by Kip Cassino
“I don’t know what to say,” Edna replied. “I’m flattered, hearing this from you. It’s certainly something to think about, and I will—I promise you that.”
“Take your time, Edna,” Cassandra said, still smiling broadly. “I know it’s a lot to take in. You’re not in your third trimester yet. There’s plenty of time to digest what I’ve told you and think it over. If and when you decide to take my offer, come back and we’ll talk some more.”
As spring warmed to summer, Edna’s pregnancy progressed. Her shoes no longer fit her well. She determined she’d gained half a size. She needed larger, looser clothes—as her baby bump became the defining feature of her small body. She felt odd cravings for certain foods, and could easily tell when the life inside her—now determined to be a boy—was kicking or moving in some other way. Her sense of balance became less certain, as she couldn’t be sure that all of her wanted to move in the same direction all the time.
As she grew closer to term, her stamina for work around the “lifeboat” house diminished and she had to station herself within quick access to a toilet—since her bladder seemed to have shrunk to the size of a pea. Her mouth and jaw felt closer to normal since they’d taken the braces away. By now she was on iron supplements, and had been counseled to avoid sushi, soft cheeses, deli meats, and coffee. She’d never been a sushi fan, but she did miss her coffee in the morning. Hot chocolate was not an acceptable substitute. All of these issues became trivial to Edna, every time she felt her baby move inside her. She loved the little, growing life already. Bringing him into the world made her happy and proud.
Five other women in the house were at roughly the same stage of their pregnancies as Edna. Not all took their condition with her equanimity. Some staggered with discomfort whenever they walked, grimacing and shuffling with hands locked to their lower backs. One had been diagnosed with preeclampsia, and had to drink what seemed to her to be “gallons of water” every day. Another suffered bouts of terrible nausea. Edna endured none of those travails. Her obstetric staff marveled at her continuing good health—especially in light of her history of drug abuse and prostitution, as well as the severe trauma she had recently suffered. “You’re lucky, and so is your baby,” they told her.
For the first time in a very long time, Edna did feel lucky. She did not miss the life she had been pulled from in the slightest—even though a gnawing desire for drugs still wandered through the back of her mind, like an itch she could not scratch. Release from constant worry and deprivation, life in a clean, comforting environment for the first time in far too long, relief from the dreadful necessity to sell her body, all opened her mind and widened a personality that had been shuttered for several years. She found herself helping others with no recompense expected, and enjoying the opportunity. Except for the recurrent nightmare she’d suffered since her first night at “lifeboat,” and the worry every expectant mother has about her upcoming childbirth, Edna was at peace with herself and those around her.
She asked to see Cassandra again when her due date was six weeks away. It was a short meeting, but an important one for her. “I’ve made up my mind,” she told the ‘lifeboat’ manager. “I’m going to take you up on that offer you made me. Since I’ve come here, I’ve felt peace and a purpose I’ve never had before.”
Cassandra smiled. “That’s wonderful news, Edna,” she replied. “I could tell from our first meeting that there was a special strength in you. I’m glad I was right. Now, you concentrate on having your baby. After that’s over, when your body gets back to normal, we’ll talk at length. There’s so much I need to tell you.” She got up as Edna rose, and came around her desk. The women embraced.
“Thank you for giving me back my life,” Edna told her.
“Your new life hasn’t started yet,” Cassandra said, “but it will soon. Have you thought of a name for the baby?”
Edna nodded. “I’m going to name him ‘Blessing’,” she said. “The people who adopt him may give him another name, but he will always be ‘Blessing’ to me.”
Events seemed to move more quickly after that. Three weeks later, she had an important conversation with her obstetrician. “I need to talk to you about epidurals,” she told him.
The doctor smiled. “Many of my patients tell me they don’t want them, Edna,” he told her. “Once they’re in labor, their attitudes change.”
Edna nodded. “I know that. I’ve done some reading on the topic,” she said. “The only thing I’m concerned about is opioids. I’m an addict, doctor. If you give me fentanyl, oxycontin, or any other opioid with the epidural, that could be the trigger that starts me using again.”
“That’s unlikely, Edna, I …”
Edna interrupted him. “Doc, I’m sorry, but I need to be firm about this,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “I’ve written this statement, and I want it put in my medical records. No opioids. None. I’ll stand any pain I have to bear without them.”
The doctor stared at her for a long time. “Edna, are you sure?” he finally asked.
She nodded. “I have to be sure,” she said. “We’re not just talking about my baby here. We’re talking about my soul.”
Edna’s water broke three weeks later, in the middle of an increasingly uncomfortable morning for her. She knew her labor had begun, could feel the contractions, but thought she might have several more hours before having to go to the hospital. Another woman needed transport at almost the same time, so Janey rushed them both to Coliseum North. “Good luck, you two,” she called as her passengers were ushered into the maternity ward.
After very little time, Edna found herself in a small room, laying on a gurney, connected to monitors, checked by busy, silent nurses, and made to stagger up and down the nearby hall in acute discomfort from time to time. She would remain in that setting for almost thirteen hours before she had dilated enough to be wheeled into the delivery room. Her howls of agony could be heard throughout the ward, but no epidural was offered to her. In her least lucid moments, she perceived the unknown father of her child beside her. “You fucking coward!” she snarled at his shade through gritted teeth. “Show yourself! Let me see who did this to me!”
Finally, after an evening of terrible pain and delirium, Edna’s trial ended. “Push!” she was told, and told again. “He’s coming,” the doctor said, and then, “Ah! There he is.” Suddenly, the pain and the pressure were gone from her. Somewhere close, a baby wailed. She exhaled deeply and relaxed, exhausted. Through the lights and confusion, she was handed a small, squirming form with perfect, tiny hands which she gladly took into her arms. He had lots of dark hair, she noticed. “Blessing,” she said, and kissed him. After a little while, a nurse took the baby from her and she slept.
While she slept, she dreamed. In her dream, the man whose face she could never see showed himself to her at last. Edna was amazed, and thrilled. He looked so tall and handsome now that those terrible scars were gone, resplendent in his Marine uniform. “Shy guy,” she whispered, smiling. He smiled in return. A bright, warm, beckoning light appeared behind him. He held her hand, as he had once before, and guided her into the light.
As Edna rested that evening, severe vaginal hemorrhaging soaked the sheets of her hospital bed. Before doctors could staunch the flow, her blood pressure had fallen far too low for them to save her. Edna never regained consciousness. She died without ever holding her child again.
Three weeks later, a young married couple held her baby in their arms. “The mother died at childbirth,” Cassandra Moore explained to them, “post-partum hemorrhaging. The baby is perfectly healthy.”
“How soon can we take the little guy home?” the husband asked.
“There’s paperwork to fill out,” Cassandra Moore told him, “and background checks to complete, of course. Unless there are problems of some kind, you can take custody of the child within a week or so.”
The wife continued to
hold the child. “What a beautiful little boy,” she said, her voice filled with love already. “Was he given a name?”
“His mother didn’t have the chance,” Cassandra Moore told her. “She died the night of his birth—but I know she wanted to name him ‘Blessing’.”
“Blessing,” the wife said, puzzled. “What an odd name for a little boy.”
“We’re going to call him Frank, after my old man,” the husband said, grinning.
“We’ll talk about that when we get home,” the wife said.
Blessing, now named Frank, would grow to be a tall, slim, but very strong young man—a quiet, even-featured youth with slightly curly auburn hair, who would see the world through large, hopeful blue eyes.
THE END
