Hand in hand, we walked to the bed.
When I kissedMarc goodbye that day, I was sure it would be the last time I saw him. Assuming he held up his end of the bargain. It hurt more than anything I’d ever done, even overshadowing when I’d had to say goodbye to Trevor, but it was also a comfort because it was the right thing to do. He couldn’tgo to prison for me.
Days and weeks passed in endless monotony, and I began to wonder if even the prison hospital would be preferable to the nothingness I was currently living with. After all, even hardened criminals were allowed entertainment. They had outdoor time, jobs, books and cards in their cells, and even television. I had nothing, though.
Was it on purpose? Were the other women in this building in the same position, or was this Hilary’s way of getting back at me? I didn’t know, and since I still refused to talk to her, I wasn’t going to ask.
I slept a lot. Thought even more. I imagined what it would be like if, by some miracle, Marc and I were allowed to create a life together. We wouldn’t have our baby, but we could try for another. It wouldn’t fill the hole our son left behind and we would never forget him, but we would be able to move on. Somehow. Other times I imagined Marc and I were able to get away and create a life together in Canada. That scenario was better because in it, our son was with us, but it also hurt too much to think about because it was so far-fetched. I typically stuck with the other daydream.
Marc kept me company even if he didn’t know it. I talked to him, told him stories I hadn’t yet gotten around to, asked him questions I would never get the answers to, and imagined I was in his arms when I fell asleep.
Hilary came and went three times a day, the doctor arrived for my twenty-four-week checkup, then again when I hit twenty-eight weeks. I’d begun to feel the baby move shortly after my solitary began, and by week twenty-eight, was able to feel him from the outside. I would sit for hours with my hand on my stomach, which was now so big it would have been impossible to hide that I was pregnant, and wait for my son to be active. He was the size of an eggplant now, according to the doctor, and probably close to two pounds. Even more importantly, he had reached the point where if he were born, he just might make it.
I talked to my son, wanting him to know the sound of my voice, and told him everything I knew about his father. How kindand loving he was, how much he wanted us to be a family. I cried. I prayed. I asked God to do something to save us but never really expected it.
My prayers were answered when I was thirty weeks along.
It happened shortly after sunset. I was lying in bed, talking to my baby when the click of the lock being disengaged cut through the silence. The lamps were off, so I sat up and reached for the bedside table. Light flooded the room just as the door was thrown open, and even though the brightness nearly blinded me, I recognized Marc immediately.
“We have to go.” He rushed into the room, yanked the dresser drawer open, and pulled out a few things at random. “Now, Ara. There isn’t much time.”
I shoved the covers off and dragged myself from bed, groaning at the pulling of ligaments when I moved. Marc turned, clothes in his hand, and despite his urgency, froze at the sight of me. I was wearing only a t-shirt, and he hadn’t seen me in ten weeks, and my body had changed so much in that time.
“Holy shit.” Marc rushed toward me, knelt, and put the hand not clutching my clothes on my stomach. “You’re so big.”
“The baby is so big,” I replied.
“Our baby,” Marc whispered.
He stayed like that for a few seconds, but as if remembering why he was here, shook his head and got to his feet. He thrust the clothes he’d taken from my dresser at me, forcing me to takethem, then began hurrying around the room, picking things up at random.
“I have a car, but our window of opportunity is short, and we can’t be long.” He grabbed my shoes off the floor, then picked up a sweatshirt I’d discarded earlier that day. “We have to go, Ara!”
The last sentence was uttered with even more urgency than everything else he’d said, but it wasn’t enough to penetrate my shock. He had a car? We were leaving? It couldn’t be real.
“Where did you get a car?”
My sweatshirt, shoes, and a few items were in his arms when he hurried over. “I had help. A friend. He’s causing a distraction so we can get away, but we don’t have much time. We have to go.”
I was still confused.
“We’re leaving?”
Marc let out an exasperated breath, but tossed my things on the bed so he could take my hands. “Listen very carefully, Ara. We can get out of here. I have a car and funds for gas, and if we leave now, we can be in Canada early tomorrow morning. We’ll be together and free, and the US government won’t be able to touch our baby. We’ll be safe, but we have to go. Now.”
Finally, reality set in. I was getting out of here. I was going to be with Marc. We could keep our baby.
I ripped my hands from his and got busy.
Marc talked as I got dressed. “I have a road atlas, which is going to suck, but we can’t risk using my cell phone. As soon as they realize we’re both gone, they’ll put two and two together. All we have to do is stay off main roads and get to Canada. They’ll grant us asylum when you tell them you were being held here.”
“What about you?” I asked as I pulled a sweatshirt over my head. “Will they let you stay?”
Marc exhaled. “That’s a little more questionable, but I think so.”
I sat on the edge of the bed so I could pull my shoes on. It was no easy feat since my stomach was now so big, but with a little maneuvering, I managed.
“You think so?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
