Page 44
E ven before the footman opened the door, I heard Mamma scream. I pushed Nurse away and, holding my gut, I sprinted up the stairs. Nurse followed and we found Mamma on her back, struggling to produce the babe.
I had attended the last three births, fetched towels and water, murmured support and encouragement. I wasn’t Friar Laurence or a midwife, experienced in childbirth, but I’d listened and learned, and I understood if the child would not come, we had to use every advantage our world could give us.
Nurse wet a cloth I thought she’d bathe Mamma’s face, but she wiped mine gently, yet the pain reminded me I had been slapped hard enough to cause damage, and I didn’t want to frighten my mother.
I wiped my hands, too, then grasped my mamma’s face in both my hands and turned her to see me.
“Mamma. Mamma, we must get you on your knees.”
So wrapped was she in the labors of birth, she didn’t seem to see me, but keened with the pain that gripped her. “I can’t. I can’t.” Sweat stained her brow and dribbled off her chin.
“You can.” I glared at Nurse, who stood bleeding, sobbing, and wringing her apron in her hands. “We’ll help you. Come, Mamma, on your knees. Grip the bedpost. Hold on and scream when you need to. Together we’ll bring my brother forth!”
I spared a thought to my siblings. I knew they had gathered in the chapel, praying to God for their mother and, as an aside, the baby she would bear. But mostly for Juliet, who held our family together—so kind, so stern, so our mother in every sense.
Nurse and I helped Mamma to her knees and put her hands on the bedpost, and she screamed again as the downward pressure carried the child toward the world of today.
Nurse massaged her belly.
Fluid gushed between her legs.
I saw a head start to emerge and cupped my hands to catch him.
He slid out by the spasms of her belly and the downward motion of the force that led us to earth.
He was perfect. Beautiful. A boy in all his parts. Screaming his indignation at this exposure into the world of man.
I heard my siblings cheering. I wept to hold his tiny form, alive, breathing, happy it had been so easy.
I handed my brother, the son of my house, to Nurse, who held ties and scissors and made swift work of the umbilical cord, then wrapped him and returned him to me.
“Mamma! Mamma! He’s here and you’re—”
She was still screaming. Mamma was still screaming.
Why? Why? I didn’t know enough. I held the babe up to her face. “He’s here!”
Papà burst into the room, a projectile of male vigor that melted before her pain and compulsion. “One more,” he said to her, and his tone pleaded and cajoled.
What was he talking about?
Then I knew.
No. Not another baby. She was so weak. She couldn’t do it.
But Papà knew. Somehow my parents had realized she carried two children. No wonder she delivered early. Now Papà lent her his strength, supported her, held her hands against the bedpost, spoke encouraging words in her ear.
Who was I to declare Lady Juliet Montague could not bring forth another baby from her loins?
Returning my brother to Nurse, I said, “He’s tiny. Keep him near the hearth. Keep him warm. There’s more to be done.”
Nurse held him close to her bosom and hurried to do my command.
Returning to the bed, I bent to our purpose.
“Mamma, you bring forth our newest sweetheart. Our bonus baby. You’ll push him out and the whole family will rejoice in him, kiss his sweet cheeks, and hold him .
. . just hold him. Think how excited Cesario will be to know he has two brothers.
Two! He’ll be such a good big brother.” I was sort of sobbing.
Not that I meant to. What good did it do to be so emotional?
Mamma still screamed, the sound thinning as she tired, and I knew I had to go somewhere I hadn’t been since the day of my birth. I gathered air into my lungs and, with all compassion and gentleness, slid my hands into the birth canal.
The shriek Mamma gave made me understand that nothing could be gentle enough.
The baby was there, still in his sac, but wrongly placed, butt first. He had to be turned.
I knew how the method worked. I did. But I’d never performed such a service.
None of that mattered. Mamma needed me. The baby needed me. I had to make this birth happen, or mother and child could perish.
Papà stared at me, pleading, his mouth moving without sound. “Please, please, please.”
I could feel the weight of my siblings, kneeling in the chapel, begging God to deliver their mother from pain.
I wasn’t God. I couldn’t deliver her, but I could, perhaps, turn this baby and bring him into the world. As gently as I could, I rotated the baby, urging him, nudging him into the proper position.
How could I ignore Mamma’s screams?
Yet . . . how could I not do what must be done?
Papà nodded at me, encouraging me, begging me to help his Juliet.
Everything in her contracted and clamped down on my hands. “Try not to push, Mamma,” I begged. “Not yet.”
“Breathe,” Papà urged her. “Breathe.”
I breathed, too, waiting for the contraction to end, then began again.
The sac was slippery and sagged as if ready to break, but I begged God to wait until my brother was head down, for that slippery fluid would ease the way.
Then—oh, then! Mamma would be delivered of her labor and she could rest. With gentle touches, I urged the babe to bring himself around and out.
Maybe I annoyed him. Maybe he’d needed guidance.
But suddenly he punched at me and flipped.
I cupped his tiny skull in my palm, then released him and slid my hand down and out. “Push, Mamma! Push!”
The sac broke. The fluid eased his way, and my brother was born.
Twins. Twin boys. I had delivered them both. I heard Mamma laugh. I heard Papà praise her and me. I heard Nurse announce she would cut the cord, and when she shoved me to the side . . . I collapsed.
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