Fic: Namesake for ariadnes_string
Type of Submission: Fiction
Title: Namesake
Author: desertport
Recipient: ariadnes_string
Rating: PG
Warnings: None necessary.
Author's Notes: First, thanks to T., for the helpful beta. Thank you as well to the summergen mods for your patience and everything you do to bring us this excellent challenge. Ariadnes_String, your prompts were awesome! Hope you will enjoy!
Summary: On the night Ellen gave birth to Jo, nothing went according to plan.
1.
Ellen wasn't a hippie. She didn't believe in home birth or midwives or any end of pregnancy not involving a doctor, a nurse and an epidural. It wasn't like Ellen was a sissy girl-she used to hunt with Bill and Caleb, had put down as many critters as either. Once got bit by a ghoul and only got angry, then angrier when Bill stuck himself afterward, sewing her up.
So she wasn't afraid of pain; Ellen figured the kid would give her enough of that as it grew up, same as Ellen had her Mama, so why rush it?
2.
"I want a fucking hospital," Ellen breathed. "If I'd-wanted to give birth in your brother's dive bar-ow!"
She phased out as Bill murmured platitudes and held her hand and the pain of the contraction crested and dipped. He'd been saying something real comforting, but she didn't want to hear it. Then he made the mistake of adding, "But it's not a dive; it's a roadhouse."
The pain leveled, leaving Ellen hot, sweaty and out of sorts. "You a doctor?"
"No?"
"Then get yourself the hell out of this room and find me one, Bill, or I swear-oh!"
3.
Staying in the nearest town with a hospital would have killed their budget, but Bill's brother Rick only lived thirty miles off, and the distance didn't seem an outlandish drive, especially if they got on the road as soon as Ellen's labor started.
They'd known, abstractly, that it was tornado season in Nebraska . Somehow, though, the possibility of a windstorm hadn't factored into their plans.
Ellen was giving birth, and Rick was battening the Roadhouse's hatches, nailing shut the shutters, transferring liquor to the cellar. With binoculars, you could see twenty miles out, the horizon gray and blurred and treacherous.
4.
Aside from Bill, who had gotten her into this mess and still hadn't materialized a doctor, Abby was Ellen's only consolation. Her sister-in-law had been there the last time, right there, and she was here again, scowling at the blocked window and glaring up at the ceiling every time debris bounced off the roof.
"Abby, I think you're crankier than I am," Ellen told her between contractions. "You got somewhere to be?"
Abby didn't ever talk much, but she had this crooked smile, more eyes than mouth. She aimed that at Ellen and draped a warm washcloth over her eyes.
5.
"Storm's getting closer. We should move her down the cellar."
Bill looked from his brother to Ellen, who lay across the barroom on a ratty recliner, fisting the armrests. She turned a contorted glare on him.
"See, she really hates being talked about in the third person in earshot," Bill explained. His brother was a bachelor for good reason.
Braver than smart, Rick walked over to the impromptu birthing area. "Wanna go downstairs, Ellen? Might be safer."
"I'll never get there," Ellen sighed, gritting. "Besides, cellar's a mess; at least the bar gets cleaned regular."
Rick awkwardly agreed and retreated.
6.
The storm swept closer to the roadhouse, dry wind tossing junk and shingles everywhere, dust thicker than bad fog. Rick bolted the door shut and stopped monitoring for tornadoes. If any came, nothing anyone could do but pray.
Ellen finally gave up hope for the hospital, decided to push harder come next contraction. She rested, weary and dreading it, and the building settled, quietness made starker by the howling outdoors. She half-slept, listening to Bill and Rick by the bar, discussing in serious tones whether she'd mind if they drank. Abby was quiet but comforting, her hand corpse-cold in Ellen's.
7.
Ellen opened her eyes, feeling pressure well up threateningly. First thing she saw was Abby in profile across the barroom, eating a tomato sandwich. Next was Bill, sipping rotgut with his brother. Sitting next to Ellen, holding her hand, Ellen saw as she turned her head wonderingly, was a dead woman, skin half-off, sagging across her neck, unnatural jowls swinging minutely as she nodded. Ellen caught her breath.
"Boys," she squeaked. Everyone turned to her and finally saw the problem, but nobody moved, shocked stupid.
"Holy shit, it's Mrs. Nacomber!" exclaimed Rick.
Abby gasped, stood, and ran out of sight.
8.
Rick moved second: slid over the bar and came up with two rifles, tossed one to Bill, and swung around to aim at Mrs. Nacomber, who sat, silent, placid and grotesque, at Ellen's side.
Ellen flipped out. "No, you morons-oh!" The contraction pulsed viciously, and Ellen wailed, wanting to push but holding it in with effort. "You shoot me now and I'll nev-never forgive you."
Mrs. Nacomber squeezed Ellen's hand, which had clenched around the decayed tissue, as Bill and Rick looked uncertainly between each other.
Then Abby ran in with a bag and two handfuls of salt.
9.
Later, Ellen picked salt from her hair as Bill bent over her, feeling for injuries. "Are you sure you're all right? Oh, God, Ellen. Did it hurt you?"
Mrs. Nacomber had snarled and vanished as soon as Abby's salt hit her, and Rick was lining the entrances to keep her outside.
"No, just held my hand." It had been there the entire time she slept, probably since Abby took her sandwich break. "Rick, you bastard, you might have mentioned you had a ghost in the bar."
Rick choked back a sharp retort, leery of arguing with a woman in labor.
10.
Ellen suffered three more contractions, spaced closer than before, Abby attentive, with Bill and Rick chased off to the far end of the barroom. The pain was like the gusting wind outside. She wished she could claim never to have known this kind of misery, but that was not the case.
Perhaps recognizing the cast of Ellen's thoughts, Abby gestured the men over. Ellen was grateful for a distraction and demanded: "One of you want to tell me who's Mrs. Nacomber?"
Bill nodded. "Johanna Nacomber. Local lady who disappeared when we were kids. Remember that shit-storm, Abby? Everyone knew Aaron Nacomber did it-that was her husband, Elle-but they never found the body. He must have stashed her nearby."
"Storm likely rattled her spirit, woke her up," Rick explained, unnecessarily. "We'll go find her body when things calm down."
Ellen accepted their report and sent them away again as another contraction neared. When they'd left, she examined the hand poor Mrs. Nacomber had held. It was fine, not cramping like the rest of her sore body. Abby handed her a piece of rolled up leather to bite down on and made a decisive pushing motion. Time to become a mother.
End.