"Mrs. Carlyle, from one parent to another, I am so sorry for your loss. It was an unfortunate accident, a mistake, and—"
"Doctor."
"Excuse me?"
The woman straightened her spine, utterly horrific in the most beautiful way. Her eyes were glassy and haunting, with dark circles and smeared eyeliner. Her once-rich skin had faded to an ashy brown, a gaunt ghost of the vibrance it used to hold. She stared blankly into the man's eyes as tears dripped down her cheeks. "It's Doctor Carlyle. And that, that was not a 'mistake'. My daughter is in pieces!" She screeched, finally shattering the numb mask.
Doctor Dahlia Carlyle stood. "I want the body delivered to my office immediately. No further prodding or examination. And no autopsy." She turned towards the exit, short heels clicking against the hospital tile.
The doctor ran up to her, putting a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't do that. You'll need a funeral director to come take the body to a morgu—"
"I said no. I will handle her affairs myself. At. My. Office." She shoved his hand off and promptly walked out, shaking her head at the absurdity of that awful man. Dahlia Carlyle was not the type to back down. And her baby, her only daughter, was not dead. Not for long.
Dahlia would, and will, drag her soul from the clutches of Death herself if that is what it took.
She will not let these pathetic excuses of doctors put her baby in a box. Trap her underground. Maeve was scared of the dark, and being trapped, and oh god, her baby was all alone.
"I'm coming for you, my baby. My sweet, sweet Maeve. I'll bring you home." Dahlia whispered, her hands trembling as she sat in her car, her head flopped against the steering wheel as she shook throughout her entire body, an all-encompassing ache she'd been holding onto since she lost her wife, Florence. She knew her wife, her Flo, couldn't have been saved; nobody knew that the lake's ice would break.
Flo died saving Maeve.
Dahlia would not lose Maeve too.
Florence would not die in vain.
She slowly pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital, her old red truck clattering down the roads of Ketchikan. Dahlia still remembered the day she had first come here, in her early twenties, on a cruise with a flock of friends, exploring her newfound freedom.
Admittedly, she'd gotten lost almost instantly and was helpless until a local girl, her future wife, took pity on her and drove her back to her cruise in the very same pickup truck.
She'd been in love with Florence Carlyle ever since.
When she arrived at her office later that evening, Maeve was already waiting for her. The robot "surgeon" who was operating on her daughter had ripped her apart. Shredded intestines sagging out in a horrific spill, her arms and legs dismembered, torn away, and most horrifically, her face was ripped clean off.
In any other situation, Dahlia would have been scarred for life at the sight. But she was beyond horror and beyond grief, beyond humanity itself. The only thing that filled her was adrenaline as she pulled out her sewing kit and her scalpel.
"I'm coming for you, Maeve. Mama's here."
Dahlia Carlyle knew it was not moral. It was not right, or good, or kind. It was not human.
She knew that. And yet, neither was the robot that ripped her child apart.
Even so, she found herself with a needle in hand.
She set to work, near rabid with urgency as she sewed her up with the prettiest periwinkle thread she could find. Maeve liked periwinkle. But the thread kept on turning red. Her hands were red, the floor was red, and the pretty periwinkle thread was so, so red.
Somewhere in the distance, a woman was screaming. Maybe it was her. Dahlia had transcended past the point of consciousness.
The only thing she was aware of was her hands threading the needle. Up and down, over and over until that thing on the table started becoming her Maeve again.
Her baby was scared of needles. But Maeve would forgive her once she woke up.
Once Dahlia woke her up.
She lost track of the hours—the days. Maeve, slowly, was pulled back together, oh-so-achingly slow, with nothing but string and a will. The office smelled of rot and rigor, and yet Dahlia didn't stop.
She couldn't.
Until she did what no one had done before.
Until she brought her baby back.
Her body, at least.
"Hey... hey Maeve... baby, can you hear me? Are you there, baby? Please wake up, please, Mama needs you to wake up now, okay?" Dahlia sobbed, cradling Maeve's tiny body.
So, so red.
Dahlia had almost given up.
Then, Maeve took a breath.
"Mama?"
And for what felt like the first time in years, Dahlia smiled.
Her daughter was oddly quiet on the way home, but she figured it was just confusion. She tried her best to tearfully explain that her daughter had just taken a long nap.
Maeve listened with no emotion on her face. Just silence as she watched the cars go by.
Dahlia would be lying if she said that she wasn't a little bit worried. But she was too full of relief to let it set in. Give it a day or two, and she'll be back to normal, she thought to herself.
"Why did you bring me back, Mama?" Maeve asked after her bath, after the walls of the tub turned red with residue of the procedure, the horrors that brought her baby back.
Dahlia turned to her daughter. "What do you mean bring you back? Maeve, what's going on?"
Her daughter shook her head. "I know I was gone." She whispered, dragging a finger across her throat. "Why did you bring me back?"
Dahlia stared, stunned. "I—because, because I love you. I can't live without you, sweetheart."
Maeve hummed thoughtfully. "But I didn't want to come back. I'm tired."
Dahlia froze, sinking to the floor. Her baby didn't want to come back. She wanted rest, but Dahlia, she would not let her child die. No matter how selfish it was, they would not take her baby.
Not her Maeve.
But Dahlia wasn't quite sure this was her Maeve. Her daughter had little interest in anything. She didn't want to eat, or play, or watch a movie. She seemed content to just… sit.
Nothing else but sit and stare at the ticking clock on the wall.
Like she was waiting for something.
Dahlia became increasingly more worried as the time passed. If she did talk, she talked about Florence, "Mom".
Which was beyond odd, because Flo had died when Maeve was a baby. Her daughter knew nothing of Florence other than what Dahlia told her, but suddenly Maeve knew the way she talked and what she wore and every single detail Dahlia never told her.
"I liked it there, where I was before. I was happy waiting for you with Mom. We waited together. It didn't hurt."
Dahlia winced, still trying to understand how Maeve knew these things she shouldn't have known. "And does it hurt now?"
Maeve nodded.
"Yes. I can feel the needles, Mama. The stitches."
Her baby stopped speaking after that.
Just before Dahlia went to sleep that night, she whispered to herself as she wept.
If there is anyone out there who can ease my daughter's pain, do so. Fix whatever I've done to hurt my baby.
And when Dahlia woke up, she saw a bundle of red thread on the floor.
Not periwinkle.
Cut out by tiny. Little. Scissors.
It would have been better had she never brought Maeve back at all. She'd brought back a body, but nobody can bring back a soul.