Castle of Water: A Novel(68)

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, his feeble eyes useless in the inky dark.

“The beach. Where our old shelter was. There’s a large rock that’s tilted a little. Do you remember? That’s where we ate the octopus, and where we first kissed.”

“Okay, you lead the way, I’ll help you walk. I can’t see a thing.”

“Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi.”

The last part was said with fresh assurance in their voices, because it was the one and only thing that they could both be certain of.

After a painful half lap of the island, Sophie found the spot. She settled gingerly onto the flat stone, which Barry padded with a fresh bed of fronds. He made sure she was comfortable, then kissed her and stumbled his way back to the house, where he gathered up the bags of clean water, the first-aid supplies, and a freshly washed Charles Tyrwhitt cotton dress shirt minus one sleeve, so thin and brittle after three years of wear that it had become virtually translucent. His heart was racing. They had been waiting for months, and now the day had arrived.

Barry followed the sound of Sophie’s voice to locate her, and he knelt beside the wondrous blur of her body—she had removed her breechcloth and was utterly round and naked in the starlight. Her breathing had quickened, she was almost panting; he could feel the heat rising off of her in waves.

“What happens now?” he asked, sincerely ignorant of the answer.

“Now?” Sophie shrugged as best she could. “We wait.”





45

The labor itself was unforgivingly long. The horizon took on a claret-colored glow, paled to a blush before erupting in light, and still the grunts and contractions rumbled on. By midmorning, the cramps had become closer together; the clenches of forthcoming life were now only minutes apart. By midday, with the sun shearing down on them with a relentless glare, the contractions had turned into a continuous spasm. Barry wiped Sophie’s face and body with cold water, gave her sips from the stainless-steel cup to drink. She grimaced and panted and occasionally swore; he comforted her as best he could, telling her that he loved her and that he knew she could do it.

Then it was time. Their eyes met, and they both knew. Barry repositioned himself into a catcher’s kneel between the capital M of her open legs. He steadied whatever remained of his nerves for whatever it was that was about to come. As for Sophie, she just wanted the being inside her to finally come out and end this thing once and for all. She howled straight up at the cloudless blue sky and managed one colossal push.

And there was a head. A head coated in a mucousy caul and purplish blood, but definitely a human head.

“It’s coming, baby! I can see it! Keep pushing.” Barry was ecstatic and terrified, proud and amazed. Parenthood was only moments away.

A second gargantuan effort, producing a procession of little shoulders, little arms, little legs. Barry pulled while Sophie pushed, and then, at last, it was over. He found himself holding a newborn child. Barry squinted and held the baby close to his face, eager as a father has ever been to see it.

In her premonition that their baby would be a girl, Sophie was correct. The infant she had given birth to was indeed that. In her assumption that she would see it grow, however, she was gravely mistaken. And, as Barry had hoped, the newborn cradled in his arms had been born with all ten fingers and toes. All that was lacking was a beating heart.

The child was beautiful but ghostless. Born without life. The daughter they had both dreamed of was a tiny, frail gray body and nothing more, trailing a ghost-white cord that could not save her. At first, Sophie begged to see their little girl. But when a trembling and reluctant Barry brought the baby up for her to hold, she reared away with a long wail of pain. Barry whispered he was sorry as Sophie finally took the lifeless infant in her arms, their child, losing the only warmth that the womb had given it in the rapid pull of the island air. Sophie pressed its limp body to hers and quietly wept. Barry held Sophie’s one free hand, ran his bloody fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. He didn’t know what to say. Another lost life, another departed soul. At least to this one they could give a proper burial, although the thought of a doll-sized coffin was more than either of them could bear.

Then, a sharp burst of pain, like a ripping. Sophie screamed.

“What is it?”

“Le placenta.”

“What?”

“The afterbirth,” she grunted out between clenched teeth.

As gently and as quickly as he could, Barry took the body of the stillborn child, cut the umbilical cord with the utility knife, and laid her to rest in the coconut-wood cradle Sophie had carved for her. For decency or dignity, perhaps both, he placed a wide banana leaf solemnly across it. Then he reassumed his position between Sophie’s splayed legs, urging her on in encouraging tones.

“Push, baby. It’s almost over. Just this, and then we’re done.”

Sophie obliged in one heaving, screaming effort. There was a spurt of dark fluid, and then the afterbirth appeared.

Only—and Barry had never seen a placenta before, so he couldn’t be sure—this afterbirth appeared puzzlingly like the crown of an infant’s head.

Then he saw eyes. A nose. A mouth. The emerging portraiture of a human face.

“Push, baby, push, push, push!”

“What’s happening?” she shouted out, back arched and unable to see.