to smile back, but the pain grew longer and more
severe.
"Take deep breaths," Mama advised.
"Is it coming? Is it coming?" Gladys asked,
excitedly.
"Not yet, no," Mama said. "I told you. I'm not
sure this is real labor yet, and besides, babies don't
come busting into this world that fast, especially when
a woman's giving birth for the first time."
"Yes," Gladys said, more to herself than to us.
"My first time."
She waddled over to her own bed and sat down,
her hands on her padded stomach. She closed her eyes
and bit down on her lower lip. Mama wiped my face
with a cold washcloth. I forced a smile and gazed at
Gladys, who looked like she was breaking into a
sweat herself. Watching her actions, her silent moans,
her deep breaths, distracted me from my own. pain for
the moment. Mama just shrugged and shook her head. Mama said the contractions were a good five
minutes apart and didn't last long enough to be that
significant yet, but it went on for hours. All the while Gladys Tate lay in her bed beside mine. She ate nothing, drank a little ice tea, but for the most part, just watched me and mimicked my every action, my
every groan.
As the sun began to go down and the room
darkened, my labor pains grew longer and with
shorter and shorter intervals. I saw from Mama's face
that she thought something significant was happening
now.
"I'm going to give birth soon, aren't 1, Mama?"
She nodded. "I believe so, honey."
"But it's too soon, isn't it, Mama? I'm barely
eight months."
She nodded, but made no comment. Worry and
concern were etched in the ripples along her forehead
and the darkness that entered her eyes. My heart
pounded. In fact, it had been beating so hard and so
fast for so long, I was worried it would just give out.
These thoughts brought more cold sweats. I squeezed
Mama's hand harder and she tried to keep me calm.
She gave me tablespoons of one of her herbal
medicines that kept me from getting nauseous. Gladys
Tate insisted on knowing what it was, and when
Mama explained it, Gladys insisted she be given
some.
"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,
Gabriel, 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.
"Gabriel. 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 pr
actically
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's 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.
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