“No, you’re not.” I saw blood seeping out between her thighs.
“God have mercy …”
“Stand up!”
“I can’t! Non ce la posso fare.”
“I’ll help you!”
“How?”
I knelt, facing away from her, next to the bed. “Here, lean on my back.”
Using me as a crutch, she hoisted herself to a seated position on the edge of the bed. Then I slowly rose, letting her lean on me all the way up. As soon as we were both standing, she came around in front of me, hugging me with her arms around my waist and resting her head on my chest. The bed was against the back of my knees. At least it would break my fall if I buckled under her weight. She pressed up against me, wet with sweat and blood. “There. Good. Is that better?” I asked.
She groaned in response. Now what? Where was that damn doctor? Continuing to moan, she rocked from side to side, and I rocked with her in a strange kind of dance. She was heavy, like deadweight. Supporting her took all my strength.
Her moaning stopped. Something shifted. She lifted her head, her face tensed up, and her fingers dug into my back so hard that I felt the edges of her nails straight through my wrapper. “It’s starting again,” she said, on the edge of hysteria. “I have to push.”
“All right,” I said, recalling something else Tessie had told me. “When you push, pretend you’re using the toilet.” Angelina didn’t reply. “Pretend you’re … you know …”
“What?”
“As if you’re …” I heard Tessie’s vulgar word “crap” in my mind but couldn’t force myself to utter it. I settled on the phrase I’d heard that man use at Mrs. Craven’s. “You know … as if you’re having a number two.” Whether Angelina had heard it before, the meaning was obvious enough.
“You’ve gone mad.”
“I have it on the best authority.”
The water began to boil. How would I turn it off? Another idea occurred to me. “And you ought to squat. That’s supposed to help.” Didn’t Tessie say that? In any case, I couldn’t hold her up much longer. “I’m going to help you down.”
I lowered myself, and she came along for the ride, leaning on me until I was sitting on the edge of the bed and her head was cradled on my lap. Knees on the floor, thighs open wide, she groaned with what I hoped was some relief mixed in with the pain. “Ohhhhhhhh …”
Nice as it was to be sitting, I knew I was on the wrong end of where I needed to be to help. So I lifted her head from my lap and slid out from under her. By now the water was boiling furiously, so I ran to turn off the flame. “When the next contraction comes, you ought to push … you know … like I said.”
She rested her forehead on the mattress and splayed her arms on the bed for support. Her groaning turned into grunts. Actual grunting, like a pig or a hog or a sow.
“Good! That’s good!” This seemed more promising. “Give the baby room … let gravity help her down!”
I hiked up her nightgown to get it out of the way. No time for prudery now—least of all my own. At any rate, she didn’t appear to notice. The grunting got louder. Her face was convulsed and twisted in pure effort and agony, so red that she practically turned purple. I realized I had to stop gawking in case the baby should come out, so I knelt on the floor behind her. What happened next filled me with fascination and horror. The entire head of the baby popped out and hung down between her legs.
“It’s out!” I yelled. “The head is out! Completely out!”
She sobbed with misery from the effort.
I cupped my hands underneath the dangling head. “The baby is coming!”
But it quickly became clear that the baby wasn’t coming. It was stuck there with the head outside and the body inside. Angelina screamed as the pain got even worse.
My god. What now? Shoulders were wider than heads. How would she ever get it out? Should I pull on it? Reach inside? Try to turn it? I was afraid to, and my hands weren’t sterilized, and what if I was only helping her to die? “Keep pushing, you’re nearly done!” I said, praying I was right. “Keep pushing as hard as you can!”
She grunted and pushed. I couldn’t believe she still had the strength. Blood seeped out around the head. Her skin must have been tearing, but the baby remained lodged in place.
She began to sob. The contraction must’ve eased off. She rested her cheek on the mattress. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do it. Non ce la posso fare.”
“You mustn’t say that. You can’t give up.”
“I’m done for. Too weak. You must save the baby. Forget about me.”
“Don’t talk like this.”
“Before the baby dies, too! Whatever you have to do, just let it be born.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Angelina.” I began to cry. “Please …”
She opened her eyes wide but appeared not to see. “Promise you’ll take care of my baby.”
“I’ll take care of both of you.”
“Don’t tell my family. I beg of you. They’ll never accept it.”
“Stop talking like this!”
“It’s starting again.” Her head lifted as the contraction wracked her body. “It hurts!” Her voice rose in a frenzied panic. “It hurts! I don’t know what to do! What should I do!” She let out a full-throttled wail of pain.
“Push!” I yelled, hysterical myself. “Push as hard as you can! As if a ten-ton piece of crap is in there and you’re gonna get that damn thing out no matter what!” The words tumbled out as if another being spoke through me.
From somewhere deep inside—or perhaps from the shock of hearing me be so vulgar—Angelina managed to quiet down and take a few breaths. Then she heaved in a mouthful of air as if about to swim to the bottom of the ocean, squeezed her entire face, gritted her teeth, and bore down so hard that I thought the veins in her neck would explode. That was when her body turned into something else: an extraordinary piece of equipment; a machine with the express purpose of using every ounce of strength to get that baby out. Angelina lifted her head, braced her forearms on the bed, and made a low guttural sound. I watched in silent wonder as one shoulder popped out and then the other. Realizing I needed to catch the little creature emerging from her body before it landed on the floor, I reached out just as it slithered out in a glistening, bloody mess and plopped into my waiting hands.
“It’s out!” I yelled. “The baby! It’s in my hands!”
Angelina let herself collapse over the side of the bed to catch her breath. I sat on the floor and held the slimy, shriveled, tiny human being attached to that pulsating red cord. Blood seeped through my fingers and onto the floor.
“Is it a girl?” Angelina asked.
“I’d say so.”
“Thank god.”
AMANDA
AFTER TURNING OFF the kettle, I stood there, flabbergasted. What an insane dream. It seemed to go on forever. Had I gone up to the roof and seen Olive? No, of course not, but it sure felt that way—as if I’d actually spoken with her and sent her down to this room to help Angelina.
It certainly could’ve been Angelina’s apartment, and Jane Kelly might very well have been born in this room. Joe would’ve lived next door. Olive’s cot would’ve been next to the window. Did she stare across the street at those very tenements? If I scraped off decades of paint on the wall, would I find Angelina’s wallpaper?
Had I been the kind of person who believed in dead spirits, I would’ve thought some were floating around my apartment. Since I wasn’t, I grabbed my cell phone and called Dr. Markoff. Much more likely, his little hypnosis trick had screwed with my brain.
His voice mail answered, so I left a message asking him to call back. Since it was Saturday, I wondered if he’d bother to return my call until Monday. I wanted answers now.
There was nothing to do but finish the journal. Right when I found my place, the phone rang, scaring the hell out of me, but it was just Dr. Markoff.
“How did you sleep last night?”
“Lousy—and the night before that was lousy too. After listening to your tape, I saw four Fred Astaire movies in a row. I can’t remember the last good night’s sleep I’ve had.”
“That explains it. You’ve been short on sleep a long time. Your mind is playing tricks on you, but not from the hypnotic trance. You’re probably suffering from sleep deprivation or REM behavior disorder.”
“What?”
“A type of parasomnia. The lack of sleep can lead to nightmares, lucid dreams; it’s as if your sleeping and waking worlds have collided. How do you feel right now?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“See if you can stay up until the evening, and then I’d like you to take some medication to help you sleep tonight. Do you have the number of a pharmacy?”
I was finally getting some pills? “Yes,” I said.
“I’ll phone in a prescription for Klonopin. It’s an anti-anxiety medication that should help you relax—it’s often used off-label for sleep conditions like this.”
Should a doctor I barely knew be prescribing me a sedative? Hadn’t he warned me about their addictive qualities?
“I’m only prescribing three tablets,” he continued. “Take one at night just before going to sleep.”
Three pills? So much for my future stay in rehab. “Okay.”
“If you’re still experiencing symptoms, I want you to come see me on Monday. But my guess is that after having one good night’s sleep, you’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. Thanks.”
After we hung up, I went straight back to the journal. Nothing was going to stop me from finishing now.
OLIVE
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, where is Dr. Singer?” Angelina said, dragging herself to the bed.
I followed, holding the crying baby—still attached by the cord—and set it down gently next to her. “On his way, I suppose.”
Utterly done in, I sank down to the floor, lay flat on my back, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Olive, aren’t we supposed to cut the cord?”
I thought about that for a moment. It wasn’t an appealing proposition. “I don’t know.”
“I think it said we should in that pamphlet.”
I did not want to slice through that red pulsating thing—or get up off the floor, for that matter.
“Maybe it said you shouldn’t cut it,” she added. “I don’t remember.”
“Where is that pamphlet?”
“The last time I saw it, Sadie was on your cot paging through it while snickering over the illustrations.”
I enjoyed one more moment on the floor and then forced myself to stand up. As I searched through a mess of papers that had accumulated on my trunk, someone pounded on the door. I opened it and Dr. Singer burst in. “Sorry!” he said, rushing across the room and rolling up his sleeves. “Got stuck in traffic and ended up running the rest of the way.”
Angelina had said he was young, and I’d enjoyed imagining him as tall, dark, and handsome. As it was, the doctor stood at least a foot shorter than I did. He did have dark hair.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said, allowing only a subtle hint of sarcasm to color my voice.
“Too many people in this city,” he said, rubbing his spectacles clean with a handkerchief. “Now what do we have here?” He finally noticed. “Oh. We have a baby. Well, congratulations. Seems most of my work has already been done. I’ll just need to cut the cord and deliver the placenta.”
Angelina nodded in agreement and stared up at him with a serene smile. One would think she’d just spent the past hour at a spa. I, on the other hand, felt ready for a sanitarium. “Can I be of any assistance, Doctor? I boiled some water, as you asked.”
“Excellent,” he said, opening his medical bag. “That’s all I need. You did fine. More than you bargained for, I’m sure.”
While Angelina suffered through his final ministrations, I set about my own toilet, rushing to the water closet and then ducking behind the pink sheet to shed my soggy, stained clothes. He was finishing up when I emerged in a fresh housedress.
“Everything looks as good as one can expect,” he was telling Angelina. “Just as you predicted, your body was made for childbirth, like your mother. Did she have a history of delivering early?”
Angelina shrugged. “Early, late, right on time …”
“And have you chosen a name?”
“I’m thinking about the name Jane.” She looked at me.
I hadn’t expected this. “Angelina, are you sure?”
“If it’s all right with you.”
“Of course. That would be wonderful.” I whispered my thanks.
“Some bleeding will continue for the next day or two,” said Dr. Singer. “You’ll need to rest as much as possible and let yourself heal. Have you any sanitary napkins?”
“Yes. Olive, could you? In my dresser, bottom drawer. In the back.”
“Of course.” I knelt in front of her bureau, moved aside a union suit and cotton vests, and found the pads and belt, along with something else she’d stashed away: a small cardboard box labeled RING PESSARY.
Dr. Singer was advising Angelina on how to nurse, so I took a look. Inside the box was an odd round object with a wire rim and a rubber pouch. There was also a piece of paper folded up inside with a doctor’s name and address printed on top. Ernest Litwack, MD, 100 Fifth Avenue, New York City. He’d written instructions explaining how the wire ring folded so it could slide inside, then unfolded to lodge in place. Afterward she was to inject a mixture of water and carbolic acid with a syringe.
If only there were a way to use this as proof that Mr. Vogel was the father rather than proof for why he wasn’t.
“As long as you nurse,” Dr. Singer was saying, “your monthly won’t return. But don’t assume you can’t get pregnant. Stranger things have happened.”
Angelina winced. “Don’t worry. That’s the last activity I’ll be interested in.”
Indeed, the events of the morning had convinced me I’d be perfectly delighted to become a childless old maid.
I put away the pessary and delivered the belt and napkin to Angelina. She accepted them without enthusiasm. “Sure was nice to forget about these for a while.”
Dr. Singer helped Angelina rise from the bed. “You’re very swollen. Don’t be surprised if it takes a while to empty your bladder.”
While he helped her down the hallway, I hoped the baby would stay asleep. I wanted to take advantage of the interlude to speak privately with Dr. Singer. When he returned, I apologized for being a terrible host and offered him some tea. “Please do sit down. You must be exhausted after racing all the way here.”
“You’re the one who did the brunt of the work,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “Good thing she has you here to help.”
I sat opposite him. “I’ll be moving out soon, and I have to work very long hours, so she’s hired a girl to come in. I don’t know how long she’ll be able to afford that, though. It’s a shame, because the father of the baby is wealthy, but he refused to take responsibility. I wish there were a way to prove his paternity.”
“Someday that may be possible. We have a lot to learn about the science of human reproduction.”
“I have a question along those lines, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Of course.”
“I read in a book written by a medical doctor that women are most likely to conceive on the days just before and after their monthly. Angelina was told that’s the least fertile time. Can you tel
l me which version is true?”
I never would’ve believed I could engage in such a frank discussion with a man, even a doctor, but after what I’d just witnessed, it seemed perfectly natural.
“Most scientists now agree that midcycle, fourteen days after menstruation commences, is the most likely time for conception to take place.”
“The most likely. Not the least?”
“Correct.”
“So my source was wrong.” I stared out the window, thinking how easily I could’ve been the pregnant one. I would’ve lost my job, suffered the humiliation of being judged, endured the agony of birth and the uncertainty of its outcome.
Though it was possible that Dr. Singer had it wrong and Dr. Galbraith was right.
“However,” he added, “I should mention that you can’t narrow it down so definitely. It’s possible for the egg to become fertilized at any time of the month. The sperm can live up to a week in the woman.”
“Is that so? I don’t know why all this information can’t be readily available to women.”
“God knows it should be,” he said, shaking his head. “Too many people believe withdrawal is a reliable way to prevent pregnancy. I should have a word about that with your friend.”
“She knows all about that,” I said, “and she did take precautions.”
“I see. Condoms are usually fairly reliable, but there is no guarantee.”
“She used something else.” I retrieved the box from her drawer and handed it to him.
Upon opening it up, he shook his head. “For pity’s sake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is useless. Completely ineffective.”
“Are you sure? It was given to her by a doctor. His name is on that piece of paper.”
Dr. Singer looked. “Ernest Litwack. I know that old coot. Someone ought to make him retire.”
“He also gave her instructions for some sort of rinse.” I pointed to the other piece of paper in the box.
He read it and sighed. “That rinse is more likely to cause inflammation than anything else.”
“Really. How interesting.”
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