AN: Here we are, another chapter here! I am slowly working on trying to get my rhythm going everywhere, again!
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do consider leaving a comment or review to let me know.
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There was a difference in knowing—in holding a piece of information somewhat loosely in one's consciousness, but keeping it somewhat out of the direct line of vision—and acknowledging. Carol had known that she was pregnant for some time. She'd been aware of the little thing, in some way, practically since it had flickered into existence. She had kept it at her periphery, though, as much as possible.
She had been discreet – or, at the very least, she had tried to be, and had believed that she was, until she'd learned that everyone else had also been well aware of baby's existence—but she'd also done her best to be kind to the little thing during what she had assumed would probably be a truly short existence. She had eaten as well as she could, she had rested whenever possible, and she had allowed others to take some of the jobs that she thought might be too strenuous or dangerous for the baby.
And, for the first time, she was in a group where she felt that those things were easily done and, more than that, done without her feeling guilty.
Still, Carol hadn't truly imagined that the baby might live. She hadn't even considered it as a possibility—not at first, and she was struggling to fully imagine it even now. She could tell herself a million reasons why the pregnancy wasn't even possible, despite the very obvious evidence that it existed and, therefore, must be possible, and she could come up with two million more reasons to believe that it would be entirely ridiculous to believe that the pregnancy would ever continue to the point that the baby would come—whole and healthy—into the world.
After all, the world didn't let Carol have wonderful things. And, when she did have wonderful things, she was forced to deal with losing them—having them snatched away cruelly.
Everyone, now, knew about the baby. More than that—since Carol now knew that they'd known for some time and had been keeping that knowledge a secret for what they hoped was her good—they were all openly acknowledging the existence of the youngest Dixon in their midst.
Carol was free to acknowledge the existence of the child she carried—a baby that she and Daryl had created, together, from their love.
She was free to say that she was still hungry—not that she ever had to do so, because there was always someone heaping "just a little more" on her plate—if she needed, for the good of the baby.
She was free to say that she didn't feel comfortable or safe performing some activity or another—not that she ever had to, because there was always someone there to tell her that they would take a chore they felt wasn't "Squirt Friendly."
She was free to say that she was tired, and needed a little additional rest, without feeling lazy—not that she had to, because Lydia and Daryl were often urging her to at least try to sleep and, where they left off, someone else was almost always present to suggest an afternoon nap to break up the day.
She was free to do all of this, too, with comfort and without guilt.
That was something that Carol hadn't really known before, in all her life. There had always been a feeling of expectation. She'd always felt responsible for those around her—whether that was a role they truly put on her, or one she put on herself due to trauma from past experiences. She'd felt that she must always perform, and she'd felt judged for any moment when she might simply rest.
Her mother had been demanding—a true believe that idle hands were the devil's playground and such—and she'd gone from her parents' home to Ed's home. Ed had believed that Carol should always be busy. She should always be serving him, in some way, and he saw everything she didn't do as something of a personal slight against him. Even her imaginary laziness could cost her.
She had carried that, in many ways, into the group that had known her, first, as Ed's wife. She had let at least some version of herself as the ever-busy, ever-helpful, ever-responsible person follow her everywhere.
In Wyoming, though, Carol was allowed to be human. She worked along with her family—because that's what they would all be, for now and for as long as they lived—and she certainly contributed as much as anyone else did—but she was also allowed to rest. She was allowed to be completely and entirely human. And she was free to be human without fear of ridicule or punishment.
It was, honestly, a great relief—one that she might not have expected—but she was still struggling to fully accept and embrace her own humanity, at times.
Carol was free to simply acknowledge that the little one she carried was real. It was real to her; it was real to everyone else—and it was certainly real to Daryl.
Oh, the baby was so wonderfully real to Daryl.
There was at least some part of Carol that still feared that the little one she carried was only hers to hold temporarily. Despite the fact that she could feel the little one move, and she spent a bit more time each day paying careful attention to those movements that she might feel comfortable admitting out loud, she couldn't quite believe that the baby would come into the world, healthy and whole. And, if it did come into the world healthy and whole—well, she knew that she wasn't the kind of mother who was allowed to hold her children forever. She wasn't the kind of mother who could protect them from this world that was so determined to take from her the things that she loved and treasured.
But the way that Daryl already seemed to love the baby, when it was nothing more to him than an idea—a dream, at best—given some slight physical representation, and the sensation of movement within Carol's womb, made Carol think that it was worth it. Whatever happened, perhaps, was simply worth it.
She might not be able to give him everything she'd love to give him—a home, a family, and every dream he could ever dream come true—but she could give him this, for however long she was allowed to hold it.
She might have believed that she was doing a wonderful job, too, of hiding all the doubt and worry that she carried, if Daryl hadn't made her feel relatively certain that he was more aware than she gave him credit for being.
"If I can find some stain or paint that ain't half-ruined," Daryl said, "I'ma paint it up."
Carol sat on the trunk in the work shed to keep Daryl company. This had been her practice for the past two weeks since he'd shown her the shed and explained what he was doing out there, when he retired there to work.
They worked during the day—all of them did. They were gathering livestock and caring for what they had. They were working on fences. They were working on necessary structures for the well-being of that livestock. They were trying their best to plan and build several greenhouses and smokehouses. They were doing what they could to try to prepare for a harsh winter and to prepare for survival. Everyone worked. Everyone did what they could.
But, in the evening, they rested. All of them rested—those were Alice's orders.
Unlike previous groups that Carol and Daryl had known, where it had seemed that someone always had to be working and toiling, this group functioned differently—and, still, the work got done. Carol would have argued, honestly, that it got done in a much more effective way than it had before.
There was no resentment. None of them looked at each other with the anger and frustration of someone who was being forced to work beyond their means to make up for someone who wouldn't pull their own weight. Each contributed as they could, and each reaped the benefits of the work that was done by all.
And they rested, because Alice and Melodye were both adamant that bodies—and minds—that didn't rest couldn't heal, and bodies and minds that weren't allowed the time and space to heal would fail, in one way or another, eventually.
Of course, they were allowed to engage in little tasks in the evening, but they were always the tasks that they found enjoyable. Carol and Sadie, for instance, both enjoyed sewing. Carol enjoyed it immensely, she'd found, when nobody was demanding that she do it. She enjoyed knitting. She enjoyed crochet. Muh enjoyed working to preserve the food items they found—down to every root and berry she deemed edible. Beau enjoyed carving and whittling. Each of them had something that they enjoyed filling their resting hours with—and several of them had different tasks that they liked on different days, breaking up the monotony. None of them judged each others for how they spent their free hours.
Daryl enjoyed working on the items that had been designated for their nursery. He enjoyed spending the quiet hours devoted to the slow, methodical work of making sure that he turned the found pieces into things he thought were worthy of their child.
They were allowed to do the work that made them happy, in the evenings, because that work wasn't work at all.
Carol often sat on the trunk, in the work shed, while Daryl worked, and sewed by the light of the lamp that she kept at her side.
"It doesn't have to be painted," Carol said. "Looks good as it is."
Daryl hummed, continuing his work almost as though he were in a trance.
"Gonna look better," he said. "Not quite done, but it won't be long now."
"There's no limit on time, Daryl," Carol said.
"That ain't so," he said with a laugh. "You know as good as I do that Squirt's coming, and she's gonna need a bed."
"You'll have it done by then," Carol said.
"I'ma have it done in a week," Daryl said. "Two at the longest, if I can't find the time to work on it with the greenhouses and all."
"The greenhouses are more important," Carol said.
"And if we got us a baby and nowhere for it to sleep?" Daryl countered with a laugh. "You won't be thinking the same thing."
"Judith slept in a mail box," Carol said, smiling to herself at the memory. "I guess we'll find somewhere for the baby."
Daryl stopped what he was doing. He looked at her. She saw the crease between his brows. She practically felt his concern—heavy and thick in the air. Her stomach flipped, and it wasn't the baby that caused the sensation. She swallowed, wondering just how much of her thoughts had slipped and made themselves at least a little seen and heard—her worries, which seemed to practically be growing inside her brain like some kind of warning drumbeats that she remembered reading about, once, in a book, somewhere in a different life she'd once led.
She put on the best smile she could, her heart pounding unnaturally and unexpectedly in her chest. She was immediately aware that the smile was too much, and she dialed it back just a notch. She changed her position on the trunk. She tried to look at Daryl as sweetly as she ever had.
"What is it, Pookie?" She asked, hoping the teasing would distract him.
He continued to study her in a way that made her nervous. It wasn't that she feared Daryl, or didn't trust him—she couldn't have possibly trusted him more than she did—but she felt like he could see through her. She felt like he could sense something deep within her, which she was trying to keep hidden. She felt like she couldn't hide from him, and she wanted to hide, if only to preserve his happiness for as long as possible.
After a moment, he visibly relaxed his muscles a little. He dropped back on his heels. The crease between his brows didn't disappear entirely, though, and Carol knew that he was, essentially, still smelling the air around them to try to figure out what was wrong in his world—because he had sensed something.
She didn't want to burden him with worries, concerns, and fears. She didn't want to exhaust him with her truth. She didn't want to take from him a single moment of happiness with the heavy ache that she felt within in her own chest.
She wore the fake smile as long as she could—as long as he was looking at her. She held her breath, and she let it out slowly and quietly when he turned back to look at his handiwork.
"All the same," he said, "I'ma have it done for her in a week or two and…if what Alice says is right, well, she don't come for prob'ly another three months or so…maybe longer."
"You'll get it done," Carol said. "And it'll be perfect, and beautiful, Daryl. It doesn't matter if we never find any paint. She'll love it, just as it is."
"Will you?" Daryl asked, stopping his work for a moment, but not looking at her.
"I already do," she said, sincerely. "Because—you're making it perfect for her."
"I'ma reinforce that chair, too," Daryl said. "Just—just 'cause it'll help me rest easy, you know? I mean—I got no actual reason to worry about it. I don't have any proof that it ain't sturdy, or…it's gonna fall through. But…I'ma rest better if I just reinforce it anyway. So—that's what I'm gonna do, just to handle the…the fear I have in my head."
Carol felt her pulse kick up. She tried to control her breathing to keep it nice and even. She pretended to focus on the work in her hands—a shirt she was repairing for Daryl. She hummed at him, hoping that it sounded steady enough, and spoke when she felt like she could trust her voice.
"If you want to repair it," Carol said, "I think—you should do what makes you feel best. It won't hurt anything."
"You right," Daryl said. "You right…won't hurt anything to just…repair it anyway. Gives me peace of mind, and…it don't hurt anything. You ever get like that, Carol? You ever…don't have no reason for it, but…you just get where you're needing peace of mind? Needing to…do something to get some peace of mind?"
Carol's stomach tightened. Her chest tightened, too.
She gathered up her sewing.
"I think—we all get like that, sometimes," she said, starting off the trunk and out the door of the shed.
"Where you goin'?" Daryl called after her.
"I'm going to check on Lydia," Carol said, tossing the excuse over her shoulder. She simply needed to get inside and get her breath, but she wasn't ready to say that. "I'm going to…do a few things. Take your time, but don't stay out too late."