Free Forbidden by Abbie Williams

“It’s so beautiful here; you guys are so lucky.”
    â€œIt is a great place,” Wilder confirmed, and then said, “Honey, there’s plenty left in the kitchen.”
    Gratefully she bounded inside; behind her Wilder grumbled, “You could have brought all those damn bags inside before running off to the lake, little bro.”
    Erica and Evelyn were working on the dishes; Riley was nowhere to be seen. There under the warm kitchen lights, all of the false bravado dissolved from Bryce’s limbs. Suddenly she felt as though she might be violently ill in a huge spray across the gleaming wood floor. Erica was moving to dish her up a plate, but she lifted one hand weakly and said, “Aunt Erica, thanks for supper, but I think I’ll go lie down. I have…really bad cramps right now.” There, and not even a total lie.
    Erica changed directions and pulled a plastic pill bottle from a side drawer. “It’s been a long day for you. Take a couple of these and you’ll feel better.”
    â€œThanks,” she whispered, and Erica patted her shoulder, her eyes concerned. She had removed her bandana and unwoven her braid, and the gorgeous mermaid’s hair Bryce recalled gleamed down her back in waves. She smelled of onions and garlic, homey scents, and Bryce was stunned to realize she wanted to burrow in her aunt’s embrace and be held tight. She backed away, cupping her hands around the small white pills, suddenly missing Trish very much. “Good-night, you two. Thanks again.”
    Moments later she was climbing the stairs, hearing Evelyn ask, “Mom, what’s the matter with her?” in a hushed voice.
    Erica quietly replied, “I don’t know for sure, honey. I think she’s a little overwhelmed by all of this.”
    Erica, you have no fucking idea.

    Part Two: Deception

Chapter Five
    Rose Lake, Minnesota – Thursday, December 18, 1969
    L ydia Henry bent over the toilet in the downstairs bathroom of the farm house, retching what surely had to be the last of her insides into the freshly-scrubbed white bowl. With a gasp she sat down hard on the cold wooden floor, bracing both palms against it for leverage, remaining as motionless as a threatened spider. And yet still her belly pitched and heaved, forcing bile up the back of her throat for the thousandth time that morning. Straight out from the open bathroom door the kitchen windows were in her direct line of view; no one was home at this hour of the day, and the sky was leaden and gray, exactly the way her soul felt right now.
    After a few minutes had passed she rose gingerly to her feet and turned to the sink, bent and splashed water over her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the round, wood-framed mirror directly above the faucet and winced; she looked ill and peaked, her hair hanging in a limp braid over one shoulder, a dingy and depressing glimpse into the role of farm wife and mother she was now inevitably destined for. Her belly jumped again and she clung to the edge of the sink.
    â€œGoddamn bastard,” she muttered, not sure if she meant the baby in her womb or John Ryan; either were direct candidates for her wrath. You coward , she hissed at herself for the hundredth time since this nightmare had begun. She was too terrified to get an abortion, fearful of the pain, but even more so of the everlasting hell her Catholic soul would be bound for if she were to kill the infant growing inside of her. She glared into her red-rimmed brown eyes in the mirror, seductive eyes that were the rich brown of pecans, fringed in heavy black lashes, a sharp and fascinating contrast to her golden-blond mane of hair. She glared until the tears came again, hot and furious, drenching her pale cheeks. She considered for a moment killing herself right here in the house, all over Daniel Sternhagen’s kitchen floor, blood blooming bright and red from the wounds she would open in her skin. Let John have