Page 63 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
Two months earlier, I had found that my cycles, always right on time, had been absent. Death had promised that I wouldn’t suffer illness, but I had gone to a doctor in fear for what it could mean.
Pregnancy was the last thing I expected. I couldn’t puzzle how or why. It violated one of Death’s most important stipulations. But the news filled my heart, unlocking something I hadn’t known was closed.
But even with the new possibility, I knew to be cautious, for it was early still, and with my track record with Death, I couldn’t take anything for granted. Rohan could go on the trip without worrying about me, and when he returned, we’d start the next phase of everything together.
Rohan left a week later, standing at the back of the boat, waving until the ship was too far out in the harbor and he faded to a dot. By those days, steamships had improved travel speed, but the journey from London to Bombay would still be a month, and with the growing war, the sea voyages were perilous. I’d kept my fears to myself: no need to let them take root in both our imaginations. I focused on understanding this pregnancy, and I focused on the children’s home and the final designs. We’d have space for fifty orphans. I’d anonymously bought and donated an additional lot next door so there would be more room to grow in the future.
I’d seen two physicians about my state to be sure, then clung tight to this flicker of hope. I ignored thoughts about what it would be like to welcome a child, only for me to never age alongside them. I ignored thoughts about what this meant about my deal with Death. I ignored worries about what was to come.
German bombs rained down on London, and life screeched to a halt. The orphanage plans, my writing, even preparations for ababy—all of them faded beneath the wail of air raid sirens. Days and nights blurred as I huddled in underground shelters, waiting for word from Rohan. I took up knitting to steady my nerves and keep my hands busy while the city fought to hold itself together.
Rohan had been gone two months without word. I’d written him letters while bombs burst in the skies above London.
On a gray, cloudless morning, I spotted Gopal, Rohan’s assistant, on the street after curfew. The heavy iron gate swung free, opening to my square garden, crowded with the thick green hedge that climbed up the walls, forming a private oasis. I knew the news she carried as soon as she stepped on the path.
I opened the door, and a single tear skated down Gopal’s cheek. “Arden, there’s been an accident!”
My own tears had welled up, and I instinctively knew what she was going to say.
Rohan.
Time stopped, clearly delineated into the period before and after that moment, one where I was happy, and the other where the bottom had dropped out of my world.
Rohan’s steamer had reportedly caught fire off the coast of Bombay on its way back to London—all hands lost.
He was on his way back to us,I thought as I cradled the small bump pushing beneath my nightgown.He was coming home.
My mind cycled through my hopes.
Perhaps he managed to swim away?
Maybe he is in a hospital somewhere.
If I pretended well enough, I could tell myself that Rohan was still alive. I kept everything in our house the same, almost like a shrine, because surely he’d return. I cleared the gate of flowers that people left as condolences. I kept the curtains drawn. I refused visitors. If I kept everyone away, no one would say they were sorry, and I could pretend he was still out to sea, on his way home to us.
Only ... there wasn’t an “us” for much longer after that.
The bleeding started a week after Rohan’s death.
I didn’t remember fainting.
I just remembered waking up in the hospital ward and hoping I could close my eyes, never to see light again. Death would finally get what he wanted and I wanted to disappear.
So, I did.
I settled my estate, and as soon as I could, I booked passage on a ship leaving from Liverpool to disappear into my next life abroad.
A Visit From Death
Nella appeared shrunken as she stood rigidly in the graveyard, her black dress swallowing her slender frame, eyes on the plain wooden coffin. She’d put the remains of the baby inside, along with all the items she’d knitted during the bombings.
Death hadn’t sent an invitation to meet, for there was no need. He’d known where she would be.
He waited in the in-between as the ceremony proceeded. It was only Nella and a priest. Out past curfew. There was no task for him there, for he’d already carried this child’s soul away. He’d felt regret for the first time, the feeling coalescing in his chest. While the war raged across Europe, he’d been busy, taken his eye off her. So many dead to collect. He hadn’t even had the time to read her articles. The papers still sat in his cloak pocket.
The priest crossed himself, and they laid the dirt on top, one shovelful at a time, until nothing was left but a mound and a marker with the name “Baby Naoroji.”
Nella stayed long after the priest had gone, despite his warning about the coming airstrikes, staring at the headstone. She remained rooted to that spot, as if she could wait until the end of time.
