They released El from the hospital around noon. She hadn't experienced any more contractions. Her doctor performed a couple more exams, then gave her the green light to go home. Mike drove, and Hopper followed them back to the apartment to help get her settled in before he had to head back to Hawkins.
They took the elevator to their floor, and Mike offered to help her down the hall, but she brushed him off. Mike busied himself building her a little nest of sorts with extra pillows and blankets on their bed, trying to make it as comfortable as possible for her since she'd be confined to it for the next few weeks (with some exceptions). He stocked her bedside table with books, magazines, and more crossword puzzles, to keep her occupied. He'd also dragged their T.V. into her bedroom.
Once she'd settled into bed, he and Hopper gazed at her, looking so small amongst all those pillows. Her face was full of sharp edges, eyes like obsidian. She was trying her best to keep her walls up, to not let anything through the cracks, but Mike knew her better than anyone. She wasn't happy.
"Bye, kiddo." Hopper ruffling her curls and bent down to kiss her forehead, making her promise to keep in touch. He left, leaving them alone.
"I'll make you lunch?" Mike offered. He went into the kitchen, rummaging around in the refrigerator for sandwich commodities. When he returned, he found her fast asleep and snoring, softly. He smiled, a bit relieved, since he knew she hadn't slept in almost thirty-six hours and she was wiped out—physically and emotionally drained. He turned off the lamp, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She stirred but didn't wake.
El stuck her tongue between her teeth, carefully gluing down the edges of a photo—one of her and Hop, standing with their arms around each other in the Byer's kitchen—in a book which lay open on her lap. It was thick and full of blank pages. Heaps of photos were scattered around her, on the bed. She sat up, reaching across the bed to grab the nearest pillow and stuff it between her back and the headboard to support her aching back. She heaved a sigh, blowing a lock of hair out of her face.
In the two weeks since she'd been confined to bedrest, she'd taken up scrapbooking. That, and just about every other activity that didn't require a lot of movement. She worked on perfecting her knitting, the booklet Flo gave her open on the bed. She kept a journal, filling it with scattered thoughts and little doodles. She ran up the phone bill chatting with Max and Nancy and the boys (all in separate states, with Lucas and Max in California and Will and Nancy in New York and Dustin in Michigan). She filled them in on the excitement, on her current condition and made plans to see them again, over spring break. That was, if she wasn't still laid up.
She binged soap operas. When she wasn't quoting episodes of All My Children word for word, she watched movies. Mike raided Blockbuster down the street, and she filled her days watching big-budget sci-fi films and bad rom-coms and nature documentaries. She wrote letters to the baby, thinking it would be fun to let her read them when she was old enough. El told the baby what it was like to carry her and feel her move and witness all her body's changes as she grew. She told the baby how excited she was to finally meet her, all the plans she had, everything she'd show her. She wrote about Mike, about the freckle-faced dork who'd saved her (in more ways than one), and how he was the kindest, bravest person she knew. She wrote about Grandpa Hop, all the sacrifices he'd made, how he'd given her a home. She dated and signed each one of these letters, tucking them away in between the pages of Anne of the Green Gables for safekeeping.
She enjoyed scrapbooking the most. She'd taken up the hobby after Mike asked her what she wanted to do with all the old photos they had tucked away in a shoebox on a shelf in the closet, gathering dust. She started a scrapbook, quickly exhausting their collection of photos. Jonathan, at her request, mailed her a thick envelope containing hundreds of others, and she spent hours arranging them in chronological order and gluing them into her book.
She picked up another photo, a candid shot of Mike and Dustin poring DM guide, in deep conversation. Her hand slipped, and the edge of the photo sliced into her thumb. She cursed, cradling her thumb. She brought it to her lips and sucked on it, setting the book aside and getting to her feet. She went into the bathroom, rummaging around in the cabinets. She retrieved a band-aid and returned to the bed, tearing open the wrapper. Paper cut remedied, she returned her attention to the scrapbook, but just as soon set it aside, suddenly uninterested. She flopped against her pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Darkness was falling. She watched the shadows drift across the walls. She was restless. A good word. A word to describe all that jittery, pent-up energy. The boredom, the frustration knowing at her insides. She hated this. She hated not being able to take more than few steps to the bathroom or to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She hated feeling like she wasn't self-sufficient, like she couldn't be of help to anyone. And she still had two weeks to go. She didn't know how she'd survive it. Time moved at a slow craw. She felt like a caged animal, a blob, a vegetable.
Mike had been great, though. He made it a bit more bearable. He took it upon himself to be her nurse and entertainer, feeding her snacks and massaging her back, bringing puzzles and funny papers and books from the secondhand bookstore downtown. She was grateful for him.
She rubbed her belly, absently, watching a bit of red stain the edge of the bandage.
The past two weeks had given her lots of time to think. And she did, about everything and nothing at all, but her mind returned to the void, again and again, chewing over the details of the dream she'd had. It was unclear, now, what had really transpired in the moments before she'd woken to painful contractions. It was all fuzzy edges, now. She remembered the monster, the stench of its breath, smelling like death and dying things. She remembered how it turned and look straight at her, and there was no doubt in her mind that it had sensed her. Wherever it was, whatever it was, it had sensed her presence. And it had attacked. And the more she replayed it in her head, over and over again, the more certain she was that it had tried to hurt the baby. El recalled the sting of its claws sinking into her flesh, the pain stretching from her hip to belly button. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was the pain of the contractions transposed over the dream—like the thin, translucent paper that Will used for tracing. She'd never know, she just knew what she felt in that moment. If the dream wasn't real, the terror surely was.
For that reason, she had a hard time sleeping. She stole fragments of rest in the light of day, content to nap when she wasn't knitting or scrapbooking or watching soaps. When darkness arrived, however, and Mike dropped into a heavy slumber beside her, she would lay awake and stare at the wall, an unshakeable fear squeezing her lungs. She was afraid to fall asleep, afraid she'd somehow end up in the void and come face to face with that monster, again. Afraid if she did end up staring into that flower-petal maw of teeth (rows and rows of teeth) this time it might win. So, she spent her nights tossing and turning, and the lack of sleep only heightened her stress and frustration.
The gate was closed. It had been closed for six years. And for six years, she'd enjoyed a life free of monsters and bad men. Sure, there had been nightmares. Sure, she still had scars. But she'd begun to heal. They all had. And her heart sank through the floor at the thought of new monsters, new enemies, waiting in the dark. More shadows, more bloodshed. She couldn't help thinking the Upside Down wouldn't ever really let her go. That all the bad stuff—Brenner, the void, the monsters inside her head—would continue to haunt her. That she would never really be free of it, that she was putting her loved ones in danger, somehow, by mere association. That she was kidding herself by ever thinking she could lead a normal life. How cruel, to finally enjoy something resembling normalcy—friends, a family, freedom—only to have it stolen from her. And to be bringing a child into the middle of it . . . it was almost too much to bear.
She tried not to dwell on it, Mike's voice echoing in her head. The stress is bad for the baby . . .
Her mind ran away from her, sometimes, and she knew she was overthinking things. That it was a dream, nothing more, and that she was being completely irrational by jumping to such conclusions. Still, she couldn't erase the memory of that low, guttural growl emanating from deep within the monster's throat. The cold fear settling in her gut like lead as it turned its head toward her, maw opening as it scented the air, a mere three feet away.
Monsters aside, she couldn't stop thinking about the likelihood that her daughter would be born with abilities. Powers, just like hers.
Over the years, she'd pieced together a more complete history of her past. With the help of Hopper and Sam Owens and the files and tapes they'd recovered from Hawkins Lab, she'd learned the truth of her identity. She was the daughter of Terry Ives, a young woman who'd participated in a series of experiments in a program known as MKUltra. The experiments were designed to study the effects of LSD and other psychoactive drugs, though the CIA had other, bigger plans. They were trying to see if it was possible for humans to acquire psionic abilities—telepathy, mind control, telekinesis—so they could gather intel to fight the Russians. And it worked. Terry Ives gave birth to a baby girl. A baby girl with psionic abilities.
Experiment 011 was their brainchild. A lab rat. Less than human.
They fried Terry's brains, leaving her a former shell of herself. But some piece of her remained, buried deep. And she'd used it to communicate with her daughter.
El knew her mother had retained some abilities. She could communicate with her through the void, for starters. She bled from her nose and made lights flicker. Were these abilities something that could be passed down from parent to child?
El had some sense of her daughter's emotions, her thoughts, in the womb. She could sense the baby's stream of consciousness, faint but present. Was that merely El's own abilities at work, or was it a joint effort? Did it mean her baby was projecting, already? Was it an early sign of powers that would manifest later?
God, she hoped not.
El didn't remember when her powers first started to appear. It was probably early in her childhood. Her abilities were part of her, as much a part of her as her own hand. A muscle, to be flexed and manipulated with a single thought. Sometimes it wasn't even a conscious choice, but an instinctual reaction, like flinching.
Large chunks of her time in the lab were still missing from her memory. But the more distance she put between herself and that part of her life, the more she remembered. And the more it hurt to think of that scared, broken child she used to be.
If her daughter did have abilities, what would that mean for them? Her daughter would never lead a normal life. She'd live out her days with a curse. She'd have to learn how to control them, how to hide them, and El knew from experience how exhausting it was to try to control something she hardly understood. To constantly hide a piece of herself.
If her daughter is born with abilities, would the bad men find out? Would they steal her away, like they stole El from her mother?
"No." El said, aloud, to the empty room. She wouldn't let that happen. She couldn't let that happen. They were meant to be together. She knew it from the very beginning, from the day that little plastic stick revealed two pink lines. She belonged with the child she carried inside her. She was going to be a mother, and heaven and hell and everything in between couldn't keep her from protecting her little girl. The quiet moments, the beautiful ones, she'd experienced throughout this adventure had only reinforced this belief. El thought of all the times she'd felt her baby move, the times she'd heard the strong, rhythmic heartbeat or seen an ultrasound. The times she'd lain in Mike's arms and he'd kissed her bump, lips brushing her skin as he talked to her baby. Not her baby, their baby. This tiny thing that was both a part of her and a part of him. They were a family. And she'd fight to protect her family until her dying breath. And though she felt all of this, she still couldn't keep those little shadows of doubt from tainting her thoughts. Was it selfish, to try to raise this child when she was so unprepared to be a mother? When the world was so dark and ugly and broken? When El, herself, seemed to attract danger like light attracts insects? Was she making the right choice, when it was laid bare before her in the sober light of day? All she could offer her child was all the love in the world. Wasn't that enough?
El pushed all those bad thoughts away as best she could, telling herself it was no use worrying about it, now. They'd roll with the punches. If monsters came knocking, if bad men showed up on her doorstep, if the gate opened, she'd deal with it. She'd fight. And if her daughter was born with abilities, well, maybe Mike was right. Maybe the things that hurt her most could also be beautiful.
El rolled onto her side, watching the numbers on the clock change. It was nearly six o'clock. Mike would be home, soon. Her stomach rumbled, and she thought about calling him to pick up take-out on his way home from class and decided against it, opting to get out of bed and take a trip to the kitchen. Her doctor said she could move around the house for short periods of time, if she needed to. To shower and use the bathroom and eat. But she wasn't allowed to take part in any strenuous activity, and she wasn't allowed to go up or down stairs, and she couldn't lift anything more than five pounds, which kept her options quite limited. El popped a T.V. dinner in the microwave and took it into her room, eating it in bed. She heard the jingle of keys outside and the door open, and Mike entered. He appeared in the doorway.
"Hey." She said, smiling. He threw himself on the bed, heaving a sigh.
"What's wrong?" She asked, running a hand through his curls.
"Mr. Peters' class literally make me want to die." Mike said, heaving another sigh. He laid his head in her lap. "He talks in this monotonous drone that makes you think maybe jumping out a tenth-story window is preferable to enduring another corporate communications lecture." He rolled his eyes. "I fell asleep."
"Sucks." She said. "Wanna trade places?"
Mike laughed. "You wouldn't last an hour in that class."
"Oh, yeah?" She said, cocking an eyebrow. "Try me."
Mike sat up, holding up his hands, palms out, in mock-surrender.
"Okay, fine. If you wanna go listen to that crusty old fart talk about marketing and human resources, I'll learn to knit.
"Deal." She said, sticking out her hand. He took it, and they shook. She chuckled.
"You hungry? I'll make you something to eat."
"I'll do it." He said, jumping to his feet. "Just relax, El. Don't push it."
"I'm not. I've been in bed all day, I can walk to the kitchen." She said, getting up. They went into the kitchen, and she sat at their makeshift dining table while he made himself a PB&J sandwich, listening to him mock Mr. Peters' toneless drawl.
They watched Caddyshack. As the credits scrolled, El excused herself to the bathroom and got in the shower, letting the hot water soothe her. She heard the door open, and then Mike stepped under the water, smiling a goofy smile. The water plastered his hair to his face and she reached up to brush it out of his eyes, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. His hands cradled her belly. She leaned her forehead against his own, and they just stood there, letting the water cascade over them, enjoying each other. After, they toweled off and dressed in their pajamas, and then Mike sat on the edge of the bed and brushed El's wet hair. He braided it, a talent he'd perfected so he could help Holly with her hair-dos. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, killed the lights, and climbed into bed.
On Valentine's Day, Mike and El spent the evening in their pajamas, eating Ramen in bed and watching Family Feud.
Mike had a shift that day, but he promised he'd make it home by five to celebrate, even though El kept reminding him it was "stupid" and a "hallmark holiday" and "I don't need you to tell me you love me just 'cause it's Valentine's Day, Mike, you remind me every day." But he was determined to do something special.
It was raining. The January snow had melted to February slush, and the weather had been wet and miserable all week. The weather dampened spirits and contributed to an overall feeling of unpleasantness. He could see it in the faces of the customers that came into the Radioshack where he worked, shivering and shaking out rain-soaked umbrellas. He could see it in El's frown, in the way her eyes looked a little darker, a little more distant, as she watched the storm clouds gathering outside the window in their bedroom, where she spent 99.9% of her day, bored out of her mind.
So, yes, he wanted to do something special. Hallmark holiday or not, he wanted to make her smile.
Mike took his lunch and hurried down the street to the coffee shop on the corner to get himself a pastry of some sort, pulling his hood up over his head as he did so. He watched the cars driving down the road, tires and windshields slick with rain water. As he walked, he tried to think of a surprise for El, in desperate need of an idea. Chocolates and flowers were cliché. He couldn't take her to dinner, given her current condition. He would cook her dinner, except he couldn't cook for shit.
Mike walked past the pet shop, stopping to look at a pair of fluffy, orange kittens in the window. The smaller one put it's paw up against the glass, regarding him with large, yellow eyes. He smiled at it, getting an idea.
He chewed over it throughout the rest of the day, waiting until the sweet release as five o'clock rolled around to act on it. He drove through the rain and wind to the animal shelter across town. He told the woman at the front desk that he'd like to adopt a cat. She smiled, showing him to the back. She led him into a room full of crates, each one containing a different cat. He perused the aisle, peering between the bars. The cat in the crate at the end of the row caught his eyes. She had short, black fur. Mike noticed her left, front leg ended in a little stump just past her shoulder. Her remaining front paw was white.
"Hey, kitty." He murmured, putting his finger between the bars. She sniffed it, cautiously. He looked at the woman.
"What's her story?" He asked.
"She's a tripod. She was hit by a car and her front leg shattered. It had to be amputated. The previous owner couldn't pay for the surgery, so they surrendered her. She's been here about three weeks.
"She's a survivor." He remarked, with a smile. The woman opened the crate and lifted the cat.
"She's shy. With a little patience and a little love, I'm sure she'll warm up you. It'll take time." She said. Mike took the cat from her, gathering the pitiful thing in his arms. He stroked the cat's head head, whispering nonsense in an attempt to soothe her. He looked at the woman.
"I'll take her."
Mike paid the modest adoption fee, filled out some papers, and carried the newest addition to the family out to the car. He set the crate on the front seat. During the drive home, he hashed out the ground rules with the cat, who he'd named Yardstick. She meowed, mournfully, from inside the crate.
As he pulled into a parking space at their apartment building, it occurred to him that he didn't know if pets were allowed in the building. To prevent a premature end to his and Yardstick's acquaintance in the unfortunate event they bumped into the landlord, he took her out of the crate and hid her in the folds of his coat, opting to take the back stairwell up to their apartment.
"El?" He called, upon entering.
"Hi." She answered. He went to her room, finding her in bed, sitting up with a book balanced on her pregnant belly, reading.
"Hey." He said, softly, crossing the room and leaning in for a kiss. She stopped him with a hand on his chest.
"What is that?" She asked, pointing to the moving lump inside his jacket.
"A gift for you, milady." Mike answered, unzipping his jacket to reveal Yardstick in all her three-legged glory. "Happy Valentine's Day." He set her on the bed. She meowed, resentfully. El's mouth fell open.
"It's a cat." She said.
"Obviously."
Mike sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out the scratch her behind the ears. El smiled, letting Yardstick sniff her hand.
"You bought me a cat?"
"Yeah. I thought you might like the company."
"Mike, we've got a baby on the way."
"I'm aware . . ." He said, slowly.
"Having a cat is gonna be another responsibility. It's like having another kid."
"We can handle it." He said. "I mean, how hard can it be? What do cats do? Eat and sleep?"
"And shit." El added, with a shrug. She shot him a sideways glance, stroking Yardstick's fur. She began to purr, and El smiled. "You're sure about this?"
"Positive."
"She's cute." El said, thoughtfully. "What should we name her?"
"I call her Yardstick."
"What?"
Mike shrugged. "She's got three feet."
"That's awful!"
"It's funny." Mike said, chuckling. "We'll call her 'yard' for short."
"She needs a proper name." El said, with a frown. She looked at the cat, thoughtfully.
"I'm gonna call her Matilda."
"Oh, that's better than Yardstick?"
"Yes." El said, defiantly. "Everything's better than Yardstick! That's a stupid name for a cat."
"It fits!" Mike countered.
El got out of bed, scooping the cat in her arms.
"C'mon, Matilda." She crooned, making her way to the kitchen.
"Yardstick!" He called after her.
"Don't listen to him, he's an idiot."
Mike followed her into the kitchen, watching her fill a bowl with water and set it on the kitchen floor. Yardstick began to drink.
Mike warmed up two dishes of ramen in the microwave, and they ate it in bed. El polished off her meal and set it aside, snuggling against him. Yardstick appeared in the doorway, hesitated a moment, then jumped on the bed and settled herself between them.
In the end, it was lasagna that pushed her past the breaking point. She'd decided to cook dinner. She thought if she could just do one thing for herself, she'd feel better. Plus, she'd surprise Mike. She called Mrs. Wheeler to ask for the recipe for her lasagna, his favorite. She scrounged up the ingredients from the depths of their cabinets and set to work. And she burned it.
El stared at the dish, burnt beyond salvation, feeling tears begin to prick at her eyes. It was like someone had flicked a switch, inside her. And the tears became sobs that shook her whole body, blurring her vision and obliterating her senses. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. And somehow, she wound up on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, sobs wracking her body. And that stupid cat paced the across the tiles, lingering just out of reach, yowling.
Mike found her like that, face puffy and red with tears, and the smell of burnt lasagna heavy in the air. Wordlessly, he'd gone to her, settling on the floor and pulling her into his arms. He rocked her back and forth, running his fingers through her hair, whispering words of comfort through his own tears, until the sobs subsided and all the tensed muscles in her body began to relax. He'd scooped her up and carried her to bed, and they fell asleep in their day clothes, holding one another.
She was lying in bed, reading a book, when a dull thud reverberated through the apartment from the next room.
"You okay?" She called.
"Yeah!" Was Mike's hurried reply, and El rolled her eyes. He'd spent the entire weekend working on something. When El asked him what the hell he was doing, he wouldn't tell her.
"It's a surprise!" He'd say, grinning a stupid grin. When she to take a trip down the hall to find out for herself, he'd shooed her back into her room and told her to be patient.
That night, he'd appeared in the doorway with mysterious smudges of purple paint on his arms and his shirt.
"I've got something to show you." He said. She could hear the excitement in his voice. "I think we can risk a trip down the hall." He took her hand.
"Oh, so you've finally decided to reveal the big secret?" She said, rolling her eyes.
The corner of Mike's mouth tilted upward. "Close your eyes."
She did, covering her face with her other hand. He helped her down the hall, steering her into the baby's bedroom.
"Can I look?" She asked, with a laugh.
"Yes." He said, prying her hand away from her face.
The baby's room was no longer the stark, empty space it was when they'd moved in. He'd painted the walls lavender. The changing table they'd picked out was assembled and standing against the opposite wall. A comfy, plush chair sat in the corner. He'd invested in a bookshelf and arranged the stuffed animals atop it. A mobile with a sun and planets hung from the ceiling, spinning in slow circles. He'd arranged some picture frames, one of him and El, one of Hop, one of the guys (and Max) on a shelf.
"Mike . . ." She began, eyes filling with tears.
"I know we don't have a crib, yet." He said, hastily. "We'll put it over there, under the mobile." He said, pointing to the far wall. "I just . . . I wanted to wait 'till I got my next paycheck for that. I'm also gonna sell some of my first semester textbooks, for some extra cash, and—"
"Mike." She said, cutting him off. "It's perfect.
She cupped his cheek, tears running down her face, marveling at the phenomenon that was Mike Wheeler. Mike Wheeler, who knew just how to cheer her up when she felt like everything was coming apart at the seams. Who knew exactly what she needed.
"It's perfect." She said, kissing him. "I love it. She's gonna love it."
Mike smiled.
"Yeah?"
She nodded.
"Yeah."