The Birth House

by Ami McKay

  “If she’s sick, you need to take her to Dr. Thomas. I can’t help her.”

  “This little bitch? She’ll cost more to keep than she’s good for. No amount of money’s worth the trouble she’s caused.”

  The ragged wool scarf on her head fell down around her neck, showing that her tender face was bruised over one eye, that the corner of her mouth was swollen with blood. I put my arm around her to steady her. “Did he do this to you?”

  He began to make his way back to a dilapidated wagon on skids, pulled by a mismatched team of horses. “Damn right I give her that. Fix her or kill her, I don’t care.”

  I called after him, but he was already on his seat, whipping his team, his senseless muttering turned into song as the rig lurched down the road.

  We were so happy ’til father drank rum

  Then all our sorrows and troubles begun…

  The girl’s body slumped heavy against mine. She was crying now, moaning with pain. Precious stood behind me, staring, waiting. “Set the rocker by the stove in the kitchen. Let’s see if we can get her to sit up,” I said.

  Precious moved quickly, her hands shaking as she dragged Miss B.’s heavy oak chair across the floor. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Here, help me get these wraps off of her.”

  A jumble of patchwork pieces, coat remnants and old blankets surrounded her sobbing, frightened body. “Can you tell me what’s the matter, dear?” I whispered gently, hoping to coax her into telling me what had happened. She bent her head into her chest and clutched her arms around her belly. The weeping became a long, tortured wail. I slipped my hand under the remaining blankets. Her middle was tense, knotted with contractions. Precious stood near, whispering in my ear.

  “I know this girl. Iris Rose Ketch. She lives on the mountain. Mother says her father hires her out, sells her body, for money.”

  How long had it been since I’d seen her tired, little-girl face worrying over her mother at Deer Glen? A year? No, more than that. It was autumn, my first birth with Miss B., when I’d seen those same wide eyes, watching through a crooked staircase, waiting for a miracle. This child, who’d been set aside by a mother who was always short on food, clothing and love, wasn’t long from becoming a mother herself.

  I knelt at her feet. “You’re safe here, Iris Rose. I’ll take care of you now.”

  Frightened and breathless, Precious was quick to offer to fetch Aunt Fran. “Please, Dora. I’ll bring her right back. Let me go get my mum.”

  There’s been talk going around the circle of card-party girls of a “midwife curse,” or a witch’s mark that’s been passed from Miss B. to me. According to this tale, I can blame the curse for driving my husband away and leaving me barren. Any girl who is unmarried is liable to “catch it” if she drinks my tea, walks through my door, sits at my kitchen table, sits next to me at church, touches wool that I’ve spun, eats food I’ve prepared and so on. On other occasions, Precious and I have laughed over the thought of it, settling on the idea that she was free from the curse by virtue of loving me. Now she was looking as if she wanted to run out the door, as if witnessing a birth by my side was the one thing that might do her in. The longer words spill around, gettin’ caught between knittin’ needles or clothespins, the easier it is to believe them, even when you know you shouldn’t.

  “I’ll go get Mother. She’ll know what to do.”

  “No, Precious. I need you to stay here. I’ll open the doors to the bedroom off the kitchen and get it warmed up in there. You run upstairs and get a dressing gown from my wardrobe and as many sheets as you can carry out of the linen closet.” Iris Rose sat trembling in the rocking chair. I took her hand in mine. “You’re in the eye of the storm, dear; try to relax when you can—we have some work ahead of us.”

  I dressed her in a clean, white gown and helped her onto the bed. Precious flitted around the kitchen, putting the kettle on for tea, tearing sheets into strips, lining a basket with lamb’s wool and flannel. Iris Rose fell in and out of a restless sleep, weary from the pain that took hold of her body every few minutes.

  Scissors, needles, sewin’ cotton, crochet hooks, scorched muslin. Calendula salve, peroxide, cayenne, witch hazel bark, castor oil, ergot, Jayes Fluid, Stop Bleed, Mother’s Tea. Mandrake root—balm of the bruised woman. Stand with your back to the wind. Draw three circles, clockwise, around the plant with a knife. Douse it with Mary Water. Turn west to uproot. Salve nos, Stella Maris. Save us, Star of the Sea.

  Iris Rose wailed as another wave of pain swept over her body.

  “It’s almost time to bear down and bring your baby into the world. During the next calm, I’ll help you get on your knees.” I pulled a chair from the kitchen table. “We’ll put this chair in front of you so you’ll have something to hold on to…Precious, slide that quilt underneath her legs so it’s right soft when I catch the baby.”

  The clock on the mantel in the parlour struck twelve times when we started. At two she was still struggling, practically faint from exhaustion. Soon, mother and child would be in danger. “Precious, get me the crow’s wing from over the door, then fetch the cayenne pepper off the table.”

  Quilling was something Miss B. had told me about but I had never witnessed, let alone practised. She said she learned it from what was left of the Chitimacha Indians who lived near the Atchafalaya Swamp. Her face will done turn red and hot, and she’ll think her head’s on fire, but when she lets it go, she lets the babe go too. Sometime it’s the only way. Porcépic quills is best, but crow or even a gull’s feather’ll do.

  Precious watched as I pulled a feather from the wing and scraped the quill clean. I dipped the end of the quill into the pepper, its redness filling the hollow tip. I held the quill close to Iris Rose’s face, gently brushing her cheek as I explained, “Hold steady; as soon as we feel the next surge, I’m going to blow. This should do the trick.”

  She was too weak to respond. Her fingernails clawed into the ladder of the chair, anticipating her pain. With a shot of breath the pepper flew through the quill and into her nose. Her eyes widened as her face turned scarlet. A violent episode of sneezing caused her body to thrust and heave, her voice wailing with tears and half-words. Cryin’ like she’d got the Lord, like a repentant, glory-be soul bringin’ the Spirit straight down from heaven, Iris Rose delivered her baby into my waiting hands.

  Time of birth, 2:30 a.m.

  A baby girl.

  33

  Every birth’s a lesson.

  I imagined all the care and love I would offer Iris Rose and her baby. Days of rest, clear soup, gruel, soft-boiled eggs and groaning cake. Days of a mother sleeping with her baby nestled soft against her breast. Days of talk, and singing and bliss. With Archer gone, there was more than enough room for at least a week of these days, nine or ten, maybe more if she wanted.

  She was thirteen.

  Whether it was her father, one of her brothers or some other man, this was not her doing.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

  Before the narcissus, before the pebble buttercups, before the wild rose, bleeding hearts and delphinium, she died…leaving silence in the wake. Summer will not warm her face again.

  The white cotton nightdress and the bedding surrounding her were soaked in blood. Her face had gone pale. I tore through the pages of the Willow Book, searching for something I might have missed. Salve nos, Stella Maris. Save us, Star of the Sea.

  When you see a woman who thinks prayin’ won’t do her no good, you know her blood’s gonna flow like a river. She can’t hang on to it. She’s had hope beaten right out of her. To ease childbirth and expel the placenta—basil, honey, nutmeg.

  The afterbirth had delivered as difficult as the child, and Iris Rose had little strength left for it. She was tired, inside and out, before the birthing even began. I had tried to get her to drink blackberry root tea laced with Mary’s Tears and Stop Bleed, but she spit it back at me as if I’d given her poison. I tried
to explain to her that it was for her own good, but she had already given her reason over to the pain. One minute she’d push me away, the next she’d cling to my neck, hanging on to me, crying, “Mama, Mama, help me. Mama.” A woman’s mind makes all the difference during a birth. She’s either with you, or she’s not. Heaven help her if she’s not.

  Precious tended to the newborn, swaddling her in flannel, then placing her in a laundry basket and setting her in the warm halo of the stove. She stood in the doorway, staring, watching Iris Rose struggle, her eyes wide with fear. I knew I’d have to keep her busy if I wanted her to stay calm. “Precious, I need you to go get a large bowl for the placenta and some fresh towels.”

  With the afterbirth came the blood. Slow at first, then steady and dark, pooling in my hands, through my fingers. Precious tugged on my arm, her voice quaking. “Is she going to die?”

  I gave her a stern look, hoping she would realize that, although Iris Rose was not responding to my coaxing, she could still hear what was being said. With a cheerful voice, I assigned Precious another chore. It was a simple task, one of Miss B.’s old tales, but I thought at least it might make her feel useful. “Let’s give the secundines their proper end. We have to ‘burn the blood away’ in a case like this.” I handed the bowl, now heavy with membrane and blood, to Precious. “Sprinkle coarse salt on the placenta, wrap it in newspaper and throw it in the fire. It helps slow her bleeding down.”

  While Precious was distracted with her task, I tried to get Iris Rose to drink more tea. She wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I put my hand on her belly, hoping to find that it had begun to tighten back into place, but it was boggy under my fingers, a sure sign that her womb was refusing to close. Unless her body puts an end to it, she’ll bleed ’til she’s dead. “I’ll have to push down your belly to try to stop the bleeding. Lie back and relax. Imagine your insides making a nice, firm fist.” You’ve got to start kneadin’ it, push away, hush away, Mother Mary bring it down, push away, hush away…

  She closed her eyes, her heartbeats slow and faint, then silent. I shook her, called out her name. Alls you can do is keep her safe until her angel come. I prayed to God, to Jesus, to Mary, to Miss B., making the sign of the cross all over her body, all over myself, but Iris Rose had given up long ago…before her baby’s first breath, before she was forced to my door, before the pain of birth had made her weep. She’d been hurting since the first time she was bruised by her father’s angry hand, since the day she learned to pretend at being innocent. Iris Rose had started her life with a soul that wanted to die.

  I took the needle jar out of the china cabinet. Holding a handful of sewing needles up to the lamplight, I chose the brightest one. I stood over her body, praying that she would be alive, wishing I didn’t have to force myself into what came next. Precious joined me for the morbid ritual.

  “I’ve never seen the dead needle before,” she whispered solemnly. “I guess you have to do it, just to be sure. My Grampy Jeffers said once that you could get the sleeping sickness, and if they didn’t needle ya, you might get buried alive. Sometimes it’s the only way to tell.”

  I nodded. I was sure Iris Rose was gone, but the needle would make things easier. If the story of her death somehow got out, got passed from house to house, questions would follow. We would all be held accountable unless I made sure. “If it’s tarnished, she’s alive; if it’s polished, she’s dead.” I pushed the needle into the softness of her arm, and then recovered it. There, in the palm of my bloodstained hand, it shone, silver-white.

  34

  I SENT PRECIOUS HOME at first light with strict instructions. “Go to Bertine Tupper’s and tell her that she and the other Occasional Knitters are needed at my house. And you mustn’t tell your mother any bit of what has happened.”

  Within an hour, every member of the O.K.S. had arrived. Once I explained the grim tale of Iris Rose’s death, we set to working out the details. Sadie and Ginny were both still letting down milk, and they were glad to share in nursing our dear little girl. My breasts feel weepy whenever I hold her. I even tried putting her to them while waiting for help, but there wasn’t enough of anything there to keep her happy for long.

  Sadie teased as she pulled up her blouse and held the child close. “The milkmaids of Scots Bay, at your service, my dear.”

  She can’t possibly know the relief I felt in seeing that child suckle, her face turning pink and content.

  Before long, Precious returned to the house, a large basket on her arm. “I told Mum you were feeling under the weather and needed company.” She gave me a sly wink. “Don’t worry, I explained it away as your having a slight cold, and that I suspected it was more of a case of you missing Archer than your needing medical attention.”

  I tried to turn her away at the door. “Maybe it would be best if you went back home. It was such a long night, you must be exhausted.”

  She pushed her way into the house. “Please, Dora, let me stay. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about everything that’s happened. Isn’t there something I can do to help? I could hold the baby, sing to her, make tea and biscuits. Even if I went home and marched straight to my room and fell asleep, which I’m certain I couldn’t, I’d probably start talking in my sleep and give it all away. You know how I’m prone to giving up secrets when I’m anxious.” She handed me the basket, tied an apron around her waist and began breaking eggs for brown bread. “Don’t forget to take a look at what I brought.”

  I sat in a chair and laid the contents of the basket on the kitchen table. Hidden under a layer of the Ladies’ Rural Companion was a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. When I pulled it open, I found a fine, delicate dress made of lavender silk and lace. It was Precious’s new Easter frock, shipped all the way from Eaton’s in Toronto. She’d only worn it once since it arrived, skimming through the pews at church, looking heartbroken and lovely as she bid Sam Gower farewell. Precious stroked the wide ribbon that had once been tied snug around her waist. “I want Iris Rose to have it. She should have a proper dress.” I turned my head and wept as Ginny held it up for everyone to admire. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”

  We pulled the sheets from the bed, the stained gown off her body, and cut them to pieces to be burned. Then we laid her out. I washed her, wiping the blood from her skin, watching the water turn red each time I rinsed the cloth in the basin.

  Precious helped to dress her and then sat by the edge of the bed, combing her hair in long, steady strokes. “Isn’t she beautiful, Dora? She’s like a princess going to a grand ball, or a bride with one more sleep before her wedding day.”

  Mabel picked what flowers she could find and made a bouquet for Iris Rose’s sweet, reverent hands to hold. Purple crocuses and star of Bethlehem, a few early tulips, branches of forsythia and pussy willow. “It seems like such a little thing to do, to give her beauty in death.”

  We swore as sisters to keep this a secret, a prayer tied to our hearts with half-blood knots. We cried, every one of us, whenever the baby cried. We sang tearful lullabies for mother and child. It wasn’t that we’d never had death in our lives, it was more that we’d all had too much of it.

  Bertine was brave enough to ask, “What can we do with her?”

  Mabel made a suggestion. “There’s the Ells family burial ground. No one goes there anymore. It won’t be too grown over this time of year.”

  Bertine shook her head. “We can’t get there without someone seeing, and even if we could, it was a long, cold winter, and the ground’s still pretty hard. It’d have to be a pretty shallow grave.”

  Ginny spoke quietly. “My granny died in early spring, so Father built a brush pile over her plot and let it burn until the ground was right soft.”

  Sadie interrupted her. “And everyone won’t come running when they see a bonfire?”

  “Oh,” Ginny replied.

  I stopped their bickering. “I have a place. But we’ll have to go after dark, and I’ll need help getting her there.”

&nbs
p; Precious and Ginny stayed behind to look after the baby. Bertine, Mabel, Sadie and I shrouded Iris Rose in a blanket, then bound her with sailcloth and rope and dragged her into the woods.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  Sadie laughed. “You feeling alright, Dora?”

  Can’t let no outside world touch Mary’s ground.

  “Here, bring her over by the tree. There’s room to put her body under it.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s some deep.”

  “Looks like she’s not the first to go down there.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Don’t say anything more. Just do what I ask.”

  In le jardin des morts, the garden of the dead, the garden of lost souls, they shall have their rest. Sweet, blessed rest. A home-goin’. A meetin’ with the angels.

  “Holy Mother, Star of the Sea, take this little soul with thee. Salve nos, Stella Maris. Save us, Mary. Save her, Darcy. Come and save her. Come and take your sister home.”

  Three days after Iris Rose’s death, I bundled the baby girl up and took her down to Deer Glen. Determined to do what was right, I went there thinking I would have to give her up. I had rehearsed what I would say: I’m so very sorry. There was nothing more I could do. At least we have a part of Iris Rose with us. As far as burying Iris Rose in the woods…there was nothing else to be done. It was more out of respect than secrecy since the Ketch’s couldn’t afford a proper gravestone, and the church has rules about who is and isn’t worthy to have their bodies rotting away in sacred ground. I could take you to the spot where we laid her if you like, so you can say a proper goodbye. None of my speeches ever came to pass. When I got to the loose, stuttering door, Brady Ketch was waiting, squinting at me with his hard, cruel eyes.

  “What you want?”

  “I came to see Mrs. Ketch.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s about Iris Rose.”

  “Ain’t never heard the name.”