The Birth House (26 page)

As much as I’d like to come home, I must stay in Boston for now. Maxine is holding on, but I cannot leave while she is confined to her bed.

Tell my mother not to worry. Charlie is fine, and I am somehow immune to this thing. Tell Wrennie I miss her terribly and her mommy’s coming home!

Will write soon,

Dora

˜ September 29, 1918

I’ve put bricks under the posts at the head of the bed and propped Maxine up with pillows. She’s still having trouble breathing, and the only time she stops coughing and seems to get any rest is when I distract her with stories of the Bay. She begs every day to hear more about my growing up in a house full of boys, my “scheming dead husband,” and Miss B.’s wise advice. Today it was the story of my dousing Dr. Thomas with molasses, followed by the death of Experience Ketch. She was wide-eyed with concern when I finished, like a child who can’t wait to hear how the story ends. “You have to get back there, to fight for your place—your house, for Wrennie.”

I pulled the ties of her nightshirt open and rubbed mustard plaster down her back. “I need to stay here and take care of you.”

It was all she could do to stifle her coughs as she argued with me. “What about the women of the Bay? What will they do without you?”

“They took care of themselves before me, they can take care of themselves now.” I fluffed her pillows and settled her back against them. “Besides, who’ll lick all the stamps for the suffragists if I leave?”

Maxine pulled at my sleeve as I tucked the blankets around her body. “Never let someone take what’s rightfully yours. You can give all you want in life, but don’t give up.”

I gave her a smile and a kiss on the forehead. “I won’t, and don’t you give up either.”

˜ September 30, 1918

This morning Maxine spit blood into the towel she uses to cover her mouth. I could hear the rattle of pneumonia in her breathing when I put my ear to her back.
Beware the death rattle creepin’ in.

Miss B. told me of her pulling a man named Xander Lightfoot back from the death rattle. She gave him
bain d’oignon et orge
, the onion and barley bath. For three days she kept him buried in raw onions and fermented barley and fed him heavy doses of onion syrup.

Charlie has gone back to Mrs. Pastene for as many bags of onions as she’ll give him. Barley’s hard to come by, so he’s off to Mr. Burkhardt’s to see if he’s willing to part with a few bottles of beer. When I told Maxine what she’s in for, she gave my hand a squeeze and said, “Can I wash down the syrup with the beer?”

˜ October 3, 1918

We’ve been weeping for three days straight, each day Maxine breathing a little easier. I can tell she’s feeling better because she’s been complaining, “This house will smell like a sausage stand for months. All that’s missing is the sauerkraut.” She laughed and shook her fist in the air. “Damn your Cajun witchery, Marie Babineau!” She told me that last night Miss B. came to her in a dream. “She was standing under a willow tree, with teacups dangling from every branch. She said the same thing over and over:
Don’t you wanna know what done come next?
I wasn’t sure if the message was for you or me, Dora, or exactly what she meant by it. All I know is that I feel like climbing on the roof and doing the Bunny Hog.”

˜ October 10, 1918

The amendment that would allow votes for women in the U.S. has been defeated yet again. “Maybe I should take Miss Honey and the rest of Paddy’s Saturday Evening Girls out to D.C. and do a little dance for the boys in the Senate. I bet that’d open their eyes to women’s rights.” Maxine is in full health and back to being a ranting suffragist. She has been writing letters to every congressman and member of the U.S. Senate from morning until night.

I scrubbed the house from top to bottom. I’ll admit, it’s much easier to do all the household chores when there’s running water and electricity. As Maxine says, “How on earth did you ever survive without electricity, fine art, low-heeled finale hopper shoes and the blues?” I could do without the shoes and, to be honest, while I find the steady jangle of music from Paddy’s Playhouse to be exciting, I have grown far more attached to sitting in the back of St. Stephen’s Church and listening to the choir practice. In recent weeks, most all churches and temples have closed their doors. Authorities fear that any public gathering might encourage the spread of influenza. Although they have cancelled Sunday services at St. Stephen’s, the choir hasn’t stopped singing. Thursday evenings, at half past seven, they gather in the choir loft and sing out over the all-but-empty pews. It’s as if they can’t keep themselves from it, from sending their voices and their hope out into the air.

Tonight, as I sat at St. Stephen’s, I fell asleep. The city whispered to me in a dream, telling me to start a new life. Boston’s voice was tempting and sure, thinking I’d choose to stay, barely believing me when I told her I couldn’t and that it was her own fault for making me strong enough to think for myself. Then I dreamed of the Bay, Mother’s smile, Bertine’s laugh, Spider Hill, the voice of the moon.

I’m worried about Ginny, and I miss my sweet Wrennie. It’s time to go home.

45

H
ART HAD THE HOUSE
open and ready for my arrival. Bertine, Sadie and Mabel had clean sheets and food waiting. Wrennie seemed happy to have me home. She’s content to be propped up in a basket or to scoot around my feet in the kitchen. She loves to show off with a smile and giggles for everyone she meets. Last night she fell asleep while Mother rocked her in front of the stove, and, of course, Mother shed more than a few tears of relief at “having her girl home.” I thought I might feel at least some regret for having left Boston, but these two places are worlds apart. Now that I am here, I find it difficult to remember the city, even when I close my eyes. There is much for me to do…

I knew as soon as I saw her that Ginny was well on her way to trouble. She’s swollen all over, suffering from crippling headaches and nearly blind each time she tries to stand up. There’s no fever with her sickness, so I’m certain it’s something other than influenza. Her face is puffed up, features gone coarse. I think it’s what Miss B. called
visage d’etranger,
the stranger’s face.
When you don’t know the woman no more by lookin’ at her, then she gots the mask of death come on her…after that, there’s not much can turn her back.
The advanced state of Ginny’s condition worries me. I will do everything I can, but her symptoms should have been attended to weeks ago.

Stranger’s Face:
I seen it in a woman over Blomidon way. By the time I got to her she was gone out of her mind with convulsions. I had to cut the baby out, losing the mother to save the child. The baby died anyways. Was too early to have enough strength to survive.

Miss B.’s sprawling script wanders across the pages of the Willow Book, her amendments and successes turned sideways, rhyming in the margins.

Skullcap tincture—good for any variety of anxiety. Potato skins and beets will put her back on her feet. Raspberries and nettle, sweet as can be, perfect for a Mother’s Tea.

Ginny will stay at Spider Hill until after the baby is born. Mother, Precious and the rest of the Occasional Knitters will help look after Wrennie. If I can bring Ginny’s swelling down and keep her strength up for the next couple of days, then I should be able to bring the baby along without any trouble. (Albeit three, possibly four weeks early.) We cannot afford to wait.

˜ October 17, 1918

I’m having trouble keeping Laird away from Ginny and my house. He’s worried about her, and has mentioned more than a few times that he’d be glad to fetch Dr. Thomas. It’s as if he still doesn’t trust me, despite knowing the truth about Mrs. Ketch’s death and the fact that I attended the birth of his last child. I’ve done my best to calm him down and then send him away again. It’s clear that the hard-earned money Laird paid for Dr. Thomas’s obstetrical theory hasn’t done Ginny any good.
You must understand, Mrs. Jessup: like you, the majority of pregnant women are neurotic.
The last time the doctor saw her, he told her that if the swelling in her ankles and hands didn’t go down he’d have to perform a bloodletting. If he shows his face at my door, he may be in for a bloodletting of his own. I know it can be difficult to get a straight answer out of Ginny, but no woman, no person, deserves such thoughtless care.
More exercise, less meat.
No wonder her blood’s gone weak. At least she had sense enough to put herself to bed.

˜ October 18, 1918

A long day.

At first I was afraid that nothing was working. The swelling wasn’t going down and Ginny was getting quite agitated, but thankfully, she started to come around after supper. Tonight she is looking better and resting well.

Two Epsom soaks, one in the morning, one before bed.

Teas that work:

Juice of half a lemon plus 2 teaspoons cream of tartar, twice a day for three days

Skullcap, one to two cups per day

Raspberry-nettle tea

Steeped hops, once a day (this seemed to do the trick)

Also:

Shad (coming from cold waters, they are dark and greasy)

Greens of chive and garlic (they are just letting go, hope I have enough to last)

Homeopathy: Apis, phosphorus, sulphur, colchicum

˜ October 19, 1918

Checked Ginny this morning. She’s forward and soft. Both good signs. I will try to coax the baby along today. Hopefully, it will be a slow, gradual birthing. The moon’s on my side. It’s the Harvest moon tonight, perigee tide too. Clouds moving in from the northwest. A thunderstorm certainly wouldn’t hurt. I’ll put my laundry on the line, to invite the rain.

Castor oil, two large spoonfuls

A finger slip of evening primrose oil

Basil tea

Soak her feet in milk up to her ankles, then rub them, especially behind the heel.

Instruct Ginny to pinch and pull on her tits, five minutes on each side, every half hour.

Homeopathy: Caulophylum, cimicifuga, gelsinium

Of all things, I’m out of castor oil. Will have to walk to Bertine’s after breakfast. Laird and Ginny’s place is closer, but I don’t want him nosing around until after the baby’s born. Ginny’s face is calm and smooth, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. A visit from her husband might break her cheerful mood, something I cannot allow to happen. She’s been gazing out the parlour window, watching children play and the ships moving in and around the wharf.

“Dora, can’t I please take a walk today? The trees are turning such beautiful colours, and I’m feeling much better.”

“No, dear, you must stay in bed until after the birth. If all goes well, we might see your little angel as soon as tonight.”

“But…”

“Don’t fuss. We have a lot of work ahead—all three of us—and you need to be ready for it. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then a long Epsom bath.”

“Not shad again, I hope.”

“Yes, shad again, and steeped hops too.”

Ginny pouted, sticking her tongue out. “Those hops are the most dreadful thing I’ve ever tasted, like boiled dishwater and mouldy bread.”

I laughed at her childish protests. “Well, aren’t we feeling impatient today?”

I fluffed up her pillow and tucked it behind the small of her back. “That’s a good sign. Looks like you’re ready to have this baby.”

She sighed, her hands caressing the sides of her belly. “I don’t know if I can. Isn’t it still early? Can’t we wait a few more days?”

“You musn’t think that way.” I sat next to her on the bed. “There’s no danger in bringing the baby now, but there will be if we wait much longer. Think how you’ll feel when you see your baby’s face, when you hold him for the first time.”

“But what if he dies, or I die?”

“What if you don’t? What if both of you are healthy as spring chickens? You’ll have a lot to think about, a lot to do once he arrives.”

Ginny looked uncertain and scared, like a girl trying to dance for the first time or reading a poem aloud at school.

“You’ve done this before, Ginny. You can do it again.”

“But I remember so little of it.”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

I cradled the roundness of her belly in my hands, looking into her frightened eyes. “We can do this.”

All was going well…Ginny felt ripe, and her bearing-down pains were getting closer together, only twenty minutes apart.

Just after supper, Dr. Thomas came pounding at my door. I tried to ignore him, but he raised his voice and called out to me, “Mrs. Bigelow, open the door. Laird Jessup says you have his wife in your house. She’s my patient, and I must attend to her.”

Laird had met me in the road when I was coming home from Bertine’s. I didn’t make any effort to hide the large bottle of castor oil I was carrying, but I did let him know that he needed to stay away for one more day. He seemed understanding at the time, but I guess he wasn’t. He must have gone straight to town to enlist Dr. Thomas’s help. I opened the door a crack and smiled innocently at the doctor. He attempted to look past me and into the house. When it was clear that I didn’t want to let him in, he stuttered with frustration.

“Mrs. Jessup needs to be under my constant supervision. I’m not leaving until I see her.”

“I think she’s had enough of your
supervision.
”

He tried to push past me. “Mr. Jessup says you’ve had her locked up here for days. He’s concerned for the welfare of his wife and child.”

I grabbed the frame of the door and held tight, refusing him entry.

Ginny called out from the birthing room, “Dora, who’s there? Is it Laird? Are the children alright at home?”

I called back to her, “Stay in bed. I’ll take care of—”

Before I could stop him, Dr. Thomas was through the kitchen and standing in the birthing room. He placed his bag on the end of the bed, pulled out several medicine bottles and brandished a pair of forceps. He grunted in my direction. “She looks well.” He yanked the sheet back and began to grope at Ginny’s ankles. “Swelling’s gone down. Remarkable.”

Ginny was squirming, trying to get loose from his hands. “Dora, you said
we
were going to do this. What is
he
doing here?” She doubled over, groaning with pain.

Dr. Thomas grabbed her wrist, attempting to take her pulse. “I see she’s still neurotic. A dose of Pituitrin should speed things along. This should take no time at all.”

Ginny began to scream, her face turning red. “Get him away from me!”

I pulled on his sleeve, leading him out of the room. “I’d like to speak with you…outside.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs. Bigelow. I have things under control now. If you’ll agree to assist, I think we’ll have this done in no time…”

Ginny was still ranting. “I don’t want that man anywhere near me. Get out, get out, get out…”

He whispered to me, “Don’t worry, I have chloroform if she insists on keeping this up.”

I dug my fingernails into the back of his hand, and led him out of the house. “Do you want to kill her?”

“Mrs. Bigelow…I tip my hat to you. She looks much better than last time I saw her, but let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“She’s feeling better, no thanks to you. And now that you’re here, she’s getting herself all worked up again. You know as well as I that any aggravation to her condition could put both mother and child in danger.”

“I told you, I have chloroform—”

Hart walked out from behind the barn, a pitchfork in his hand and Pepper at his heels. “Need a little help there, Dorrie?”

I took the pitchfork from him. “I think this will do.”

Hart whistled his way back towards the barn, turning every so often to see that I was alright. Pepper stayed at my side.

I held the points of the fork to the doctor’s chest. “You’re going to do exactly as I say from here on out.” I gestured with my head towards the door. “We’ll go in the house.
You
will wait in the parlour. If I hear one word—or I find you’re trying to leave to fetch Laird—we’ll have a late haying season in Scots Bay.”

I circled around him and prodded him in the back. He stumbled up the steps. “Mrs. Bigelow, may I remind you that the Criminal Code of 1892 states—”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to say much of anything right now, Dr. Thomas.”

Once inside, Dr. Thomas sat down on the settee in the parlour. Pepper sat guard in front of him. Returning to Ginny, I tied the curtains between the parlour and the birthing room shut.

“Is he gone?” Ginny asked.

“He’s nothing to fret over. Time to concentrate on having this baby.”

By dawn, mother, baby and Dr. Thomas were all sleeping peacefully.

Eli Jessup, born October 20, 1918.

Some small, but holding his own.