The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac by Sharma Shields Page B

done, Gladys.”
    For a moment, Gladys was confused. Then she remembered: Camille. Her grandmother’s name. Also the name of her horse when she was a girl, that broad-rumped brown mare with the white star on her chest. The animal had been slow and patient, allowing Gladys to drape her in old tablecloths and braid her mane and tail. Gladys had always wanted a daughter named Camille, she’d told Eli, but the name sounded wrong now, fit for a different age and place. Camille was the name of a dead woman and a dead horse. How could she name her daughter after such things?
    Better the name of a missing person, someone lost but maybe, one day, found.
    â€œAmelia,” she said.
    Eli hesitated for a moment. “Okay, then.”
    She could tell he wasn’t crazy about the name. Gladys didn’t care.
    â€œAmelia Grace,” she continued.
    Eli perched on the edge of her bed and patted her knee with a touch more friendly than intimate. He wore a dapper suit and a crisp bow tie. He was dressed to see patients.
    â€œYou’re not going in today, are you?” Gladys pressed.
    â€œNo. Maybe. What would you like me to do?”
    Gladys turned and looked out the window, her tone flat. “Do what you must.”
    Outside, the white pines shook lightly in a fine summer breeze. The day was so clear it felt ominous. There was nothing for that bright sky to do but blacken and wound.
    The bed creaked. Eli was leaving. He kissed her head and bade her goodbye. “I’ll come by tonight,” he said at the door. “Rest well.”
    Theirs was a good marriage, Gladys reminded herself. But she suddenly wished she had a view of the parking lot. She wanted to see him get into his car. She wanted to see which way he turned, if he chose the scenic route by the river or the more direct route through town. To the left or to the right. She guessed to the left. She would like to be sure, if only to regain a little confidence.
    She rested her head against the pillows and put aside her magazine. Sleep still frightened her. Regardless, it came.
    Hours later, the room dark and cool, Gladys awoke. She did not feel well, only light-headed and weak. At the window were tiny strips of bright, glimmering light through the darkness, like holes punched into a sheet. For a moment she thought the drapes had been pulled. They were ravaged, moth-eaten. Gladys wrinkled her nose, disgusted. How could a hospital hang such shabby fabric?
    But then the window moved. It moved like a living being. Light flickered, darkness fell away. There were no drapes, no torn fabric. The window had been covered not with curtains but with living things.
    Birds.
    Light split into the room and Gladys heard the starlings chattering evilly as they soared past, some of them in their excitement striking the window, drilling into it as if they meant to come inside and race down her throat.
    Gladys screamed. The nurses came and clutched at her, securing her arms.
    â€œCalm yourself,” the prettier nurse hissed. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. Roebuck.”
    Gladys shrieked and kicked. She wanted to see the baby. She wanted to walk. Her bladder was full of piss and blood, and she released it; the bed grew warm and sticky. They had wrapped her breasts, but they, too, flowed with milk. The room smelled wet and fecund, like a diseased swamp.
    â€œYou people, ” Gladys said hatefully to the nurses, her fear flowing to liquid anger. “You peons . Let go. Where is my daughter? Let go of me! What’s happened to my Amelia?”
    The nurses eyeballed each other like frightened horses. Gladys stopped thrashing and took a deep breath. The prettier nurse, noting Gladys’s cooperation, nodded at her colleague, and the other released an arm and walked quickly out of the room. The prettier nurse released her grip, too, and stroked Gladys’s shoulder soothingly, but Gladys could hear in her voice a thick dislike.
    The other nurse returned with