“I’m assuming you think it is unfair,” he says, “but it is the fairest thing we can do for you and for the rest of the human race. It is selfish and cruel for people like you to bring into the world children who will suffer what you have suffered. It’s a simple thing to keep it from happening. You’ll come to thank me in the end.”
Only people like you make me suffer because of it, I want to say. But I don’t. He has my child.
“Then just let me take Amaryllis and go. I can’t have any more children. You’ve seen to that. Just let me and my child go. Please?”
The doctor sighs. “We’ve already talked about this. You know I won’t do that.”
“Please!” I beg. “Please just let me and Amaryllis go.”
“And where exactly would you go, Rosie?” he says matter-of-factly, the gentleness in his voice from a moment ago gone. “Your parents are dead and you have no other family. You are a minor who does not have a home or a job or a high school diploma. You have nothing. You have been placed under the state’s care, as has your child. She will be taken to a facility licensed by the state to be adopted by a good family who can give her what you cannot. You would be thinking of her right now if you were a good mother.”
His words slice into me like a knife. Cold and sharp and deep. His words are true. I can give nothing to Amaryllis. Nothing but love, and in this world, love isn’t enough.
“Please let me say good-bye to her,” I say, barely able to form the words.
“No. It would only make it harder for you, which would make it harder for the staff. No.”
“Please!” I plead. “Please!”
But he turns and starts to walk away.
I am screaming Amaryllis’s name—over and over—as he leaves the room, and I am still screaming it when the nurse comes in moments later with the needle.
•••
When I awake the third time, it is morning again—another day has begun, just like it always does. Dawn is relentless. Even on my worst days, the sun never fails to rise. My family is gone, the Calverts are gone, the vineyards are gone, Belle is gone, and Amaryllis is gone. The little silver key is gone. I have no one and nothing except the colors and each new day.
As I lie in the bed hearing the sounds of the institution comingto life, I know that my parents were right to fear the colors. They are dangerous. A dim memory of my father praying at my bedside when I was little comes to me. He pleaded with heaven for a miraculous favor. For the colors to leave his daughter. He was afraid for me. People will always distrust what they don’t understand. And what they distrust, they cannot love.
My father didn’t get what he asked for, but nor had he promised anything in return. I would do better than he had. I would offer something I loved more than life itself in return for my request.
I close my eyes. “I have failed everyone,” I whisper. “I know I have, but, God in heaven, in your great mercy, I ask for this one thing. I will give up my child to be someone else’s daughter if you will promise not to give the colors to her. Please don’t give them to her. Let this sacrifice of mine pay for what I’ve done and what I’ve failed to do. Please. I give my Amaryllis to you if you will do this one thing for me. This one thing.”
I pray this request again as a nurse comes into the room and releases me from the straps.
I pray it as I eat the soup and bread they bring to me.
I pray it for the five days I am in the infirmary recovering from my injuries and my surgery.
Dr. Townsend comes to see me on the sixth day, and he seems surprised and pleased to see me sitting up in bed, without the restraints, and eating my lunch.
“I’m so very glad to see how much you have improved since I last saw you,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply with little inflection. “I’m feeling better.”
He is watching me carefully. I can see the doubt in his eyes.
“I have made my peace with what you did to me.” My voice sounds older, like I have aged twenty years in the days between the attempt to escape and now.
“I think that’s wise. Very wise,” Dr. Townsend says. “Dr.Melson says you can return to the third floor if you like. To a different room, though.”
“All right.” I shrug. I don’t care about getting off the second floor; I don’t care that I’ll be in a different room on the third floor. I only care about my one prayer being answered.
“Perhaps you’d like to be wheeled out onto the lawn for some sunshine and fresh air.”
“All right.”
He gazes at me for several long moments before telling me he’ll arrange for an orderly to take me down. I don’t care that he stares in doubt at me. I only care about the prayer and the bargain I have struck.
