Jeannie wakes up when A. comes back. He has brought a paper, some detective novels for Jeannie, and a bottle of Scotch for himself. A. reads the paper and drinks Scotch, and Jeannie reads Poirot’s Early Cases. There is no connection between Poirot and her labour, which is now intensifying, unless it is the egg-shape of Poirot’s head and the vegetable marrows he is known to cultivate with strands of wet wool (placentae? umbilical cords?). She is glad the stories are short; she is walking around the room now, between contractions. Lunch was definitely a mistake.
“I think I have back labour,” she says to A. They get out the handbook and look up the instructions for this. It’s useful that everything has a name. Jeannie kneels on the bed and rests her forehead on her arms while A. rubs her back. A. pours himself another scotch, in the hospital glass. The nurse, in pink, comes, looks, asks about the timing, and goes away again. Jeannie is beginning to sweat. She can only manage half a page or so of Poirot before she has to clamber back up on the bed again and begin breathing and running through the coloured numbers.
When the nurse comes back, she has a wheelchair. It’s time to go down to the labour room, she says. Jeannie feels stupid sitting in the wheelchair. She tells herself about peasant women having babies in the fields, Indian women having them on portages with hardly a second thought. She feels effete. But the hospital wants her to ride, and considering the fact that the nurse is tiny, perhaps it’s just as well. What if Jeannie were to collapse, after all? After all her courageous talk. An image of the tiny pink nurse, ant-like, trundling large Jeannie through the corridors, rolling her along like a heavy beachball.
As they go by the check-in desk a woman is wheeled past on a table, covered by a sheet. Her eyes are closed and there’s a bottle feeding into her arm through a tube. Something is wrong. Jeannie looks back – she thinks it was the other woman – but the sheeted table is hidden now behind the counter.
In the dim labour room Jeannie takes off her dressing gown and is helped up onto the bed by the nurse. A. brings her suitcase, which is not a suitcase actually but a small flight bag; the significance of this has not been lost on Jeannie, and in fact she now has some of the apprehensive feelings she associates with planes, including the fear of a crash. She takes out her LifeSavers, her glasses, her washcloth and the other things she thinks she will need. She removes her contact lenses and places them in their case, reminding A. that they must not be lost. Now she is purblind.
There is something else in her bag that she doesn’t remove. It’s a talisman, given to her several years ago as a souvenir by a travelling friend of hers. It’s a rounded oblong of opaque blue glass, with four yellow and white eye shapes on it. In Turkey, her friend has told her, they hang them on mules to protect against the Evil Eye. Jeannie knows this talisman probably won’t work for her, she is not Turkish and she isn’t a mule, but it makes her feel safer to have it in the room with her. She had planned to hold it in her hand during the most difficult part of labour but somehow there is no longer any time for carrying out plans like this.
An old woman, a fat old woman dressed all in green, comes into the room and sits beside Jeannie. She says to A., who is sitting on the other side of Jeannie, “That is a good watch. They don’t make watches like that any more.” She is referring to his gold pocket watch, one of his few extravagances, which is on the night table. Then she places her hand on Jeannie’s belly to feel the contraction. “This is good,” she says; her accent is Swedish or German. “This, I call a contraction. Before, it was nothing.” Jeannie can no longer remember having seen her before. “Good. Good.”
“When will I have it?” Jeannie asks, when she can talk, when she is no longer counting.
The old woman laughs. Surely that laugh, those tribal hands, have presided over a thousand beds, a thousand kitchen tables … “A long time yet,” she says. “Eight, ten hours.”
“But I’ve been doing this for twelve hours already,” Jeannie says.
“Not hard labour,” the woman says. “Not good, like this.”
Jeannie settles into herself for the long wait. At the moment she can’t remember why she wanted to have a baby in the first place. That decision was made by someone else, whose motives are now unclear. She remembers the way women who had babies used to smile at one another, mysteriously, as if there was something they knew that she didn’t, the way they would casually exclude her from their frame of reference. What was the knowledge, the mystery, or was having a baby really no more inexplicable than having a car accident or an orgasm? (But these too were indescribable, events of the body, all of them; why should the mind distress itself trying to find a language for them?) She has sworn she will never do that to any woman without children, engage in those passwords and exclusions. She’s old enough, she’s been put through enough years of it to find it tiresome and cruel.
But – and this is the part of Jeannie that goes with the talisman hidden in her bag, not with the part that longs to build kitchen cabinets and smoke hams – she is, secretly, hoping for a mystery. Something more than this, something else, a vision. After all she is risking her life, though it’s not too likely she will die. Still, some women do. Internal bleeding, shock, heart failure, a mistake on the part of someone, a nurse, a doctor. She deserves a vision, she deserves to be allowed to bring something back with her from this dark place into which she is now rapidly descending.
She thinks momentarily about the other woman. Her motives, too, are unclear. Why doesn’t she want to have a baby? Has she been raped, does she have ten other children, is she starving? Why hasn’t she had an abortion? Jeannie doesn’t know, and in fact it no longer matters why. Uncross your fingers, Jeannie thinks to her. Her face, distorted with pain and terror, floats briefly behind Jeannie’s eyes before it too drifts away.
Jeannie tries to reach down to the baby, as she has many times before, sending waves of love, colour, music, down through her arteries to it, but she finds she can no longer do this. She can no longer feel the baby as a baby, its arms and legs poking, kicking, turning. It has collected itself together, it’s a hard sphere, it does not have time right now to listen to her. She’s grateful for this because she isn’t sure anyway how good the message would be. She no longer has control of the numbers either, she can no longer see them, although she continues mechanically to count. She realizes she has practised for the wrong thing, A. squeezing her knee was nothing, she should have practised for this, whatever it is.
“Slow down,” A. says. She’s on her side now, he’s holding her hand. “Slow it right down.”
“I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.”
“Will I sound like that?”
“Like what?” A. says. Perhaps he can’t hear it: it’s the other woman, in the room next door or the room next door to that. She’s screaming and crying, screaming and crying. While she cries she is saying, over and over, “It hurts. It hurts.”
“No, you won’t,” he says. So there is someone, after all.
A doctor comes in, not her own doctor. They want her to turn over on her back.
“I can’t,” she says. “I don’t like it that way.” Sounds have receded, she has trouble hearing them. She turns over and the doctor gropes with her rubber-gloved hand. Something wet and hot flows over her thighs.
“It was just ready to break,” the doctor says. “All I had to do was touch it. Four centimetres,” she says to A.
“Only four?” Jeannie says. She feels cheated; they must be wrong. The doctor says her own doctor will be called in time. Jeannie is outraged at them. They have not understood, but it’s too late to say this and she slips back into the dark place, which is not hell, which is more like being inside, trying to get out. Out, she says or thinks. Then she is floating, the numbers are gone, if anyone told her to get up, go out of the room, stand on her head, she would do it. From minute to minute she comes up again, grabs for air.
“You’re hyperventilating,” A. says. “Slow it do
wn.” He is rubbing her back now, hard, and she takes his hand and shoves it viciously farther down, to the right place, which is not the right place as soon as his hand is there. She remembers a story she read once, about the Nazis tying the legs of Jewish women together during labour. She never really understood before how that could kill you.
A nurse appears with a needle. “I don’t want it,” Jeannie says.
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” the nurse says. “You don’t have to go through pain like that.” What pain? Jeannie thinks. When there is no pain she feels nothing, when there is pain, she feels nothing because there is no she. This, finally, is the disappearance of language. You don’t remember afterwards, she has been told by almost everyone.
Jeannie comes out of a contraction, gropes for control. “Will it hurt the baby?” she says.
“It’s a mild analgesic,” the doctor says. “We wouldn’t allow anything that would hurt the baby.” Jeannie doesn’t believe this. Nevertheless she is jabbed, and the doctor is right, it is very mild, because it doesn’t seem to do a thing for Jeannie, though A. later tells her she has slept briefly between contractions.
Suddenly she sits bolt upright. She is wide awake and lucid. “You have to ring that bell right now,” she says. “This baby is being born.”
A. clearly doesn’t believe her. “I can feel it, I can feel the head,” she says. A. pushes the button for the call bell. A nurse appears and checks, and now everything is happening too soon, nobody is ready. They set off down the hall, the nurse wheeling. Jeannie feels fine. She watches the corridors, the edges of everything shadowy because she doesn’t have her glasses on. She hopes A. will remember to bring them. They pass another doctor.
“Need me?” she asks.
“Oh no,” the nurse answers breezily. “Natural childbirth.”
Jeannie realizes that this woman must have been the anaesthetist. “What?” she says, but it’s too late now, they are in the room itself, all those glossy surfaces, tubular strange apparatus like a science fiction movie, and the nurse is telling her to get onto the delivery table. No one else is in the room.
“You must be crazy,” Jeannie says.
“Don’t push,” the nurse says.
“What do you mean?” Jeannie says. This is absurd. Why should she wait, why should the baby wait for them because they’re late?
“Breathe through your mouth,” the nurse says. “Pant,” and Jeannie finally remembers how. When the contraction is over she uses the nurse’s arm as a lever and hauls herself across onto the table.
From somewhere her own doctor materializes, in her doctor suit already, looking even more like Mary Poppins than usual, and Jeannie says, “Bet you weren’t expecting to see me so soon!” The baby is being born when Jeannie said it would, though just three days ago the doctor said it would be at least another week, and this makes Jeannie feel jubilant and smug. Not that she knew, she’d believed the doctor.
She’s being covered with a green tablecloth, they are taking far too long, she feels like pushing the baby out now, before they are ready. A. is there by her head, swathed in robes, hats, masks. He has forgotten her glasses. “Push now,” the doctor says. Jeannie grips with her hands, grits her teeth, face, her whole body together, a snarl, a fierce smile, the baby is enormous, a stone, a boulder, her bones unlock, and, once, twice, the third time, she opens like a birdcage turning slowly inside out.
A pause; a wet kitten slithers between her legs. “Why don’t you look?” says the doctor, but Jeannie still has her eyes closed. No glasses, she couldn’t have seen a thing anyway. “Why don’t you look?” the doctor says again.
Jeannie opens her eyes. She can see the baby, who has been wheeled up beside her and is fading already from the alarming birth purple. A good baby, she thinks, meaning it as the old woman did: a good watch, well-made, substantial. The baby isn’t crying; she squints in the new light. Birth isn’t something that has been given to her, nor has she taken it. It was just something that has happened so they could greet each other like this. The nurse is stringing beads for her name. When the baby is bundled and tucked beside Jeannie, she goes to sleep.
As for the vision, there wasn’t one. Jeannie is conscious of no special knowledge; already she’s forgetting what it was like. She’s tired and very cold; she is shaking, and asks for another blanket. A. comes back to the room with her; her clothes are still there. Everything is quiet, the other woman is no longer screaming. Something has happened to her, Jeannie knows, Is she dead? Is the baby dead? Perhaps she is one of those casualties (and how can Jeannie herself be sure, yet, that she will not be among them) who will go into postpartum depression and never come out. “You see, there was nothing to be afraid of,” A. says before he leaves, but he was wrong.
The next morning Jeannie wakes up when it’s light. She’s been warned about getting out of bed the first time without the help of a nurse, but she decides to do it anyway (peasant in the field! Indian on the portage!). She’s still running on adrenalin; she’s also weaker than she thought, but she wants very much to look out the window. She feels she’s been inside too long, she wants to see the sun come up. Being awake this early always makes her feel a little unreal, a little insubstantial, as if she’s partly transparent, partly dead.
(It was to me, after all, that the birth was given, Jeannie gave it, I am the result. What would she make of me? Would she be pleased?)
The window is two panes with a Venetian blind sandwiched between them; it turns by a knob at the side. Jeannie has never seen a window like this before. She closes and opens the blind several times. Then she leaves it open and looks out.
All she can see from the window is a building. It’s an old stone building, heavy and Victorian, with a copper roof oxidized to green. It’s solid, hard, darkened by soot, dour, leaden. But as she looks at this building, so old and seemingly immutable, she sees that it’s made of water. Water, and some tenuous jellylike substance. Light flows through it from behind (the sun is coming up), the building is so thin, so fragile, that it quivers in the slight dawn wind. Jeannie sees that if the building is this way (a touch could destroy it, a ripple of the earth, why has no one noticed, guarded it against accidents?) then the rest of the world must be like this too, the entire earth, the rocks, people, trees, everything needs to be protected, cared for, tended. The enormity of this task defeats her; she will never be up to it, and what will happen then?
Jeannie hears footsteps in the hall outside her door. She thinks it must be the other woman, in her brown and maroon checked coat, carrying her paper bag, leaving the hospital now that her job is done. She has seen Jeannie safely through, she must go now to hunt through the streets of the city for her next case. But the door opens, it’s only a nurse, who is just in time to catch Jeannie as she sinks to the floor, holding onto the edge of the air-conditioning unit. The nurse scolds her for getting up too soon.
After that the baby is carried in, solid, substantial, packed together like an apple. Jeannie examines her, she is complete, and in the days that follow Jeannie herself becomes drifted over with new words, her hair slowly darkens, she ceases to be what she was and is replaced, gradually, by someone else.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The following stories were previously published:
TITLE PUBLISHED BY
The War in the Bathroom Alphabet
The Man from Mars Ontario Review
Polarities Tamarack Review
Rape Fantasies Fiddlehead; Toronto Life
Under Glass Harper’s
The Grave of the Famous Poet Oberon Press
Hair Jewellery Ms Magazine
When It Happens Chatelaine
A Travel Piece Saturday Night
The Resplendent Quetzal The Malahat Review
Lives of the Poets Saturday Night
Margaret Atwood was born in Ottawa in 1939, and grew up in northern Quebec and Ontario, and later in Toronto. She has lived in numerous cities in Canada, the U.S., and Europe.
&
nbsp; She is the author of more than twenty-five books – novels, short stories, poetry, literary criticism, social history, and books for children.
Atwood’s work is acclaimed internationally and has been published around the world. She has won many awards, including the Governor General’s Award, the Trillium Book Award, the City of Toronto Book Award, and the Canadian Authors Association Award. Her most recent novel, Alias Grace, won the prestigious Giller Prize in Canada and the Premio Mondello in Italy. She is the recipient of numerous honours, such as The Sunday Times Award for Literary Excellence in the U.K., the National Arts Club Medal of Honor for Literature in the U.S., and Le Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in France. She has received honorary degrees from universities across Canada, and, most recently, from Oxford University in England.
Margaret Atwood lives in Toronto with novelist Graeme Gibson.
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