Private Life

by Jane Smiley

  “Of course he is,” said Mrs. Lear. “Don’t you want the best possible care by the best-educated doctor? Your other alternatives are Dr. Gray, who is nearly seventy; Dr. Howard, who is not very clean and who has”—she lowered her voice and whispered—“very fat fingers”—Andrew knew better than to ask what she was saying—“and Mrs. Kimura, the midwife.” At first, Andrew accepted Dr. Bernstein as a necessary evil, but Margaret quite liked him—he was married to a beautiful French woman with her own healthy and quite stylish children, a boy and twin girls. Margaret saw their Jewishness as something desirable and cosmopolitan, and then Andrew was won over, because Dr. Bernstein addressed him as a colleague. They frequently discussed the works of Dr. Ellis, both about sex and about genius. Margaret was careful to tell Andrew whenever she went to see Dr. Bernstein, or encountered him anywhere, that he had asked after Andrew. Andrew agreed that it was good that they had gotten “a true man of science” to usher their young genius into the world.

  It was soothing to talk to Andrew and Dr. Bernstein about the pregnancy and the birth; it made Margaret feel lifted into a higher, more knowledgeable realm. When women talked about birth, as they did in her knitting circle, it was always in the direst terms. Mrs. Tillotson would tell about a woman she knew who had seemed fine until she got a terrible infection and died within hours, then Mrs. Arness would top that with a story about a woman she knew who was in labor with her first baby for forty-nine hours, and the baby was born dead, and the doctor had to use an instrument to “scrape the remains out of her.” And then Mrs. Jones, with a glance at her, would top this story with one about her cousin who had never gotten out of bed after the birth of her third child—it had been ten years now—“and the stink! Everything like a sieve in there now!” Mrs. Gess put a stop to such conversations when she found herself pregnant, too.

  The main difficulty seemed to be that Dr. Bernstein was in Vallejo and they were on the island. Should labor commence, who would take the ferry to whom—she to Dr. Bernstein, or Dr. Bernstein to her? Privately, she imagined that, in a pinch, Mrs. Lear would run over and deliver the child, but she never said this to either man of science. She wavered, and wondered aloud to Mrs. Lear whether perhaps Dr. Howard, who lived on the island, might suffice. Mrs. Lear sat her down and exclaimed, “After all these months, Margaret, I cannot believe that you haven’t gotten the point of my precautions. I do not want to scare you, I want to alert you. Your father, and Dr. Howard, and all the old-time doctors didn’t truly understand about cleanliness. They said they did, but they didn’t and they don’t. Should you call him, he would come to your house by horse and buggy. He would harness the horse and drive him and tie him outside your house. No doubt he would pat the horse and give him a nosebag to occupy him during the birth. After that, he would pick up his dirty old satchel and carry it into the house. But from the moment he put the nosebag on the horse to the moment he birthed the baby, would he be absolutely perfect in his cleanliness? If your labor was not far advanced, would he eat something? Would he pick up the newspaper? Of course he would. Would he then thoroughly repeat his cleanliness procedures? Not the Dr. Howard that I know. Not the crusty old man who considers that a few dollars for the delivery of a child is not much to be earning in a day. No, my girl, you must figure out some method for ensuring the attendance of Dr. Bernstein.”

  The very next day, Andrew found her a pleasant room in a boarding house on Ohio Street, only half a block from Dr. Bernstein’s office. He took it for six months, although they would need it at the most for two, and explained their plan to the landlady, Mrs. Wareham. Since it was winter, and boarders were scarce, Mrs. Wareham was only too happy to accommodate them, and since she was a kindly person with two children of her own, she bustled about, making sure that Dr. Bernstein would have everything he needed. Dr. Bernstein approved this arrangement, too.

  By wagon and ferry, the room was about an hour and a half from their house, and farther from the observatory. When she was at Mrs. Wareham’s, she felt lonely and wondered what was going on at her house. When she was at her house, she wondered what she would do if she went into a precipitate labor. Dr. Bernstein had calculated her due date—March 26—but everyone knew these calculations were more like wishes than guesses. Every letter from her mother told her what she had to watch out for. Lavinia’s births had been either easy or terrifying, and as for Margaret’s aunts, they were lucky to be alive. It didn’t matter that Beatrice and Elizabeth had “birthed like cows calving in a field.” Should Lavinia come out? She felt she should come out. If Margaret wanted her at all, she would come out—“I’m sure I can stand the trip. I hope you aren’t going to depend on your neighbor Mrs. Lear for material assistance. She may be a charming and entertaining woman, but from what you tell me, her ideas are very unorthodox. And the landlady of a boarding house will not be able to give you the sort of help you need. I feel obliged to come out, and I’m sure I am strong enough to survive the trip.”

  Andrew read as many books about birthing as he could, and informed her that history was in her favor. His mother had never lost a child, her mother had never lost a child at birth, and neither of her sisters had ever lost a child. Every evening, an hour before the last ferry to Vallejo, he questioned her: How was she feeling? Any pains of any kind? Any waters of any kind? Unusual movements? Unusual lack of movements? He enlisted Hubert Lear to run to the observatory and find him at any time of the day or night. They had several practice sessions in which she threw open her bedroom window and shouted for Hubert, and then timed his appearance in the street and his speed to the observatory and back. All of this was fine with Mrs. Lear, because it made Hubert feel useful.

  In the event, however, there were no difficulties. One day just before the due date, she did, as Dr. Bernstein told her she would, feel the baby drop, and Andrew was home, so he called a wagon, and they went to the ferry. She was ensconced in her room on Ohio Street before noon, and early in the afternoon, she felt the first pain. Andrew ran to Dr. Bernstein’s office, and the doctor came half an hour later to examine her. Mrs. Wareham shooed the children out, and the boarders were excited but quiet. Because of Andrew, perhaps, Dr. Bernstein was on his mettle, and performed a perfect scientific delivery. Once he had boiled his instruments and washed his hands for ten minutes and disinfected them in mercury bichlorid, he stood with his hands uplifted and watched her as she progressed. He never touched a single thing before he touched the baby, he did not have to use forceps or chloroform, and the baby came shooting out onto a sterile rubber mat, was wrapped in sterile wrappings, and was a boy. The birth was so quick that Margaret was not daunted by the pains, especially after she saw the child. They named him Alexander Mayfield Early. He was extremely large.

  It was about nine that evening when Dr. Bernstein left, and Andrew and she settled in for the night, with her in the bed (she didn’t feel terribly exhausted) and Andrew in the armchair. Alexander was wrapped in a blanket, lying in the cradle Mrs. Lear had given them. Mrs. Wareham promised to look in on them every couple of hours, and said Andrew could call her at any time. Andrew fell asleep, stretched out with a quilt pulled up to his chin. The day had been fine, but the fog had moved in, and it was now chilly and damp. The moist air made the moon, which was full, look gauzy and pale as it shone into the room. Margaret ached all over, but she found the baby too interesting to admit of sleep. She sat up as best she could and stared into the cradle, which was beside the bed. She looked at his very round face, his hands, and the dark cap of hair on his head. The room was quiet. He was quiet. He had hardly cried at all, which she wondered about, but everyone else, even Dr. Bernstein, seemed mostly relieved at this. Mrs. Wareham had said, “Oh, he’s just worn out. And he’s going to be a good baby. I can just tell.” Even so, she felt far away from Alexander, and she thought that if she could have him in her arms, if she could curl around him like a dog, she would feel closer. She was supposed to be sleeping, or resting, making good use of her time while she didn’t have to nurse
him or care for him. Andrew sighed in his sleep and shifted position.

  Margaret slipped down under her quilts and stared up at the ceiling. Things were quiet for some time, and then Alexander gave a cry. A moment later, he started moving about and fussing. Andrew shifted in his sleep but did not awaken, and Margaret inched over toward the cradle and picked Alexander up. It was easy. He fit right into her arms, and it was a pleasure to look into his little countenance. Of course, she had held babies before. Beatrice, for one, didn’t much like to hold her babies, so when they were fussy, if they were going to be held, others would be the ones to hold them. She was plenty adept at that little soft jiggle that babies seemed to like, and, sure enough, Alexander quieted at once, and the bundle that he was seemed to soften in her arms and conform to her.

  She had nursed him already, under the guidance of both Dr. Bernstein and Andrew, and that seemed to have gone well enough, so when Alexander resumed fussing—really a sort of mewing—she tried again. It was not terribly comfortable in some ways, but it worked. And it was convenient. And it was silent and private. The last thing she wanted was for Andrew to wake up or Mrs. Wareham to come into the room.

  The strange became familiar. Once he was in her arms, she was reminded that he had not “arrived.” Maybe to Andrew and Dr. Bernstein there was an arrival, but for her he had been here a long time. He had now become visible, that was all. The movements he was making were exactly like movements he had made the day before, but visible. The face turned toward her now was the same face that had been invisible yesterday, but now she could peruse it. He was also a he. He had always been a he, only now she knew it. She felt a momentary, almost enjoyable pang—that girl, that Anna, that face vanished to the same distant world where that other face had gone, the face of the first baby. Alexander’s face was here, turned toward her. His eyes were open. His lips, when he pulled away from her, formed a small triangle. As she looked at this face, she grew more and more interested in it, more and more curious about it, more and more drawn to it. She felt it change before her eyes from a strange face to a known face, and, more than that, a face she could not stop conning. She stroked his forehead and the crown of his head as gently as she could, and felt that new sensation against the skin of her hand, the smooth warmth—not of a baby, but of her baby. It was interesting to look at his head. Inside that head was also something new. Out of that head, things would blossom. That things blossomed out of her head or Andrew’s head seemed utterly mundane, but that soon this would happen with this brand-new head struck her as astonishing.

  Her love for Alexander developed right then, an almost physical sensation. Margaret was not a fanciful person, but she felt it as a kind of invisible swelling, infusing all her tissues, that she had never felt before. If she said she loved her mother or her sisters, what she was talking about was familiarity and habit. If she said she loved Mrs. Early, what she was talking about was delight and admiration. If she said she loved Andrew, what she was talking about were the necessary arrangements of her life, sometimes mysterious, sometimes pleasurable. But if she said she loved Alexander, what she was talking about was a bodily transformation. It was as if he were a dye and she was white wool. Looking at him and holding him dyed her through and through. As she was thinking this, she must have dropped off to sleep, progressing bit by bit from staring at him to dreaming of him, both states utterly peaceful.

  Then came the shock. Here beside her was a female voice that was making an exclamation, and she woke up at once. Something had happened to Alexander, and it was her fault. But as she opened her eyes, she saw that it was very early morning—the room was hardly light—and Mrs. Wareham was standing beside her. Alexander was propped in the crook of her elbow. She was not lying on him, nor had he fallen out of the bed. Mrs. Wareham was now over beside the window, and she opened the shade. Having done so, she came back to the bed and bent down. She was peering at Alexander, and she involuntarily pulled him toward her, which caused Margaret to embrace him more tightly. When Mrs. Wareham stood up, Margaret saw her stare at her in alarm for a moment. Then she said, in a soft but urgent voice, “Dear, the baby is yeller. The baby is yeller as an egg yolk. You need to—”

  Andrew was on his feet.

  “The child is jaundiced?”

  “Well, my land. He is. That’s not so unusual, but …” She stood with her hands on her hips, staring up at Andrew, and he stared down at her. Mrs. Wareham said, “Now, Captain, you go on down to Dr. Bernstein’s house. He’s going to want to know about this, and I’ll make Mama some tea and some nice dry toast. Go on, now.” She said this lightly, with a shooing motion, as if she weren’t saying anything frightening after all, and Andrew pulled on his boots and left the room instantly. She came over to Margaret and put her hand on Margaret’s forehead. She said, “You’re fine. No fever. You’re just fine.” She put her hand on Alexander’s forehead, then his cheek. She said, “I don’t know if you’re a praying woman, but you might start.”

  Margaret had been staring at Mrs. Wareham, but now she looked at Alexander. His eyes were open, and the whites of them were indeed yellowish—she could see it more clearly by the moment as the room brightened. Mrs. Wareham sighed, and shook her head, then left the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a cup of tea and a plate. She said, “Now, you give me the child, dear, and I’ll hold him while you take something. Just a little something.”

  She did what she was told, sipping the tea while she watched the other woman walk him back and forth between the bed and the window, humming and making kissing noises. She said, “You eat all the toast, Mama. You are going to need it.” When Margaret had done so, Mrs. Wareham handed Alexander back to her. His eyes were still open, but he was making no sounds of any kind. Margaret tightened her grip a bit, as if to envelop him. Mrs. Wareham went out, only to return with some more coal for the fire. She opened the door of the stove, heaved the coal into it, and opened the damper, then went out again without saying anything more. For whatever reason, it was only then that Margaret began to feel real fear. Outside the window, the morning fog was thick. She could not even see the green wall of the house next door. When Andrew returned with Dr. Bernstein, they both paused a moment after they removed their coats and hats to rub their hands and cheeks. Mrs. Wareham brought in a basin of hot water, and after rolling up his sleeves, the doctor washed his hands very carefully, then held them up in the warm air to dry. Margaret stared at his face, but it was impassive, waiting. She looked at Andrew. Surely they had talked on the way and Andrew knew what Dr. Bernstein expected, if anything. But Andrew, too, looked blank.

  Dr. Bernstein took Alexander away from her, laid him on the bed, then unwrapped him. He smoothed the infant fingers over his own forefinger, and stared at the tiny fingernails. He felt around Alexander’s jaw. He lifted both his arms and gently set them against his little chest. He touched the chest with his forefinger several times, then ran his hands over Alexander’s chest and belly. He lifted and spread his legs, then put them back together. He bent closer to the child and stared at him, or maybe he sniffed him. His look was as intent as she’d ever seen on anyone. He looked at the soles of his feet, put them down, looked at them again, then at the palms of his hands. Alexander was listless, even limp. She glanced at Andrew, but Andrew might never have seen a baby before, especially a squirmy, thrusting, active baby like Beatrice’s boys. In fact, that’s what her mother had said about her brothers, too: “They were like springs. You tried to hold them down for one instant, and they were up before you let them go.” But possibly Andrew and his brothers had not been as active, and poor Alexander took after them. This was a fugitive thought—there was no reason to believe that any child of Mrs. Early was listless or limp. She bit her lip. No more than five minutes since Andrew and Dr. Bernstein had come into the room—their hair and whiskers still steaming—yet it seemed like an hour. Andrew, she saw, was not about to prompt the doctor. Observations, he would have been the first to tell you, often took quite a bit of time
. She saw Mrs. Wareham peek in the door. Behind her was the girl who did the washing and the cleaning. She was Japanese. She looked about twelve, but Mrs. Wareham had told Margaret that she was almost sixteen. Her name was Naoko.

  Finally, Dr. Bernstein said to Andrew, “You had better come look at this.” Andrew clasped his hands behind his back, then stepped over to the bed and bent down. He was at least a head taller than Dr. Bernstein. Mrs. Wareham and Naoko stepped farther into the room. Dr. Bernstein said, “When you press on the skin of the chest, here, the color underneath the surface yellow is very pale. See that?” Andrew nodded. “But it’s more than that. Here the belly is quite swollen. It wasn’t this way right after birth. Here.” He felt Alexander’s belly. “The liver. The spleen. Very enlarged. Enlarged overnight. See how his limbs are stiffening up?” He lifted an arm. Then he shook his head. Andrew stood up straight and looked at her. Dr. Bernstein said, “I have seen worse.”

  Andrew said, “Have you seen worse that recovered?” His voice sounded scientific rather than fatherly. Margaret felt herself grow offended.

  Dr. Bernstein sighed. “Once, I did.” Then he added, “That child lived.” He stressed the word “lived.” Dr. Bernstein gently wrapped Alexander back up. All this time, he had made no cry, only a few quiet sounds. The doctor turned to her and said, “Mrs. Early, you might try to nurse the boy again. Whether he takes hold and seems eager for nourishment will tell a great deal about how he is going to grapple with his condition.”

  He put Alexander back in her arms, and the two men stared at her.

  She wanted them to go out; she wanted all of them to go out, and herself and Alexander to be returned to that time in the night when they could do things on their own, without having to contend with this cacophony.