there for a while, panting, steadying himself, and then, carefully, he hopped a step toward the window. Oh God. Sebastian bit down on his lip, stifling wails of pain as he leaned against the desk, preparing for another agonizing hop. Which brought him within arm’s-length of the wall. One more hop, and he was close enough to use the wall as support while he continued, slowly and painfully, to edge his way to the window, where he clutched the curtains, parted them to look outside, lost his balance. And fell, howling, to the floor.
Vivian was snoring on the sofa as Harper passed the living room to climb the stairs. The tree was untouched, decorated with the same clump of glittery Styrofoam as before, but the pitcher of egg-nog was empty. Harper thought about the collection of decorations she and Hank had up in the attic, collected together, each representing a special memory. A crystal prism from their first Christmas together. A tiny handmade wreath from a trip to the mountains. A small stuffed bear from a camping trip. A toy soldier for her military stint. A delicate glass snowflake – but why was she itemizing her decorations? Hank wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to unpack them without him, certainly not for her mother and Lou.
And speaking of Lou, where was he? Harper hadn’t seen him since she’d gone out looking for the spatter. Vivian had told Rivers that he was somewhere in the house. Maybe, like her mother, he’d had too much egg-nog and passed out. Except that he’d been too hyper to pass out. Too edgy. Maybe her mother was getting to him.
Finally back in her room, Harper lay down, shaken by the strength and suddenness of her contraction. What if her contractions got worse? What if the baby came too early? Oh God. What if something went wrong? She couldn’t bear that thought and held her belly tenderly, trying to sense the person inside, wishing it would flip around again so she could feel it move. Who was in there? Would it be a boy who looked like Hank? Softly, she began to sing to it. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .’
Oh God, what had she been doing, running around outside in the ice and snow, risking harm to her child? From now on, she’d focus on the baby and nothing else. Well, except for her dissertation. And her mother. But that was it. Nothing else. Period. Chilled, she climbed under the comforter and, still softly singing, stared out the window at the falling snow. When she opened her eyes again, it was dark.
Something smelled. Incendiary devices? Harper jumped up, reached for her weapon. But wait – there was no weapon. No gear. She looked around, remembered she was home, in her bedroom. Not in Iraq. So the odor wasn’t from explosives or the burning flesh of soldiers. She closed her eyes again, reassuring herself. The smell wasn’t men; it was meat.
Harper turned, looked at the clock. Lord, it was after five. She’d slept all day? How? Suddenly, she was starving. Ravenous. Even so, she didn’t want to move. Her left leg ached, and she felt sluggish and confused, still in the fog of sleep. But this was unacceptable; she’d wasted a whole day.
Harper ran a hand through her hair, missing Hank, feeling utterly alone. No, even worse than alone – alone with her mother and Lou. And the monster tree downstairs. Lord, how would she make it through the month?
Stop whining, she scolded herself. Don’t be a wimp. You’ve gotten through longer months in far worse conditions.
Still groggy, reminding herself that she would see Leslie the next morning, she got out of bed, checked the snowfall out the window. It looked like about ten inches had fallen, and, now that it had stopped, the ground glowed bluish white, reflecting the moonlight,
Vivian was snoring on the sofa as Harper passed the living room to climb the stairs. The tree was untouched, decorated with the same clump of glittery Styrofoam as before, but the pitcher of egg-nog was empty. Harper thought about the collection of decorations she and Hank had up in the attic, collected together, each representing a special memory. A crystal prism from their first Christmas together. A tiny handmade wreath from a trip to the mountains. A small stuffed bear from a camping trip. A toy soldier for her military stint. A delicate glass snowflake – but why was she itemizing her decorations? Hank wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to unpack them without him, certainly not for her mother and Lou.
And speaking of Lou, where was he? Harper hadn’t seen him since she’d gone out looking for the spatter. Vivian had told Rivers that he was somewhere in the house. Maybe, like her mother, he’d had too much egg-nog and passed out. Except that he’d been too hyper to pass out. Too edgy. Maybe her mother was getting to him.
Finally back in her room, Harper lay down, shaken by the strength and suddenness of her contraction. What if her contractions got worse? What if the baby came too early? Oh God. What if something went wrong? She couldn’t bear that thought and held her belly tenderly, trying to sense the person inside, wishing it would flip around again so she could feel it move. Who was in there? Would it be a boy who looked like Hank? Softly, she began to sing to it. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .’
Oh God, what had she been doing, running around outside in the ice and snow, risking harm to her child? From now on, she’d focus on the baby and nothing else. Well, except for her dissertation. And her mother. But that was it. Nothing else. Period. Chilled, she climbed under the comforter and, still softly singing, stared out the window at the falling snow. When she opened her eyes again, it was dark.
Something smelled. Incendiary devices? Harper jumped up, reached for her weapon. But wait – there was no weapon. No gear. She looked around, remembered she was home, in her bedroom. Not in Iraq. So the odor wasn’t from explosives or the burning flesh of soldiers. She closed her eyes again, reassuring herself. The smell wasn’t men; it was meat.
Harper turned, looked at the clock. Lord, it was after five. She’d slept all day? How? Suddenly, she was starving. Ravenous. Even so, she didn’t want to move. Her left leg ached, and she felt sluggish and confused, still in the fog of sleep. But this was unacceptable; she’d wasted a whole day.
Harper ran a hand through her hair, missing Hank, feeling utterly alone. No, even worse than alone – alone with her mother and Lou. And the monster tree downstairs. Lord, how would she make it through the month?
Stop whining, she scolded herself. Don’t be a wimp. You’ve gotten through longer months in far worse conditions.
Still groggy, reminding herself that she would see Leslie the next morning, she got out of bed, checked the snowfall out the window. It looked like about ten inches had fallen, and, now that it had stopped, the ground glowed bluish white, reflecting the moonlight,
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