When She Woke (13 page)

“Fine, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mrs. Henley’s cheeks were a little flushed, as though she’d just come from the bath. Wisps of blond hair peeked out from the edges of her bonnet. “It’s my custom to invite every new walker for tea in my parlor. Did Bridget show you where my parlor is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come on Saturday, at three o’clock. We’ll have some chamomile and a nice cozy chat.” Hearing dismissal, Hannah turned to go.

“One more thing,” Mrs. Henley added. “Walker Bridget told me you stepped off the path last night.”

Hannah turned back. “Yes, ma’am. But I didn’t mean to.

“So you touched her by accident?”

“No, ma’am.”

Little corrugations appeared in Mrs. Henley’s brow. “I don’t understand. Either it was deliberate or it wasn’t.”

“I didn’t know it was against the rules,” Hannah said. “Bridget didn’t tell me until afterward.”

“That’s odd, because she told me she did.”

“She didn’t.”

“Well, then you’re not to blame. If Bridget lied about telling you the no-touching rule, it would be she who stepped off the path, not you.” Mrs. Henley’s tone was sympathetic. Hannah relaxed a little. “Of course, Bridget’s already strayed once. This would be her second misstep, which would mean we’d have to cast her out. Poor thing, she’s had such a difficult time.” Mrs. Henley leaned forward, lowering her voice confidingly. “She had the scourge, you know. She wanted children badly, but the superbiotics came too late for her. After the cure was found, her husband left her for a younger woman who was fertile.”

Hannah said nothing, stunned and unnerved that Mrs. Henley would divulge such intimate secrets about another walker. What would she reveal to Bridget or the others about Hannah?

“And after going through all that,” Mrs. Henley continued, “to end up killing another woman’s baby …”

“On purpose?”

“No, it was an accident. But she did bring it on herself.”

So
that’s why Bridget hates Megan and me,
Hannah thought.
Because we meant to do it.

“So, are you sure she didn’t mention the rule?” Mrs. Henley’s mouth parted, revealing her pink tongue and the white tips of her incisors.

Hannah told herself that Bridget had it coming; that if she stayed, she’d just make Hannah’s life miserable; that she was due to leave in a month anyway. And then Hannah remembered the phrase Bridget had used—"out there, on your own"—and the terror in her eyes when she’d said it. At least Hannah had her father to help her. When she left here, she wouldn’t be alone in the world.

“It’s possible I forgot,” she said, with downcast eyes. “I was so exhausted last night.”

Mrs. Henley was all kindness. “Of course you were. It must have been a long day. But tiredness and forgetfulness aren’t excuses for disobedience. I’m sure Moses was tired when he came down from Mount Sinai, but he didn’t forget one of God’s commandments, did he?”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Henley shook her head sadly. “And on your first day too. Just a few hours after you gave us your solemn word that you’d obey our rules.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Henley.”

“I’m very disappointed in you, Hannah, and I know Reverend Henley will be too. He takes these things so hard.”

Looking into Mrs. Henley’s sorrowful blue eyes, Hannah felt that she
was
guilty, if not of breaking the rule she was accused of, then of a weakness of purpose, an essential failure of spirit. She’d let down so many people: her family and friends, her employers, Aidan. And now, the Henleys, who’d been kind enough to take her in and offer her this chance at redemption. A chance she was proving unworthy of.

“And of course, your parents and Secretary Dale will have to be told,” Mrs. Henley said.

Hannah felt an upwelling of panic. They mustn’t know, she mustn’t shame them any more than she already had. She found herself babbling, pleading, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Henley, please don’t tell them, I’ll do better, I promise, I’ll—”

Mrs. Henley stopped her, saying, “It’s good that you’re sorry, Hannah. Penitence is the first thing the path demands of us. I want you to reflect and pray on what you’ve done, and we’ll speak more about it on Saturday, when we have our chat.” Hannah wanted to say more, but Mrs. Henley held up one small, pale hand.

“Go now, and begin your enlightenment.”

H
ANNAH STOPPED JUST
outside the dining hall and sagged against the wall, giving her heart time to slow its wild thudding. Her thoughts were scattered, bewildered. What in the world had just happened to her? Who was that groveling creature? Reason returned as she calmed down, and with it, anger. Mrs. Henley had enjoyed their encounter; Hannah was sure of it. The woman had played her like a harp, and Hannah had obligingly sounded every note she wanted to hear. Reverend Henley might be a kind man, genuinely interested in helping others find a path to God, but his wife was something else.

The quietness of the hallway made Hannah aware that she was late for enlightenment. She walked hurriedly to the room Bridget had shown her the night before. The door was open, and she paused at the threshold. Eight women, all Reds except for Megan, all holding dolls, sat in the circle of chairs, along with a tall, angular man in his forties with a glossy, shaven head and an air of authority—the enlightener, presumably. A stool, conspicuously empty, was in the center of the circle. When she saw it, Hannah felt a ripple of disquiet, which intensified as she took in the bizarre scene before her. One woman was rocking her doll in her arms, crooning to it; another was bouncing hers on her knee; a third was holding hers facedown on her shoulder and patting its back as though burping it.

Hannah gripped the door jamb.
Dear God. Help me.

“Come in, Walker,” the enlightener said in a stern, commanding voice, “and close the door.” Fighting the urge to flee, Hannah obeyed him.

The enlightener pointed to the stool. “Be seated.” Somehow, her legs carried her to it. It swiveled as she sat down. Sketching an arc in the air with his finger, he said, “Look upon them, Walker. For to look upon them is to look upon your own sin.”

Hannah revolved in a slow, clockwise circle, her eyes drawn to the dolls. They were all life-sized—infant-sized—but otherwise they were varied. Some were crude, with buttons for eyes, yarn for hair and hideous, cross-stitched red mouths, while others were better crafted. Two were brown; the rest were a pale apricot.

The only sound in the room was the eerie, high-pitched crooning of the woman rocking the doll. She began to sing to it, touching various parts of it:
“Here is my HEAD, and here is my NOSE. Here are my F
INGERS
and here are my T
OES.
Here is my T
UMMY
and here is my K
NEE.
Thank you, God, for making ME. Here is my
—” The woman broke off her song abruptly and jiggled the doll, saying, “Shh, shh. Don’t cry, baby, please don’t cry. Mama’s here.”

Hannah swiveled so she didn’t have to watch, but the mad baby talk continued, on and on. The enlightener ignored it, his attention fixed on Hannah, his eyes ablaze with some emotion she couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it made her skin crawl. She turned to the woman sitting to his right, who was considerably older than the rest of them—almost too old to get pregnant. The woman looked at her with weary compassion.

“Sonia, why don’t you begin,” the enlightener said to her. He leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers.

The older woman held up her doll, showing it to Hannah and the others. “This is my son, Octavio,” she said, with a Spanish accent. “He would have been my eighth child, but I murdered him, against God’s commandment and the wishes of my husband.” She turned the doll toward herself and addressed it. “Forgive me, Octavio, for taking your precious life.”

The woman next to her spoke. “This here’s my little boy, Matthew. I murdered him ‘cause I didn’t trust in the Lord to provide for him after his daddy left us. Forgive me, Matthew, for taking your precious life.”

“This is my baby girl, Aisha. Her father raped me, but it wasn’t her fault. She was innocent, and I murdered her. Forgive me, Aisha.”

Megan held up her crude doll. “This is my unborn baby, John Wyatt or Gemma Dawn, depending on if it’s a boy or a girl. I tried to kill it, but God stopped the pill from working.” Her tone was sullen.
No penitence there,
Hannah thought.

“Him or
her,
Megan, not it,” the enlightener said reprovingly.

“I tried to kill
him,”
Megan said, “but God saved him. I’m sorry, baby.” She addressed this last to her slightly rounded stomach.

The wretched circuit continued, with Hannah as its fulcrum, until all the women except the mad one—who seemed completely unaware of what was happening around her—had confessed and apologized. Finally, the enlightener turned to Hannah.

“And you, Walker? Why are you here?”

She replied without equivocation. “I killed my unborn child.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I was afraid,” she said. And not, Hannah realized suddenly, just for Aidan, but also for herself. He wouldn’t have left his wife for her; he’d made that clear. And the thought of bearing and raising a child alone had terrified her. The truth, buried for months, hit Hannah hard: she’d acted as much out of selfishness as out of love.

“Afraid? Of what? The shame of being an unwed mother?” The enlightener stood and approached her, looming over her. His face was an angry, mottled pink. “Where was your fear of God’s wrath, woman? It was Him you transgressed against. When you defiled your body with fornication and then abortion, you defiled God. When you stole the life of your innocent child, you stole what was God’s.” He was almost shouting now, sprinkling Hannah’s upturned face with little flecks of spittle. “Every time a woman’s weakness leads her to defy God’s commandments, Satan laughs. He was laughing when Eve took the forbidden fruit from the tree. He was laughing during the Great Scourge, when the fornication of women spread the foul pestilence that made their wombs barren. He was laughing when they begged God for children but could not conceive, oh yes, he was drinking their tears of despair like wine. Could you hear him laughing, Walker, when you spread your legs for the man who impregnated you, and when you spread them again for the butcher who scraped your precious child from your womb? Could you feel God’s wrath raining down on you?” He thrust his hand up toward the ceiling, fingers spread wide, and held it there for several seconds before lowering it to his side. His voice softened. “But God is merciful. He sent His only Son, Jesus Christ, to redeem your sins and offer you a path to salvation, through penitence, atonement, truth and humility. Do you humbly repent your sin against God, Hannah Payne? Are you ready to atone with all your soul for the murder of your child?”

Hannah bowed her head. “I’m ready.” She felt her arms break out in goosebumps as she said the words—the same ones she’d said to Raphael just before he performed the abortion.

“Go, then, to the sewing room, and make a doll in your child’s image. Shape it not just from cloth and thread, but from all the anguish and repentance in your soul. With each stitch, imagine the precious life that you have extinguished: the eyes that will never see the wonder of God’s creation, the mouth that will never suckle your breast or sing God’s praises, the hands that will never clasp your finger or wear a wedding ring. Take as much time as you need, and when you’ve finished, rejoin us here in the circle.”

Hannah stood and went to the door. As she was about to leave, the enlightener said, “Don’t forget to give the baby a name.”

S
HE SPENT FOUR
days making it, working on it every morning and afternoon as well as during her two nightly hours of free time. There was a sewing machine, but she didn’t use it. She wanted the doll to come wholly from her hands. She worked in a state of rapt concentration, bordering on trance. The doll was a prayer, pulled stitch by stitch from her soul, and she sewed it slowly and painstakingly. By the time she stumbled to bed each night, her fingers were so cramped she could barely button her nightgown.

In the mornings she was alone in the sewing room, but after lunch she was joined by two Yellows, who spent the afternoons making dresses and bonnets, stitching quilts and mending used clothes for the poor. The women spoke quietly to each other, leaving Hannah to herself. Mrs. Henley stopped by occasionally to check their work and add new garments to the to-do pile. Hannah she mostly ignored; at least, until the third day.

“You certainly are taking your time with that,” Mrs. Henley said, peering down at Hannah’s doll. “How much longer will you need?”

“I’m hoping to finish by tomorrow afternoon,” Hannah said, then added, “The enlightener said to take as much time as necessary.”

Mrs. Henley’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to avoid enlightenment, are you? Because that would be a very serious step off the path.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Let me see.” Mrs. Henley held out a peremptory hand.

With a strange reluctance, Hannah handed the other woman the doll. She studied it in silence. “Well, Hannah,” she said finally, “this is exceptionally fine work. You must be very proud of it.”

Recognizing the trap, Hannah bent her head. “No, ma’am. I just want to make it as good as I can. To … do justice to the baby.”

Mrs. Henley handed the doll back. “Take care, Walker, that you don’t enjoy your penance too much.”

Hannah finished late Friday afternoon, just before supper. She examined the doll one last time, scrutinizing it for flaws, but could find none. It was a perfect offering. She left the sewing room, carrying the doll before her with her head held high, meeting the astonished eyes of every woman she passed on the way. A collective murmur of wonderment arose when she entered the dining hall, rippling across the room in her wake, dropping into a profound silence when she sat down. The doll was so lavishly and exquisitely wrought—the eyes with their impossibly delicate lashes so lambent, the pink rosebud of the mouth so tender, the fingers and toes with their tiny half-moon nails so plump and sweet—that it seemed merely asleep rather than inert. But it wasn’t just the object she held that commanded the attention of every woman in the room, it was Hannah herself. Her creation had transformed her, dispelling her despair. She felt vibrant again, alive as she hadn’t since her arrest, and she could see it reflected in their eyes.