Heather ignores the screeching television set warning viewers Hurricane Bella is close. She sees it all transpiring outside her grimy window panes. The surrounding clouds, darker than soot, propel themselves forward like frightened deer herds. The wind picks up in violent spurts, and scattered lightning whips the sky. All this incoming rain will surely drown the lawns and sidewalks in rising torrents. Anything of value left outside will sink down into the Red River’s elements. It happens every time such a storm hits Louisiana. 

From her place by the wall, Heather hears some stacked books toppling over. They crash onto what parts of her floor remain uncovered. Rylan, her dear landlord and source of the commotion, starts swearing. Heather laughs as he struggles over the mounds of musical toys, the piles of boxed pacifiers, and the clumps of infant clothes. He stopped by unannounced, ruining her opportunity to scavenge nearby curbsides for anything worth adding to this giant salvage. People like her always love a good storm, the cover it provides. A bit of privacy goes a long way while tending to your work.

“Watch your step,” Heather says, smirking. “Not easy to clean around here.”

The weather channel now predicts tornados touching down come evening, but Heather focuses on the immediate neighbors’ house. They switched on their lights and drew their curtains which means, Heather figures, they resolved to stay like her.

Rylan’s laugh drips thick sarcasm. “You’d have more luck running into a tertiary than cleaning this place.”

“A what?”

  “A triple rainbow. Look, this isn’t a time for jokes. You need to come with me while there’s still road to drive on.”

Heather scoffs. Rylan worries too much about her. But then again, why wouldn’t he? Her dim reflection looking back in the glass provides reasons aplenty for concern. Dirt stains blotch her faded, tie dye shirt. Wide tearing reveals her scrawny arms under a rain jacket, and her thick, frizzy hair sits messier than the unkept bedsheets where she and Rylan sometimes made love.

Heather takes a moment to stroke her swollen belly, large enough, now, to poke itself out from under any shirt she wears. A soft lurch comes from inside, but Heather ignores it too. Instead, she reflects on the estrangement between herself and society. Occasionally, she pretends to be a castaway shipwreck off some river’s bank; distant enough to stand out, but close enough to feel the separation. Though she survived many storms throughout her life, Heather’s abnormal habits and unorthodox situations scattered everyone dear to her once things progressed too far. She cherished Rylan as a precious exception, him having stuck by her side all this time, but how much longer would he stick around? When would her tides of eccentricity push him away? Heather couldn’t fathom him remaining a part of her life if he ever discovered the depressing piece of information doctors revealed on her last wellness visit.

***

She lay there some months ago, cross-legged on a beige examination chair. Air conditioning ventilated through the dim ultrasound room, shivering her. But its smell, that acrid, antiseptic fragrance mixed into the place’s cleaners overwhelmed Heather’s unstable stomach, and she feared she might vomit.

Doctor Jones, the attending physician, glided his transducer over Heather’s belly. His eyes panned between it and the ultrasound machine while his thin lips opened and closed like a beached fish.

Considering Heather’s biology education barely stretched past high school, these shaded greys and black blobs made no sense. But she knew life endured inside her, morphing and maturing within her soft, warm womb. So, when Doctor Jones asked her to urinate in a cup for further testing, she complied. After all, why hesitate? Her breasts felt tender, she suffered bouts of fatigue, and no blood leaked out her body like the last pregnancy. No, everything appeared normal this time, even this queasiness she suppressed upon watching Doctor Jones re-enter the room, his plump, ringless hands tapping against a clip board.

“You’re suffering from a rare condition known as pseudocyesis,” he said in a raspy tone.

Heather licked her lips. “Okay, but what about my baby?”

The doctor squatted on a nearby stool. He fiddled through his lab coat and brought out some paper folds. “I want you to look at this sample,” he said. “It’s the ultrasound of a woman, ten weeks pregnant.”

Heather took hold of the screenshots. A little grey figure took up moderate space in each one, clearly a fetus. After a solid, silent minute of staring, Doctor Jones brought out some new papers. “These are your images,” he said. Helena moved the two sets of pictures side by side. Upon realizing no grey masses of any kind filled hers, she swallowed what felt like pits of sour fruit. 

The good doctor went on about her last pregnancy, a miscarriage. He blabbered about the possibility of infertility and something else concerning expensive treatment options, but Helena shut her ears to his rasping, turned her gaze to the floor. Her entire head started whirling as if her senses had transformed into a globe for everyone to walk by and spin. And then, unable to hold back a moment longer, she threw up everywhere.

***

“They’re at it again,” she says, coating the glass foggy with her breath.

“Heather, I’m serious!”

“So am I. Come look.”

Behind the kitchen windows, the two neighbors, a couple, pace back and forth, flinging their arms in wild gestures. The husband yells. Then his wife screams something back. And now a baby, their sole child, is crying.

Heather takes hold of Rylan’s arm. “That poor, little one. She was asleep when you got here.”

The husband yells on, but the infant’s cries silence his words. Then the wife starts laughing. It’s a forced, dry kind of laugh, packaged with artificial sympathy. But she quickly makes a sharp cry, and Heather hears a thud.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, covering her mouth, “he slugged her.”

“Do you want to call the cops?”

Heather considers it. The last time her neighbors actually got into such a scuffle, she did notify the authorities. But police took their sweet time arriving, and, once here, arrested no one. She later heard the wife’s body showed no evidence of being harmed. Not to mention during questioning, she denied her husband acting abusive in any way. Heather still isn’t sure how the man found out, but the husband showed up the next day, banging on her door and spitting rage over her calling 911.

“From here on out, you mind your own business,” the husband eventually shouted, slurring his words, “or I’ll fuck you purple!” He then clomped off Heather’s property in heavy work boots, and Heather didn’t leave the house for a week.

“No,” she finally says, “they’re not gonna do anything.”

“Then come on, Heather,” Rylan says, pulling on her arm, “we’re running out of time.”

Heather yanks free of him. “I can’t leave all of this.”

Rylan takes hold of her shoulders, his rich cologne swarming through her nostrils. “Listen, this crap is scraping the ceiling. There’s no way I can haul it. Hell, God himself couldn’t pack it all up. You need to think of what’s really best for our baby and get out of here with me.”

Heather feels some warmth escape. “But I need these things.”

“You didn’t even buy half of it. It’s not worth your life.”

Heather slowly looks across the living room, succumbing under the weight of Rylan’s logic. The value of these possessions sits around discarded refuse, at best, but the longer Heather stares at them, the quicker she slips into imagining such keeps abandoned in the wind and the wet. For she doesn’t see these items as fractured cribs, dented sound machines, moldy sleep wear, or expired car seats. They’re small, vulnerable children once deserted in some far-off place. Naked and alone, they cried out to her for protection, and she took them in, rescued them. For someone sympathetic to their plight, who was she to deny children beloved protection? How would she live with herself? 

“I’m not leaving,” Heather says, matching Rylan’s glare. “You go if you want, but I’m not. And that’s that.”

Rylan runs a hand through his trimmed, grey hair. He makes a long sigh as if exorcising his fighting spirit and then walks out of the house. Heather watches the door close, feeling every drop of another costly decision staining her bitter as it squeaks shut. 

***

When she was seven years old, Heather’s father woke her up one early summer morning. The lights were off, but she recognized his clothes from the previous day. Little patches of stubble trailed over his jaw, and he smelled of something strong. Heather gripped at the bed sheets under his stare. He’d been looking worse and worse ever since they buried her mother.

Her father told her to get dressed and come downstairs to the kitchen. Heather obeyed and found some cereal poured out when she arrived. She ate in silence, and her father sat across from her at the chipped table, one of the few furniture pieces left in the house. A few bites in and Heather noticed red circles rimming around the man’s eyes. Had he been crying all night?

When she finished, Heather followed her dad to their blue pickup truck. She buckled herself in, and he started the engine. They drove down a dirt road connected to the highway, and in time the sun came up, brightening a cloudless horizon.

“You know, Heather,” her father said, pausing awkwardly mid-sentence. “Some people are just born lucky. Others are lucky to be born. You have to deal with the situation at hand and make due with what you’re dealt. And if you can’t, you find the strength to move on.” He lit a cigarette and looked back in the rear-view mirror. “Make sense?” he asked after a drag.

Heather nodded even though it didn’t.

“Good. Glad we agree on that.”

They drove a while longer before coming into town. The tall courthouse fashioned in Roman pillars and a golden dome stood in its center. After parking, Heather unbuckled herself and followed her dad inside.

“What are we doing here?” Heather asked.

Her father looked ahead. “There’s some legal stuff that needs finalizing. I gotta sign some forms and such. Understand?”

Though she still didn’t, Heather nodded. The last time they came here, her dad lost his job working shipyards, and they needed money to eat. What did he need now?

The pair walked through narrow hallways, over to an office door. A lady inside wearing a blue suit rose from a desk. Silver cuff links shined at her sleeves, and her lipstick smile reminded Heather of cherry red ice cream. The lady handed Heather’s dad some papers, introduced herself, and started asking the girl several “get-to-know-you” questions like new teachers asked their classes.

“I know this is a difficult time for you,” she eventually said, squeezing Heather’s hands softly as if milking a cow, “but your father’s doing what’s best.”

Heather blinked. “What’s that?”

The lady’s cheery smile melted, and Heather turned to her dad.

The man kept his face down as if getting caught in some ill-behaved act. Sheepishly, he approached his daughter and kissed her head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning to leave, and Heather turned stiff.

“Daddy?” she asked, but he opened the office door.

As it closed from his exit, Heather sprinted forward. She barely made it out the office before the lady and a security guard caught her. Struggling against them, she continued screaming for her father to come back, but the man walked on as if her words were already distant echoes bouncing into obscurity.

***

Heather startles as Rylan re-enters the house. His clothes are damp and there’s something inside his pocket. “I need a beer,” he says, and Heather embraces him.

Making her way to the kitchen, Heather takes one more look at her neighbors who’ve gone suspiciously quiet. She watches the husband return to the kitchen. He grabs his wife by the shoulders, and pins her against the fridge. With their faces mere inches apart, the wife’s fists clench tight. Heather purses her lips, expecting the woman to throw a punch this time. Instead, she leans forward and kisses the husband. It’s a deep kiss, too, one he returns.

As the man brushes his fingers between the wife’s crotch, her hands tangle his hair. The infant, behind pleading eyes, holds her arms up again, but the couple turn their backs on her, kissing as if it’s their first taste of passion. They then move into the dining room, leaving her all alone, and biles of anger slick down Heather’s throat. This child deserves better.

Beer in hand, Heather returns, stopping short of the couch. “What’s this?” she asks, pointing out Rylan’s handgun lying on the coffee table. Outside, the rain picks up.

“You remember the looting that took place after Hurricane Katrina?” Rylan leans forward, takes hold of the weapon. “If we’re staying, I want some protection.” He loads a full clip into the gun’s magazine.

“Protection?” Heather rubs her swollen hips. “Thought you liked living dangerously?”

Rylan places the weapon back on the coffee table and shrugs. “Hey, I’ve been teaching shitty kids this side of the state for over fifteen years. You try teaching in these schools for two, and it’s enough to make you sterile.” 

Heather snuggles close, and Rylan wraps a thick arm around her. “Or so I thought.” He kisses her temple. “But you always wanted a child, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Heather whispers, looking from the gun to the neighbor’s house. “Still do.”

***

Heather lifts her head from Rylan’s chest. Rain pours like bullets outside, and the thunder punches the walls, but this man’s snoring drowns it all. She smiles, moving her hand next to his at the knee. With all the work he’s put into her, she hopes to one day slip matrimony gold around his chapped ring finger. For transforming herself into a respectable wife sounds so much easier than suffering through pseudocyesis, or whatever doctors call it.

Slowly standing, Heather scratches her back. Slight cramps jab at her sides, but she stretches them away. Taking hold of the pistol, she checks the safety. Then she tucks it into her coat pocket and trudges between her salvage heaps, over towards the rear door. 

The swale of her backyard submerges along with the driveway. The rain has swallowed up the welcome mat, and its waves lap over the back steps. Heather walks down them into the water, her shoes brimming with cold slime. She sloshes her way into the neighbor’s yard, its small picket fence hauled down by the flooding, and with some small, metal clips she picks the backdoor open. 

Heather removes her mucky shoes and draws out the gun. A few of the lights flicker as she steps through the kitchen, littered with magazines and spent cigarettes. As she moves into the adjacent hallway, the smell of something musty swoops in with a draft, and a fire crackles. Heather squeezes into the hallway’s corner, bracing her sore back against the wall. The gun, still clasped in her hands, starts quivering, and Heather’s breath comes out in shallow heaps. It’s as if every moment spent in this place is a hand tightening around her throat, one finger at a time.

She looks back down the hallway, tells herself it’s not too late to scram. These are uncharted, treacherous waters, ill-advised for traversing. And even if Heather accomplishes this little mission of hers, it’s unlikely Rylan will take to it. Like an oil tanker set on its voyage, a person who’s navigated deep into adulthood doesn’t change course easily.

But then she hears the baby crying. Only now, it sounds faint, a flickering, little kindle on the verge of extinguishment. The thought of this little warm life going out weighs heavy on Heather’s neck, and she sees at this moment, with terrible clarity, everything depends on her. So, with a steady grip around the handle, Heather rounds the corner and aims her weapon. 

The first thing she sees is the neighbors, now, cuddled together on a weathered couch. Their mouths hang open but their eyes rest closed while a baggie slumps at their feet. Heather inches on by, keeping the gun leveled at the husband’s face. Even with a top on, she sees the man is a filthy kind of hairy, a real walking carpet someone should’ve taken out and beaten. Lightening stabs the outside in quick flashes, and everything seems to quake. How people manage dozing through this gale stupefies Heather. As she reaches the end of the living room, she pinpoints the baby’s muffles creeping out a nearby door, the one painted pink. She moves inside and flips on the lights, waiting for her vision to adjust.

The infant sits up in the crib, pulls out her white pacifier. With irises the shade of clover, she takes in Heather’s face, losing herself to wholesome curiosity. Heather slowly approaches the child like a stranger approaching some skittish animal. Once she closes the distance, Heather combs a pruned hand through the infant’s black, curly hair, softer than velvet. The baby takes hold of her hand, and Heather’s body jolts as a nearby crash interrupts the moment. 

She lifts the infant out of the crib and listens. Everything is suddenly so quiet, so tranquil. The fire is no longer crackling, the baby stares blankly, and the heavy rain simmers into a hushed sprinkle. She raises the gun and clicks the safety off. This all feels so wrong. Then Heather hears it; the steady rise of the town’s weather siren sweeping into every lawn, every building, and every ear in range, making the approaching danger all too real.

“We need to go,” she whispers, adjusting her grip on the child. They move back into the living room. To Heather’s surprise, the husband is now on the floor, sprawled out like a chucked toy. Next to him, the baggie spills its white, powdery contents over the dusty floor while the wife lies face down in the pillows.

“Don’t look at them,” she says to the baby, collecting herself. They move past the bodies. “I’m going to take care of you, now.” But Heather barely finishes speaking before the husband lurches forward, grabbing her ankle. She screams and kicks him loose, nearly dropping the infant. The husband then lifts himself up on his knees and comes at her again. On instinct, Heather slams the gun into his neck, and the man crumples back onto the floor.

For a moment, no one moves. The husband twitches, and Heather forces herself to breathe. After a heavy set of seconds, the husband finally looks up, directly at Heather. His bloodshot eyes twitch, and it sounds like he’s wheezing. Heather’s mouth quivers at the corner, but she finds the strength to point the gun at the husband’s face. With eyes slowly closing, the husband gives into the situation’s futility and dips his head to the ground where it doesn’t rise up again.

***

As the town’s sirens stop sounding off, the loud wind punishes. Heather does her best to cross through the waist-high water, but debris cuts through the air. Since the encounter in the living room, her surrogate child won’t stop crying. Heather presses the infant close, but her clothes are thoroughly soaked, and the baby’s bottom lip keeps jittering.

“I can’t make you any warmer,” Heather says. “Just hold on. We’re almost home.”

They make it over what remains of the picket fence, arriving at the submerged back steps. Heather slides the gun back into her coat pocket. With her free hand grasping a rusty railing, she guides herself and the infant up. Amidst the wind, Heather hears a voice calling her name from the front porch. It can only be Rylan. Invigorated, she moves faster up the patio, but as she reaches the top step, her slime-packed shoes lose complete traction. Heather falls, bracing the baby in both arms. 

Her bottom and back make contact with the stony steps, and a loud flash shoots out from her pocket. Heather’s sustained scream dizzies up her head, and blood quickly leaks out from the top of her sneaker. More blue than red in the night, it seems to belong to the dark water as both liquids converge effortlessly. She eases herself onto one foot, gains control of her breathing.

The back door swings open, and Rylan emerges. His facial expression upon seeing Heather and the baby resembles someone who just witnessed a car full of people explode. He guides Heather through the laundry room and moves her towards a seat in the kitchen.

“There’s not much time. Wait here,” he shouts, running away and returning with a first aid kit. Sitting down, he lifts Heather’s leg onto his lap, carefully removing her shoe. As he does, the gun slips out of Heather’s coat pocket without discharging.

Rylan makes a face. “Guess that explains what happened to my pistol.” 

He manages to stop the bleeding. Halfway through washing the wound, he freezes, slowly turning towards Heather. “Please.” He closes his eyes. “Please, oh please, tell me you didn’t-”

“No, I didn’t shoot anyone, no,” Heather says, shaking her head. She bites down on her weathered sleeve as Rylan finishes his work. Her entire face starts sweating. “I’m surprised you know how to do this.”

“Professional development course,” Rylan says, handing her some painkillers. “School board doesn’t trust its teachers to write their own lesson plans, but they do expect us to be able to medically dress bullet wounds.”

Heather grinds her teeth. “They don’t pay you enough.”

“Alright, no more flattery.” Rylan points at the infant. “What the fuck were you thinking? I mean, kidnapping?”

Heather wipes her brow, no longer certain if all this perspiring is a result of the immense pain or the moment’s pressure. “I need to tell you something,” she says, licking her lips.

A loud crash breaks through some windows, and Rylan immediately helps Heather onto her feet. The pair make for the pantry, hobbling past every hoarded pile. On the way, Rylan stubs his toe against one of the stacked car seats. He slams his free arm into some clothes mounds, careening them down, and to Heather’s dismay, more stacks follow suit against the weather’s fierce barrage.

“We’re dead center in the cyclone’s path,” Rylan shouts, opening the pantry door. “Crouch down under those shelves.”

As the pair huddle together, Heather nestles the baby and speaks.

“What?” Rylan asks.

“I said I’m not pregnant!”

Her words slap Rylan hard.

“All this,” Heather says, motioning along her body, “is a lie of nature, some sick anomaly.” She sniffles, looks at the baby. “That’s why I took her.”

A moment passes, and Rylan’s face sinks. “I suspected something was wrong after that one doctor’s visit. You said you’d lost the ultrasound images, but I didn’t buy it. You’re all about finding things, not losing them. But if you think that gives you the right to kidnap someone-”

Suddenly, the baby taps at Heather’s chin. “You hungry?” she asks, handing her over to Rylan, interrupting him.

“Wait, what are you doing now?”

Heather takes off her jacket and removes her shirt. She unstraps her bra and pokes out a breast. “She needs to eat.”

Taking her back, she positions the baby near the teat, its tip red and glossy. The infant doesn’t respond, so Heather strips her entire chest free of the bra. Then she moves the baby over to the other breast. Still, she won’t take it in her mouth. Heather makes a few more attempts, but it’s all in vain; the little one refuses to suckle.

As she starts crying, Heather quickly succumbs to her own sobbing. Meanwhile, Rylan just sits there, more stunned and powerless than a deer about to meet God in approaching headlights. Desperate, Heather shoves her teat inside the infant’s tiny mouth, but the baby swats the source of nourishment away. “Why won’t you eat?” Heather screams, hot tears trailing off her chin. “What’s wrong?”

Rylan holds up his hands. “Hey, hey, I’ll try to get some formula.” He rises off the floor.

“No, Rylan,” Heather screams, “the storm!”

But Rylan leaves the pantry, and a horrible ripping sound arises from the ceiling. As the wind smashes what remains of the structure, Heather shields the baby with her own body. What comes next is a white, deafening blur.

***

The next morning, Heather and Rylan board a rescue boat with the baby. Above their now roofless house, a sherbet of pinks and yellows coats the sky. In front of it, a river, watered deep and dark, flows South. Rylan feeds the infant another bottle of formula while Heather watches. The baby cuddles deeper into Rylan’s chest, slowly blinking those clover eyes as if basking in a warm tub. Like the ocean’s waves curdling thick seafoam over a beach, Heather feels an overwhelming sense of exhaustion wash over her. Rylan’s such a natural at this, tending to others. No one ever taught him how to draw such knowledge out the well. He just always possessed it as many people do. Whereas her?

They pass by the neighbors’ house, reduced to a debris pile, and Heather loses herself to a forceful revelation. Like the couple’s splintered floorboards, heaps of collapsed, red brick, caved-in rooftop, and buried bodies, she now accepts that she is utterly broken in nature. Her physical condition, her attempts at fostering, her sheer essence as a potential mother; everything about her exists as an irreparable wreck, predestined as such since popping out of her mother’s own rabbit hole. Despite all these tireless efforts to the contrary, Heather couldn’t properly care for anyone in her life. She couldn’t even protect her own treasured hoard, now lost and bobbing in the deep water like fishermen’s lures. No, she wasn’t fit to be a mother. Heather was never going to be a mother.

“You alright?” Rylan asks.

“Yeah.” Heather wipes her face. “I’m just hurting.”

“When we arrive, we’ll get a doctor to check your foot.”

People bustle about the refugee camp, spreading all kinds of noise into the ether. Red Cross staff tend to minor injuries, impatient kids pester their mothers, and the national guard hands out free food to growing, grumbling lines. As their group approaches the dock, Rylan takes hold of Heather’s two personal belongings. With his help, she limps off the grey motor boat, forever giving up the child like Moses’s mother along the banks of the Nile.

“Police put me in contact with some child service officials camped up north,” Rylan says, motioning with his phone. “They’ve agreed to take custody of the baby.”

Heather nods. “When will you be back?” she asks. Rylan looks out towards the river, then into her eyes as if searching for something. Heather’s sure it’s the answer he’s been hesitant to give for a long time now.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, looking down. Heather walks back up and kisses him. He returns the act, but it’s the kind of affection Heather’s father bequeathed to her on their last day together; a thin press of the lips, dry as a sock. A real kiss goodbye.

As she watches the craft speed away, Heather undergoes a weightlessness people experience when accepting something difficult: Rylan made the right choice to leave her. Really, he did. Like a tugboat pulling some barge into open sea, Heather never stopped dragging the man deeper into her own problems since their first failed pregnancy together. Maybe now, after cutting her line loose, he could sail away towards some real happiness. That’d be nice for him. Despite what her father did to her, she never stopped hoping the man ended up catching some bliss in this world, even if it was just a small haul. So, if steering clear of these mens’ bearings brought them real joy, Heather would forge on, alone and content. It was all she had left to give.

There’s a light pressure building inside Heather’s belly, but she ignores it. A nearby family is cheering. Apparently, some rescue workers found and returned their little black Labrador from the flood waters. The pup darts between the children’s legs, and the family members look as though they’ve found a Leprechaun’s treasure. Heather can’t help smiling at their little jubilee but then she feels it again; the force within her stomach gains muscle, almost resembling a kick. Not a lurch, not nausea, nor a cramp, but a real kick. No, Heather reasons, its just gas. Don’t kid yourself.

Then the mother of the family exclaims for everyone to look up into the sky. A double rainbow unveils itself below the remaining clouds, soaking up the sun’s color. Heather observes it for a time and then winces; the phantom kick comes again. So, she leaves her hand in place at the abdomen, cautiously buying into this potential wonder. But after a minute or two, she ends up expelling some flatulence and scolds herself with laughter. Immediately, more people cry out. The double rainbow splits into three, a tertiary as Rylan called it, grander than any Leprechaun’s jackpot this side of Louisiana. Embolden by such an anomaly, Heather moves her fingers back into place. For these moments never stop reminding her of the real reason she loves a good storm. Something beautiful always waits at its end.