The Heart Beats in Secret

by Katie Munnik

  ‘Do you always pray at mealtimes here?’ I asked. ‘Is that part of this?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess we do. Just something simple, though. Nothing heavy. We take turns. Bas likes to use something he’s read – I usually just say thank you. But if you don’t want to, you don’t need to.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  The bunkhouse wasn’t far. I’d expected a barn or something, because the small cabin surprised me. A simple step up to the door, no porch here, and thin curtains on screened windows. Inside, there were rag rugs and cushions on the floor of the central room, a small woodstove and three doors like in a fairy tale. Annie said these led to the bedrooms and I could take my pick.

  ‘Best aim for a lower bunk. We keep the tops for storage or extra guests.’ Mostly, the bunkhouse was for girls who showed up on their own. Some came as soon as they knew there was a baby on the way and spent their months working at the camp, helping out. Others only arrived at the end of their wait and headed home quickly afterwards. Annie said Rika advised mums to stay for at least six weeks after the birth in order to heal and to get good milk into the baby, but some of the girls couldn’t handle that. Particularly if they were leaving their babies at the camp. And that’s why some girls came. Rika could find a home for babies who needed one. She had her networks and she knew who to ask to find sympathetic families happy to make room for another kid. And letting the girls know that this was an option meant that fewer of them ended up at dodgy clinics.

  I settled on the room to the right, which was the smallest and looked empty. Annie stayed for a while, chatting while I sorted through the few things I’d brought with me. Books and bedding. A postcard to pin on the wall – the island of Manhattan, the river a crazy blue. A mug painted with mermaids. The yellow mohair wrap from Mum and Dad, which I laid out on the end of the bed.

  Annie smiled and said it all looked snug.

  ‘You going to be okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m just tired out. Is it okay if I just go to sleep? Or will I be expected back at the farmhouse?’

  ‘I can tell them you’re tired, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. I am.’

  ‘Bethanne probably won’t be along until later. She’s been taking walks in the evenings. And Carole will be here when she’s here. She’s a bit harder to predict. But if I see her, I’ll let her know that you’re already in bed and sleeping. She’ll be quiet. You rest up, okay? Things will feel less strange in the morning.’

  The night before I left for the camp, I’d brushed my hair a hundred strokes. It was shoulder-length now, with a centre parting like everyone else, and kirby grips over my ears. The girls were out – Jenny to a play, Margaret to the library – and I had the radio on, but it was just pop songs. Boppity-bop love and hearts, but I couldn’t handle talk. Jenny had left me a box of chocolates with a little note on top that said Break a leg. I sucked on a caramel one and kept brushing my hair.

  I’d told the hospital I was leaving to spend time with family. Which was true, wasn’t it? But I felt terribly Edinburgh, proper and false as I said it. The matron suspected I wasn’t coming back; she made sure I left my nursing basket behind. But she didn’t check my purse so she didn’t find my nicked copy of the pink book – a doctor discusses pregnancy by William G. Birch, MD. They may not breathe a word about contraception but they hand these books out like candy. I liked the lower-case title – I think they were aiming for modern and chic. On the bus ride home, I flicked through the pages, the neat line drawings, the words of scientific assurance.

  You who are expecting a baby in this modern era can make your nine-month wait one of the happiest adventures of your life. You are safe in the security that medical science has devoted countless years of research to help your doctor help you have a happy, healthy pregnancy and childbirth.

  Behind me, the hospital and maybe my career. And before me? A weekend bag and a hairbrush, a few new clothes, and a stolen book.

  Jenny’s chocolates were a nice touch. A little bit of grace there. We’d argued a while back – about how I made decisions, about the baby – and she told me that she thought it would be best to end it. Said she knew someone who could help. As safe as could be. Margaret had backed me up, but it was obvious she, too, thought the baby was a problem to be solved. But it wasn’t. It was just what was happening. Like Asher. Like leaving Scotland. Sure, it would change things for me, but change happens, right?

  The hairbrush was a gift from Mum before I left home. A Mason Pearson Handy. She’d be glad to see me using it diligently. I hadn’t yet had a response to my last letter, and in her previous one, she hadn’t mentioned the camp or the baby at all. Only said that she was glad I was feeling more myself and that I should be careful of my health.

  That first night in the bunkhouse, I woke in the night, feeling blind without streetlights and achingly aware of my mistake. I wasn’t really pregnant at all. I couldn’t be, and how was I going to tell the others here? As soon as Rika placed her hands on my belly, she’d know for sure, and then what would she say? They’d all think I was crazy. So, I’d leave, I thought. Get up now while everyone was sleeping and head back out to the highway. Hitchhike. But where? East again. South. Guided by the stars, right? Or I could walk down to the lake and not stop. Not dip a toe or test the temperature, but just calmly walk straight in. Step by step. Feeling light and empty and free. And then, just as I imagined my toes pushing away, the lake taking my weight, that’s when I felt it. The sudden tumble inside. The shift and shuddery shove of shoulders and elbows and knees. And I knew there was no mistake at all.

  2

  MORNING AND A KNOCK ON THE FRONT DOOR.

  ‘You up yet?’ Rika’s voice, and a bed creaked in one of the other rooms. Light fell across the floor like a strip of white paint on the boards. Back in Aberlady, there was a photo of me with light like that, falling across my face. I stood next to Dad, a small child next to a thin, towering man, and sunlight like paint brushed right across my face.

  ‘Is it breakfast?’ A voice from another room.

  ‘Lazybones,’ Rika answered. ‘Of course it’s breakfast. It’s almost nine.’

  ‘How’s Bethanne?’

  ‘I’m just popping over to check. You up, Felicity? Did Carole tell you about Bethanne’s baby? You can come see her with me before breakfast if you like. Or are mornings as hard for you as they are for Carole?’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘’Strue though, bird. You struggle.’

  A groan, but nothing more and Rika laughed.

  ‘I’ll be up and dressed in a minute,’ I said.

  Rika was sitting on the steps when I came out of the cabin. The woods were full of the sound of birds and then a sudden loud noise overhead startled me, and something fell to the ground. Rika looked up, squinting. After a moment, she pointed up at one of the pine trees.

  ‘See him? Just there, where that branch meets the trunk.’ A small red squirrel sat high above the cabin roof, chattering away. ‘A pine squirrel. Cousin to your Scottish red, I think.’

  ‘And just as noisy,’ I said, but Rika had turned away and headed down a fern-lined path. I followed, combing my fingers through the curled green fronds as I walked.

  ‘Do you eat fiddleheads in Scotland?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so at least.’

  ‘Might be my favourite springtime food. A bit like asparagus and really tasty with butter. These ones are getting a bit old and woody now. You stay around for next year and you’ll see.’

  I thought of telling her about Mum’s foraging – her rosehip jam and sloe gin, but the path was narrow and Rika walked quickly. Maybe there would be time later.

  Just as the birthing house came into view, she slowed and turned towards me. ‘You’re what now? Four months to go?’

  ‘I think so. I haven’t seen anyone yet.’

  ‘No? Well, that’s likely fine, if you feel well. But good that you’re here now. Lots of time to settle in.’

  The birthing house
was an A-frame cabin facing the lake, with a porch like the farmhouse. A rocking chair sat beside what looked like an old milking stool with a horseshoe-shaped seat. When we came close, a chipmunk darted out from under the log steps, running away into the trees. Inside the house, someone was humming softly. Rika tapped on the screen door and the humming stopped.

  ‘Come in,’ Bethanne called. ‘We’re both awake.’

  ‘Hey. Look at you. You’re all glowy this morning. Can I open the curtains for you or are you happy with them closed?’

  ‘Open them up if you like. Let’s let that day in. Day One. Holy Moly. Hi, Felicity, good to see you here. Sorry you weren’t with us for the fun last night.’

  ‘I was sleeping. They didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I thought it best to let you be,’ said Rika. ‘Who knows how late we might have been and you were pretty tired out from the travel anyway.’

  Bethanne was sitting propped up in bed, under a patchwork quilt. She wore a plaid shirt over her shoulders, all the buttons open and the baby she held looked chubby and red.

  ‘It’s okay. You can come closer and look if you like. I don’t mind. Help you get used to the idea and see what they look like. Crazy little space aliens. You sleep well?’ I nodded, and she smiled, shifting her gaze down to the baby, her mouth latched onto her mother’s swollen breast, sucking away.

  ‘You picked a name yet?’ Rika asked.

  ‘I think I’ll call her Ember. It suits her, don’t you think? Check out her hair. It’s wild.’ She gently took off the knitted hat to show a tangle of damp spikes. ‘She looked such a little ghostling at first. All blue and streaked with white. Then Rika rubbed her all over, getting her started, you know, and she started breathing and she got redder and redder all over. Like a little fire. It was amazing to watch the life coming into her.’

  ‘It’s a great name,’ I said, taking a cushion from the pile and easing myself onto the floor. I needed the toilet. Rika perched on the edge of the bed.

  ‘She’s a little doll, isn’t she? And it looks like she’s taking to the breast right well,’ Rika said.

  ‘Yeah, she’s a dream.’

  ‘You, too, my dear,’ said Rika.

  ‘It seems to work after all. You were right.’

  ‘I said you’d remember.’

  ‘And you were right about her being a girl. I didn’t want to hope for a girl this time round, but you knew, didn’t you? And here she is.’

  ‘So, you have others then?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope,’ Bethanne said, her eyes never leaving her baby’s face. ‘Not any more. Ember is my first to keep. I had a boy when I was fifteen, but they made me give him away.’ Bethanne pushed her hair out of her face, and the baby squirmed and stopped nursing, so she blew softly on the baby’s cheek until she opened her gawping little mouth and tried again. ‘She’s funny, isn’t she? It’s so different this time. And the weather is so much better, too. I can handle anything in these cool spring days. Last time, it was stinking-hot July. And out on the prairies. ‘Man, that was something. My parents sent me to a home near Winnipeg. Nothing like here. Not open or kind. Didn’t even let me name the baby there, but they taught me how to nurse. Every three hours, they pinched my arms hard to wake me up and hauled me into a chair with this cracked fake-leather covering that my dress stuck to. Completely ruined it and I had nothing else to wear that unbuttoned in the front. Just ruined. Guess I wouldn’t have wanted to keep it anyway, but you never know. Probably not.’

  Rika watched Bethanne, a soft smile balancing on her lips. ‘You ready for me to take a look? I want to see how that cunt is doing this morning.’

  I flinched.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Rika said. ‘Just a word. I can use a different one when it’s your turn if that suits better.’

  ‘I’m feeling okay,’ Bethanne said. ‘The cool cloth helps.’

  ‘You remember the witch hazel like I said?’

  ‘Of course. I’m good at instructions, aren’t I?’ Bethanne started to sit up, but Rika stopped her.

  ‘Hey, watch those belly muscles. You might think you can do everything, but you’re still soft. Just be careful with yourself and let me take her from your arms, okay? I’ll get a blanket ready. You just lie back and relax. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘Hey Felicity, you want to hold her?’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘Yeah. It would be good for you. She’s not made of glass. That’s okay, right, Rika?’

  ‘Absolutely. Babies are for sharing. Well, some of the time.’

  ‘I do know about babies,’ I said. ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘Great,’ said Rika. ‘Another set of hands. How’s your birth experience?’

  ‘I haven’t really done birth. A little infant care during my degree, but not since then.’

  ‘You should see some of the girls who come in here. Never seen a little one at all and just about to pop. It can be a steep learning curve. We try to pass the babies around so that everyone can get some cuddles in. It helps. We make each other comfortable and everyone feels better about life.’ She took a small blanket from a basket on the floor and set it flat at the foot of the bed. Gently scooping Ember from Bethanne’s arms, she laid her down on the blanket, wrapped, smoothed and tucked her neatly, and then passed her into my waiting arms.

  ‘Hey, little Ember,’ I said. She felt so light and warm cradled in my arms, my elbow against my own belly, my own baby pushing softly inside. ‘Happy birthday, wee girl.’

  Bas was holding the coffee pot when we came through the door.

  ‘The bannock will be ready in no time,’ he said. ‘Bit more of a crowd for you this morning, Felicity.’ He put the pot on the table and turned to Rika. ‘Carole not with you?’

  ‘No, but she’s fine. Just a bit sleepy. I think she walked too far yesterday.’ She put her arms around him and he kissed the top of her head gently. I found a seat at the table.

  A woman in glasses and a green headscarf sat with a toddler who played with pebbles on his plate. At the end of the table, a blond man filled a coffee mug and passed it up to her and the woman smiled. Between them, the child sang out a counting song – one, two, trois, quatre – his face café au lait and hers cocoa. Down near the window, Annie sat reading a newspaper.

  ‘Hey, everybody,’ Rika said, loudly. ‘This is Felicity, come from Scotland by way of Montreal. Felicity, you know Annie, then Eleta, Soleil and James. The localest locals, you might say.’

  ‘As opposed to the passers-through?’ I asked.

  ‘You can stay as long as you like,’ said Bas. ‘That’s the deal here.’ He was bearded and wore a blue checked shirt and jeans with a notebook crammed into his back pocket. He had a nose like Rika’s, but while she was slender, he was built like a bear. Under his dark eyebrows, his eyes twinkled.

  ‘How’s Bethanne? Awake yet?’ Eleta asked. ‘Soleil is counting out the moments until we can see her baby.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that wonderful? An after-breakfast visit is a great idea. She’d love a visit. And what about those chickens? Have they been fed yet today?’ Rika said, sliding in beside them to play pebbles with Soleil and to hear about his plans for the day.

  James turned to me, smiling. ‘So, how did you find out about our little camp up here? You another of Annie’s McGill girls?’

  ‘No, a nurse. At the hospital. But it was Annie who told me about the camp. Seems like a good place to have a baby. I couldn’t face being in the hospital – not alone.’

  ‘Well, you won’t be alone here,’ Rika said. ‘And, as Bas said, you really can stay as long as you like. We’re trying to convince James and Eleta here to put down roots. So far, they’ve only agreed to build us a new cabin.’

  ‘Digging’s done now,’ said James. ‘And the roof won’t be long. It’ll be done before the blackflies, I should think.’

  ‘It’s nice up here,’ I said.

  ‘You wait for the blackflies.’

  After breakfast, the roo
m cleared out, leaving me and Rika together.

  ‘How’s it been so far?’ she asked. ‘You feeling confident?’

  ‘More or less.’ I didn’t know how to do this. And I didn’t know what she was going to ask next. It better not be about the father, I thought.

  She looked at me and smiled. ‘Hey, it’s okay. We’ll just need to get to know each other a bit. Everything else will follow. Then you can see if you’ve made a good decision in coming here.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m just a bit nervous.’

  ‘I know. It’s new. But maybe I’ll start by telling you a bit about my own hospital work. We have that in common, you know. I’m not just some girl in the woods catching babies.’

  As she wiped the table, she told me about the American hospital where she’d worked as a nurse–midwife. A real eager beaver, she’d taken every opportunity to learn new practice and new technologies.

  ‘Continuous electronic fetal monitoring, enemas and forceps, episiotomies and DeLee catheters. The whole kit and caboodle.’

  I laughed at her weird Americanisms and we both relaxed a little.

  ‘It was fine. I enjoyed it. We seemed to be helping a great number of people, and what with the social changes going on, more and more poor people were able to come through the hospital system and find the help they needed. That felt good.’ She went over to the dresser and opened a drawer, taking out a white cotton case. ‘But then, well, a bunch of things happened. Things around me, but also my brother’s wife died, and he needed me. I may have needed out, too, but he most certainly needed me. So, I left the hospital and followed him out here and here we are. Not quite fixing the world, but we’re doing what we can.’

  I wasn’t sure if I should say thanks. Almost the right thing, but not quite.

  ‘Have a seat, okay? We’ll do this together.’ She unclipped the case and took out a stethoscope. I sat down on the sofa and she smiled again. ‘Have you been taking any notes?’