The Pull of the Stars(28)

Dr. Lynn’s stitching was meticulous, but Delia Garrett had such a ragged laceration, I wondered if she would ever feel right in herself again.

Bridie, I asked, could you go back to the refrigerator—you remember, in the supply room—and get a frozen cotton pad?

She shot off.

Dr. Lynn snipped the last thread. There, now. At least catgut dissolves so Mrs. Garrett won’t have to come back to have her stitches out and be reminded of today.

I trickled more disinfectant and drew a sheet up to her waist for now.

After washing her hands, Dr. Lynn winched the top window all the way open. Don’t let it get stuffy in here. Fresh air!

Yes, Doctor.

I was dashing off a note asking the office to telephone Mr. Garrett right away; I finished it and tucked it into my bib.

Dr. Lynn took Mary O’Rahilly’s hand as if they were meeting at a party. Now, then, who have we here?

Mrs. O’Rahilly, seventeen, primigravida. Pangs for a day or two, but twenty minutes apart.

That doesn’t sound much fun.

The sympathy made a tear run out of Mary O’Rahilly’s left eye, and she started coughing.

I lifted down her chart from the wall and the loose nail spun across the floor. Sorry!

I handed the doctor the chart and scurried to pick up the nail. Which reminded me about my watch and the fresh mark I’d have to make for Delia Garrett’s little still.

While the doctor interviewed Mary O’Rahilly, I turned away and slid the heavy disk out of my apron. I found a space among its markings and gouged a small scratch on the silver back. Not a moon this time, just a short line.

Bridie was standing there studying me. I dropped the watch in my bib pocket and fitted the nail back into the wall.

She held out a lumpy thing—not the frozen cotton I’d asked for. It’s wet moss in a muslin casing, she told me. A nurse said it’d do nicely.

Meaning it was all they had. I sighed and took it.

In case Delia Garrett’s sleep was lightening and she could hear me, I said, We’re going to put the binder on you now, Mrs. Garrett.

I set the chilled sausage shape between her legs and safety-pinned it to the under-loop of the foot-wide belt. I cinched the three straps tight.

What’s that for? asked Bridie.

To support her poor stretched middle. Oh, could you bring this note to the office on the third floor?

Bridie almost snatched it from me in her eagerness to help.

Delia Garrett moaned a little in her sleep.

I needed to get the still out of her sight before she woke up. Over at the narrow counter, I took down an empty shoebox from the stack. I spread out wax paper, uncovered the basin, and lifted out the blanket-wrapped body. I set it down on the wax paper and made as neat a package of it as I could. My hands shook a little as I put the lid on. I parcelled it up in brown paper and tied it with string, like an unexpected gift.

No need for a certificate of birth or death; legally speaking, nothing had happened here. Garrett, I wrote on the shoebox, October 31.

I hoped Delia Garrett’s husband would come to collect the box tomorrow. Though in these cases some fathers preferred not to, so Matron would wait until we had several shoeboxes, then send them to the cemetery.

Dr. Lynn was palpating Mary O’Rahilly’s bump and listening to it with her stethoscope. Patience is what I recommend at this stage, Mrs. O’Rahilly. I’m going to have Nurse Power give you a sleeping draught to help pass the time and restore your forces.

She came over to the desk and told me, Chloral. It can incline the cervix to open too. But no chloroform, as we don’t want to suppress these early contractions.

I nodded as I noted that down.

The doctor added under her breath, I’m somewhat concerned that it’s taking so long. The mother’s not fully grown yet, and poorly nourished. If I were in charge of the world, there’d be no whelping before twenty.

I liked Dr. Lynn for that bold comment.

Mary O’Rahilly took her medicine without a word.

Here was Bridie, back already.

I set the shoebox in her hands. Now take this down to the mortuary in the basement, would you?

The what?

I whispered: Where the dead go.

Bridie looked down, realising what she held.

I asked, All right?

Perhaps I was demanding too much of one so untried. About twenty-two. Had she some reason to be vague or was it possible in this day and age that she really didn’t know how old she was?

All right, said Bridie.

She shoved back a nimbus of bronze fuzz and was gone.

Dr. Lynn remarked, An energetic runner you’ve got there.

Isn’t she?

A probie?

No, just a volunteer for the day.

Mary O’Rahilly seemed to be dropping off already. But Ita Noonan was stirring, and there was a distinct creak to her breathing. Dr. Lynn took up her wrist and I hurried over with a thermometer.

How are you feeling, Mrs. Noonan?

Her coughs were a hail of bullets but she smiled. Lovely and shiny! Never mind the wax.

Six days of fever, Dr. Lynn muttered. Did she already have white leg when she came in?

I nodded. She said it’s stayed that size, and cold and hard, since her last delivery.

Ita Noonan’s temperature was down almost a degree, but Dr. Lynn reported that her pulse and respirations were higher. She put her stethoscope to the concave chest. Hm. Under ordinary circumstances, she said, I’d send her for a roentgenograph, but there are patients queuing halfway along the corridor up there.