"I want to be sure it's not some Cajun poison that works on babies," she said.
Mama checked her anger and let her have a tablespoon. Gladys swallowed it quickly and chased it down with some ice tea. Then she waited to see what sort of reaction she would have. When she said nothing, Mama smirked.
"I guess it ain't poison," Mama said, but Gladys looked unconvinced.
Suddenly it began to rain, the drops drumming on the window, the wind coming up to blow sheet after sheet of the downpour against the house. There was a flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the great house and rock my bed as well. We could hear the rain pounding the roof. It seemed to pound right through and into my heart.
Mama asked Gladys to turn on the lamps. As if it took all her effort to rise from the bed and cross the room, she groaned and stood up with an exaggerated slowness. As soon as she had the lights on, she returned to her bed and watched me enduring my labor, closing her eyes, mumbling to herself and sighing.
"How long can this last?" she finally inquired with impatience.
"Ten, fifteen, twenty hours," Mama told her. "If you have something else to do . . ."
"What else would I have to do? Are you mad or are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Forget I said anything," Mama muttered, and turned her attention back to me.
Suddenly, at the end of one contraction, I felt a gush of warm liquid down my legs.
"Mama!"
"It's your bag of waters," Mama exclaimed. "The baby's going to come tonight," she declared with certainty. Gladys Tate uttered a cry of excitement, and when we looked over at her, we saw she had wet her own bed.
Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to bring a newborn child into the world.
Hours passed, the contractions continuing to grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my progress. She examined me periodically and shook her head with concern. The pain grew more and more intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly on me now and barely paid her notice.
Mama referred to the watch, felt my contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her face tense.
"What's wrong, Mama?" I gasped between deep breaths.
"It's breech," she said sorrowfully. "I was afraid of this. It's not uncommon with premature births."
"Breech?" Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her imitation of my agony. "What does that mean?"
"It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its buttocks is pointing out instead of its head," she explained.
"It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no," she cried, wringing her hands. "What will I do?"
"I have no time for this sort of stupidity," Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was nearby, pacing. "Bring me some whiskey," she shouted at him.
"Whiskey?"
"Hurry."
"What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked.
"I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just relax. Put your mind on something else. Think about your swamp, your animals, flowers, anything," she said.
A few moments later, Octavious appeared with a bottle of bourbon. He stood there in shock. Gladys was writhing on her bed, her eyes closed, moaning and occasionally screaming.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked Mama.
"I wouldn't even try to answer that," she told him, and took the whiskey. She poured it over her hands and scrubbed them with the alcohol, while Octavious went to Gladys's side and tried to rouse her out of her strange state, but she didn't acknowledge him. Whenever he touched her, she screamed louder. He stood back, shuddering, confused, pleading with her to get control of herself.
Mama returned to my bedside and began her effort to turn the baby. I thought I must have gone in and out of consciousness because I couldn't remember what happened or how long I was crying and moaning. Once, I looked over and saw the expression of utter horror on Octavious's face. I knew Mama was happy he was in the room, witnessing all the pain and turmoil, hoping he would see it for years in nightmares.
Fortunately for me and the baby, Mama had miraculous hands. Later she would tell me if she had failed, the only alternative was a cesarean section. But Mama was truly the Cajun healer. I saw from the happy expression on her face that she had managed to turn the baby. Then, guiding me, coaxing and coaching me along, she continued the birthing process.
"Push when you have the contractions, honey. This way two forces, the contraction and your pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you some energy," she advised. I did as she said and soon I began to feel the baby's movement.
My own grunts and cries filled my ears, so I didn't hear the grunts and cries coming from Gladys Tate, but I caught a glimpse of Octavious holding her hand and continually trying to calm her. She had her legs up and was actually pushing down on her padding so that it slipped off her stomach and toward her legs.
"He's coming!" Mama announced, and we all knew it was a boy. The room was a cacophony of bedlam: Gladys's mad cries (louder than mine), Octavious trying to get her to stop, my own screams, Mama mumbling prayers and orders, and then that great sense of completion, that sweet feeling of emptiness followed by my baby's first cry.
His tiny voice stopped my screams and Gladys's as well. Mama held him up, the placenta still attached and dangling.
"He's big," Mama exclaimed. "Big enough to do well even though he's early."
I tried to catch my breath, my eyes fixed on the wonder that had emerged from my body, the living thing that had dwelled inside my stomach.
Mama cut and tied the cord and then began to wash the baby, doing everything quickly and with an expertise born of years and years of experience, while I lay back trying to get my heart to slow, my breathing regular. When I gazed at Gladys Tate, I saw she was mesmerized by the sight of the baby. She didn't move. Octavious watched with interest and awe. Mama wrapped the baby in a blanket and held him for a moment.
"Perfect features," she said.
"Give me my baby," Gladys demanded. "Give him to me now!" she screamed.
Mama gazed at her for a moment and then at me. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my face. I had wanted to hold him, at least for a few moments, but I was afraid to say anything. Mama brought the baby to Gladys, who cradled him quickly.
"Look at him, Octavious," she said. "He is perfect. Little Mr. Perfect. We're naming him Paul," she added quickly, "after my mother's younger brother who died a tragic death in the canals when he was only twelve. Right, Octavious?"
He looked at us. "Yes," he said.
Mama didn't respond. She returned her attention to me. "How are you doing, honey?"
"I'm all right, Mama." I turned to Gladys. "Can I look at him? Please," I asked.
She glared fire at me and turned the baby so I couldn't view his face. "Of course not. I want you out of here immediately," she said. She looked at Mama. "Get her up and out of that bed and out of this house before anyone comes around."
"I can't rush her like that," Mama said. "She needs to recuperate. She's still bleeding some."
"Octavious, take them into another room, your room for all I care," she said.
Mama turned on her, her back up, her eyes blazing back. "No! You go into another room. My daughter will rest here until I say she's fit to leave, and that's my final word on it, hear?"
Gladys saw Mama was adamant. "Very well," she said. "I'll go to Octavious's room to recuperate and put the baby in his nursery."
"Exactly how to you plan to feed the infant?" Mama asked.
Gladys smiled coolly. "We've thought of that. I've hired a wet nurse. Octavious will fetch her now. Won't you, Octavious?"
"Yes, dear," he said obediently. He was unable to look at me and just gave me a passing glance.
"The child needs a lot of attention," Mama said. "Remember, he's premature."
"We'll have a real doctor here in less than an hour. He's someone we can trust, but I still want you out of the house as soon as possible," she said. She handed the baby to Octavious as she rose from her bed. Then she took the baby back quickly and started out of the bedroom, taking care, it seemed to me, to prevent me from getting a good view of him. She paused at the doorway.
"Once you're gone, I don't want to ever see you on this property again," she told me.
"She'd rather step in quicksand," Mama retorted. Gladys smiled, satisfied. "Good," she said, and walked out with my baby. I hadn't even seen him for a full minute and he was already gone from my life forever. My lips trembled and my heart ached.
Octavious remained behind a moment, stuttering some apology and some thanks. "Take as long as you need," he concluded, his eyes down. Then he hurried to follow his wife and new child.
I couldn't help but burst into tears. Mama put her arm around me and kissed my hair and forehead, trying to comfort and soothe me.
"Is he really perfect, Mama?"
"Yes, honey, he is. He's one of the prettiest babies I've seen, and you know I've seen a few in my time."
"Will he be all right?"
"I think so. He was breathing strong on his own. It's good that they're having a doctor come around, though. Let me tend to your bleeding, Gabrielle, and then let you rest. Damn your father for hurrying away. I could use him now," she muttered.
I lay back, exhausted, not only from the delivery, but from the emotional pain of having only a glimpse of baby Paul and then seeing him swept away from me instantly. Mama was right: This was a terrible feeling. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare that would haunt me forever.
It was very late by the time I felt strong enough to get out of the bed and stand on my own. Mama held me cautiously and had me walk around the room first. Then she sat me down and went to find Octavious. Since Daddy hadn't returned, she had to ask Octavious to drive us home.
The house was dim and quiet with all the servants gone. I paused outside the bedroom door on the upstairs landing because I heard my baby crying. I looked at Octavious.
"I want to see him," I said.
He looked at Mama and then me.
"I won't leave before I do," I threatened.
He nodded. "Gladys is sleeping. She claims she's exhausted. If you're very quiet about it . . ."
"I will be. I promise," I said.
"Gabrielle. Maybe it's better you just leave, honey. You're just prolonging the pain and . . ." Mama's voice trailed off.
"No, Mama. I've got to look at him. Please," I begged.
She shook her head and then turned to Octavious and nodded.
"Very, very quiet," he said, and practically tiptoed down the hallway to the nursery he and Gladys had prepared. The wet nurse was already there. She was a young girl not much older than me. Octavious whispered something to her and she left without glancing at me.
I stepped up to the cradle and peered in at baby Paul, wrapped in his blue cotton blanket, his pink face no bigger than a fist. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing nicely. His skin was so soft. It was a little crimson at the cheeks. All of his features were perfect. Mama was right. His fingers, clutched at the blanket, looked smaller than the fingers of any doll I had ever had. My heart ached with my desire to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him against my throbbing breasts filled with milk that was meant to be his and would never touch his lips.
"We better go," Octavious whispered.
"Come on, honey," Mama urged. She put her hand through my arm and held me at the elbow.
"Good-bye, Paul," I whispered. "You'll never know who I am. I'll never hear your cry again; never comfort you or hear your laughing somehow, somehow, I hope you'll sense that I'm out there, waiting anxiously for the day I can set eyes on you again."
I kissed my finger and then touched his tiny forehead. My throat felt like I had a stone caught in it. I turned and walked away like one in a trance, not feeling, not seeing, not hearing anything but the cries of sadness inside me.
Somehow, we got down the stairway and out the front door to Octavious' car. Mama and I sat in the back, me lying against her, my eyes closed, my hand clutching hers. We slipped through the night like shadows indistinguishable from the blanket of darkness that had fallen heavily over the world. No one spoke until we arrived at our shack. Octavious opened the door and helped Mama get me out.
"I'll take her from here," Mama told him sternly:
"Will she be all right?" he asked. Mama hesitated. I felt her turn to him and I opened my eyes.
"She will be fine; she will grow strong again, whereas you will grow weaker and smaller under the burden of your sin," she predicted. He seemed to shrink. "You be sure that that madwoman you call your wife treats that child with love and kindness, hear?"
"I will," he promised. "He'll have everything he needs and more."
"He needs love."
Octavious nodded. "I'm sorry," he muttered one final time, and went back to his car.
Mama turned me to the shack and we made our way to the door as Octavious drove away, the sound of his car drifting back into the darkness. I was still in pain. My legs felt so heavy and my head even heavier, but I didn't complain. I didn't want to make things any harder than they were for Mama. She managed to get me in the house and up the stairs to my little room. It was actually a bit smaller than the room I had been living in at the Tate house, but it was my room and full of my memories. It was like seeing an old friend again.
"It's so good to be home, Mama," I said.
She helped me into bed. "Just get some rest, honey. I'll be right here if you need me," she added. She said something else, but I didn't hear it. Before she had completed the sentence, I was asleep.
Daddy returned sometime before morning, bitter and angry about the money he had lost gambling, raging that he had been cheated and that he would get revenge. He was quite drunk and smashed a chair in anger, splintering it to bits. It woke me and sent Mama flying down to bawl him out. I heard the shouting, his pounding the walls and stomping the floor. I heard the door slam so hard, the whole shack shook, and then it was deadly quiet. My eyes shut themselves and didn't open again until the sunlight brushed my face. They fluttered open, and for a moment I didn't know where I was. After a moment, it all came rushing back over me, including the racket I had heard in the middle of the night. Mama, anticipating my awakening, stepped into the room with a cup of rich Cajun coffee, the steam rising from the mug.
"Got to get you up and about, honey. Women who lay around like sick people after they give birth usually develop some problem or another," she said.
I sat up and took the mug of coffee. "Was I dreaming or was Daddy screaming and yelling last night?" I asked her.
She shook her head. "I wish you had been dreaming. No, he came home in one of his drunken states again, claiming he had been cheated out of the money he lost at cards. Instead of finding a good job and working hard, he keeps trying to make a killing somewhere. He works harder at not working than he would if he worked," she added.
"Does he know I'm home?"
"I tried to tell him, but he wasn't hearing anything but his own stupid voice last night."
"Where is he?"
"He fell asleep in his truck last I saw, but when I looked out before, the truck was gone. No telling what he's up to now. I'll fix you some good breakfast, honey. You rise and stretch those legs, hear?"
"Yes, Mama. Mama?" I said before she left the room. She turned.
"Yes, honey?"
"What about . . ." I held my hands under my ample breasts.
Mama's face turned sad again. "I was going to tell you about that today," she said sadly. "You'll have to just pump it out or you'll develop milk fever."
"But the milk . . ."<
br />
"We can't offer it to anyone's baby, and that woman won't let Paul have your milk," she added bitterly. Mama hated waste in any shape or form.
"How long will I have to do this, Mama?"
"From the looks of you, a few weeks at least, honey. I'm sorry."
My tears burned under my eyelids. Every time I did this, I would think of my baby forced to drink the milk of a stranger while his mother's milk was poured into the ground. From the way I ached, I couldn't postpone it much longer either. After breakfast Mama showed me what to do. All the hot tears I had held back streaked down my cheeks.
They seemed to singe my heart as well as my face. I think Mama turned away and left me because she, too, was close to crying.
Afterward, when I lay back and closed my eyes, I thought I could hear my baby's cry. I recalled his tiny face and imagined what it would have been like to have his lips on my nipple drawing the milk from me. Perhaps, if I did this every time, it would make it a little easier, I thought.
Late in the afternoon, Daddy returned. He had a swollen left cheek and a black eye. There was a thin gash along the top of his forehead, and his clothes were wrinkled and marred with mud and grime as if he had been dragged through the swamp. He limped when he entered the house. Mama and I both looked up and gasped.
"What did you do now, Jack," Mama asked after a moment, "to get such a beating?"
"They ganged up on me is what happened," he wailed. "Those thieves down at Bloody Mary's." He fixed his eyes on me. "You shouldn't have left that house so fast, Gabrielle. We coulda made them pay to have you leave."
"What for, Jack? So you can go and throw it away at some bar or over some game of chance?" Mama snapped. "Just like you did every other nickel?"
"It was what was coming to us," he declared, his arms spread.
"Us, Jack? How's it us? She's the one's suffered and she don't get one penny because you've gone and lost or spent it all, right? Or did you put away a little for her?" Mama asked, knowing the answer.
"I . . . I just been trying to build something for this family, is all. But I got cheated, so I went back to get back what's mine and they jumped me." He stared at me a moment. "They give you anything before you left?" he asked.
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