Foundlings

Dorothy always had a place there if she wanted it. The lady offered it constantly, her grey eyes warm and concerned, hopeful, but steeled for Dorothy’s soft refusal.

"If I have a home, who’ll save those other kids?" she asked.

The woman couldn’t really argue with that, so Dorothy would leave again, either to lose her baby or to come up pregnant with another. And each time, it ripped her heart out - everything, leaving, the dead babies, and the happy faces who so desperately wanted Dorothy for their sister.

"I never had a sister before," Alice murmured.

Dorothy reluctantly pulled back, her chest and stomach immediately cold where the wind stole between them. Alice shuddered, but she made no sound as she stared into Dorothy’s face with her huge blue eyes. "Neither have I," Dorothy said, whispering. "Come, lay close. It’s cold and I don’t want you to get sick."

Gladly, Alice snuggled close again, curling tighted and tucking her head under Dorothy’s chin. "Your baby is moving," Alice giggled, wriggling.

Dorothy smiled. Indeed, this one was old enough to move around in her belly. She’d only had a couple get that far. It was a wonderful fluttering under her heart that she hadn’t realized she missed. She rubbed Alice’s back, closing her eyes and humming softly, to both her children.

"You want me to be your baby?" Alice asked then. "Instead of your sister? I can pretend to be your baby and call you Mama."

Dorothy felt heat in her eyes as tears blurred her vision. "No," she said, hoping her voice was steady enough to not frighten little Alice. "Just be my sister. I like having a sister." She clenched her eyes tight.

She felt Alice’s tiny hands on her thin spine, through her thin dress, stroking in small circles. "It’s all right, Dorothy," Alice whispered against the front of Dorothy’s dress. "I’ll be your sister. This baby can call you Mama. I’ll be his Aunt Alice, then!" She giggled brightly.

"Aunt Alice," Dorothy repeated, unable to say anything else.

Dorothy felt rain water soaking into her hair from the gutter. The body moving atop her sometimes blocked the rain from falling into her face, sometimes not. It was like running under an arbor, sometimes protected by the branches, sometimes not. While the baker expended himself, Dorothy thought only of Alice, wondering if she was safe enough from sight in the alley behind the bakery. The baker didn’t allow Dorothy inside his shop, but in exchange for "favors," he would sometimes give her all his bread leftover from the day. Dorothy really couldn’t complain, because he made sure it wasn’t moldy, and he didn’t like it when she said something about eating out of garbage cans when she first met him, so he fed her well at least.

After a sudden expulsion of breath and one last rigid movement, the baker sighed and rolled to his knees, lacing his trousers and smoothing his apron down. He left her there on the blanket, grinning broadly as he gave her bared stomach a friendly pat. "That’ll be really getting in the way soon, love," he said.

"Do you have bread?" Dorothy asked. She flipped the hem of her dress over her knees and pushed herself up to a seated position. She ignored the unpleasant dampness between her legs as she looked up at the baker.

"I do, love. Wait here."