The Brothers (3 page)

I shake the thought away as the elevator stops on level three, the nannies. The doors slide open to a floor that’s nearly identical to the one I live on—gray linoleum tile and industrial white walls. “The Human Race Needs YOU!” reads the large poster to my right. A picture of a bearded man in a red, white, and blue stripe jacket and top hat points at me. No one needs my broken uterus.

Nannies have added little touches on their floor, the luxury of living in the same place for a long time. On a window ledge, a tiny cactus in a blue ceramic pot angles toward the morning sun. The smell of flowers wafts from down the hall. Recorded piano music, faint and tinkling, leaks from one of the resident’s rooms. Maybe it’s why I came here. Floor three is what all girls aspire to. And it’s what I’ll never have.

Retired nannies can sit in their rooms during the workday. The rest care for the infants and children too young to breed, or police the Breeder girls on my floor. They’re the hospital’s mothers, hall monitors, and cooks. The nurses, caretakers, and watchdogs.

Two brush past me in their fitted but shapeless, gray uniforms. One of them, Nanny Guadalupe, tips a nod. She’s the one who helped Gia, a girl on my floor, deliver a breech baby last week. The squalling infant turned out to be a boy. But a healthy baby is a healthy baby, even if it means it won’t help bolster the female population. Gia was devastated, though. Once he’s weaned, she’ll have to hand him over to be raised by the townies outside.

At least she gets a baby,
the bitter part of me says. I sigh. It’s not Gia’s fault I’m damaged.

I wander down one wing of rooms, trying to let these women have their privacy. The temptation is too great, and I find myself peeking in each open doorway. There’s a hand-sewn bedspread on the tiny mattress in Room Six. The bright fabric stands out like poppies in the snow. In Room Seven, the smell of cinnamon wafts out, spicy and pungent. Room Nine has an antique wooden nightstand covered in a lacy doily.

The wing opens up into the nanny’s common space. It’s smaller than ours, with less furniture and no TV. Since nannies get their own rooms, they need less common space. If I grew old here, would I isolate myself in my room, staring at the white walls? But after this morning, that’s a question I don’t have to consider anymore. I won’t even celebrate another Christmas on D Hall.

With the chill of that thought clinging to me like soaked pajamas, I wander to a table and slump in a chair. The two nannies playing cards stop and look at me. The one on the right, Nanny Dee, with barely four teeth in her smile, pats my hand.

“Nice of you to visit, young blood,” Nanny Dee slurs out of the working corner of her mouth. The stroke that took the use of Dee’s right arm also affected her speech. A spot of drool brightens the dead cheek, but she wipes it with her good hand. With half of her features frozen and sagging, Dee’s face looks like a half-melted wax mask. Some of the other girls don’t like it when she helps in the kitchen, but I don’t mind. Nanny Dee has kind eyes.

“Thought I’d check up on you, girls,” I say, faking a lightness I don’t feel. “See what trouble you’re kicking up.”

Nanny Dee chuckles. Nanny Maria lays her cards on the table and points a hooked finger at me. “You send me one of those cherry-assed janitors from the first floor and I’ll show you trouble.” The nannies cackle with delight.

I tap a finger on the rows of cards in front of Dee. “Winning again?”

“
Los Cojones.
Cheating again, you mean,” Maria says, raising a white eyebrow at Dee.

Dee waves a trembling hand. “Don’t need to cheat to beat your butt,” she slurs. Then she turns to me. “Tell me some gossip. Something juicy for my nighttime.”

I drum my fingers on the card table, running through news that might satisfy these ladies. When I land on something worthy, my eyebrows arch up. “Dr. Merriweather is leaving.”

They both lean back with surprise, and then forward for more. “Why?” Maria asks. “An affair with an orderly? Oh, let that be it,
por favor
,” she moans, smiling wickedly. “I love a good affair.”

I shake my head and lean closer, though there’s no one in the small common room. You never know who might be listening. “I heard— Now, wait. You gotta swear you won’t go spreading this around.”

Maria crosses her finger over her heart. “We won’t tell. Now, go on.” They lean in like dogs awaiting a treat.

I take a deep breath. Telling this really could get me in trouble. I could lose my job as a courier, a job I love. But I love it because I hear all the best gossip. And what good is gossip if you can’t share?

“I heard that he had…relations with one of the girls on B Hall, Charlotte. They say the baby she delivered looks exactly like him, so there’s no denying it this time. They say Dr. Bashees was so furious that he punched Dr. Merriweather in the eye. It’s why he’s been wearing those dark glasses.”

Both nannies absorb this news with open mouths. Maria runs a hand through her cap of white hair. “I liked Dr. Merriweather, but it’s time these dirty old men learn to keep their trouser snake zipped up.” Her thin lips disappear in an angry grimace. “Just because they’re in power, they think they can have any girl. Make them do anything they want. They shouldn’t dismiss him. They should
castrar
.” She pounds an angry fist on the table.

Dee puts her tremulous hand on top of Maria’s. “Quiet, dear. You’re bound to get us all in hot water.”

Maria says nothing, but her face is flushed. Dee scoops up all the cards with her good hand and begins trying to shuffle with awkward, halting motions. When she speaks, she keeps her eyes on the ebb and flow of the cards. “Having him
put out
is punishment enough,” she slurs. “Without a hospital job, he’s nothing. Out there,” she gestures toward the one, barred window, “he’ll have no skills and no friends. He’ll be dead in three months.”

I came here for light conversation, but her words lacerate an already throbbing wound. Breathing heavily, I push up from the table. “I have to go.”

“Thanks for visiting,
querido
,” Maria says, her brown face soft. She can see she’s upset me.

I offer my best attempt at a smile. It must look awful, because neither nanny seems relieved. Then I beeline for the elevator.

When I’m halfway down the hall, I hear a low moan coming from one of the rooms. The low, guttural
oh, oh
raises the hairs on my arms. Someone’s in pain.

Part of me wants to turn around, run to the elevator, and pretend I didn’t hear it, but my feet keep shuffling toward the sound, and before I know it, I’m standing outside an open door. The low moaning comes again.

“Oh, ah,
ah
.”

The name on the nameplate reads Nanny Flora. My brain scans through a memory book of faces until I place her. Nanny Flora is one of the oldest nannies on the floor. Retired for over a decade, she spends most of her time in her room, knitting hats for the newborns. Though, if I remember right, she stopped being able to do that a couple of months ago.
Arthritis is a prison
, she once told me.

I put my hand on the open door and peer in. There’s a single bed with a white coverlet, a hard-backed chair by the window, and a chipped, wooden dresser with three small drawers. Slippers lie on their sides on the tile floor. The knitted rainbow rug is crumpled in a heap next to them.

The moan comes again, tensing my shoulders as it rolls over me. I step in with my heart creeping up my throat.

“Nanny Flora,” I call softly, tiptoeing into her space. The smell isn’t right here. A pungent odor of humanity, of…waste, floats up to my nose. I take another step and see the lump of fabric in the corner next to the door. Two bare feet with gnarled toenails jut out from the gray form.

I stride over and lean down. She’s curled in a fetal position so that her wizened frame barely takes up three floor tiles. Her hands clutch either side of her head, fingers looped into stringy, white hair. The moan comes again, her whole body contracting with it.

“Nanny Flora, are you hurt?” I kneel on the tile and place my hand on her shoulder. Just bones and skin under the gray fabric. “What’s wrong?”

Hands slowly peel back from her wrinkled face. “Miriam?”

I shake my head. “Janine. From D Hall.”

Her face registers nothing. “Not Miriam?”

“No,” I say, gently urging her upward. “Let’s get you back in the bed. I think maybe you’ve hurt yourself.”

“No!” she yells, suddenly angry. Her hand claws over mine. Her eyes are on fire. “I didn’t hurt myself. I hurt
them
. All of them!”

I try to maintain a soothing voice. “You didn’t hurt anyone. You’re a sweet lady.”

“I am not!” she yells. “I killed them. I killed every girl I sent down. Might as well have cut their goddamned throats myself.”

I swallow hard. “You…must be confused.” My eyes flit to the door. Why isn’t anyone else coming in to help?

She grips my hand hard. “I signed the papers. I gave the go-ahead. When the doctors weren’t sure, I was the one who told them yes. How could I? How could I have done it?” Her eyes, yellowed with age, reach up into my face. “Where’s Miriam?”

When I say nothing, she turns away from me, staring off into the distance. “I deserve what they’re going to do with me. I deserve worse.”

I want to contract, to run and hide. More than anything, I want to rewind to two minutes ago before I stepped into this room. “What do you mean…you sent girls down?” I ask with a voice that trembles.

When she speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “When the doctors were considering selling a girl to the traders, they’d come to me with questions. What was she like? How many live births?” Flora pauses and wipes clumps of white spittle from the corners of her mouth. “I should have told those doctors to kiss my ass.” She rolls her eyes toward me. This time, her face is broken with sorrow. “So many girls.”

I slump beside Flora. “What happens to them?” I finally manage. “What happens to the girls they sell?”

Flora turns her face to the wall. She doesn’t answer.

I try to breathe as the room swirls around me. Dropping my head between my knees, I try to hold back a rush of nausea.

“What’s all this fuss?” a gruff voice calls from the doorway.

Lifting my head, I find the face of Nanny Bell. I almost run into her arms. Instead, I breathe in deep like they teach the delivering girls. Bell strides in and her calculating eyes run over the room. Those eyes notice everything. There’s never been a secret I could keep from Nanny Bell.

“Flora,” she says, firm but kind, “you finally off your rocker?”

Flora sits up, her face devoid of the sorrow and grief she just showed me. “No, Belly. Just having a low day.”

“Well, no sense in spending it on the floor.” Bell strides over and pulls Flora up, her strong arms flexing. “Bed’s much better for a low day. Easier on the back.”

“That’s the truth,” Flora says, actually breaking into a weak smile.

Nanny Bell turns to me. “She spook you, puddin’? Flora’s always had a touch of the dramatic.”

I straighten my face and push up. The nausea has passed. I focus on the face of the woman who raised me. “I’m fine.”

Bell raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t press me. “I need you in the nursery,” she says, tugging my arm toward the door. She stops and looks back at Flora. “Honey, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Then, in a whisper, “We did what they made us do. And you don’t see them bastards cryin’.”

Flora stares out her window at the mid-morning sun.

Bell’s hand on my back steers me to the elevator. We wait in silence for the lift and then enter without a word. As soon as the doors close, she leans into me. “Don’t let Flora scare you. She’s ill and nearing her time. People at the end can say dark things. Nothing to twist your panties about.”

I gnaw my lip and nod. “You said you needed me in the nursery?”

“I can always use young hands.” She steps close and straightens my collar. “But if you have packages to run…”

“None so far,” I say, though I haven’t been back to my floor to check. “Sabrina can run a few while I’m gone. Docs want her to lose some weight.”

“Your roommate’s fine,” she says with a flick of her hand. “Those docs would have sticks with watermelons in their bellies. During my time, I gained eighty pounds with each child. Food’s the only good thing about this place.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“It’s true,” she says, smirking. “I ate every bread roll I could get my mitts on. Even snuck into the kitchens after hours. My babies liked to eat!” She pats a flat stomach under her gray coveralls. “Now it’s two thousand calories and no more! Balderdash.”

The elevator hums as it rises, and I lean into the cool metal wall. All I want to do is go to my bedroom and cry until I’m empty. I want to rid myself of this sickness that clings to every movement, every thought.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nanny Bell’s voice draws me back from swirling images. Her gaze zeroes in on me like a laser. “There’s a bee in your bonnet. I can see it.”

I wring my hands, wanting to keep my misery to myself.

“What is it?” she says, stepping closer, her voice melting into worry. She flicks her eyes to the elevator’s corners. “There are no cameras in here. You can tell me.”

Her words tug a brick from the bottom of the pile, and the wall that has kept my tears at bay crumbles. The sobs start. I hear a ding and the elevator lurches. Bell has used her key to activate the emergency stop. She strides over and throws her arms around me.

I cry into her chest until her coveralls are soaked with my tears. How will she explain the stain on her shoulder when we get to the nursery?

Nanny Bell’s strong arms wrap around my back like steel cables, holding me together. Her voice whispers in my ear. “I have to start this car moving or they’ll ask questions. If you want this load off your chest, you need to start dumping it now.”

I nod, my forehead rubbing against the rough fabric of her shirt. “Dr. Houghton says I have endro…metriosis. I can’t have babies. That’s why none of the treatments have taken. It means…” A sob cuts off my words.

“Your seventeenth birthday is in two months,” Nanny whispers.