“Who are you? Where am I? Where, where? And what am I doing here? I’m supposed to be home. My husband will be worried. What are you doing with me? Who are you? Why, why, am I here?”
“Donna, my love, please calm down. It’s just part of that sedative the doctor gave you; he said it might make you a little woozy, but it wouldn’t hurt you or the baby. Sweetheart, you were getting so stressed!” he said.
She still couldn’t quite manage to sit-up.
Of course, sitting up from lying down like this has not been easy for a while now.
But her head seemed to be filled with fog. Was she dreaming? Was this a kind of late-stage pregnancy nightmare?
“Who are you?” she whispered her.
“Oh, Donna, Donna, it’s me! David—your husband. Father of the wee one you’re soon to have! Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should have said a resounding no. But you’ve been getting a little stressed out, and I thought you needed a good rest. And you agreed.”
“I’m not Donna and you’re not my husband!” she said.
He looked so sad—so confused. It almost made her question her own sanity.
“Donna, it’s me, David, your husband,” he said very gently. “David Johnstone. And we’re both so excited about the baby. And my beloved, my darling, my wife, I need you to rest, to feel better . . . the baby could come anytime.”
“The baby isn’t due for four weeks.” she informed him.
“Oh, sweetheart, no. He said we must be ready at any time. A baby sometimes decides for itself when it’s ready to come out. And the stress you’ve been under . . .”
“I haven’t been under stress! I’m not Donna. You may be David, but you’re not my husband and this isn’t—”
She broke off, looking around. Had she somehow gone stark, raving mad?
He was seated by her side. She was lying on a velvet covered loveseat that sat across from a crib, sheeted, freshly prepared for a newborn with a dangling puppy mobile hanging above it. The walls were filled with fun pictures painted a light blue. There were boxes of diapers for newborns about the room, and stuffed toys sat atop dressers she assumed were filled with all kinds of clothing for an infant.
She stared at the man. David. It could have all been right; they were both of an age. This room was prepared for an infant.
She was near her time to give birth.
But she wasn’t Donna! And he wasn’t Marty—and this wasn’t her home.
Marty . . .
He must be losing his mind!
Or . . .
She had already lost hers!
And worse. Something was happening with her body, with . . .
No! Please no, no! She couldn’t be going into the early stages of labor in the middle of a nightmare of . . . pure, simple insanity!
*
Angela
“Well,” Mrs. Thornton said, “Of course, I see people coming and going from that house. The Lawsons are having a baby. One of those chain baby stores delivered a crib, I think, went away with big boxes . . . let’s see, you know, themailman . . . some other delivery truck. Now, I don’t think she was home to let anybody in until this afternoon but . . . um, right before or right after, I guess, something big was delivered. But those two couldn’t be more excited about the baby. Nice people. They’re loved in the neighborhood.”
The Thornton house was the third on the street Angela had visited and each time, she was getting the same story.
Deliveries.
Yes, one man had seen her come home. No. He hadn’t seen her leave. Her car was still there, right? Had they checked out the whole house?
