My Name Is Mary Sutter Read Free Page A

spine. Often it was the baby’s position in the womb that caused delay. There were also other reasons, worse reasons, that Mary did not yet want to entertain. Look first, her mother always said, for the common.
    Bonnie was thin—undernourished even—but even through that thin wall of belly, Mary could not detect the rope of spine she was looking for.
    “Bonnie.”
    The girl snapped from her deep sleep and fixed her gaze on Mary.
    “I have to put my hand inside you. Do you understand? I have to confirm where the baby’s head is.”
    The girl nodded, but Mary knew that she did not understand. “You keep looking at me, do you understand? Don’t close your eyes.”
    Mary slipped her hand into the warm glove of Bonnie’s body and began to probe the baby’s head for the telltale V, where the suture lines of the scalp met in ridges at the back. Bonnie’s water had not yet burst and Mary worked gingerly, pressing gently against the bulging sac around the baby’s head, taking care not to snag the membrane. Yes, there was the V. She ran her hand along the lines, keeping Bonnie’s gaze locked on hers, smiling encouragement as she searched for the obstacle.
    “Bonnie,” Mary said gently, withdrawing her hand, wiping it on a rag. “Your baby is coming out face up. That’s why you’re having so much trouble. I have to turn the baby. It will make things easier for both of you. It’s going to be uncomfortable, but I’ll do it quickly.”
    Mary nodded to Dr. Blevens; at her summons, he strode across the room and took Bonnie’s hands in his. Mary slipped again inside Bonnie and slowly fitted her fingers around the baby’s skull. With her other hand, she felt through the abdominal wall for the baby’s arms and legs. She established a grip. She was standing now, her right hand deep inside Bonnie, the other on her belly. The wave of contraction hit hard. Bonnie’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Dr. Blevens was leaning forward, his face inches from Bonnie’s, whispering encouragement into her ear. When the contraction relaxed, Mary grasped the baby’s skull and made a percussive shove with her left, rolling the baby in a wave. Bonnie writhed under the abuse, arching her back off the table, then falling again. Through the tidal swell of the next two contractions, Mary held the child in place, keeping the baby locked in its new position, the muscled womb clamping down on her fingertips. From outside, Mary could hear more shouts, but even these could not distract her now. All her movements, decisions, and thoughts came from a well deep inside her. When she was certain that the baby would not roll back, she carefully withdrew her hands, and the rest of the delivery proceeded. Mary looked only at Bonnie, thought only of Bonnie and the baby. She was authoritative when Bonnie faltered, stern when she panicked, and unflagging when, screaming, Bonnie expelled a boy in a rush of amniotic fluid. Mary wiped the small flag of his gender along with the rest of him, and then swaddled him in a blanket that the doctor handed her. There was no deformation. The child was perfect, if small. She judged this one at nine months’ gestation, but maybe less.
    “Extraordinary. I was certain the head was too large,” Blevens said.
    “It’s a common enough mistake.”
    Efficient but tender, Mary went about her work with a kind of informality. She tucked the mewling infant into Bonnie’s grateful arms and tied off the cord after the afterbirth slithered out. There was little blood. The girl had not even torn.
    “It’s the lard,” Mary said, wiping her soaked skirts with a towel. “Massage it into the flesh beforehand, a bit at a time.”
    Blevens tucked in the ends of the blanket that had fallen away, but he knew it to be an insignificant contribution, the act of a maiden aunt after the danger had passed.
    “Do allow me to pay you,” he said, but Mary dismissed this offer with a wave of her hand.
    “Where is her husband?” Mary