It was summer when Oliver began to prepare the basement.
The New England air was sticky-hot, humid to the point that the hair clung to the back of Marilyn's neck unless she pinned it up and out of the way. Her belly was enormous; the bulk of it made her lower back cry out with pain every time she struggled to her feet from the couch, or bed, or chair. Even now as she began to sit up, curious as to where the doctor had been all morning, then gave in and let her head fall back on the pillow.
"Oliver?" she called hopefully, her voice echoing off the walls of their bedroom. Her only reply was the sweet lilting song of a goldfinch just outside the window.
She laid there for a few more moments, gently stroking the bulge of her stomach with one careful palm before deciding that the silence, which was never a good thing, needed to be broken. With a little huff Marilyn rocked to her feet, placed a hand at the small of her aching back, and toddled slowly out into the living room. A faint whiff of his cigarette smoke hung in the air there like a ghost.
"Oliver?" she said again, and this time she felt her stomach sink. More silence. Something was wrong.
He'd been as attentive as any beaming young father in the months following Lana's death. True to his word, her name had not been spoken, but he had also never explained what happened that December morning in the basement — how Lana had escaped, where the blood on his shirt came from.
She sighed softly. If he wasn't upstairs, he was downstairs.
Taking each step slow and careful, Marilyn started for the steps. She was rounding the corner when the doctor's face suddenly popped into view as he bounded up the stairs, cutting her off.
"Marilyn," Oliver said, his tone mildly scolding, "what are you doing out of bed? You need your rest." His lithe body blocked her from going further; it was subtle, but purposeful, and she noticed all the same. She also noted his missing glasses and open collar.
"I called for you." She chewed her lower lip, glancing beyond him at the basement door below. "What are you doing down there?"
His dark eyes scanned her face. For a moment, a strange fever dream type of moment, she felt like she was back in the basement all this months ago, her trapped-rat brain scrambling furiously to figure out what it was he wanted, how to keep from ending up like them.
Oliver smiled.
"Do you want to see?" he asked, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
It did nothing for her nerves. He meant trouble, she knew him well enough to be sure of that, but her back hurt and her feet were swollen and she was so weary of carrying this bulky belly around.
"Oliver," Marilyn said, the name escaping her in an exasperated little rush. "What are you doing down there?"
He extended his hand to her like a gentleman asking a lady to dance.
"Do you want to see?" the doctor said again, and though the tone of his voice should've been enough to send her screaming out the front door, she took his hand.
Guiding her tenderly, one protective arm around her waist, Oliver lead her down the stairs. Each step was taken with slow precision and an assortment of whispered "easys" and "carefuls" until at last they were at the bottom and he was swinging the heavy soundproof door open to show her what he'd done.
The plastic curtain was gone, and though Marilyn half expected to see a new woman chained to the bedpost, a new toy to keep him busy while she was out of commission (so to speak), the bed was empty.
What was new was the variety of medical equipment that surrounded the bed, fresh IV stands and unfamiliar little machines on metal carts, bottles of pills and liquids and god knew what else. Along the metal workbench, below the sharp points and wicked instruments, there were tools she did recognize from her physician's office — rubber gloves, sterile white face masks, tiny surgical scissors, forceps — and something that resembled a long crochet hook with a strange angle in the middle.
Marilyn turned to the doctor, feeling the blood drain out of her face, but he had already closed the door.
"Baby, what is this?" she whispered, her voice suddenly dry.
The little-boy smile still played along his lips. He looked very pleased with himself.
"Your third trimester is nearly up," Oliver murmured, taking her by the shoulders. He began to run his palms soothingly up and down her arms. "The baby will be here soon."
"I — I have a doctor." Marilyn swallowed hard but the lump that had risen in her throat stayed put. The smile on Oliver's face grew. His palms caressed her skin.
"Yes, you do."
"No, Oliver, I need — I need to go — to a hospital. To deliver the baby." She searched his face desperately, trying to spot a shred of sanity there, and what she found was worse — he looked sane. He really did.
This was not a momentary lapse into madness. This room had taken time to prepare.
He turned her gently back towards the bed, tender hands still stroking her flesh. When she looked again, she saw three things that made her blood run cold.
The bed had been fitted with new sheets that looked like they were made of some shiny plastic material.
The worn leather cuffs at each bedpost had been replaced with stronger, more durable restraints.
And at the bedside, close enough to touch, was a little white crib.
"Oliver," was all she could say. Marilyn felt him press a loving kiss to her shoulder, nuzzle the skin there, and sigh contentedly.
"Do you like it?" the doctor whispered. "It was all I could do to keep it secret. I wanted to show you, but not until you were ready."
Above the crib was a child's mobile, a sweet little thing dangling soft white sheep and clouds and moons and stars. It spun lazily in the silence.
She couldn't speak. The words were stuck in her throat. Suddenly the reality, the utterly crushing weight of what her life had really become, was falling down all around her.
The little white crib. The new restraints. The plastic sheets.
He'd prepared the room, yet she couldn't help but notice the fresh iron chain still looped around the bedpost.
Oliver moved past her and reached into the crib; he pulled out a small brown teddy bear, clearly new, something any child would point to in the store window and want at once. The doctor lifted the bear to cover his smiling mouth and playfully waved one little paw at her.
Marilyn rubbed frantic little circles over the bulge of her stomach. The baby had begun to kick madly in her womb. Probably because her heart was racing.
"Oliver," she said again, her voice weak.
He noticed her movement and lowered the bear at once, his dark eyes shining bright.
"Is it the baby?" Oliver dropped the stuffed bear into the crib and moved towards her lightning-quick. She recoiled when the doctor pressed his fingers against her stomach but he was so excited she was sure he hadn't noticed.
"I don't want to stay down here," Marilyn whispered. He was already on his knees before her, her belly cupped protectively in the palms of his large hands, his face awash with pure adoration.
"Daddy's here," he murmured, leaning his nose against the curve of her stomach. "Yes, that's it, Daddy's here, and you'll be here soon too. I'm going to make sure of it." Oliver's eyes flicked to her face and he smiled again, radiantly. "I'm going to take care of everything."
"Oliver, please," she begged, running her shaking hands over his perfectly-styled hair. "Please don't do this. I want to go to a hospital. I don't want to stay down here."
He got to his feet, that beaming smile still on his face; she realized he'd never looked happier than he did at this very moment.
"Father knows best," Oliver said pleasantly, and slipped the needle into her throat, pressing the plunger of the syringe he'd kept hidden in his pocket. Marilyn had a horrible fleeting sense of deja-vu before the world seemed to gray at the edges and finally slip away.
Even with her bulky stomach he caught her like nothing at all. As her eyes drifted closed Oliver pressed his lips to her forehead in a tender kiss, then lifted her limp body and placed her carefully in the bed he'd prepared so lovingly.
It was time, he knew. It was time to fulfill his duty as both a doctor and a daddy.
He began to undo the wrist restraints. It would be okay.
After all, the basement was soundproof.