coming out of their own mouths.
Anna had been pregnant.
Seven months along when her husband left.
No warning, apparently.
No reconciliation.
He simply left and moved away.
Her mother had died the year before.
Her father had been gone since she was a teenager.
She had no siblings and no close relatives nearby.
Then, at four in the morning, she went into labor.
She drove herself to the hospital until the contractions became too strong.
Then she called an ambulance from a gas station.
She gave birth that morning.
It was a little girl.
Six pounds and something.
The baby was healthy.
Anna wasn’t.
Something went wrong after the delivery.
Bleeding.
Then more bleeding.
Then a series of medical terms James had clearly heard from doctors but couldn’t properly repeat.
She deteriorated quickly.
“How did they call you?” I asked.
That was the part I couldn’t understand.
James swallowed.
