The Pull of the Stars(75)

So Bridie scooped up the White boy and stood like a soldier.

I wondered if we should play it safe with one of the more common saints. I said aloud, Patrick? Paul?

John? That was from Mary O’Rahilly. Michael?

Dull, dull, Bridie complained.

I stared into his small face. Maybe a nod to the final tweak the potter had given the clay? Harelipped; what was that Gaelic phrase Dr. Lynn had used for it, bearna something? I said, Let’s call him Barnabas.

Bridie considered the baby clasped in her left arm. I like that.

Mary O’Rahilly said, Rather distinguished.

Bridie turned her head sharply and let out a huge sneeze, her sleeve flying up to cover it. Sorry!

Then she sneezed again, even louder.

Mary O’Rahilly asked, Are you all right?

I’ve just picked up a bit of a cold. Must have sat in a draught last night. (Bridie winked at me.) I remembered the roof. Was I blushing?

I began in a ceremonial tone, Bridie Sweeney, what name do you give this child?

She said solemnly, Barnabas White.

What do you ask of God’s church for Barnabas?

Ah…baptism?

I nodded. Are you as his sponsor ready to—

(The traditional phrase was Help the parents.)

—help Barnabas?

I am.

In the absence of holy water, ordinary boiled would do. I fetched a basin and poured water into a glass. I asked, Hold him over the basin, would you, Bridie?

I steadied my hands and my voice. This next bit, the Latin, was the most important. Ego te baptizo, Barnabas, in nomine Patris— As I trickled it over his forehead, I thought he might furrow his brow, but no.

Et Filii—

I poured again.

Et Spiritus Sancti.

A third time, trickling the clear liquid, calling down the Holy Spirit on the boy.

Bridie broke the silence: Is it done?

I nodded and took Barnabas out of her hands.

She drained the rest of the glass in one gulp.

I blinked at her.

Sorry, I’ve that mad thirst on me still.

My pulse skidded with fright.

A pink sheen across her freckled cheeks; two spots of colour high on her cheekbones. She’d never looked prettier.

I put Barnabas down in his crib and set the back of my hand to Bridie’s forehead. A little feverish. Are you feeling poorly?

Bridie admitted, A bit dizzy, that’s all.

She refilled the glass from the jug and knocked that back in one long swallow, her throat contorting as it worked.

I said, Easy, easy.

A whoop of laughter. I can’t seem to get enough water.

It was then that I heard it, the faintest creak as she spoke, an infinitesimal music from deep in her lungs, wind in a far-off tree.

I guarded my expression. Any trouble catching your breath at all?

She yawned widely. Only because I’m tired. And my throat always gets a bit scratchy when I’ve a cold.

But her nose wasn’t running as it would in the case of the common cold.

My mind ticked like an overwound clock, checking off each sign I’d observed without registering it till now: Sneezing.

Sore throat.

Thirst.

Dizziness.

Restlessness.

Sleeplessness.

Clumsiness.

A touch of mania.

I found I didn’t want to name it. But that was superstition. I said briskly, Well, it can’t be this flu, because nobody gets it twice.

Her mouth twitched.

Bridie!

She didn’t answer.

All at once I was a raging fury. You said you’d had it before, you’d had it ages ago.

(The first morning, she’d told me that. Two mornings ago—was that all? It felt like a lifetime since she’d sauntered into my ward unmasked, unprotected.) Bridie’s eyes slid away. That could have been the ordinary old flu I had then, I suppose. Or maybe it’s only the ordinary old kind I’m getting now?

I had to bite my lip to stop myself from saying, The only flu anyone’s catching these days is the dangerous kind.

Christ Almighty. Two days for incubation, which meant she’d likely picked it up right here, in this little hothouse of contagion.

I tried to keep my voice unshrill. Are you aching at all?

One of her shrugs.

I put a hand on her elbow. Where, Bridie?

Oh, a bit here and there.

She touched her forehead, her neck, the back of her skull.

I wanted to pound her; I wanted to embrace her. Anywhere else?

Her hand moved to her shoulder blades, the small of her back, the long bones of her thighs. She twisted away and sneezed convulsively against her sleeve.

A little sheepish, she said, Well, seems as if I’ve got it, all right. Or it’s got me.

It struck me that the dots of colour were more red than pink, almost gaudy; face paint in a Christmas pantomime. (Had Bridie ever been taken to a pantomime?) Red to brown to blue to black.

Mary O’Rahilly was telling her, This grippe’s not so bad, I’ve had worse before.

The young mother meant well, but I could have shaken her.

In a matronly tone, I made myself say, Indeed, you’ll be fine, Bridie.

She was starting to shiver, I noticed.

Rest, that’s the thing. Let’s get you into bed right away.

She said, Where?

For a moment I was stumped, and then I nodded at the empty cot on the right, the one that had been Delia Garrett’s, with sheets and blankets that Bridie had smoothed with me only this morning.