Xanadu (Lost)

Chapter 2: And a Welcome One

Claire sat cross-legged on the master bedroom floor, while Aaron slept on a soft, dark blue blanket, secure in his wash basket. The walls hemmed her in, and briefly she wished she could sleep outside in the copse of trees which surrounded the outer perimeter of the Barracks, where Danielle Rousseau had made solitary camp.

Pulling herself to her feet, she paced the room for awhile like a trapped animal, then pulled the rear window curtain aside. The back bedroom window faced the deep green canopy of jungle which grew up hundreds of feet alongside the edges of an old volcano. Out in the darkness, framed by the window-glare of the lightened room, a tiny spark flickered. That must be Rousseau's fire. For a few seconds, Claire had a crazy urge to grab Aaron, stuff a few of the new nappies into her backpack, and go.

An indignant crowd of arguments rose up. What would she do in the forest with a baby? And why wouldn't Rousseau just drive her away? The wild French woman had finally gotten her reunion with her teenage daughter Alex, as well as picking up a new son too, in the form of Alex's gawky, endearing lover Karl. They were a family now, and she, Claire, would just get in the way. As she always had, from the beginning, as the child her mother hadn't planned for or wanted, but had kept anyway. Now, here she was herself, mother to a similarly unexpected child, but not unwanted anymore.

Claire couldn't hear the baby's soft rapid breathing, but his little back made the blanket rise up and down with tiny movements. Claire felt as if she were connected to Aaron's small body by invisible webs. She would have known whether he was breathing or not, even without looking at him.

Although the bedrooms were stuffy, Kate and Claire kept the windows shut because the torn, rusted window screens were full of holes. If they opened the windows at night, the rooms soon filled with moths, their fat, furry bodies thicker than Claire's thumb. Maybe the Others hadn't minded the bugs. Claire didn't, either, not outside at least. But in the house, their trapped beating against the walls and windowpanes filled her with anxiety. She rested her face up against the night-cooled glass, and her breath smudged the window with a foggy stain.

Kate had said not to go to bed yet, but why? The flannel sheets sat untouched in their basket, waiting to be cut up. Claire didn't blame Kate for running over to Sawyer's. Whatever daft idea Locke had, Sawyer wasn't going to let Kate go. And if Locke was stupid enough to push it, he would have a fight on his hands.

"Oh, bloody hell," Claire said under her breath, fogging the window once more. Then someone knocked on the door, and not politely or softly, either. She jumped, and her heart gave a loud hard bang. Again the wild impulse came, to tie the baby around herself, throw open the window, and simply disappear into the night before John could hammer down the front door and get to her. The bangs came again, three times, insistent.

My God, he was going to break the damn door frame. She tried to open the window, but either the latch was broken, or it was stuck. In movies people wrapped cloths around their fists and smacked windows to break them, but Claire hadn't the first idea how to do that, and anyway, the glass might hit the baby.

Silence came from the front of the house now. Maybe John had gone away. What was a lock on a door, when you think about it? Especially a door like the one out there, flimsy as plywood. A lock was an idea, nothing more, yet it actually seemed to work, because John hadn't barged in, so far.

Claire opened the bedroom door and poked her head out, tentative.

The whole front door shook with another bang that rattled the window glass. Claire ducked back into the bedroom and took a deep breath. She couldn't run from him, unless it was to Rousseau. Maybe if she begged, Rousseau would take her back to the beach. Because Claire certainly couldn't find her way there herself, and it was a long enough trek as it was.