Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “Dinah, tonight you are in charge of the household.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and you may have your dinner wherever you like.”

  Such expansiveness was worrisome. People were rarely magnanimous with children unless they wanted to mollify them.

  “Will Mozelle be all right?”

  “Certainly. Having a baby is a perfectly normal—if temporarily unpleasant—state of affairs.”

  As I jumped up, the cup and saucer in my hand made an awful clatter. “Oh! I thought she had a summer tummy.”

  Grandmother Helene's laugh was a hearty rumble. “Well, it is certainly the biggest summer tummy I've ever seen.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “The baby should arrive by morning, or tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  I could think of a dozen more questions, but she brushed me off with a brisk wave.

  Elated by the news, I decided to organize a party on the terrace. To me the most enchanting Indian festival of the year was the Hindu celebration of Diwali, which commemorates the return of Rama from exile. Our pantry contained boxes of divas, small oil lamps the servants used to light up the garden on that special night. We were six months from Diwali, but since Grandmother Helene said I might do anything I wanted, I asked the servants to set out the divas. By dusk the gardens twinkled with hundreds of fairy lights, just the right atmosphere to make a baby want to appear, I decided.

  When everything was set up to my satisfaction, I went to visit Mozelle, who seemed much recovered from the afternoon. She was sitting in a high wooden chair that had been lined with pillows, sipping lemonade. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks more highly colored than in many a month.

  I pointed to the window. “Can you see outside from there?”

  Mozelle stretched her short, thick neck. “Just a bit. So many stars . . .”

  “Not stars, diva lamps.”

  She didn't seem to hear me. “Again,” she mumbled as her eyes crossed queerly and her hands clenched.

  A lady with nutmeg-tinted skin emerged from the shadows. Long, slender fingers reached out from a white sari and skittered across Mozelle's abdomen. Nothing was said for more than a minute; then she spoke in a singsong. “It passes, it passes, it's gone.” The lady retreated to where she had been sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mozelle's eyes fluttered open. She seemed to be coming out of a trance.

  “I want to . . .” She gestured toward the open window.

  Her mother and the other woman rushed to her side. Lifting her under the arms, they glided her across the floor until she could see the quivering lights outside. Jonah and Asher were singing an Indian nursery song they had learned from Selima:

  Tali, tali bajao baba, Achcha roti haat banata.

  Thora mummy-ko do.

  Thora daddy-ko do.

  Jo baki hai.

  Burya ayah-ko do.

  Clap, clap hands, baby,

  They make good bread in the market.

  Give a little to mummy.

  Give a little to daddy.

  What is left over,

  Give to the old ayah.

  “How wonderful! Diwali is such a beautiful holiday. We always go down to the ghats to watch the lights floating on the river. Next time . . .” Her voice caught. I thought the sickness had clasped her again, but she recovered and said in a whispery voice, “Next time Benu will be with me and somebody else will see it with us for the first time.” She patted her belly and gave a lopsided grin as she was helped back to her chair.

  “Very nice, Dinah. A lovely thing to have done . . .” Grandmother Helene's voice trailed off as Mozelle started in again. The lady in white resumed her position, her movements, her words, mirroring the earlier ones.

  “Who is she?”

  “A midwife, a person who knows how to bring a baby into the world.”

  “What's wrong with Mozelle? Why does she act so strange every so often?”

  “A baby comes in small steps, like an incoming tide. Each wave gives her a pain for a minute or so; each pain brings the baby closer. Better for you to leave now, Dinah. Come in again before you go to bed.”

  When I went in to say good night to Mozelle, she lay on her side, groaning like someone who had overeaten. I tiptoed over and touched her cheek. “Have them wake me as soon as the baby comes. I've never seen one that's brand-new.”

  As Mozelle stared past me, abstracted, her mother stepped forward. “Talk to Dinah, don't frighten her.”

  These words forced Mozelle to focus on me. She licked her lips.

  “Yes, Dinah. I want you to be one of the very first.” Her voice took on a command I had never before heard. “After all, you will be eldest sister of the family.” A tremor seized her, but this time she fought through it. “If s not so bad, truly it isn't, and when it passes, it stays away for quite a long while. I can close my eyes and sometimes even sleep. How I wish I could wake up and find the baby in my arms!”

  “I'm glad it isn't terrible. It looks so—”

  Grandmother Helene steered me away. “You must get some sleep. Tomorrow will be an eventful day.” Mozelle wailed, then moaned, sounding more like an injured cow than a person. I twitched in response. “Now, now, she'll be fine . . .” she said as I was ushered from the room.

  The flickering elation at the spectacle of the diva lamps was obliterated by the quaking screams that punctuated the night. In spite of the heat, Yali closed the door to my room. Even so, it could not drown out the loudest wails, then—sometime after midnight—the gasps and screeches.

  “Will she die?” I pressed against Yali's chest.

  “No, no, she makes a fuss. If her mother would not pamper her so . . .” Yali sighed.

  The intensity and frequency of Mozelle's complaints increased. Piercing shrieks and calls for help from God woke the boys, requiring both ayahs' attention to settle them back to sleep.

  “Soon, soon,” comforted Yali when she could get back to me. “They all cry out when the baby is about to come.” An hour later Yali herself had run out of consoling words. Her mouth was pinched. Her eyes were glazed.

  “Can't they get someone to help her? Why don't they call Nana or Dr. Hyam?”

  Yali perked up. “I could not suggest this, but you could speak to the burra memsahib.”

  I ran down the hallway. A sickly perfume emanated from the darkened room. A husky breathing, frightening in its animalistic intensity, bellowed out into the hall. I located Grandmother Helene in the din without having to look upon Mozelle. She slumped over in the chair where her daughter had sat so regally that afternoon. “Mazal-Tob, Mazal-Tob,” she muttered. Great, sagging pouches drooped below her eyes. Her silvery hair looked as though nesting birds had deranged it. One limp hand flopped over a pillow. “My poor Mazal-Tob . . .”

  I touched her hand. “Is it time?” she muttered.

  “A doctor,” I whispered. “Call Dr. Hyam. My father would want Mozelle to have a doctor.” When Grandmother Helene shook her head, I thought she was annoyed with me. “My grandfather is the best in Calcutta. Ask anybody.”

  “Hush, that's not the point,” she said. A rising fury strained her voice as she went on, and the next words were cracked and halting. “This is your father's house, and he makes the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  She seemed reluctant to speak, then sputtered, “Your grandparents are not to set foot here again.”

  I felt as though I had been slapped. Mozelle's cacophony floated in the background while I tried to make sense of this prohibition. Swirling visions of my mother's clothing and furniture on fire, of the final minutes in the courtroom, of my grandparents' sad eyes when they left the house for the last time, blurred before me. Mozelle's wind returned and her next scream seemed to split my spine. “What's wrong with Dr. Hyam? He is not a relative, only a friend.”

  “Your father would never approve . . .”

  “Then somebody else,” I sputtered. “Another doctor, please!”

&n
bsp; “Yes, yes, we've sent for Dr. Basak at the hospital. He will be here shortly.”

  “Dinah!” Mozelle called pitifully.

  I turned for Grandmother Helene's approval. She nodded so sadly I looked down. A few puddles of purple light illuminated the floor at my feet. I made my way to Mozelle's bedside, walking across them as gingerly as if I had been stepping on stones in a pond. When I reached the bed, I said, “Hello,” without looking up.

  Mozelle gripped my hand. “You are so cool.”

  The midwife lifted my chin and smiled at me, revealing a gold front tooth. “Talk to her, tell her a story, any distraction—”

  I couldn't imagine what might be appropriate. Then a funny image came to me: Mozelle, hugely pregnant, riding an elephant. “Have you ever been on an elephant?” I asked.

  Mozelle was so startled, she grinned. “No, have you?”

  “Oh, yes, in Patna with my father. Shall I tell you about it?”

  “Yes—” She broke off as her body jackknifed into a spasm. When it passed, I went on, embellishing the tale to make it more exciting and longer than it was.

  The doctor, a very short Indian who seemed to be not much older than the patient herself, came into the room. Without taking notice of me, he began an examination, grunting as he reached between Mozelle's legs. I shuddered as most of his arm disappeared from view. When he finished, he spoke to Grandmother Helene. “All's well, the baby is quite satisfactory. She is young and small—inside, if not outside— and these cases take more time than most. There is no cause for alarm.”

  “Did you see the pads?” Grandmother Helene asked.

  “Yes, no consequence there. A loss of blood is normal. There may be a few tears here and there. Nothing we can't stitch up later.”

  “But—” Grandmother Helene stopped. “Will you stay, then?”

  “I regret I cannot. So many ladies wait for me.” Nodding toward the midwife, he said, “You are in excellent hands.” He washed up in the basin that Mozelle's ayah held for him, dried his hands perfunctorily, picked up his bag, and started to leave.

  “Doctor!” Grandmother Helene's tone was pleading. “Isn't there something you could do for her?”

  “There is laudanum, of course, but I was given to understand the husband did not wish her to have any.”

  “Yes, but that was before—”

  “Do you think the gentleman could be persuaded to change his mind?”

  “Yes, if he were here. Unfortunately, he is in China.”

  The doctor looked over at Mozelle. “Unfortunately for her, I can do nothing without the husband's agreement . . . unless someone else would accept the responsibility for him.”

  Grandmother Helene blanched. “She is my daughter.”

  The doctor shook his head sadly. “I require a gentleman, perhaps a close male relative—a father or a brother—before I could go against the expressed desires of the head of this household.”

  Grandmother Helene ran her fingers through her hair excitedly. “There is no father, and the brothers would never alter his instructions.”

  “A sad story. I know the husband thinks his first wife was given far too much opium during her childbirths, and this may have contributed to her . . . to her downfall.”

  “Do you think it did?”

  The doctor shook his head. “That's doubtful.”

  I could see Grandmother Helene deliberating. “How would he ever know?” she asked, pleading.

  Dr. Basak merely stared at me in reply. Grandmother Helene's shoulders sagged. The doctor bowed and backed out of the room.

  After he left, Mozelle seemed calmer. Her shouts had changed to occasional whimpers. I know it was heartless of me, but the silence came as such a relief that I could not help feeling that she had been exaggerating her discomfort, as she had during her entire confinement. Also, the business of birthing the baby had gone on so long I was somewhat inured to her complaints.

  When she closed her eyes and dozed off, Yali took my hand. “Come away now, Dinah-baba,” Yali insisted. “You must take your chota hazri downstairs.”

  She served me on a lounge chair, and when I fell asleep after drinking my milk, she allowed me to stay there until the sun was quite high. When I woke in a sweat, she was ready beside me with a cool cloth and a bowl of sliced fruit. She tried to dress me in a lime-green frock with a frayed lace collar. “I don't like this one.”

  She grinned. “No matter. When you hold the baby, you might get it soiled.”

  The baby! I held myself perfectly still. There were no longer howls in the corridors. Nor were there infant cries. “Is it here?”

  “Yes, Dinah-baba, she waits for you.”

  “A sister?”

  “Yes, a sister-baba.”

  I flew down the hall. As I entered, the midwife and the ayah were busily tending a prostrate Mozelle. Selima sat on the other bed, the one I often slept in, with a baby to her breast. Grandmother Helene moved beside me. She was wearing a crisp blue gown and her hair was freshly washed. “Here comes Dinah. Ruby, look up and meet your big sister.”

  Selima turned the baby to face me. The infant was plump and pink, with damp tendrils of black hair that made her look much older.

  “Ruby? Is that her name?”

  “Yes, do you like it?” Mozelle said hoarsely.

  I spun around. “She's pretty. A pretty little Ruby.” I turned back to the infant and became transfixed by the alert expression in the dark pools that were her newly opened eyes.

  That night Ruby slept in the nursery next to my room. Mozelle was too weak to care for her own baby, but fortunately Selima had plenty of milk because she had given birth to a son of her own six months earlier. There were enough people rushing in and out of Mozelle's room—her mother, the doctor, the midwife, most of the servants, and relatives of her family—that I was content to stay away and watch the newborn's bathing and feeding and changing.

  Perhaps I should have realized something was wrong, but it had been so long since Mozelle had been a normal part of family life that her absence at meals or her long recovery did not seem peculiar. I popped in for a wave or to bring her an especially lush flower from the garden or to tell her how sweet the baby looked sleeping, without noticing how weak she actually was. Since the heat was as awful as ever, nobody was lively, and her sweating and prostration seemed normal to me.

  Only when the Raymond carriage pulled up the semicircular driveway did I feel the first frisson of fear. I rushed to greet them in the front hall. “I'm so glad you have come to see Ruby. I will never tell Papa, I promise.”

  Grandfather Raymond was walking with a cane, supported by Dr. Hyam. “You may tell your f-f-father anything you l-l-like,” he stuttered.

  “Wait till you see her. She is the biggest baby ever.”

  Nani's eyes lifted over my head and met Dr. Hyam's sharp gaze.

  “Come, take me to the nursery, Dinah,” she said while indicating the men should follow Selima to Mozelle's bedroom.

  “Aren't you coining, Nana?”

  “Later. I must see to M-Mozelle.”

  I proudly showed off Ruby, who lay on her tummy, her tiny rump poking up under several layers of netting. “She's sleeping.”

  Nani unfurled Ruby's tiny hand and placed a silver rupee in her palm. The sleeping infant clasped it.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It s a charm against the evil eye.”

  “Shall I take you to Mozelle now?”

  “Not just yet, Dinah. Let's have a glass of lassi.” Turning, she handed me the cool rosewater-and-yogurt drink that was waiting for us on a brass tray.

  I pushed it away, for the tension in her voice had terrified me. I flung my arms around her wide waist and held on fast. “Why did you come?”

  “To see what could be done for poor Mozelle.”

  “What is wrong with Mozelle?”

  “She has not recovered from the baby as well as she might. You know that.”

  “She's just tired,” I prot
ested, clutching at her even more tightly. When Grandmother Flora did not push me away, when she did not say I was being a silly girl, I knew that Mozelle was going to die.

  Mozelle never rose from her bed. Racked with childbed fever, she was beyond the help of Dr. Hyam or Grandfather or any of the specialists they brought in. She was buried ten days after she had given birth.

  The period of mourning for her had barely passed when I was told my grandfather had died in his sleep. Numbed by the birth and the events that culminated in losing my little mother, Nana's passing was but one more misery I added to my list.

  10

  What did I ever do to deserve two mothers-in-law? Promise me you shall never join the conspiracy of women who plague me,” Papa said a few weeks after his return home. We were walking in the gardens, which were more elaborate since Grandmother Helene had had them replanted to her specifications.

  I would have promised him anything if I had understood his request. Everything was so confusing. Everybody had been behaving differently from the way I had expected. I had dreaded Papa's return, thinking there would be a tumult similar to the aftermath of my mother's death. Why was he so composed? Was a natural death less upsetting than a murder? Or was it because my father had been with Mozelle such a short time that his attachment was less than to his first wife? Was this the conspiracy he meant? Was he asking me never to grow up, never to leave him in life—or in death?

  “You aren't angry with me, are you?” I asked.

  He laughed lightly. “Should I be?”

  “No.”

  “You shouldn't be angry with Grandmother Helene either,” I said seriously.

  “I'm not.-1 was joking before.”

  “But Aunt Bellore and the other Sassoons are.”

  He ruffled my hair. “They were for a time, but they aren't anymore.”

  I bit my lip as I thought about the confusion during the four months before he had returned. It had started when the Arakies gathered at Theatre Road to console Grandmother Helene. For weeks the tables sagged under the elaborate platters that were set out noon and night for the Arakies' large circle of family and friends. I kept my ears open for any news that might affect me.