Afterbirth by Belinda Frisch Page A

chunks from her mother’s flesh as clear as if she were back there with them. The nagging fear of nightmares unsettled her, and guilt for treating Foster the way she had, made her want to apologize.
    The sheets twisted around her legs like a cocoon. She wrestled her feet free, pushed the blankets aside, and headed downstairs.
    The fire had died down, but the air was much warmer than in the rest of the house. A silver mp3 player on the last of its battery glistened in the dim lighting and Foster lay, stretched out on the couch and sleeping to the sound of whatever was loaded on it. The pistol in his lap, and the fact that he was still wearing his glasses, said he hadn’t intended more than to rest his eyes.
    Penny moved the metal fireplace screen and tossed a knotty piece of wood onto the charred pile. A draft rolled along the hardwood as the damp pine smoked and finally caught. She sat down and pulled her knees to her chest, basking in the radiant warmth as the flame grew.
    She waited for him to hear her and to wake up, but even through the thick lenses she could see the bags under his eyes. She had no idea how long it had been since his last good night’s sleep.
    He snored loudly and she couldn’t help smiling.
    She pulled a crocheted afghan up to his chin and settled in the oversized, leather recliner across from him.
    Her eyes had barely closed when she heard the first metallic clang outside. A thud came at the side of the house and when she heard it again, she tried to wake Foster up.
    “Brian?” She shook his hand. “Brian, answer me.” She pulled out one of the earbuds. He swatted at his ear, but didn’t wake up.
    She picked up the pistol, which rested heavy and uneven in her hand, not at all like the .22 caliber rifle she was used to, and reluctantly checked the noise out.
    The lantern flames flickered and a cold breeze drifted down the stairway.
    “Shit.” She steeled her nerves, knowing that if she couldn’t handle going upstairs alone, she’d never make it outside of a house whose first floor was boarded up and where the draft was most certainly a window she forgot to close while cleaning. “You can do this.”
    She climbed the stairs and paused when she thought she heard footsteps. The light from the fireplace diminished by the halfway point and she strained her eyes, telling herself the shapes in the shadows were figments of her fertile imagination.
    “Hello?” Her voice echoed in the hallway. She tightened her grip on the pistol and held it out at arm’s length, unable to stop her hands from shaking. “Is anyone here?”
    The wind picked up at the top of the landing, the draft clearly coming from the master bedroom.
    She kept her back to the wall and pivoted into the empty room the way she’d seen done many times on television. The lined, floor-length drapes flapped in the breeze. The window was more than half open. She looked around the room, able to see the outlines of the furniture in the moonlight, and checked for signs of an intruder.
    A thumping sound, a bare tree branch against the house, resonated.
    “Friggin’ wind.”
    She exhaled a sigh of relief, set the gun on the bed, and went to close the window. By the time she saw the ladder propped against the side of the house, it was too late.
    A muscular man wearing a black ski mask came from behind the drapes. He grabbed her, turned her around so that she couldn’t fight him, and held a damp rag to her face. She squirmed and threw her elbows, trying to get free while holding her breath, but his grip was too strong. Her hands and feet began tingling and she knew she had to get away fast. She tried to pry a space between them, but he pushed her forward into the bed, slamming his weight into her. She went for the gun, which was just out of reach on the bedspread. She gasped and the sweet, pungent smell of the sedating liquid filled her nostrils and mouth. Her vision fogged and her ears felt plugged as though she were under water. Her whole