Purpose
One night, I wake with a soft cry of pain.
I know the baby is coming.
For the past few weeks, I've felt strange and uncomfortable pains, and I have wondered if I was, perhaps, going into labor; however, they were all false alarms. Tonight, though, I know what the baby is telling me.
Once someone is informed, my room is full of people. They move me to a different room. The doctor is there, and women stream in and out. The pain increases over time. I suddenly become very cold and ill, and I snap angrily at anyone who speaks too loudly. It lasts much too long, and then the pain doubles. I did not know anyone could live with such pain. Surely it would kill a normal human…but I lie down and breathe through it. The doctor is saying something to me. Someone is touching my head… I cannot hear or feel anything except the sound of my own heartbeat the waves of pain that wrack my entire body.
I drift in my subconscious mind. Vaguely, I hear voices, now excited and loud, but a roaring overpowers it all. Pain is reaching through every limb, every bone, every joint, and I cannot do anything but wait for it to pass. Someone is still touching my forehead…wait, maybe no one is…I can hear Erik's voice, but perhaps it's only in my head. I think I am screaming, but I cannot seem to decide if it is me or if I am simply hearing other things. Maybe I am dying…yet death should not be as painful as this, and so I welcome it, allowing myself to absorb the pain and let my body do what it must to kill me.
Minutes – hours – centuries – later, the pain lessens, and I feel an empty aching all over. I seem to be able to breathe now, and I finally have the courage to open my eyes. The baby – my baby – is screaming, and the most important thing I must do at this moment is to comfort it. Weakly, I outstretch my arms, a desperate sign of longing.
None pay attention. They speak very fast to each other, huddled around in a tight circle, and, suddenly, they all rush out of the room. Two women remain. One cleans up the bloodied sheets, towels, and other messes, and another begins to wipe off my forehead idly, her eyes unfocused on the task. The rush of the moment is over. I am left here, bloody and hurt, without the child I delivered. My breathing becomes fast and irregular, and I wail, burying my face into my hands.
"What is it, madam?" asks the woman next to me. "I'm sure you are still hurting. Do not worry. The doctor will be back to check up on you in a few minutes."
"I don't care!" I shriek. "Give me my baby!" I scream nonstop, sobbing, the longing in my very being unable to be satisfied. I cry myself into further exhaustion, unable to do anything but lie pathetically and hiccough out a sob every few minutes. My hand rests on my stomach, which is now so small that I can hardly believe that it is mine. Not for the first time, I wonder what my child looks like. Perhaps like Erik, which is why they rushed the baby out of the room. There is a side of me that feels as if I would not care at all if my baby looked like Erik…in fact, I would welcome it. This way, all would know who the child's father is. But no matter what, I know I will always see my baby as nothing but perfect. A thought strikes me. How could I be so selfish? What would their reaction be? Would they kill me? Would they kill my child? My sweat suddenly turns cold, and my eyes scan the room frantically, looking for someone who will help me. There is no one except the two women, who finish their chores. One leaves, but one remains in the room, assigned to watch me until the doctor returns. He does so in seeming decades, walking quickly toward me. I do not have the strength to do anything but look at him and blink, but he does not care. He puts a hand on my forehead, feels my heartbeat, and makes sure that I have stopped bleeding. The only thing he says is,
"A very smooth delivery." And he leaves.
Not long after this, Raoul enters, looking happier than I have ever seen him. He rushes to my side.
"Oh, Christine, he's wonderful! You're wonderful." Awkwardly, he lifts me up into a hug, and I rest on his shoulders. "How do you feel? What am I saying? I'm sure you feel terrible. You look fine, and I'm sure you'll feel fine soon, too." He waits for me to say something, but, when I don't, he asks, "Christine? Is something wrong?"
I say quietly, "Let me see my baby. I haven't even seen my own child yet!"
Immediately he pulls away. "Very well, Christine," he says gently. "Let me get him for you."
As he fulfills his promise, I manage to push myself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the pillows and headboards. A wracking pain is still throbbing from my stomach to the middle of my thighs, and I inhale sharply as I move my legs slightly.
The door opens, and Raoul enters, followed by the doctor. Raoul is carrying a small bundle, which he smiles at before he comes to me. I see my baby for the first time, and I begin to cry again, but I am smiling this time. He is placed in my arms, a soft little fussy red bundle with dark hair, and I touch him, his cheeks, nose, tiny fingers, his closed eyes. When I kiss his forehead, his eyes open, and he looks right at me. My breath disappears for a moment. No words describe what I feel as I stare back. I think he knows that I am his mother.
I laugh – almost giggle – as I whisper, "He's perfect." He whimpers in my arms when he hears me.
"We are consulting on names," Raoul says, the pride in his voice unable to leave. "I will let you know soon."
"Oh," I say shortly, finally looking up for a brief moment. "I was hoping that I – "
"We should take him now," says the doctor. "It is not good to strain the mother and the child."
My baby is lifted from my arms. He starts to cry. "Wait!" I say frantically. "Where are you taking him?"
"You both need rest," says the doctor. Both he and Raoul leave, and I stare at the door. A woman remains sitting beside me. I look over and see she is knitting. It is an unbelievably tiny blue smock. I know it is for my baby. Anger shoots through me.
"Give me that," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. She looks at me, surprised.
"Pardon, madam?"
"Give that to me! You have no right to touch my baby. He is not yours! Stop knitting that!"
Slowly, she stands and leaves the room. A few minutes later, she returns, looking much calmer. She sits down and continues to knit. Without success, I repeat my commands again.
"The doctor wishes you to settle down and go to sleep," she finally says, giving me an impatient look. I know I won't be granted anything tonight.
----
It takes several days for me to be on my feet once again, and even after that I still feel sore all over. It is strange to look down and see a small stomach. I miss the baby inside of me. It does not help that I have not seen him since delivery. I have not seen anyone except the woman who assists me when I need it, and she is not much for company.
When I feel much better, one evening I dine with Raoul. He smiles at me constantly. When our plates are set before us, I watch the retreating back of the man who set them there.
"Raoul," I say suddenly.
He looks at me, surprised, but replies, "Yes, Christine?"
"Why are we served constantly?"
There is a silence, and he looks slightly uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"
"We are capable of serving ourselves. We have no real need to be waited on hand and foot. Why are these men and women here?"
Raoul clears his throat. "Yes, we are capable of serving ourselves, Christine, but we have no time. I am busy most of the day – you know that. Besides, we give these people a place to live. They do not have to worry about where their next meal will come from or where they will sleep each night."
"They could have lives of their own," I say, my voice as calm as his. I can feel tension rising, but I do not stop. "These people could serve themselves instead of us if they were given the chance. And you know I have all the time in the world to serve myself. Why are these people condemned to remain here with no chance to have a life of their own?"
"They are not 'condemned,'" Raoul says stiffly, setting his utensil down with forced calm. "It is their place, their life's purpose, to do what the Oligarchy asks of them. We do what we do because the Oligarchy needs us to do it."
"The Oligarchy is nothing but five men who profit from the work of others."
My statement is too bold. Raoul rises quickly, his voice becoming louder and louder, "The Oligarchy is an ideal, Christine! It is the epitome of a great civilization, and we are nothing but those who try to carry out this idea. This is what we have been taught since the time we could speak! Do not forget it. We – the leaders – cannot afford to waste our time planting vegetables, and so we ask those who are capable to do it for us. In exchange, we give them safety and freedom! How dare you be so short-sighted and judgmental! It is not your place!"
I stare at him, and somehow I cannot feel scared. I am too angry with all that has been done to me. Raoul does not sit down. He breathes deeply and then says, "You are dismissed for the evening."
I do not sleep much anymore. My mind dwells on Erik and Taurin and Clara and my baby…all those who have been taken from me by this "great civilization." I could dwell on these losses, which I have done in the past, but it has produced nothing but tears. And if I could get just one of those back, I think I would do anything required of me.
"Raoul?" I say one afternoon. He has requested that I play the piano, and I have played quite a long time, hoping to ease him into a pleasant mood.
"Yes?" he says, staring out of the window. The sunlight casts shadows on his face. He is too thin, almost gaunt. For a moment, I forget what I was going to ask him and instead say, "Do you feel all right?"
He turns to look at me. "Yes, I'm quite fine, Christine."
"You are too thin."
"Oh," he says. "I have found that my appetite has disappeared." He smiles at me, somehow still as handsome and charming as all those months ago. It does not seem at all fair that he is everything that I know I hate, and yet I cannot bring myself to hate him.
"Raoul," I say, "I want to know where my baby is."
He raises his eyebrows and says slowly, "The doctor advises that he should be kept…away from most people to keep him healthy."
"He is my baby!" I say angrily. "Why can't I be allowed to be near him? How many children have died because they have been close to their mothers?"
Raoul sighs and stands. "Maybe you should be left alone for a while, Christine. I do not like it when you are so angry." And he leaves. For another day I am left alone, but the next night as I lie in bed, I know that I cannot live with myself when I am like this. I slip out of the bed and into the hallway, shivering slightly with the cold. I wander through the halls, stopping every now and then to check in a door.
It takes me twenty minutes to locate the right room. I step inside as quietly as I can, taking it in. There is a small bed in the corner, on which a white-haired woman sleeps. I know she is there to care for him. The bassinet sits near the bed, and I go toward it, hardly daring to breathe, my eyes on the bed in case she moves. I reach the bassinet and look inside. For a few moments, I can do nothing but stare at my baby. He is still incredibly tiny. Slowly and hesitatingly, I lean down and pick him up. He grunts softly, and his tiny mouth opens slightly, revealing little pink gums. I cannot restrain the happiness that fills my entire being. It is more than I have ever felt before, and I hold my baby close. For a few minutes, I simply watch him, feel him breathe and cherish the weight in my arms. He stirs slightly and begins to whimper.
"Hush," I whisper softly, throwing a hesitant glance to the bed. But he starts to cry, and I do nothing but stand and watch, unsure of how to comfort him. The woman wakes slowly and sees me. She gives an indignant shriek.
"What are you doing in here?" she snaps, coming over. "Go back to your bedroom!"
I look back to my son. He is still crying. I cannot stand the idea that I am his mother and I do not know what to do for him. The woman takes him away and tells me to go back to my room once again. There is no worse feeling. I sit in my room, exhausted and spent, and stare out of the window, thinking about my soft little baby and the idea that I don't deserve to have him. Shouldn't there be a natural motherly instinct I possess that would enable me to know what to do? I had never before seen a child that small, much less been taught to care for one.
"I've been told you took a stroll last night," says Raoul. He stands next to me, hands clasped behind his back, and waits for an answer. The parlor is lit strongly by the afternoon sun, and it shines hot and bright. I stare at the wall. Somehow, I cannot bring myself to answer him. He sighs and sits down next to me. There is a very long silence. He stands quickly and leaves the room, muttering, "I have things to do."
I go back to see my baby again. This time, I do not pick him up. I kneel by the bassinet and watch him. Very gently, I place two fingers on his chest and feel it rise and fall. I am not caught for several nights. Before entering the room, I listen carefully to make sure that he is asleep, and I then enter. I leave when I see that he is starting to wake, although it pains me to do so. I wish to see his eyes open and look at me once again.
One evening, as I dress for bed, my door opens. I turn to see Raoul entering, and instantly I demand, "What are you doing here?"
He glances at me but does not answer. As he closes the door and walks toward me, I watch him silently, warily, knowing exactly why he is here but refusing to acquiesce. Slowly, he takes my elbow and leads me to the bed. I still look at him, but he seems determined not to meet my gaze. After setting me on the bed, he quickly extinguishes the candles and returns. His hands are trembling slightly. They take the front lacings of my dress, and he slowly begins to untie them. I watch his face expressionlessly. He suddenly rips his hands away and snarls,
"Stop looking at me like that!"
There is a moment of heavy silence, and he says inelegantly, "I – you know I hate this as much as you do…but they keep pushing me, and…" He gives a shuddering gasp, closing his eyes as he does so. "We'll just get this over with quickly, all right?" He is speaking more to himself than to me. But as he continues to untie the laces, he breaks and begins to cry, turning away from me. His back shakes with sobs. Slowly, I sit up and place a hand on his shoulder, softly murmuring,
"What is it? Raoul?"
His words are broken, forced, and he does not look at me until he is finished. "I feel as if – everything – everything I've been taught – is falling apart in my hands. Control is slipping away from me. I don't know what to do anymore – I don't know how to make – you happy…"
For the second time I wrap my arms around him as he cries. We are both lost, searching for an unattainable happiness that we know we will not find tonight.