A Churchgoing Woman

CHAPTER 2 – LIFE AND DEATH ON SUNDAY EVENING-1

CHAPTER 2 – LIFE AND DEATH ON SUNDAY EVENING

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WHEN THE PIERCING PAIN came, Emily dropped the basket with the tomatoes she had just gathered and groaned. The stabbing pain in her back intensified and brought tears in her eyes. The young girl doubled over.

She had been having pains now and then since noon. Emily had thought that the weight of the baby caused the sharp pains in her lower back, so she tried not to pay attention to them.

Her eyes widened in alarm when water pooled at her feet suddenly. She was in labor, and that scared her. Emily was alone at home. Her mother worked the afternoon shift at the factory in the next town, and Emily knew she wouldn’t come back home before ten.

Emily knew that she couldn’t call the hospital, and that panicked her more. They had had the phone disconnected two days ago, and they hadn’t had the money to pay the bill yet. Her mother’s paycheck was due only in three days.

Anyway, it didn’t matter because she couldn’t have called an ambulance. Her medical insurance barely covered the birth, and that only if there weren’t any complications.

Emily looked in the distance, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. They lived beyond the edge of town, and their closest neighbor was a mile and a half down the road. She didn’t even know if the neighbors would be willing to help. They had avoided her lately, but Emily couldn’t condemn them. They needed to take care of themselves and couldn’t cross Lorna Carter.

On the other hand, if I crossed the field behind the house, I’d reach the road to the hospital, she thought. There were only about three and a half miles to walk, and maybe, a car would pass by and give her a lift.

Once she made her decision, Emily went inside the house and forgot about the tomatoes spread in the grass.

The clock chimed. It was only nine o’clock.

Emily would have liked to shower and change before going to the hospital, but she could barely stand. So, she picked up her bag with documents and left. Emily was ashamed to get to the hospital like that. However, if she had tried to shower, she might not have been able to leave at all, and she was far too scared to remain in the house.

She wobbled out of the house and down the stairs at the back of the house. Her back ached, but she started to cross the field with determination. It stretched far under her frightened eyes.

What if I don’t make it? Emily wondered, but then she shook her head. I have to do it.

She hung the strap of the handbag on one shoulder. Her right hand clutched on her lower back, Emily started her trip to the hospital, and then she trudged ahead.

Pains came and went, taking her breath away, and Emily would bend over whenever her abdomen contracted. Every pain left her breathless for a minute or so and made her walk with more difficulty.

Twenty minutes later, a powerful pain gripped her, and Emily cried out. With the pain, the urge to push came, as well. Emily fell on the ground with a terrified shout. She tried to stop pushing but to no avail.

With shaking hands, she took off her underwear. The contractions were close now. They melted into a big one, and Emily couldn’t catch her breath anymore. She began panting, and tears trailed down her cheeks. Her body took over, and she felt the baby coming. Emily clenched her fists hard, and her knuckles turned white.

Then, the aching wave stopped for a few seconds. Emily tried to breathe normally, but a new contraction seized her, and with an inhuman cry, she pushed again and felt the baby sliding out on the ground.

It was 9:25 on November 6th, 2016, Sunday evening.

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THE CARTERS’ HOUSE was on the other end of the town, in a square that included only five streets. That was the fashionable part, inhabited by rich people, who thought that they were the pillars of the community. They looked down their nose to the mere mortals, who lived beyond the border of that square.

The commercial street separated the square from the unfashionable part of town. Here, in that square, the houses were old but kept with care. Lawns were perfectly manicured, and drives sported the latest model in cars. Flowers bordered the front walls, and flimsy curtains adorned the windows.

The Carters’ house was a two-story, red brick, erected on the corner of Orchids Street. Three tall oaks shadowed the windows on one side of the lawn. On the other, a statue of Madonna overlooked a small garden.

At 9:20, on November 6, 2016, the house was almost dark. Only the kitchen window glimmered in the light of the ceiling lamp.

Silence surrounded the area. At 9:25, a brief cry erupted from the back of the Carters’ house. The sound of the war movie on TV from their neighbors’ living room swallowed it.

In her once immaculate kitchen, Lorna Carter lay on the floor, stabbed five times in her chest, and once in her abdomen in rapid succession. Her blood spilled on the well-scrubbed floor.

She had cried out when her gaze fell on the knife pushed down to her chest, but after the first blow in her chest, Lorna couldn’t do anything but gurgle. The knife penetrated her chest the third time. Her life left the body, and her eyes became glassy.

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