by Katie Munnik
After the men were there, we managed to slow things a little. Marie could focus between contractions, smiling and holding Hans’s gaze. He told her she was strong and beautiful. That in itself helped. Rika kept her voice warm and measured, and she told a story about another birth, a mother whose older children were there with her and played cat’s cradle at the end of the bed. Marie laughed and told us that maybe it would be like that later when more of her babies had been born.
‘One at a time, don’t you think?’ Hans said.
‘Or two,’ said Marie. ‘We could have twins next, peut-être?’
Then another contraction rushed through her and her hands gripped Hans’s arms, her voice rising.
‘That’s right,’ Rika said. ‘Keep your mouth open. Open’s what we want. It’s getting strong.’
Night passed, Marie’s energy building. Rika helped her walk across the floor, tried to get her up the stairs, but she said no. She wanted to stay in the open. The bedrooms upstairs were too small, she said. She wanted us all to be close. I gathered more pillows and spread sheets on the sofa so she could lie down with Hans, riding through the rushes of each contraction and trying to stay loose. When the pushing started, she wanted to stand again though the energy made her legs shake. Hans held her in his arms as she bore down.
When Stanley was born, the pushing had seemed to pass quickly. I’d been surprised by how much I had wanted to push and how good and active it felt. But Marie’s pushing was hard. She kept her eyes closed and arched her neck. Rika tried to talk her through, to focus her attention on her child’s crowning head, but Marie struggled to hear.
Finally, the head was born. I could see the dark hair, the white cream thick at the base of the neck, and the curl of each ear. The baby’s eyes were still closed and for a moment, everything felt still, not quite started. Close and not yet, not yet. Between my own breaths, I felt Stanley close enough to touch.
Rika’s voice was slow and soft. ‘A couple more like that,’ she said, ‘and the baby will be in your arms. These are the easier ones now. Almost there.’
Marie flushed bright and strong, pushing again and the baby was born in a rush of blood. Marie’s face softened, her hands still holding Hans’s, and the baby already crying out. As Rika gently lifted her, we could see her tiny face all red and wrinkled, her arms and legs unfolding and reaching and strong.
‘There we are, lovely one,’ Rika said softly. ‘Looking perfect, maman. The cord is a little short, so I’m going to put her here on your thigh, okay? She’ll feel slippy, but I’m keeping her safe. That’s a good strong voice right away, isn’t it?’
‘She’ll sing,’ Marie said. ‘Like my sister.’
‘She’s lovely. All her fingers and toes accounted for. Good colour, too. Good and pink. A blanket, please, Bas.’
‘She’s okay?’ Marie asked.
‘Yes. She’s perfect. We’ll get that cord tied and cut in a minute or two and then I’ll pass her up to you, okay? Felicity, you can see about the haemostat and the scissors, too.’
I fell into the rhythm of the work. Checking the instruments, the clean cloths, my wristwatch and the notebook Rika had set on the table. It was good to have work to do, to know that Marie was through, so good to hear her baby’s voice. When the cord was cut, Rika helped her bring the baby to her breast and try to nurse. After a few minutes, she passed the baby to me so that Marie could deliver the placenta. ‘Check her temperature, tone and reflexes, okay? Keep her warm.’
The baby’s hair was dark, her eyes wide and interested. As I took her in my arms, she reached out with long fingers, and I wrapped her in a blanket and held her close, her little weight warm against me. Hans stood beside me and set a gentle finger on the baby’s scalp.
‘She is perfect,’ he said.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Guess I worried. But look at her. She’s …’
‘Yes. Unspeakably perfect.’
‘Yeah.’
I wanted to know her name, but asking Hans didn’t feel right. Marie would tell us what she’d chosen. Naming Stanley had been easy. When he lay on my belly all naked and new, he’d looked like he was asking for a name. And then when he cooed his first hello, I knew I could give it to him, that he was Stanley, so I just told everyone. It felt like I’d always known. This little girl looked like she needed a name, too.
I set her on the table so I could get a proper look at her. Her breathing was good and so were her pulse, colour and temperature. I jotted notes on Rika’s paper, wiped a little blood and vernix from her head and shoulders, and trimmed the ends of the string that Rika had tied around the stump of her cord. Then I dressed her. A clean nappy, a kimono and a knitted cap and boots that Rika had made, all soft wool and clean, new cloth. Hans stood beside me with his arms crossed, watching everything with wet eyes.
Behind me, I felt things shift. Marie was lying down flat now and Rika massaged her belly with firm hands.
‘The placenta’s not come,’ she said. ‘And she’s passed a fair amount of blood instead.’
‘What do you need me to do?’ I asked.
‘Methergine, I think, and then we’ll get her feet up. There now, Marie love, we’re going to manage this just fine. You’ll be worn out from that quick baby.’
‘How is she?’ Marie’s face was pale.
‘Beautiful,’ I said, handing the baby to Hans. ‘How’s her blood pressure?’
‘One methergine shot now please. We’ll see about the pressure after that.’
‘I can’t hold her,’ Hans said, handing the baby to Bas. ‘You take her.’
After that, it was only Marie, and Rika’s hands working and my own with the syringe and cotton wool. The needle deep in her muscle. The pressure of fingers on flesh. Marie started to shake, and I’d read that mothers sometimes do because of the tension that builds up with birth, and sometimes the shakes come on strong. You need to keep them warm and encouraged and, with time, they will settle.
But Marie didn’t. Hans sat by her head, his arms around her and his face close to hers as Rika and I worked.
‘She’s torn,’ Rika told me quietly. ‘I can’t see where. Pretty high up, which is unusual in labour.’
‘I’ll call the doctor.’
‘No, I need you here. Bas, go and call now. Please.’
He kept the baby in his arms while he made the phone call and I took over massaging Marie’s belly, willing the muscles to contract. Rika tried everything. Another injection. Compression of the uterus and she removed the placenta manually, but the bleeding didn’t stop.
‘Lunette,’ I said. ‘J’essaie. You are strong. And we are helping.’
‘Ça suffit. J’ai besoin … besoin de ma fille.’
‘She only wants her baby. Nothing else right now. Can you bring her close?’
‘Yes,’ Rika said. ‘That’s good.’ She made space on the pillow for the baby so Marie didn’t need to move at all to see her little face. I took off the baby’s cap, and Marie stroked her dark hair. They both looked so new, so fragile lying there with their faces framed on the white pillowcase, two children tucked up in bed, ready for sleep.
By the time the doctor arrived, Marie’s face was white and she wasn’t responding any more. He asked me to take the baby away and he gave Marie another injection. Rika stayed close, whispering in her ear, but Marie’s eyes were closed and I wondered if she could hear at all.
When it was over, Rika left the farmhouse, closing the door gently behind her. Hans stayed beside Marie’s body and for a time, I sat with him, still holding the baby in my arms. She was so quiet, her little breath a steady rhythm in the quiet room. After a while, Bas touched my arm, holding out his hands for the child.
‘Let me,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after her. Poor little doddle. You go outside with Rika. She’ll need a friendly face right about now.’
Rika stood by the water. As I approached, she turned towards me, but I couldn’t see her expression. It takes a while for eyes to ad
just to the darkness.
‘We did our best for her. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I think so.’ My voice sounded strange and small, but Rika reached out and took my hand, so I knew she’d heard me. She was strong, this skinny midwife. Strong as all the matrons in Montreal and in Edinburgh, too. Stronger than starch and aprons or hard reserve. But that wasn’t fair. They were strong, too. Just different. All these strong women, coping day and night, holding on and teaching younger women to do the same. We stood there for a long time, waiting for the loons to surface.
* * *
That night, the baby slept in my room upstairs in the farmhouse. I put her in the basket where Stanley had slept, all swaddled safely with clean white sheets. When she woke in the night with a small mewling cry, I took her to my breast without thinking and nursed.
Outside, I heard Hans’s voice.
‘I shouldn’t have brought her here.’
Bas answered, but so quietly I couldn’t understand his words. Then Hans again, hard and rising.
‘But she should have been at a hospital. I should never have thought …’
The door closed, and I thought they had come into the farmhouse, but then Rika spoke.
‘She’s young – this shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry. I must have missed something.’
‘It was her that did it,’ Hans said. ‘When she first knew. She did it to herself. She said there was a lot of blood then but it didn’t work.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘She tried to end it. But she didn’t do it right and the baby grew strong anyway.’
‘She didn’t tell me,’ Rika said.
‘She didn’t want anyone to know. It was in Montreal in my apartment. I’d gone out somewhere, to the library, I don’t know. When I came back, she was in the bathtub. I thought it was her wrists, but she’d … she’d tried with a knitting needle. And it didn’t work. She bled for days, but she said it was the wrong blood. When she got better, we thought that meant the baby was meant to be.’
The baby in my arms fussed and wouldn’t nurse. She couldn’t be getting much milk, I thought, so I stood up and danced her round the room, singing softly and trying to ignore the voices outside. If everyone could just hush and be quiet, maybe she would sleep, maybe we could all fall asleep and be still.
‘You should have told me.’ Rika’s voice rose higher. ‘I never would have been so relaxed if I’d known there was a risk. I didn’t even know I was taking a risk. You knew.’
‘What do I know about pregnant girls? And she didn’t want anyone to know. But she came round after that. She absolutely did. She really wanted the baby. And I thought she’d healed. Didn’t you take a look? Isn’t that your thing?’
‘I only look in labour. There’s no point in looking earlier unless you’re trying to interfere. I don’t do that.’
‘Maybe you should have. She needed interference.’
‘Sounds like she already got that from you.’
‘Rika,’ Bas said.
‘God, I don’t need this.’
In the morning, Eleta knocked on my door with a mug of coffee. The baby was sleeping again in the basket, her face small and peaceful. Eleta looked tearful and strong.
‘Hans has gone,’ she said, handing me the coffee.
‘Gone?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. We can’t find him. He’ll probably come back. How’s the baby doing?’
‘Sleeping well, I think. She’s a little dear. Should I bring her down now? Is Rika up?’
‘She’ll come find you when she’s ready. You drink up now. You’ll need the warmth. It’s cold today. Really fall now, all of a sudden.’ Eleta sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘And you? How are you doing this morning?’
‘That’s not an easy question.’
‘I thought I should ask. We’re all a little shaky today.’
At the breakfast table, Bas told us that Hans had taken the canoe out last night after everything. He didn’t go anywhere, just paddled out to the middle of the lake and drifted. Bas sat down on the beach and watched. The moon set and the air was cold, his breath a cloud before him, the water flat and still.
‘Sat out there all night, just sitting with his paddle balanced across the gunwales. When the sun rose, he picked it up and pulled his way back to shore. Then he sat on the sand with me for a bit. Didn’t have much to say, but that’s natural.’
‘Is he coming for breakfast?’ Rika asked. ‘I want to apologize.’
‘No, he’s gone away. Just for a while. I drove him into town so he could catch a bus. He said he wanted to head east to tell Marie’s parents and then he’d come back for the baby.’
‘But he can’t,’ I said.
‘No?’ Bas asked, looking at me cradling the baby. ‘Of course he can. She’s his daughter.’
‘No, I mean he can’t tell her parents. He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t even know her real name. It isn’t Marie. She made that up.’
‘Why?’ Rika asked. ‘How do you even know that?’
‘She told me.’
‘And she didn’t tell him?’
‘No. Everything was to be new with Hans.’
We talked about what to do for a while. Whether Bas should try to follow Hans. Whether we could find Marie’s family – or rather Lunette’s. Eugenie’s. It was hard to speak of her by her real name. It would have been hard enough face to face, but now it was next to impossible.
I told Rika about nursing the baby and asked if it had been a bad idea. Because I didn’t really have much milk left and I worried that she’d go hungry trying. Rika smiled softly and said no, not at all.
‘The baby needs closeness now. In a few days, milk will be necessary. But who knows, maybe we can turn your supply back on.’ She opened the dresser drawers and found jars of fenugreek and blessed thistle for tea. She stirred in honey to soften the bitterness and encouraged me to try it. It tasted of burnt nuts and brittle things. Pine cones. Cracked bark. Shadows. The heat of it needled through me, better than coffee, strange and unfamiliar.
We’d mother her together, we decided. Rika, Eleta and me. A way of holding on. Perhaps we needed that closeness now. While Hans was gone, Marie’s daughter was always in our arms. We never put her down.
* * *
Rika wanted to bury Marie in the woods but Bas thought the cemetery in the village was better. I thought so, too. She’d like to be near the church, and when I said that, I expected Rika to offer a rebuttal, but she only shrugged.
‘As you like,’ she said.
We didn’t wait for Hans. We didn’t know how long to wait. And we couldn’t contact her family. We didn’t know her family name; we couldn’t find a telephone number. Besides, it was Hans’s news to share – if he could find the family.
The priest said there was a space available in the corner, underneath a birch tree. Some of the nearby graves were decorated with plastic flowers and others with small photographs of the dead. On the day of her funeral, we brought the last of the daisies from the garden at Birthwood and tied them together with red and gold leaves to make a bright bundle. James helped Soleil set them on top of the casket, which made it look like a decorated table. Marie would have liked that. She would have laughed. We walked silently through the cemetery, the men carrying her casket on their shoulders, the hems of their jeans growing damp from the grass. I carried the baby wrapped in one of Marie’s shawls and someone must have telephoned Annie because she met us there, too. Probably Bas. He would have thought to. At the graveside, the men lowered the casket so gently into the ground, like they were tucking her in to sleep. I was glad of the priest’s prayer book, his knowledge of what needed to be said. He prayed in French, which also felt right, and no one sang because we couldn’t. Not under that sky.
November came and brought the cold. We didn’t name the baby – called her Marie’s daughter when we needed to – and sometimes we talked about that in the evenings, but we couldn’t quite bring ourselves t
o do it. We were waiting, I think, for Hans. I didn’t think he’d come back. Bas did, but we didn’t argue. We kept the farmhouse warm, kept Marie’s daughter fed, watched television and worried about the world. Down in the States, there were marches and strikes. Momentum was building against the war, and Eleta and James talked about heading south, taking part. James said it was his fight after all, and maybe he’d better take a role in it.
‘Won’t you be arrested at the border?’ Bas asked.
‘There’s ways of getting across. I know folk who can help. We’d be okay.’
‘But not till spring, right?’ Rika asked.
‘Our truck can manage the snow. It’s not made of sugar.’
Snow came the next day and covered the ground till everything looked black and white. I sat by the window and watched it fall into the lake. It wasn’t frozen yet, and the dark water was an open mouth, the snow vanishing. In the evening, Marie’s daughter was fussy and crying and wouldn’t settle to either breast or bottle. Rika thought the evening air might help and sent the two of us out for a walk. I cradled the baby under my coat, and all the way down to the road, I shushed and swayed, cold feet on the cold ground. The puddles crackled with ice, the water underneath splashing up onto my boots and thoughts surfaced of Marie’s gift of holy water and Stanley’s sweet, wheaty hair. Tiredness, of course. We were all exhausted. None of us were sleeping well. My mouth was raw with bitter tea but my breasts had filled again just as Rika had hoped and the baby seemed to be getting enough milk. Whenever she was hungry, her cry was strong and insistent, which was reassuring, though it kept us all from sleep. She settled now in the cave of my clothing, and I kissed the top of her little dark head, then turned back towards the farmhouse.
I knew when I saw there were too many lights on, and the unfamiliar car parked out front confirmed it. I thought of turning around because I wasn’t ready. Eleta and James might let me stay at their cabin with Marie’s daughter until the morning. But Rika would worry and come looking. I didn’t want to do that to her, so I opened the door.
