Girl in the Afternoon

by Serena Burdick

  Grasping for her voice, she patted the top of her enormous stomach. “It’s a little late for that now.”

  Henri took her hand, and she wondered if his hands could make her feel what Édouard’s had.

  “You could stay on with us,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Aimée yanked her hand away, as furious with Henri as when she’d seen Girl in the Afternoon at the Salon de Paris. He had no right to keep drawing her back into his life whenever it suited him. “It would be impossible. We couldn’t keep up the lie of my being in England. And when Papa finds out, there would be no more money. What would we all do then?”

  “We would work it out.” He took a step closer.

  “It’s impractical.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “It is!” She flung her voice at him. “It’s all of it impractical. Besides, it’s impossibly hard, living together in this way.”

  “We could manage.”

  The weight of Aimée’s stomach felt enormous. She pressed a hand under the large swell that was crushing everything inside her. “It’s you, Henri. It’s impossibly hard living here with you.”

  “Oh.” He looked down, his hair falling softly forward. “I see.”

  But he did not see. Aimée thought of their kiss in the hallway so many years ago, how excited and innocent and certain she’d been. “I am in love with you.” It came out loud and defiant, and it angered her to say it. “I always have been. It doesn’t matter what you do, I seem incapable of getting past it. How could I possibly go on living here?” Shouting her love at him was not the way she imagined this going, but they were long past sentiment and romance. It was, all of it, ugly and wrong.

  Henri leaned in with both hands on either side of her face, and Aimée pulled away with a piercing sense of shame, tears springing to her eyes. “Kindly carry my paint box and easel home,” she said, whistling for Laertes.

  “Aimée?” Henri put his hand on her shoulder, and she jerked out from under it.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, a desperate pitch to her voice that infuriated her even more.

  She walked away, her stride clipped with determination, Laertes following at her heels. The near kiss had set her pulse racing, and when Henri was out of view she leaned heavily against the trunk of an enormous oak and eased herself down to the cool, damp grass. Months ago she’d abandoned her expandable corset, and her breasts rested, heavy and large, on top of her hard stomach. Laertes lay next to her and pushed his head under her hand, whining softly.

  It was painful to face how much she had wanted that kiss, but that was beside the point. It was an undeniable testament to Henri’s character. She had tried to put his repulsive conduct with her maman behind her, wanting to believe he was an honorable man at heart. But he wasn’t. When it came down to it, Henri took what he wanted.

  Aimée remembered Leonie handing her an apron their first morning in the kitchen, saying, “It’ll be good for you to feel useful,” in her kind, straightforward way. Leonie had taught her how to knead bread, pushing her hand into the soft dough, showing her how to turn it, and push again and again until it sprang back.

  Looking up through the pale green leaves, mottled sunlight falling on her face, the specks sharp against her eyes, Aimée thought of the satisfaction she’d felt watching everyone eat the thick bread she’d baked. In her whole life she’d never done anything as practical as bake that loaf of bread.

  Over the hill, Henri squatted on the bank of the river hurling rocks into the water. He remembered a time as a child in England when he’d gone swimming in a storm. It had amazed him how instantly the rain and wind had disappeared as the water closed over his head. The whole world had become still and silent. He would have liked to feel that quiet now, except all he’d be was wet and cold when he came back up, everything still waiting for him. Throwing his last rock, he picked up the paints and easels and headed back to the cottage, trying to quell the dread of facing Aimée and Leonie.

  Sitting in the grass, Aimée felt something push against her ribs, followed by a fluttering sensation low down in her belly. It was the fluttering of a little hand—Aimée knew this right away—tiny fingers testing out their strength.

  Chapter 25

  The screams were terrifying. Jacques wouldn’t stop crying, and Laertes, who had been cast outside, sat on the doorstep howling. The midwife had come and gone. She had other deliveries to attend to. And, as she put it, “I’m not here to wipe her brow. I’ll come when I’m needed.”

  But she wasn’t there when she was needed.

  Jacques, hungry and neglected, was asleep on his bed curled next to Laertes, who was finally let in. Leonie had consigned Henri to the kitchen. He’d boiled water, heated towels, reheated towels, and boiled more water. Feeling useless and exhausted, he poured a glass of brandy and was just about to sit down when he heard Leonie scream for help.

  It was ghastly, Aimée on the bed, her legs splayed open, everything exposed. There was an ungodly amount of blood, and somehow, in the midst of it, a baby had slithered out and lay in a slimy mess on the sheet. Leonie hadn’t let go of Aimée’s hands, and she was shouting, her voice high and frantic. “Is it breathing? Henri, is the baby breathing? It hasn’t made a sound!”

  Henri swiped the baby up as if snatching something from a hot fire. It was still and lifeless, the umbilical cord like a slithery, twisted snake coiling from the baby’s purple stomach to the opening between Aimée’s legs.

  “Get a blanket. Warm it up.” Leonie wouldn’t let go of Aimée’s hands.

  Henri couldn’t move. He stared at Aimée, his heart seizing. Her head was rolled to the side at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were closed, her face stark white.

  And then, the slippery, inhuman creature in his hands wriggled ever so slightly.

  “Don’t go to sleep.” Leonie shook Aimée, and her eyes shot open, looked around wildly, and dropped shut again. Her hands slackened, and Leonie reached for the baby, tucking its legs and cradling it against her chest. It let out a raspy howl, and Leonie burst into tears.

  “Oh, praise God,” she whispered. “Hand me the blanket. Over on the dresser.”

  Henri found the blanket, a cotton boutis Leonie had quilted, painstakingly stuffing the flower motifs with tiny strips of cotton batting. Next to it was a matching christening cap and booties. Tenderly, swiftly, as if she’d done it a hundred times, Leonie wrapped the baby and laid it on the only dry spot she could find on the bed.

  “Hand me the scissors.” Leonie’s hand was shaking as she tied off the umbilical cord with a piece of string. “There.” Henri passed them. She no longer sounded frantic, but firm and authoritative. “Go for help. Quickly.”

  Henri stared at Aimée. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know.” Leonie snipped the umbilical cord in two. “Feel for her pulse.”

  Henri pressed his fingers to the inside of Aimée’s warm wrist. “I feel nothing!” he cried, pulling his hand away. “Why won’t she open her eyes? Where’s the midwife? It will take over an hour to get to town and back. That’s much too long!” He paced from the bed to the door.

  Tears were streaming down Leonie’s face. She wiped them with the back of her sleeve and picked the baby up. Cradling it in one arm, she pressed a cloth to Aimée’s damp forehead. “Take the lantern and go. It’s the only thing to do.”

  Halfway out the door, Henri turned, watching Leonie sway back and forth with her head bent near the baby’s, her hand wiping, either sweat or tears, from Aimée’s pale, still cheeks. He felt a sudden respect for Leonie that was deeper than anything he’d ever felt before. Her decency, her care for Aimée, for this baby, for Jacques, for him—given how little he gave in return—overwhelmed him.

  Rushing from the room, he dashed down the stairs and out the door. He ran down the road, the sky filled with bright flecks of stars and the sliver of a new moon. It felt exhilarating to run, to feel the pounding of his heart and the sweat beading on his
forehead.

  Running harder, faster, the packed-dirt road slamming beneath his feet and the air harsh in his lungs, Henri made a bargain: if Aimée lived, if the baby lived, he’d go back to England. He’d never wanted to go back, but Auguste’s words haunted him—a man must know who he is; otherwise he has no place in the world. If Henri was going to do right by his family he must face his past, his father, and that house. He’d find out the truth about what happened to his mother. He’d take back his real name so he could give it to Jacques, to Leonie, and to this new child, realizing that in all the confusion, he’d forgotten to see if it was a boy or a girl.

  * * *

  The midwife was already on her way, a dark, shadowy figure hurrying along the side of the road. She let out a gasp when Henri came bolting up.

  “The baby’s … come,” he panted. “Aimée’s not well.”

  The midwife shoved her bag at him, picked up her skirt, and trotted along as quickly as the dark, rutted road would allow.

  She dashed up the stairs with Henri following. With one look the midwife saw that there was no time to go for the physician.

  She was not a big woman, as Henri imagined midwives should be, but neat in figure and unusually pretty. With deft, efficient hands she pulled various things from her bag, pressed smelling salts to Aimée’s nose, and when that didn’t work, straight vinegar.

  Eventually, Aimée regained enough awareness that the midwife commanded her to push. She shot Henri a look. “This is no place for a man. Go on and make yourself useful. There’s dried chamomile and meadowsweet in a jar on the counter. Pour boiling water over it, let it sit for five minutes, and then strain it and bring it up.” She glanced at Leonie, who was bent over Aimée with the baby in her arms. “Did you make the nettle soup?” she said, and Leonie nodded. The midwife turned back to Henri. “Heat that up too.”

  In the kitchen, Henri poured hot water over the tea leaves and went outside while it steeped. It was so dark that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Crouching down, he ran his fingers over the heads of the violets that grew in clusters around the house, feeling for the tender stems. Back inside he arranged the delicate blue flowers in a glass jar and set them on a tray. He ladled the soup into a bowl, strained the tea into a cup—the smell of chamomile sweet and strong—and put them on the tray with the flowers. He set the tray on the floor outside the bedroom door, hoping Leonie would know the violets were for her, and that she would also know they were for Aimée, and somehow understand.

  Lowering himself to the floor with his back against the wall, Henri sat and waited. He heard the sharp cry of an infant, hushed whispers, and the rustling of sheets.

  An hour later the tray was still in the hall. The soup and tea were cold, the heads of the violets perky and expectant. Henri stood up. The quiet unnerved him, and he paced back and forth until he was so heavy with sleep he had no choice but to go into his room, crawl into bed next to Jacques and Laertes, and close his eyes.

  It took Aimée twenty long minutes to push out the placenta. Seconds after, she went unconscious again, with a steady stream of blood pouring from between her legs.

  * * *

  Henri awakened to Jacques jumping on the bed and Laertes tugging the blanket to the floor.

  He felt weak, his stomach pinched, tight and fearful. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t eaten anything, or that Aimée lay dead in the next room. He flung an arm over his face, blocking out the sunlight, until Jacques and Laertes became impossible to ignore. Sitting up, he let Jacques take his hand and pull him out of the room. Laertes bounded ahead, pausing to sniff the untouched tray in the hallway.

  Once the dog and child were fed, Henri went back upstairs and picked up the tray. He didn’t care what those women were doing. He was going in.

  Aimée lay on her back, her smooth white throat exposed, her closed lids lined with fine blue veins. The bloody sheets had been stripped and new ones were in their place. The midwife had gone, hours earlier, Leonie said, taking the tray from Henri and glancing briefly at the flowers. The most shocking thing was the baby propped on a pillow on Aimée’s chest, suckling on her swollen breast.

  Leonie set the tray down. Despite Henri’s stare, she did not move to cover Aimée. After yesterday, discretion seemed pointless.

  But it was not the exposed breast that disturbed Henri; it was Aimée’s closed eyes, her slack body, her face the same unearthly white as the day before. He looked at Leonie in horror, and she gave a reproachful frown.

  “It’s not likely a woman could produce milk if she were dead,” she said, shifting the pillow under the baby’s head. “The midwife said it’s the best thing for Aimée. It might help her regain consciousness, if her body feels it’s needed. And the baby must eat.”

  * * *

  So, it was in this way—with Leonie’s support, holding the baby to Aimée’s breast every two hours—that Aimée nursed her child, at first completely unconscious, and then in a confused haze as if everything were underwater. At times, Aimée woke to a sharp cry that she thought was a cat. At other times she felt soft, wrinkled skin against her stomach and her nipples being tugged. Later, a blanket tucked to her chin, warm broth spooned into her mouth. She heard hushed voices, footsteps, felt a hand on her forehead, her lips dabbed at with a moist cloth.

  It took her two weeks to fully regain consciousness, and by then the baby was gone. It was this absence, the empty sag of her stomach and the painful swelling of her breasts that made Aimée sit straight up in bed one morning in a panic, fully alert, but only vaguely aware of what had taken place, her alarm having no clear reference.

  Madame Savaray, who had not moved from her chair in almost three hours, leaped up as quickly as her aging body would allow. “Be easy about it,” she said, propping a pillow behind Aimée’s head.

  “What’s happened?” Aimée remembered intense pain, as fierce and reckless as a train ripping through her, and yet complete detachment, as if she’d observed the screaming, writhing woman from a safe corner of the room.

  The mattress sagged as Madame Savaray sat on the edge. “You got that baby out, for one thing,” she said. “Almost lost your life in the effort.”

  The burst of energy Aimée had bolted up with was already depleted. It was hard to hold her head up.

  “I don’t know the whole of it. I’ve only been here for a few days.” Madame Savaray peeled a strand of moist hair off Aimée’s cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “It’s a good thing you didn’t go to your grave, my dear. Your parents would never have forgiven me.” She gave a quick, tender smile. “I knew you’d pull through. I told Henri, she may look itty-bitty and frail, but she’s solid.” She tapped a gentle finger on Aimée’s chest. “More strength in there than most. What irks me is that no proper physician was called in. Something ruptured, was the diagnosis from that incompetent midwife. Something? How preposterous. And then you were left in the care of Leonie, who, I must say under the circumstances, did a fine job. But she is not, after all, a proper nurse. Did you know she was the only one with you when that baby was born?”

  Aimée had a vacant, stupefied look on her face that worried Madame Savaray. She tucked the sheet around her petite-fille’s legs and pulled the blanket over her lap.

  “Where’s my baby?” Aimée asked, milk leaking from her nipples, soaking the front of her nightdress. The one thing she remembered clearly was the tingling sensation, the suckling and pulling, the flow of milk through her breasts that were now lumpy, hard and swollen.

  “She’s gone to the nurse.” Madame Savaray picked up a glass of water. “Here.” Aimée took a sip and handed it back.

  “A girl?” Aimée closed her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jeanne.” Madame Savaray set the water down with a thump. “Open your eyes,” she said, and Aimée did. “Now, my dear, you are not to think of that baby.” She cupped Aimée’s chin, the pads of her fingers soft and wrinkled as if they’d been so
aked in water. “It was a mistake having you nurse her. I doubt, very much, it was what kept you alive, even though Leonie insists upon it.” Madame Savaray stood up and went to the window. She unlatched the shutters and swung them out. “Stuffy as a barn in here.”

  Aimée dropped her head back and shut her eyes.

  Outside there was a light drizzle, and the smell of spring rain and manure reminded Madame Savaray of her childhood. “Your papa suspects nothing. Your letters were thoroughly convincing. They think I’m at an inn in Valvins for the week. I told them I needed some country air. But they don’t care what I do. Auguste’s rarely home anymore. Spends most of his time at the factory, or else cavorting about in cafés. Your maman hardly leaves her room.”

  Aimée remembered her maman lying in bed for weeks after her babies died. She understood now how distinct her pain was, how unbearable. It was the same pain that filled Aimée’s womb, her breasts, ran between her legs, wrapped around her stomach, and burst open in her chest.

  “Your maman’s dropped all frivolity and fashion.” Madame Savaray flicked a tiny black spider from the sill. “And wouldn’t you know, I actually miss the old Colette? Things are pitifully dull. She rarely goes out. Hardly visits anyone. She embroiders all day. You should see the pillow covers piling up. I’ve tried to get her to stop, even suggested she throw one of her soirées again, and I despised those things. But she won’t listen to me. We’ve always put each other out of countenance, and I’m afraid that hasn’t changed.”

  What was too entangled to explain was the odd, mutual understanding that had sprung between her and Colette. Without Jacques or Aimée, without the soirées or social engagements, every day was a struggle to stave off the boredom that consumed them both.

  Colette had confessed that she now understood Madame Savaray’s need to wash the kitchen floors all those years ago during the war. And what Madame Savaray now understood—but still couldn’t bring herself to say to Colette—was that Colette’s indulgence in fashion, her elaborate soirées, came from the simple desire to be good at something, to be productive and busy. It was no different from Madame Savaray working in her husband’s factory. They were just women looking to be needed.