Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  Chapter 19

  8 August 1881

  Widow Hawks will arrive too late to undress me. I deliver the child quickly, while I am still clothed. Doctor Kinney is the only one in the room to manage the earthy muddiness of childbirth.

  It is an easy birth, for the babe is tiny and my body is strong from all the heavy work of living here, but the doctor’s face transforms as he gathers up the tiny limbs.

  “A boy. But stillborn,” he says softly, and then cradles the child into a clean sheet and reverently lays him on the sideboard. The news is not a surprise to me. I could not believe the child would live. While I wait for the relief of the release from pregnancy, I am amazed to realize I feel nothing. Not even a dull sorrow at the loss of the babe. There is nothing left. I’m stuck, drilled into the bedding, locked into a box of shock.

  He looks to me after examining the baby’s body, his cheeks and the lines around his mouth unreadable, but before he can speak, we hear Widow Hawks run up the stairs. She stops short in the doorway, taking in the bloody cloths, our wild eyes, and my state of dishevelment.

  “Oh no, Patrick,” she says softly, and then moves to me. “I’ll get her comfortable, if I can. Is there still time?”

  “No.”

  Her face falls. “The baby?”

  “Stillborn.”

  When he says the word again, I wait to feel something: sorrow, pain, disappointment. Still nothing. I feel as though my body is starting to float.

  Widow Hawks closes her eyes, then glances at the blood around the room again. “I’ll clean her up. Jane. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not leavin’ now,” the doctor says intensely, giving me no chance to answer. “I want to make sure she finishes up well. The bleedin’ was more than usual.”

  I am shuddering and shaking from the birth, so I need Widow Hawks to unbutton my overdress. She takes the yellow calico and lays it aside, then helps me ease under the sheets. Doctor Kinney has not been watching. Instead, he carefully re-wraps my dead son once more. Oh heavens. Will he know? Can he guess? Will he care?

  I want to see the tiny child, to prove to myself this was not a dream. Then again, I do not. I want to forget.

  Another contraction hits. It is a wave, still strong and long, and I feel more fluid flow out. I suppose it is normal for this to take its time slowing down.

  “How are you feeling?” Widow Hawks smooths hair from my forehead and reaches back to unpin the braids.

  “Rather tired and dizzy,” I admit. Doctor Kinney swings around.

  “Dizzy? How much so?”

  I think, and as I do, another cramp seizes my middle. I breathe through it, feeling more blood run out between my thighs. To my embarrassment, I see the black-red liquid soak through the sheet.

  “Pat.” Widow Hawks’ voice is low, and she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Jane is still having pains.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t seem to stop.” I sigh through another small one, recalling how many of the women here are on their feet right after delivering. “Maybe I should walk around a bit to soothe the cramps?”

  I move, my legs landing heavily on the floor, and stand before either of them can stop me. I think that if I am determined to go about more normally, perhaps it will all go away. I need to think clearly again. I must decide what I should do with myself now.

  There is an emptiness in my womb, but by standing, another contraction hits, and blood streams down my leg, creating an instant puddle. I cry out and crouch, and as I do, a large piece of slimy matter slides down to the floor.

  “I thought I’d delivered the babe!” I panic. The earthiness and bloodiness now seem unnatural. I do not recall hearing stories of birth like this. Should I bleed so much? No one talks about this! No one explains exactly what to expect! There are no books on this subject, no pamphlets to teach me! I had no way to prepare, to learn . . . I blame the lack of education on some obscure publisher, my mind wandering to the library in Boston.

  “The placenta, perhaps.” Doctor Kinney comes around and stops short at the side of the bed. “By God, Mrs. Weber! Back in bed now!”

  He leaves the room abruptly. I look at the large puddle of blood and tissue at my wobbling feet. Is it so disgusting?

  The doctor bounds back up the stairs as Widow Hawks helps me under the covers, replacing the red rags below me with new ones.

  “We’ll watch for a bit and make sure she delivers the afterbirth,” he says, but he puts his medical bag nearby, and lays out syringes and several bottles of medicine.

  They clean around me. I bear through the contractions without issue. They are not painful, just actively running through my middle and lower back, like waves hitting the shore. I know I bleed with each. The ocean. It is waves like the ocean. Like home . . .

  Will I go back to Massachusetts now? I can, without a need to worry, or hide, or face the implications of my weak moments. But . . .

  Why?

  Why should I go? What would be the point?

  Flats Junction has supported me, even with my newness, my pregnancy, my living with Widow Hawks. Would I find such companionship in Boston? Would I want to live with Mother and Father and see Anne and James at holidays again? Do I want to trade the freeness, casualness, and nosy teasing of the townsfolk for the luxuries of the city? It would be an easier life, surely . . .

  Ah . . . it is too hard to think. My head hurts. I can’t seem to raise it up.

  Eventually, Doctor Kinney checks under the covers, and announces I have lost quite a bit of blood, but that all should end up well enough.

  “Rest a bit, Mrs. Weber. It seems to have eased off, and your body will start to relax. We’ll go grab some quick lunch and be right back.”

  “I might try to sleep,” I say. “You take your time.”

  They walk out together, and I close my eyes against the dizziness. A fitful sleep comes at first, but then I realize I will not be able to sleep easily with the pains that continue, sometimes quickly and sometimes not. I wonder how much blood I have lost. Raising the sheet, I am astounded to see that I have soaked through everything. Black clots of tissue still run out of me with each pulse of my womb.

  Sitting in bed makes me feel suddenly faint, so I lay back on the pillows. Time seems to float. I do not know how long I am alone.

  A cool hand on my forehead rouses me. I open my eyes and find that I cannot see purely. A grey, soft haze touches everything, and I cannot focus, but I register Widow Hawks.

  I feel lucid, and I truly think I can understand everything. There is movement around me, but I cannot tell if it is hurried or slow, worried or no. I can clearly hear words spoken around me. There are questions and I answer, believing my responses to be concise.

  “Patrick! Patrick!” The shout is near, but it takes me a moment to realize that it is Doctor Kinney she calls for, and then suddenly he appears on the other side of the bed, tearing away the sheet.

  “Jesus.”

  “Shall we pack her womb?”

  “You know that never works. It doesn’t stop anythin’ if the body doesn’t rest the pumpin’ of blood. We need the uterus to contract, empty on its own accord. Mrs. Weber, are you awake?”

  I think it is obvious I am, though I find I cannot really open my eyes. My body is riding contractions now, and each takes me further away. I am powerless.

  “Jane, can you speak?” Widow Hawks bends over me, taking my face in her hands. Her strong fingers feel hot. I think my eyes are open, but my vision is narrowed. A pinprick. My heartbeat feels very pure, as if I can sense every particle riding through my veins. I am sweating, little rivers sliding down the insides of my arms and along my neck, and yet I shiver without stop. I’m not cold, am I? Doctor Kinney measures my pulse, his hand firm over my wrist.

  “Jane,” Widow Hawks says again, and I shift, sigh, and answer lowly.

  “I’m awake.”

  “Don’t let her sleep. It’d be a coma, and I don’t think I can wake her up after that.” The do
ctor’s voice has changed pitch. There is an acute note of anxiety under the schooled calm. I find I cannot rouse myself to have a reaction to this, as if I am under a spell, unable to feel fear or worry. My entire being is beyond all that is happening, as my body contracts and yanks, curling into itself and unwinding. My insides are not my own. Is this me? Is this my body? My moments?

  Widow Hawks sits on the bed next to me while the doctor continues checking vital signs. She asks simple questions about my parents, my sister, my education. I answer her softly, breathing carefully, but I am drifting as I do it. What is she asking? What did she want to know? I understand her . . . yes? The answer . . . she wants an answer. What is it?

  Who? Yes . . . that’s right. I’m a widow. Yes, my husband is Henry. Yes. He died at Christmas. Oh and yes . . . yes, I have a sister named Anne. And my mother? Her name?

  Ruby . . . my mother is Ruby.

  My father? Hobbs . . . no. Rupert. Hobbs.

  When? You want to know . . . what?

  The babe? How f . . . Yes. Yes, six months. Maybe less . . .

  Do not ask me to count.

  I want to swat her away irritably and stop the questions. I can’t see her. Where is she? I feed her my responses, sure that they are correct. Sure that they are true. Sure that she is speaking . . .

  Yes. Yes. I’m awake.

  What? What does she want now? Another question . . . another answer.

  Who?

  The doctor peels away the covers, a stethoscope pressed against my chest. I feel the cold metal of it.

  The cold seems to seep in everywhere.

  “My arms are freezing,” I suddenly say, interrupting Widow Hawks’ line of questioning.

  “Hypotension, dear God,” the doctor mutters over me, but I am not really looking for him or Widow Hawks anymore. I close my eyes as the numbness fills my fingers, starts to creep up my feet, and into my arms and shoulders.

  Heavy blankets tumble on, weighty and solid, and there is some warmth that immediately comes from them. It is suffocating, but I cannot seem to say anything to free my limbs. Besides, my teeth chatter, and I am shuddering beyond help. Through it all, the contractions continue, regular and strong and full.

  “Jane.” Widow Hawks is over me. “Can you hear us?”

  “Mm.”

  “Mrs. Weber, I have to try ergot. I have a little. It’s been banned for childbirth otherwise.”

  “Tea?”

  “Like that, only—”

  “Pat, explain later,” Widow Hawks urges.

  “I have to say somethin’. I’ve never used it. I acquired some last time Bobby MacHugh sent a trunk of medicines. They said it was a good hemorrhage drug. Good for emergencies, to make the cramps strong—like my homeopathic trainin’. Treat one illness with medicine that does the same thing, the two cancellin’ each other out. I don’t like that I have to try it on her first and I don’t know what I’m doin’. She should know.” I hear him fumbling along the sideboard, his words barely registering. “They said it should narrow the blood vessels and passages, to stem the flow of bleedin’.”

  It comes to me I should answer him. I want to tell him to do what he must, but my breathing is too hard, and my words are stuck. I am still incredibly cold.

  Cold. I know I’m cold. I’m shaking.

  I’m shuddering . . .

  Eventually, I feel the prick of a needle, the fluid flowing into my veins. He immediately checks my heartbeat.

  “And?” Widow Hawks grips my hand. “Wakantanka tunkasina, please.” There is more silence in the room, and she asks again. “Pat. Will it work?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He is tight with her. “I wish we had thought about the plain tea from the first, if I’d even realized she might bleed out. Or if I’d the proper tools for the new intravenous therapy from that doctor from Leith I read about in the Lancet Gazette.” He is rambling. I cannot focus on each word. “. . . usin’ saline to resuscitate after hemorrhage. It would have worked, I think. Damn. Damn!”

  “She’s so pale. Her lips are blue.” Hands smooth back my hair, while Doctor Kinney busies himself with his stethoscope again. “It will be all right, Jane,” Widow Hawks says.

  Will it?

  Yes. Now it will . . . it will . . .

  I am tired, and without another memory, I fall asleep.

  I dream. A man softly weeps, but the tears turn into Henry’s death rattle. It takes a moment, even in my dreaming, to remember that he is dead. And then a baby’s cry shoots out, and I think of a soft head, downy, with pale blonde hair.

  When I wake, it is only briefly. I am finally warm, and almost comfortable. My head pounds with pain, and I am thankful it is now night. There are no lights and no questions. Without being able to help myself, I drift back into slumber.

  The sun streams in when I wake again. My head is worse this time, and I immediately close my eyes, but someone is there. I feel weight on the bed.

  “Are you warm enough, Jane?”

  I nod. I am deadly tired.

  “Can you eat? You really ought to.” Widow Hawks’ voice is soothing, hopeful, but I shake my head no, and fall asleep.

  When my eyes flutter open the next time, the light is dim. It is either dusk, or early morning. This time, I think I can stay awake longer, but find I cannot. The room is quiet, empty, and I do not even bother to raise my head. Slumber comes fitfully now, as if my body is afraid to go back to sleep.

  Sometime in the night, I hear soft voices.

  “There’s nothing much we can do but wait, Patrick. She’ll wake up and eat soon.”

  “She needs to. She’s gettin' weaker.” His voice, even in half-whisper, is rough. Is it worry? Anger? Frustration?

  “But the pains, and the bleeding, have mostly stopped,” she reassures him. “The medicine worked.”

  “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “Care for her, as you do any patient. You’re a good doctor, Pat. And you’ve saved her.”

  “Not yet.”

  They continue to talk softly, argumentatively, but I drift off, and sleep fitfully this night as well.

  I wake again to the gentle brush of fingers on my thigh. It is a caress, a trail of touch. As the room wanders into focus, I feel hands lowering my knees, squeezing my ankles as if examining their strength, and I follow the sensations to where a sheet lowers onto my legs. Doctor Kinney covers me; his head is bowed. There are pale glimmers of early grey in his dark hair as the light hits it just so. I glance to the window and remember where I am. I am not at Widow Hawks’ home, nor back in Massachusetts. I’m at the doctor’s place, in his aunt’s old bedroom.

  He has not realized I am awake, and continues to sit at my feet, taking a moment to focus on something. I do not know if it is the pattern of the coverlet or the wood planks of the floor. His shoulders are slumped, and his cheeks are peppered with stubble. I have never seen him unshaven. He looks rough and tumble, as if he has not slept well. It comes to me that perhaps it was my miscarriage, my bleeding, that has caused this. That it is my health he worries over so thoroughly. An enormous wave of affection washes over me when I think of this, and of him. It is an emotion much stronger than I am used to feeling, and I catch my breath and blink back unbidden tears.

  At my intake of air, his head snaps up. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “Janie!”

  He uses my front name as an endearment, as if somewhere during my episode I gave him permission. He rises and comes to me, touches my forehead, his fingers gentle.

  “You’re goin’ to be alright. Everythin’ is. I’ve made sure. Now, it’s time for recovery.”

  Before my eyes, he transforms into a physician, though he is still haggard in appearance. He stands over me, listing off warnings to watch for: clots, blood color, fatigue, and fainting. I do not think I will remember all these things. He is unwavering and professional and clinical. I think I misjudged the tender way he just touched me. It is not especial care, but his bedside manner.
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  “Paddy.”

  The voice comes from the door. It is a gentle admonishment in a motherly tone. We both look at Widow Hawks, where she leans on the doorjamb, cloths tucked under her arm.

  Doctor Kinney stops talking. She gives a small shake of her head.

  “Let her rest a bit. She will hardly be able to remember all your direction now.”

  “It’s important, Esther.”

  “I know. But let it be for a moment. Let me help her wash up. She’ll be right and downstairs soon enough, now that the worst is over. And I’ll stay here until the bleeding slows so she can come home with me.”

  He gives an angry little shake of his head in return; he does not like the interruption. His words to me are gruff.

  “Don’t overdo it now, Mrs. Weber. Just take it easy. Even standin’ could make you dizzy.”

  I watch him walk out, stiff-backed and silent. I am confused. First he is kind, and then upset with me, and I have not even spoken. Widow Hawks—did he just call her Esther?—walks in and sets the clean rags down. The top one is lukewarm and wet, and she starts to wash down my legs and arms and torso. It feels lovely.

  Finally, I find my voice. It sounds small even to my own ears.

  “Is he angry?”

  She stops her massage and looks me straight on. “Jane. No. He grieves for the loss of your little baby, as if it was his own flesh and blood. And you mean a great deal to him, you know. He finds your help indispensable. He thought he was going to lose you.”

  I frown at the description of his worries. “I’m sure he could advertise for another housekeeper.”

  And will he need to? Will I stay, now that I do not need to do so?

  She resumes her washing, and gives a short tut.

  “Maybe so, but what are his chances of finding another he gets along with so well, or who fits in with the town readily enough? Regardless, you think him heartless if you do not realize that he cares.”

  “I know he is not heartless. He is a good man,” I placate, not wishing to delve further into the doctor’s character in this moment. I am too tired. It is too many changes.