The night was warm and humid. Rain fell steadily while flashes of lightning were seen off in the distance, and the thunder roared some miles away. In the neat houses that lined the streets of Biloxi, Mississippi, people threw the blankets off their beds as they tossed and turned, restless in the heat. A sort of stupor had blanketed the town, bringing with it an unnatural quiet.
Then a piercing scream rent the air. Out of a three story, white washed house, a young girl ran, her apron flapping wildly in the wind. Down the street she sprinted, until she reached the brick house on the corner. "Dr. Jameson! Oh, Dr. Jameson, please!" she yelled, her tone desperate, as she pounded on the old oak door. She didn't wait long before a man in a dressing gown and night cap answered the door.
"What's this? It's near midnight, girl! What's going on?" the doctor pressed, worried by the frenzied air the maid was issuing.
"Mrs. Brandon's havin' her baby, Doctor. There's blood everywhere, sir. Mr. Brandon told me to run for you as quick as I could sir. Please hurry, sir! I'm worried, Doctor, for Mrs. Brandon. I reckon it's awful early. You must come right away, sir! Right away!" the maid panted, as she struggled to regain her composure. Her hair dripped and she shivered in the wind.
The doctor helped the young girl inside. "Yes, yes, my dear. Anna, isn't it? You just try and relax, while I go dress myself. Helen will get you some tea, if you'll just head over to the kitchen. That's a girl!" And with that, the Doctor hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to quickly dress himself. Already? he thought, She's only six and a half months along!
Within a matter of minutes the Doctor was back downstairs; hair combed and finely dressed. Without disturbing the distraught maid, he grabbed his bag of medical supplies and flew out the door. Faster than the maid, he was back at the white house within minutes. Even before he entered, he could hear the heart wrenching cries of the Mrs. Brandon. He didn't bother knocking; the situation was far too dire for niceties to stand. He threw open the front door and ran past the frantic servants pacing through the entranceway. He could smell the rust-like odor of blood, and the screams of pain were even louder inside. He grabbed the nearest servant, a middle aged man with a shiny pate and overly large nose by the arm. "Where is Mrs. Brandon?" he demanded.
The man, most likely the butler, pointed up stairs and said, "Second door on the left," The doctor nodded and preceded to run up the stairs, hat and coat still on.
Outside the door, Mrs. Brandon's husband paced swiftly to and fro. Upon seeing the doctor, Brandon stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Doctor, please. Help her! There's so much blood. The midwife won't let me in. Please, sir. Save her, and save our child!"
The doctor gazed fondly at the man. Mr. Brandon stood tall at six feet, and his once black hair was now streaked with gray. The crinkles around his eyes showed how often the man had smiled, but now those dark brown eyes looked hollow, and the dark shadows under them denoted how distressed he was. His usual rigid posture was gone as he leaned, exhausted, against the door frame. The doctor sighed, "Come, sir. From what I have heard, this is going to be a very dangerous delivery, and I wouldn't bar you from the room for anything. Your wife is going to need you now."
And with that, both men strode into the room. The scene was worse that the Doctor had imagined. On the middle of the large, four post bed, lay Mrs. Brandon, her long strawberry blonde hair loose, flowing around her, and sticking to her face with sweat. The blanket she laid on was drenched in blood, and her nightgown clung to her sweaty body. Her face was scrunched up with pain, but at the sound of the opening door, her frantic sea green eyes opened. "Nicholas!" she gasped as she saw her husband making his way towards her.
"Oh, my love!" he cried as he grasped her cold and clammy hand. She smiled at him for a second before another wave of contractions washed over her. Her grip tightened and she let out another long cry.
The doctor, meanwhile, had gotten down to business, probing and examining the poor woman. He was deeply concerned by the amount of blood loss; it couldn't bode well for the baby or the mother. Still, he'd try his best. He could see the top of the head now, it wouldn't be long.
"Okay, Elizabeth," he called, using her first name, "you're going to need to push real hard. You can do it, it's almost over."
Elizabeth heard the words and pushed as hard as she could, arching her back in the process. Again and again she pushed until she felt a relief of pressure and a gush of fluid. She collapsed back into the bed, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion as she did.
"Oh, it's a girl!" the doctor announced, and her mind cried out in delight. Her own daughter! But something didn't seem right. "Why isn't she crying?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I'm not sure, Mrs. Brandon," the doctor answered, "but she's breathing fine, and she's got a normal pulse. She's very small, but that's to be expected when they are this early. There may be a chance of some brain damage, but it's unlikely. What are you going to call her?"
"Alice…Mary Alice," the exhausted woman managed to get out. Then she lost consciousness and knew no more.
Two days later, Elizabeth woke to find herself in the guest room, dressed in a clean nightgown. The sun was shining through the curtains onto the green quilt under which she lay. Yawning, she stretched herself out. A sudden pain in her stomach reminded her of what had happened. "Mary!" she gasped.
Gingerly she put both feet on the floor, wary of anymore sudden pain. None came, so she rose and made her way out of the room. "Nicholas?" she called out; there was no answer. Quietly, she made her way down the hall, towards the nursery they had outfitted before the arrival of the baby. The room was next to their own, and there was an adjoining room for the nanny to live in. Once she had reached the whitewashed door, she lifted a trembling hand towards the doorknob. She still didn't know if little Mary had survived or not, or even what she looked like. She centered herself, and opened the door.
The windows were open, and the nanny, a stout, elderly woman, was sitting in the rocking chair, holding a little bundle of blankets. Elizabeth's heart leapt for joy; Mary had lived! "Oh, let me hold my baby!" she called out to the nurse as she rushed towards the chair, her nightgown flowing around her.
The nurse made a sort of startled grunt as she found the baby she had been holding snatched from her arms. "Yes ma'am," she stated as she rose from the chair and exited the room.
Elizabeth gazed for the first time at the face of her brand new baby girl. She was, as the doctor had said, exceptionally small. Elizabeth could hold her easily in two hands. She had her father's dark hair, that's for sure. It lay straight against her pink forehead. As for her eyes, Elizabeth couldn't tell, for the baby had yet to open her eyes. She gently ran a finger over the baby's cheek, and cooed little love words at her. This is my daughter, my pride and joy. I'll always love you, little one. Mary's hand found Elizabeth's finger, and she held on tight. Elizabeth raised her daughter up so she could kiss her forehead, and as she did, Mary opened her eyes for the first time.
They were a startling blue, and the irises were so big, you could barely see any white. It was as if someone had removed the newborn's eyes and replaced them with sapphires. Elizabeth was captivated. In her daughter's eyes, it seemed she saw the world. The depth in them, these eyes of Mary's, was unbelievable. And suddenly, Elizabeth was afraid. She no longer felt warm when she looked at her daughter. She didn't feel any love for her at all. She felt nothing. And she knew what she would see in Mary's eyes every day would stop Elizabeth from loving her. She placed the baby back into her bassinette, and ran out of the room.