Me! she says, incredulous. Faith in me? No, that’s wrong—that’s backwards—Her nerves effervesce in defeat. She’s being overrun.

Sylvia, Aurelia whispers meaningfully, Mrs. Prouty paid for all of your hospital expenses. She paid for your new psychiatrist at McLean. Don’t you owe—

She hangs up: her mind drafty, emotionless, disengaged; she simply hangs up, because she’s done for. She knows it’s there, lurking right around the corner, just out of sight. Just waiting, opportunistic, like a dormant virus. The phone rings.

Hullo, she says angrily. She should be angry; it wasn’t supposed to be this way ever again.

Hullo, is this the home of Ted Hughes? asks a heavily accented female voice.

Who is this? Sylvia asks, her desperation mounting, throwing off dread like sparks.

I’m a producer from the BBC Third Programme, calling for Douglas Cleverdon, says the woman.

Sylvia begins to deconstruct the accent: It’s the Irish producer, not Assia. It’s the redhead wearing lipstick from two years ago, when they lived on Chalcot Square. It was only a voice, but Sylvia could just tell: a fun-loving redhead with lipstick.

I’m calling about Mr. Hughes’s play, The Calm. We’re very interested and we’d like to meet with him about it, says the Irish producer.

It was always there, always, at the back of her mind.

No, I won’t go there again, Sylvia answers.

But aren’t you already there? says the woman.

What? Sylvia asks, scalded by panic.

You’re already there, says a voice. You only need to push.

What? she says again, falling through space.

You’re ready, says the voice. Just push.

Wait—Sylvia says, confused. Is this a party line?

Push! says the voice.

Sylvia looks down. The phone cord is a twisted umbilicus, blue and weird, dangling from under the hem of her nightgown. Fat clotted drops of black blood plop to the floor between her bare feet.

She’s a very good pusher. Both of her midwives had told her so. But she can’t push like this—not with a phone in her hand, with the scuttling over carrion in the bathroom. She hangs up the receiver and sets the phone down on the floor. She braces her hands on her knees, squatting with her feet spread for balance, and pushes. She can feel the murky ringing in her uterus, the electrified shrill, but she doesn’t quite have her bearings. She takes a step back, out of the hallway, placing her hands on either side of the nursery door frame. Gripping as tightly as she can, she bears down. The phone is ringing and ringing.

She’s groaning. She’s roaring. She’s afraid she’s going to pop all the blood vessels in her eyeballs.