It's late when he comes to the door. The clamour of children and chaos has ceased, many hours ago by this point. But I hear my cousin get up to answer the door. I hear men's low voices and the stomp of my cousin's boots against the stairs. I wake too easily, I always wake at anything. The children move around in the next room, some of them have stirred awake too, but I hope they quickly fall back to sleep. The darkness out my window leaves no question, it is nowhere near morning. I hear boots on the stairs. A knock at the door. It doesn't matter, my body is alert, and I sit up waiting. I know I am likely being called upon.
"Delphine… il y a une jeune femme…"
He doesn't have to finish. I rise from my bed quickly. I dress, I look through the doorway to see my cousin's children sleeping, piled into their beds. Peaceful. For a moment it hurts and I have to stop, but I have work to do. Staking a deep breath to steady myself, I grab my bag, shoved, fully stocked, under my bed for occasions such as these.
The man is young, and he's brought a second horse for me to ride. From the look of the sky, morning is still a couple hours away. I wonder what the day will bring. If I will be gone all day, or if this will be fast. I never know what will come.
"You can ride?" He is an anglophone, but that doesn't matter. I will help them regardless. My English is good enough, he is unfamiliar and I wonder who told them about me. There have been enough women I've seen the last few years. My reputation is growing. But Marie-Louise was still called first, though she is growing old. Her English is non-existent though, unlike mine.
"I can ride." I confirm. I go quickly, following him. We don't talk much. Not about the young woman, not about anything. He doesn't offer his name, and I do not ask. He clearly is worried for his wife. I can appreciate that, and I ride on behind him across darkened fields.
Finally we arrive at a small house in a clearing, a little farm on the outskirts of the sleepy little town I've called home the last three years. The house is lovely, old stone construction and solid. Whoever these newcomers are - they had resources.
I try to recall who in town owned this house, this land. I don't recall. It must have been the anglais, mostly on the rural outskirts, outside of our small, largely francophone community. But then again, I do not belong here either. Not truly.
I am guided into the house by the husband, who doesn't bother to offer his name.
"She's upstairs. On the bed." He tells me, and a scream meets my ears. I run up the stairs, not bothering to remove my shoes.
"Boil me some water." I demand, surely this man can manage that much.
I see the young woman, an open doorway showing the larger bedroom, there are a couple other rooms and I think, if only wealth could bring them luck as well.
She is young. I think and I look at her belly. I reach to touch it through her nightgown and she looks up at me, between pains. I palpate along the length of her belly with my hands. I feel her body tighten and she screams, scrunching up her face. I wait for the contraction to pass.
"It is early, yes?" I ask the girl who nods at me. Her young husband looks concerned and I sigh.
"The baby wasn't supposed to come until fall." He finally speaks. "It's too early?"
I bite my lip, that could be more than six weeks away. It's too soon. And from the look of this girl, this is real labour. It cannot be stopped.
"I will do my best." I assure them both, but I suspect this one is coming too soon. That is one thing I cannot fix. I can only pray. The mother seizes up, crying out with pain and I move to her, turning my attention to her care. There's bleeding, too much bleeding, I realize quickly. Something is very wrong.
"It is OK." I tell her in accented words. "Let yourself push. Let the baby come." But the baby is premature, small. And he comes quickly. She strains and then sobs, crying.
She looks up at me, brown eyes hazy and trusting. Covered in sweat. It's only then I notice the bruising, on her belly, on her side. It is massive and I put it together, why this child is coming early. Some sort of injury to the mother.
I help her up to squat holding on to the low bed. And the child comes quickly, his tiny body landing in my hands. I soon see with no surprise - he is grey, cold, and looks as though he died some days ago, still in the body of his mother. He is small, too small to live regardless.
I let out a sigh without meaning to. These nights are the worst, but they happen. Birth and death are often intermingled.
He's… he's dead?" The mother asks. She seems to know, it is too soon. She bows her head silently, not wanting to turn to meet my eyes.
"Oui. He is dead." I won't lie. I wrap the child up in a cloth, and move to cut the cord. We shall see how the mother does in her grief.
"He… he stopped kicking over a week ago. I knew something was wrong … But… what could I do?" She cries. And I lay a bloody hand on her leg. I don't ask about her bruising, it's better I don't - I decide, in case the husband is responsible. I don't want to risk him casting me from their home before this is done.
"This happens." I tell her softly. "It is no one's fault."
For a few minutes we are both silent. Stunned by it all.
But there's no time for platitudes. The bleeding starts, the afterbirth is expelled but it is broken and calcified. I look at this girl, terrified and increasingly pale and I fear for her life. I think quickly, there is one option now. I wipe off my hands on the cloth, they're still stained red with blood, but there's no time to wash again.
"Help me!" I shout, and I hear the husband begin mounting the stairs.
"What happened?"
There's no child to suckle, the one way I know often stops the bleeding. Instead I reach a bloody hand into her nightgown and stimulate her breast manually. She looks at me in shock, distress but I must stop the bleeding. I try not to look at her face, I will apologize later. I can tell there is colostrum being expelled, coating my hand in that fluid too, but it should work I think. This has to work.
"Your son was born dead. Up on your knees! Help me!" I shout at the husband. He goes to the bed and easily lifts her up and I guide his hand to her breast. "Do what I am doing. Now!"
He looks at me blankly. "What will that do besides embarrass her?"
"I am trying to stop the bleeding! Just do it!" I look over the afterbirth, leaving the husband to try to stimulate her womb to contract. I soon return to the task of trying to mimic the motions of an infant with my hands. This man is useless at this.
Two pieces of afterbirth emerge, the bleeding slows and I relax. I check it over and frown. It isn't complete. Is this why the child died?
"No, keep stimulating her. There's one more piece." I holler rushing back to join the couple. My hands are coated in blood, as are theirs but the final piece falls from the mother's body. I check the afterbirth twice, terrified that I'll miss something if I don't. But it is complete, small hard stone like deposits under my fingers. It isn't healthy, but it is out and whole. Not even Marie- Louise could have done better, I think of my mentor, her dark greyed hair and calm expression. I try to channel her. How would she handle this? How would she counsel this young couple to carry on?
"It's over." I tell the couple, the young woman collapsing bloody on the bed. I immediately began to clean up. I wash my hands in the basin closest to the bed, the water has cooled but good enough. I watch the blood fade from my hands, discolouring the water, and wish that I could make the memory of this ordeal fade as quickly. I grab a cloth and begin cleaning up the mother, best I can.
"I am sorry. So sorry about your son." I tell her softly. "Here, I'll get you cleaned up and settle you to bed." I begin the process, wiping her off best as I am able, but nothing I can do will ease this sort of grief. I content myself with the practicalities of her care.
For a moment she's quiet, the gray light streams through the open window and I know that morning will come soon.
"Can I see him?" The girl asks. She's exhausted by her ordeal, but she deserves that much. I decide. It should be her choice. She needs that moment, closure.
"He's dead!" Her husband shouts at her. "You shouldn't want to look!"
I shake my head stepping in. "Excuse us. I will handle this. You can go dig a grave on your property. Deep as you would for a grown man, or the animals will come."
Her husband leaves the room muttering about appropriateness and death, and we are left alone once again.
She looks hopefully at me, and I fetch the child's body, and open the cloth. I place him onto her, a mimicry of what I would have done with a healthy child. If it had been me, I suspect I would have wanted the same. But that is not where my great misfortune fell.
"He's so small." She whimpers. "Too small."
"He was too small to live… he came too soon." I tell her kindly. I've seen this before but not in a while. It's wrong coming from a healthy young girl. This should have been months from now, a healthy boy placed into her arms from my hands. I shake my head to dismiss the fantasy, it helps neither of us.
"I was sick, three weeks back. I caught a fever on the way here. Is that…?"
"I don't know." I tell her kindly. "When you're done let me know. And your husband can bury him."
She nods at me but says no more. All I can do now is clean the floor, and settle this poor girl to bed.
I sit with her in the morning light, the would-be-mother. I realized that I don't even know her name. There hadn't been time. Why hadn't I taken the time? I find after everything I am embarrassed to ask, never mind offer my own name.
"Stillborn." She repeats the words from last night, as if by saying it often enough she will accept it.
"I am so sorry. Yes. Your son was stillborn." I nod, and reach a sympathetic hand to cover her own, hands that just last night were coated in her blood.
"You saved me." She shakes her head. "You worked so hard to save me."
"I did my best, yes." I tell her. "I knew the baby would likely be dead. And I made your life my priority."
"Thank you."
"How do you go on after this? What do I do now? What will…?" She looks at me, and I know the next few days will be hard. Nature is cruel, and her breasts will swell with milk. I will have to come each day, I decide. To help her through it. I can do that much. I should, especially for a first time mother who needs my care. It will be good, I think, to be needed.
"I don't know."
"He… he isn't supposed to be dead." She looks down, not meeting my eyes.
I consider my response for a moment or two, and then begin to speak. "My children are dead." I tell her. "There was a fire. I was out helping a neighbour do… exactly this in Sherbrooke one night, some ways from here. I remember screaming. And I ran from the house and saw it. My husband. My three children, all dead."
The girl looks up from her own sorrow, stricken. "I am so sorry."
I nod, not knowing what to do with this misplaced sympathy. My loss is a few years old and sometimes aches. Sometimes I fantasize my children had come running out the door, my eldest carrying her baby brother and her sister toddling along behind her. I think of gathering them into my arms and weeping. Sometimes I imagine their papa emerged after them looking sheepish and sympathetic. Sometimes he doesn't, and my children cry for him.
"What happens now?"
"You recover from giving birth. I will come to you each day. And I'll… I'll help you dry your milk when it comes." I don't tell her it will be painful, and that relief won't come easily without a child to suckle. But I have a few days still, this is her first child clearly.
"Have you had to do that?"
"For myself. After my children died, yes. The youngest was still a baby." I offer. "I will help you."
"Thank you."
I get up and leave, bringing the body of the child to the husband when I do. I tell him to bury the placenta as well, and leave them to their grief.
I return mid-morning, and see my cousin's children already busy for the day, heading off to school. I paste a smile on my face and ruffle their fair hair.
I go to bed, and I do not get up until evening.
My cousin's wife looks at me, and I know she can tell something went wrong.
Joseph, my cousin asks. Of course he wouldn't notice my dour mood. "Un gars? Une fille?"
"Un petit gars. Né mort." I offer no further explanation and move to help Marguerite peel the potatoes for dinner. A much needed distraction for all of us.