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Annie wakes up towards the end of April feeling strange. It feels as if the baby has moved within her body, as irrational as that seems, and she asks Finnick to stay home from the crew for the day, "just in case". It's as he's on the phone with Jude, calling out from work that her water breaks, and she calls for him, her words disappearing just as quickly. "It's coming!" she says, full of wonder and worry in equal measure.
She was supposed to have more time. The baby was supposed to come in three more weeks. She has knitting to finish, more food to stockpile. Johanna has diapers to finish sewing. And yet it is happening, like waves breaking against the shore.
Finnick tells Jude, and Jude tells Odessa, who rushes over, Simon on her hip, to help with the birth. Finnick and Johanna are there as well, and Annie thinks they will go to the beach right away, but Odessa says they can wait, that they will have time when the contractions get closer. So mostly they wait - watching television, eating food, Odessa writing notes in a little booklet about the weather, the timing of Annie's contractions, the news on television that day.
Finnick ties a piece of rope into knots, then unties them again. It's familiar, nonthreatening, but it sets her on edge at the same time, and she can see Johanna glancing between her and Finnick, as if asking if she wants Annie to tell Finnick to stop. She knows Johanna is thinking of the same thing as she is: that the knots were what kept her sane in that prison. They are great for waiting, but she'd rather not think of her capture on such an auspicious day.
Johanna herself can't sit still, rearranging things on the table, getting Annie a cool cloth for her forehead, then a sweater when she gets the chills, then she begins pacing. Odessa mentions things they should bring to the beach, and Johanna dutifully packs them before Finnick can leave Annie's side.
It's mid-afternoon by the time they walk to the beach. It's a slow walk, and Annie has to pause once to let her contractions run their course. She has a feeling the birth will be quick: at her last appointment, the Healer told her the baby was in a good position, and each time the contractions run through her she can feel the primordial urge to push. The day is overcast but warm enough, and she's in a long skirt and set up on clean towels on the sand, waiting for the final pushes, the final moments of the birth, so that her child can be born into the ocean. And when she gets in, it's a blissful shock. The water is still stinging cold, but she won't be in it for long, with any luck.
Johanna waits on the sand, knees to her chest, watching them, surrounded by the blankets and bags. Simon is with her, but he occupies himself digging in the sand: this is not his first time witnessing a birth. In the water, Annie has Finnick and Odessa beside her. Behind her, she can hear the distant sounds of horns on the boats in the water. They know the sight of a woman in the tide: they are blessing the birth of a healthy child.
It hurts, maybe, she thinks, when she is pushing, but the strain is nothing compared to the euphoria of seeing a life come into being before her eyes, right into the arms of the ocean. Finnick lifts the little boy from the water, and she hears it: his first cry, the sound of healthy lungs. They'd done this, she thinks: they'd made a baby, through the war, the executions, through the devastation the aftermath wrought. Finnick hands the baby to her and she falls back, exhausted, against him. Odessa is busy tending to them, with the umbilical cord, with the placenta, and she lets her work. It is enough to know she has borne a healthy son.
When they get back to shore, Annie falls back onto a clean towel, and Johanna wraps a blanket around her. "You did it," she says, and it's not empty praise. It's actual disbelief, like she really doubted there would be a child at the end of Annie's pregnancy.
Annie nods. "A little boy," she announces.
Johanna peers at the bundle who is now back in Finnick's arms. He's settled now from his earlier squirming, and all Annie wants is to press him against her again. She wants him close. There's no chance the Capitol can claim him for the Hunger Games, but there are other threats in this world, she knows. She reaches for him and holds him close, and Johanna's gaze follows, as if entranced.
"What are you going to call him?" Odessa asks.
"Seamus," Annie answers. She hadn't been decided beforehand, her and Finnick debating between a few names for a boy and a few for a girl. But seeing his face, she is settled.
"Seamus," Odessa tries it, and is satisfied. "I like it."
When they get home, Annie stays near the fire, worried that Seamus might get cold in the early spring weather. Johanna brings over the infant diapers she sewed, and they fit well enough, but now that she has a model, she traces a new pattern on his tiny behind and disappears back to Mags' house to make a better version. Finnick cooks dinner, his gaze switching between the stove and Annie and the baby enough times that it makes her nervous that he's going to start a fire.
"You alright?" she asks him.
He nods. "It just feels like a dream," he says. "Like I'm going to wake up, and realize the war isn't over, that someone's tricking me."
"It's real, baby," she laughs, her laughter coming easy from exhaustion. "This baby was born with your eyes, your nose, he's a whole mini Finnick."
Odessa goes home after dinner, once they're settled, promising to come out if they need her for anything. She leaves her notes for Annie to add to or take to the hospital, and Annie is touched by the details. "25-April, 76: Baby Seamus Arrives! Temperature was mild, around 61 degrees Fahrenheit, and the water was only 55 degrees! The big news story on the radio this morning was about how a major rail line was repaired between district 5 and the Capitol, which should help with electricity to the rest of the country. Locally, we're low on a lot of things at the markets, but we did recently get a shipment of coffee, so that will be a treat for your mom. You are 17 and a half inches long, but we'll have to wait to get you weighed at the hospital."
Annie sleeps. And wakes. And sleeps. She panics, the first time she wakes to Seamus crying, placing him awkwardly against her breast. It doesn't feel right, his position, or hers, and she can tell it's wrong somehow, that he's not getting any milk. Her breasts feel swollen, ready to feed her son, and yet he's not latching on.
She takes a breath, shifting him so his head is better supported, and watches as his little mouth closes around her nipple. This time feels better, and somehow, miraculously, she realizes she's feeding her son. She wants to cry, almost does, with the relief that washes through her. They didn't have a backup plan. She didn't have formula, she didn't have anything to pump her milk with. She'd have to leave, in the night, to try to find a woman to help her.
As Seamus finishes breastfeeding she sees Finnick in her peripheral vision, stirring beside her on the bed. "Everything alright?" he asks. She nods.
"He's eating," she says, trying to convey how miraculous this was, what an obstacle they have overcome.
"That's great," he says, "You're doing great. You need anything?"
She shakes her head, and when Seamus is finished, she checks his diaper, changes it, and puts him back in the crib before collapsing back on the bed. She knows she'll need to get used to sleeping for only a couple hours at a time, for time not making much sense, stealing moments for herself when she can. It's like being held captive in a way, but her captor also holds her heart.
When she goes downstairs for a meal, Annie sees Johanna on the sofa, flipping through the television stations. "I finished those diapers," she says, handing Annie a stack of uniform fabric diapers, white cotton on one side, and patterned with silly fabric on the outside. "I tried putting fleece in the middle, to absorb some of the liquid, let me know if it works before I make the next size," she says.
It takes Annie a moment to comprehend the sheer incredulity of Johanna Mason looking for feedback on homemade diapers, but she just smiles a bit, accepting the gift for what it is. "Do you think you can fix a couple of my bras?" she asks. She explains what she wants, something to open for breastfeeding, and Johanna takes note and agrees to try. There's no purchasing new clothes right now, so they have to make due with what they have. It's so strange, she thinks, after so many years of having more or less anything that she wanted. It must be crazier for Johanna and Finnick, lavished with all the excess of the Capitol, at least one month a year.
"How was District 7, before the war?" she asks, before she can stop herself. She moves to the kitchen, to put on the water for tea, and puts on the griddle to make a couple eggs and toast. Upstairs, there's still silence, Finnick and Seamus still sound asleep.
Johanna shrugs. "More or less like this," she says. "Always short something, the power going out here and there. Cold, kinda lonely. Why?"
Annie shrugs, putting tea bags in two mugs. "I was just wondering, that's all. You seem used to this, is all."
"Guess I am. But I got used to the Capitol, too."
Annie wants to know what she means, but she can hear the baby fussing, just a bit. Johanna shoos her off, and takes over at the stove. Annie comes down a few minutes later, Seamus in her arms, and Johanna is finishing the eggs and pouring the water into the mugs. "You should stay here," Annie says, wondering even as she says it if it's too much, if she'll scare Johanna off.
"What?"
"We have the spare room. We can use an extra person around since Seamus is sapping all our energy." Annie smiles. "You can still run away and recharge to do the sewing, or just to get away from the crying baby."
"You want someone here overnight," Johanna says, sitting down across from Annie at the table.
It's not really what she wants, but she knows it'll make Johanna say yes, so she nods.
And then, after that, it seems Johanna is almost always there. Sometimes she works on her mending projects or sometimes she goes to pick up the rations, but mostly she's there, cooking, cleaning, fixing problems before Annie realizes they're problems. She sleeps in the spare room, no more than a bed and a dresser, since Finnick never spent any time decorating this house, and the rest of the time in the kitchen or the living room, making sure they stay fed, warm, and well-stocked.
Finnick is off of work for a few weeks, and he takes shifts with Annie watching the baby, but he can't feed Seamus, so mostly he changes diapers, gives baths, and takes care of Annie. And she appreciates it, but she can feel his stress, his guilt or shame or confusion from the Capitol that he can't quite let go of, and it's affecting her ability to relax with Seamus, so one night, about three or four nights in, she sends him away.
"I just need a little time to myself," she says.
She finds him, hours later, asleep on the couch with Johanna. The kitchen is sparkling - Johanna's doing, she's sure, and the television is still playing some broadcast from the Capitol, the sound on low. They're both on their sides, him in front, and she's surprised by the intimacy, but not exactly put off by it. He had problems, rooted in the Capitol, things that winning the war didn't automatically eliminate. She's not surprised that he wanted comfort with someone who knew those problems well.
She watches them sleep and wonders if she's insane. Enough people had said so. She's watching her husband cuddled with another woman and doesn't feel any sort of resentment or anger. Even the flood of emotions that follow childbirth only makes her want to join, to be a part of the affection taking place under her roof.
If being in District 13 had taught her anything, it was that people have complex ways of dealing with terrible events, and life will go on with or without them. She sits in the arm chair, watching her husband in the television's glow. Him loving Johanna doesn't mean he loves her less. She used to say it like a mantra, like a reassurance. Now she's certain of it. In fact, she thinks that if he can fix his relationship with Johanna, he might even love Annie more, since he won't be so choked by his past. She searches for Seamus's features in his face, smiling as she recognizes them. Eventually, she returns to the bedroom without disturbing him.
The next night, Jude invites Finnick out for drinks with him and the other men on the fishing crew, to celebrate him becoming a father. Johanna rolls her eyes. "You didn't even do anything," she says.
"It's a celebration," Annie says, before the argument can devolve. "Of course you should go celebrate."
"Fine, we can celebrate here," Johanna says. "Celebrate the one who dealt with carrying that baby for over 8 months and then pushed him out."
Once Finnick leaves, Johanna runs to Mags' house and brings back a bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate. "I have to ask," Annie says, "How do you get so much wine?" She declines a glass, since she's breastfeeding, but she does take some chocolate, having some with the early strawberries Johanna found foraging the other day.
"Wine and liquor are cheap," Johanna says. "If I mend even a few garments I can afford them. The chocolate was the big ticket item. So good job passing the test," she jokes.
Annie tries a piece of the chocolate, enjoying it melting on her tongue. Johanna takes a piece as well, and then pours herself a glass of wine. They talk, occasionally interrupted by Seamus's fussing, then they move to the couch, the hours growing later and later. "You did good," Johanna says, looking at Seamus. She hasn't held him since he was born, but she has changed him and wiped his face, so now she does lift him, cradling him carefully and taking a good look at him.
"Yeah?" Annie asks.
Johanna nods. "This is a celebration, after all. So, congratulations."
Annie laughs, "Thank you."
"He looks like you. And he's healthy, happy. That's a lot to be proud of."
Annie knows Johanna will never apologize for what she said before, will probably never change her mind about not wanting children, but this is enough. "It is," she agrees.
The next morning, Finnick arrives home hungover.Annie hears him in the bathroom, throwing up. It's a strange reversal to her morning sickness months ago, and she brings him a glass of water and the ginger tablets leftover from that time. Then she sits on the bathroom floor, facing him. "What happened last night?" she asks.
"Drank too much," he offers. He gives her that million-dollar smile, the one that usually melts her, but this time, somehow, it falls short, and perhaps it's because of the sleep deficit from the baby, or perhaps because she sees something of the Capitol manipulator character behind that look, but she decides, for once, not to drop the subject.
"I thought you were getting a drink or two with your crew, not staying out til dawn and coming back still wasted," she says. "You can't take care of the baby like this."
"Yeah, I just need to sleep it off, a few hours."
"Finnick, you can't be doing this," she says.
He sighs, looking at her with such misery she wants to believe he understands. "I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't say what for. For the late night? For the emotional baggage? She doesn't blame him for the latter, but she wishes he would deal with it in a better way than with more and more liquor.
"I'm going to take Seamus out today. I was going to ask you along, but I think I'll go with Johanna." She wants it to sound like a punishment, to show him he'll miss out on things if he keeps self-destructing. But there's an unintended consequence: the way he seems to deflate, like he's disappointed her with his very existence, like he's not living up to some standard he ought to, and she's afraid now that he'll drink to cope with this frustration, like a vicious cycle. When she leaves him, she kisses him goodbye. "I love you, Finnick. Let's take Seamus out together tomorrow."
She and Johanna found a little pram in a junkyard months ago, but Seamus seems too young to use it, so she just tucks him into a swaddle on her front and they walk, first up the hill to the hospital, where she passes around the Ward for Troubled Women where she lived for years. In two more days, she has an appointment at the hospital, Seamus's first check-up and a visit for her as well, but for now, she's just here for nostalgia. "Mommy used to live here," she tells him, looking up at the tower. "Me and lots of other women."
"Was it horrible?" Johanna asks, as they walk away, in the direction of the house where Annie grew up.
Annie shakes her head. "No, it was fine, most of the time. I had friends, and we were mostly left alone, it was just at the end when…" Her voice fades, as she remembers something. "They sterilized women, against their will," she says. "At the end, before the Quarter Quell."
Johanna makes a face, turning her head away. "Is that why you hate me for wanting it?" she asks. "I haven't changed my mind. I'm glad you like being a mother, and your baby is adorable, but it's not… I can't."
"No," Annie says. "Forget I mentioned it, I just happened to remember."
They get to her parents' house, and it's the same as Annie remembers it. She can feel the tension between them dissipate as Johanna turns her attention to the cottage with the broken window, the overgrown garden. "What is this place?" she asks.
"This is where I grew up. I wanted to try to bring home a memento."
Johanna looks at Annie, then at the bundle against her chest, then shakes her head. She knocks on the door, then enters, holding a piece of broken concrete from the stoop. "Anyone here?" she shouts, going further in. A moment later she comes back out, cheeks red from adrenaline. "It's empty."
They walk through quietly, looking at the mess. It looks rummaged through, almost ransacked. But through the chaos, Annie can see the pattern of her family life: the kitchenware she remembers from her childhood, the jars of seaglass in the living room, her father's waders in the front closet. She takes a seaglass mobile her mother made, planning to hang it over Seamus's crib, and a map of District 4 her father kept hung in their living room. And she takes a picture of the three of them, as a family.
All the while, Johanna is watching her, careful not to step on anything, lingering in the doorway. Her expression is unreadable. "What is it?" Annie asks.
She shrugs. "I'm sorry, about your parents," she says. "I'm sure they would have loved to meet Seamus."
Annie opens her mother's desk drawer and finds them: dozens and dozens of seaglass jewelry pieces. She takes one - a dark green necklace, and walks over to Johanna, clasping it around her neck. "They would have spoiled him rotten," she confirms. "Here, my mom was compulsive with making these," she laughs.
Johanna smiles, looking down at the pendant. And to Annie it's automatic, to lean in and kiss her, briefly, almost casually, while she's distracted.
To Johanna it certainly is not casual, and she looks up at Annie in surprise. The "Wh-" is half-formed on her lips but no sound comes out.
Because you looked beautiful or Because I wanted to don't sound like particularly compelling reasons, Annie thinks, so she goes with, "A thank you, for all your help."
Johanna looks nervous, but not displeased, and they leave the house together, back into the light of day, where they are Finnick's and not each other's.