“I need your help. This is Bonnie Miles. Her husband dropped her here early this afternoon. He said she has lost a child before—her first. I think the baby’s head is stuck.”
Mary pulled off her gloves and unwrapped her shawl, her quest forgotten for the moment, all her attention focused on the woman’s exhaustion and youth. Bonnie was small-boned, tiny in all her features, too young, Mary thought, perhaps fifteen, maybe seventeen. Her hips were too narrow, which might be the problem Dr. Blevens had encountered.
“Have you been laboring long?” Mary asked.
The doctor answered for her, speaking quickly and nervously. “She cannot say. Since the night, at least.”
Mary lifted her gaze from the girl to appraise the doctor with a cool, steady glance. “No chloroform, no forceps?”
“Why do you think I called you? I’ve seen enough of the damage those can do. I’m a surgeon, for God’s sake, not a butcher. Please,” the doctor said, “I need your help.” Of late, surgeons had entered the obstetrics trade, but there had been too many mistakes to make him feel comfortable. He didn’t like administering chloroform to ease the mother’s pain, because babies ended up languishing in the womb, and doctors had to go hunting for them with forceps. Too many women had bled, too many babies’ skulls had been crushed. He would stick with the ailments of men: hatchet blows and factory burns.
“You’ll help me?” the girl asked.
As Mary smoothed the blanket, she thought that the girl resembled Jenny, though she lacked Jenny’s distinguishing clarity of skin. But the wide-set eyes, the high cheekbones, and the bright lips had emerged from the same well of beauty as Mary’s twin. Once, when Mary was very young, she had asked her mother what “twin” meant, and her mother, who had understood the root of the question, had answered, God does not give out his gifts equally, even to those who have shared a womb.
“My last one died,” Bonnie said, whispering, drawing Mary close to her, her face transforming from a feverish daze to one of grief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The baby before this,” Bonnie said, her eyes half closed. “I didn’t know it was labor I was taken with, you see?”
The ignorance! It was exactly like Jenny. But Jenny’s ignorance was something altogether different, a refusal to engage, to exert herself. A lack of curiosity.
Outside, above the street clatter of carriages and vendors came the hard clang of the fire bell, and cries of “On to the South!”
Blevens rushed to the window and threw it open as Mary whispered to Bonnie not to worry. The rising strains of a band joined the bugle, producing a festive, off-tune march that beckoned like a piper. A swelling crowd hurried along the turnpike, shoulders and wool hats bent against the rain. In the distance the flat pop of gunfire sounded.
“You there! Hello? Can you give me the news?” Blevens cried.
A man who had stopped to don an oilskin looked up, revealing a slick, battered face, pocked, the doctor was certain, at the ironworks where the spitting metal often scarred workers’ faces.
“Haven’t you heard?” the man shouted. “The Carolinians fired on Fort Sumter!”
“Has Lincoln called for men?” the doctor asked, but the scarred man melted into the stream of revelers pushing down the muddy turnpike toward the music as if something were reeling them in. James Blevens slammed down the window and turned.
“I cannot believe it,” he said. “It is war.”
Bonnie seized Mary’s wrist, and Mary said, “Do you want to scare her?”
“Sorry,” Blevens said, but he was agitated, glancing again toward the window.
“I’ll need scissors, lard, and any rags you have,” Mary said. “And water.”
With a last look over his shoulder, Blevens scurried to assemble the requested supplies. Bonnie nodded off into the deep sleep that overcame women between contractions. Mary probed her belly, feeling for the baby’s
Mary pulled off her gloves and unwrapped her shawl, her quest forgotten for the moment, all her attention focused on the woman’s exhaustion and youth. Bonnie was small-boned, tiny in all her features, too young, Mary thought, perhaps fifteen, maybe seventeen. Her hips were too narrow, which might be the problem Dr. Blevens had encountered.
“Have you been laboring long?” Mary asked.
The doctor answered for her, speaking quickly and nervously. “She cannot say. Since the night, at least.”
Mary lifted her gaze from the girl to appraise the doctor with a cool, steady glance. “No chloroform, no forceps?”
“Why do you think I called you? I’ve seen enough of the damage those can do. I’m a surgeon, for God’s sake, not a butcher. Please,” the doctor said, “I need your help.” Of late, surgeons had entered the obstetrics trade, but there had been too many mistakes to make him feel comfortable. He didn’t like administering chloroform to ease the mother’s pain, because babies ended up languishing in the womb, and doctors had to go hunting for them with forceps. Too many women had bled, too many babies’ skulls had been crushed. He would stick with the ailments of men: hatchet blows and factory burns.
“You’ll help me?” the girl asked.
As Mary smoothed the blanket, she thought that the girl resembled Jenny, though she lacked Jenny’s distinguishing clarity of skin. But the wide-set eyes, the high cheekbones, and the bright lips had emerged from the same well of beauty as Mary’s twin. Once, when Mary was very young, she had asked her mother what “twin” meant, and her mother, who had understood the root of the question, had answered, God does not give out his gifts equally, even to those who have shared a womb.
“My last one died,” Bonnie said, whispering, drawing Mary close to her, her face transforming from a feverish daze to one of grief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The baby before this,” Bonnie said, her eyes half closed. “I didn’t know it was labor I was taken with, you see?”
The ignorance! It was exactly like Jenny. But Jenny’s ignorance was something altogether different, a refusal to engage, to exert herself. A lack of curiosity.
Outside, above the street clatter of carriages and vendors came the hard clang of the fire bell, and cries of “On to the South!”
Blevens rushed to the window and threw it open as Mary whispered to Bonnie not to worry. The rising strains of a band joined the bugle, producing a festive, off-tune march that beckoned like a piper. A swelling crowd hurried along the turnpike, shoulders and wool hats bent against the rain. In the distance the flat pop of gunfire sounded.
“You there! Hello? Can you give me the news?” Blevens cried.
A man who had stopped to don an oilskin looked up, revealing a slick, battered face, pocked, the doctor was certain, at the ironworks where the spitting metal often scarred workers’ faces.
“Haven’t you heard?” the man shouted. “The Carolinians fired on Fort Sumter!”
“Has Lincoln called for men?” the doctor asked, but the scarred man melted into the stream of revelers pushing down the muddy turnpike toward the music as if something were reeling them in. James Blevens slammed down the window and turned.
“I cannot believe it,” he said. “It is war.”
Bonnie seized Mary’s wrist, and Mary said, “Do you want to scare her?”
“Sorry,” Blevens said, but he was agitated, glancing again toward the window.
“I’ll need scissors, lard, and any rags you have,” Mary said. “And water.”
With a last look over his shoulder, Blevens scurried to assemble the requested supplies. Bonnie nodded off into the deep sleep that overcame women between contractions. Mary probed her belly, feeling for the baby’s
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