Chapter 11
"Well, what do we have here?" asks a booming voice, ripping through the silence of the room.
Wearily, Rilla turns her head towards the door, only to be blinded by a strong light shining at her. She squeezes her eyes shut instinctively, but not before having caught a glimpse of a tall, heavy man standing in the doorway with a woman in a nurse's uniform right behind him.
It takes her sluggish mind a moment to recognise Dr Anderson, whom she's seen before around the village and to whom she has taken care not to talk more than necessary. He's so different from her calm, gentle-spoken, understanding father who shaped her image of what a doctor should be like that he makes her feel uneasy.
Though her father himself wasn't very calm and gentle when he decreed she must go here, was he?
Now, either way, it's not her father but the unsettlingly loud Dr Anderson in the room with her, called to… to do what? To help her birth this baby that she can't seem to birth on her own? To save her life even? Both of their lives?
[Content warning: Labour and child birth]
"Let's have a look," announces Dr Anderson loudly, and before Rilla knows what's happening, her blanket is pulled away and the lower hem of her shirt is pushed upwards over her hips.
Instinctively, she tries to move away, to push down her shirt again, but someone takes hold of her wrists and someone else pulls her legs down. Her feeble attempts at protest are ignored entirely.
Growing frantic despite her tiredness, she wants to shake off the hands holding her down, but the woman whom she takes to be a nurse just holds her wrists more firmly. Dr Anderson, meanwhile, pushes her legs to both sides, overcoming her weak resistance easily.
Her body shaking from cold and shock and exhaustion, Rilla lies on the bed, eyes wide and her breath coming in short gasps. "Please," she whispers, but she doesn't know what she's pleading for and in any event, no-one hears her anyway.
"Hmm," makes Dr Anderson as he looks down on her. "How long has it been like this?"
She doesn't know what to answer, Rilla realises, because her sense of time left her long ago, and besides, she wouldn't trust herself to speak anymore. "I…" she tries, before her voice breaks and no more sound will come out.
"Her waters broke sometime after noon yesterday," answers Aunt Dora from the door, and Rilla realises it was she whom Dr Anderson was addressing all along. "Her contractions must have started earlier in the day, but she didn't say anything. She's been labouring all throughout the night and I think she's been pushing for a while, but there's no more progress."
"I see," replies Dr Anderson while leaning down for a closer look. Rilla tries to squirm away from him, but his hands on her legs hold her in place.
"Hold still," hisses the nurse, digging her nails into Rilla's wrists, making her wince.
She wants to protest, to tell them that they have no right to treat her like this, because even through the fog that is filling her mind, she knows that she doesn't want this, that this isn't alright, but then, then Dr Anderson starts poking around and she freezes. There's a voice in her head, shouting at her to pull away, to kick out, to run, but she suddenly can't move anymore, frozen in place by the sheer terror of it all.
"Hmm," Dr Anderson makes again, before straightening, mercifully pulling his hands back as well. Turning to Aunt Dora standing in the doorway, he announces, "The baby is stuck, which is no wonder with her narrow hips. Not to worry though, it's nothing I can't fix. Just give me a moment."
Stuck?
Rilla half-rises, her body given a sudden burst of energy by just that word.
Stuck.
It doesn't sound good, stuck. In fact, it sounds terrifying.
"Hold her down, please," asks Dr Anderson, looking over Rilla's head at the nurse standing behind her. Moments later, two pairs of hands dig into Rilla's shoulder, pushing her back down. Instinctively, she tries to resist, but what little strength is left in her body is no match for the nurse, and within seconds, she finds herself firmly pressed down on her back.
"We'll use forceps," announces Dr Anderson, whom Rilla can no longer see from her lying position. She squirms feebly, but the nurse holds her down with unrelenting insistence.
She's dimly aware that she should fight this, but she can feel the final remnants of her strength slipping away. Already exhausted before, her futile attempts at resistance robbed her of any remaining energy she may have had left. Still, she tries to struggle against the nurse's hold, but her movements are growing fainter until she's left lying on her back, helpless and utterly spent.
Darkness is tearing at the edge of her vision, threatening to overcome her. Her breath is shallow and there's cold sweat beading her forehead. Her eyes are stinging with tears, but she's too exhausted to even cry. There's a bitterness in her mouth, a mixture of nausea and fear, mingling with the metallic taste of her own blood from where she's bitten down on her lower lip. She's shivering, or she would be, if her body still had the strength for it. Around her, the room has started to tilt and turn, so she closes her eyes, trying to shut out the world, willing it all to go away and leave her be.
"I just need to make a little cut here…" mutters Dr Anderson, his voice coming from very far away, and before the meaning of his words has registered, there's a sharp, searing pain.
Gasping, Rilla opens her eyes, but then he moves his hand and the pain intensifies, crashing over her until it's too much, too much to bear. She wants to cry out, but no noise will come, pain and horror striking her mute. There's just pain, pain exploding around her, pain engulfing her, pain filling her entire world, until –
Until, mercifully, blackness overcomes her, pulling her under, submerging her in sweet unconsciousness, where no-one is hurting her and she need not be afraid.
Somewhere, somehow, God must take pity on her, for while she slips in and out of consciousness from here on, she never regains awareness for long enough to truly understand what is happening around her, what is happening to her. She can but think confused, puzzled thoughts, before darkness overwhelms her again, bringing with it the mercy of oblivion.
Later, she would remember but snatches of the rest of the day.
She would remember the cold metal of the forceps and the warm gush of blood. She would remember the stern face of the nurse and the unconcerned face of Dr Anderson. She would remember Aunt Dora, hovering near and hissing for someone to go away. She would remember someone ordering her to push and her body trying to comply to the best of its ability. She would even remember, very dimly, the faint cry of a baby and the unfamiliar pull she felt at the sound, before falling back into blackness again.
[End of content warning]
She doesn't emerge from it for more than a few seconds until the room is bathed in the orange glow of sunset.
Disoriented by the light, she blinks, her eyes heavy from tiredness. She tries to move, but everything hurts, her body too sore by the ordeal it was put through. Instead, she turns her head, her eyes roaming through the small room.
She's alone, which is in itself a mercy. The itchy blanket of the night before has been replaced by a softer quilt, and the sheets below her body must have been changed, because she knows they were bloody and soiled before, and now they're clean and crisp again. Her body, too, has been cleaned and dressed in a fresh shirt, which she thinks is something she should remember, but even searching her mind, she has no recollection of it happening.
With everything cleaned, it's almost like nothing has happened at all, like the past night and day were but a bad dream, but she knows they were not. Her body, tired and aching, remembers it, and so does her mind. When her eyes briefly flutter shut, it's all there again, the fear and helplessness and sheer terror of the past hours, so she opens her eyes wide again, breathing slowly and trying to calm her racing heart.
Fearful of what memories her mind will show her, she doesn't dare close her eyes again, despite feeling what little strength she regained already being sapped away once more. She's tired, more tired than she's ever been, but she focuses her eyes on the window high above her, concentrating on the dwindling light, trusting it to keep her awake for a little while longer.
As the orange glow diminishes and is slowly replaced by a light grey, it becomes harder and harder to keep her eyes open. She fights it, but feels her eyes slipping shut again, sleep threatening to take over any moment now.
The door opening shakes her awake again.
Opening her eyes, she sees Aunt Dora standing in the doorway, surveying her.
"You're awake," states her aunt briskly. "Good. How are you feeling?"
There's something so ridiculous about the question that Rilla would laugh, if she felt like laughing at all. She couldn't even begin to describe what she feels like, wouldn't have the words for it even if she knew how to describe it in her own mind. It's too complex a melee of feelings to even begin to grasp it.
"Dr Anderson was kind enough to treat you at short notice," Aunt Dora informs her. "We must be very grateful to him."
Even in her confused state, Rilla knows that gratefulness is far from what she feels for the man. The mere memory of his treatment of her is enough to make her shudder.
"Are you hungry?" asks her aunt. "I can have Daisy bring you some dinner."
She hasn't eaten more than a few bites of bread in two days and two nights, yet food is the furthest thing from Rilla's mind. Just the thought of eating makes her stomach turn.
"Well?" Aunt Dora raises both eyebrows, clearly impatient at not having gotten an immediate answer.
Silently, Rilla shakes her head.
Aunt Dora clucks her tongue, as if to say 'have it your way'. "I'll let you rest then. Call if you need something."
She turns and is just about to leave the room, when Rilla finds her voice again.
"Wait," she calls, her voice hoarse and rusty from disuse.
Her aunt hesitates, but doesn't turn back towards her, and there's a brief moment when Rilla thinks she will just leave, ignoring her, but then Aunt Dora sighs heavily and moves to face her again. Her expression is one of annoyance, but beneath it, Rilla thinks she looks quite tired as well.
"Well, what is it?" asks Aunt Dora, her foot tapping the floor twice to make a point.
Rilla breathes deeply, her courage already waning again. She knows, however, that her window to ask the question burning on her mind is closing quickly, so she clears her throat and blurts out, "The baby… is it…?"
For one agonising moment, Aunt Dora doesn't say anything, and Rilla feels her heart clench. A mixture of emotions washes over her that she can't even begin to unravel, and her breath catches in her throat.
"A boy," Aunt Dora finally answers, her voice clipped.
Rilla feels her heart unclenching, before a new thought suddenly strikes and it clenches once more, painfully so. "Is he…?"
"He was born alive," confirms her aunt, her face impassive.
As the band of steel wrapping around her chest falls away, Rilla finds she can breathe again.
"Can I…?" she trails off, not daring to finish the question.
"Births are tiring for babies," replies Aunt Dora, anticipating what her niece was going to say. "Everyone needs to rest."
Something about it feels wrong, in a way Rilla can't explain, yet she senses she's in no position to contradict her aunt, being so fully at her mercy. Quickly, because she can see that her aunt is already turning to leave again, she therefore asks, a little timidly, "He still needs a name, doesn't he?"
"Oh, we already named him," answers Aunt Dora over her shoulder, like it's the most obvious thing. "We named him James Anderson, after Reverend James and Dr Anderson."
Rilla frowns, confused. "But he can't be James," she protests, her resolve to be good already falling away. "My brother is called James. Everyone will confuse them."
Briefly, Aunt Dora pauses, half-turned towards the door. She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. A second passes, before she remarks, with finality in her voice, "You should rest. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Giving Rilla no chance to say anything in return, she strides from the room, firmly closing the door behind herself. Left behind and not trusting her body to move, Rilla can but stare at the door, her overtired mind trying to puzzle out the mystery that her aunt left her with.
Can a baby be renamed once a name has been chosen? Would it be disrespectful to change said name when it was given by one's aunt? And if not James, what name would she, Rilla, pick instead?
The questions flutter through her mind, but while she occasionally manages to grasp at one of them, the answers prove elusive. Her energy sapped away by the encounter with her aunt, her exhausted mind increasingly fails to form coherent thoughts as unconsciousness threatens to overwhelm her once more. She tries to resist it, but her eyes grow heavy and eventually fall shut again when sleep takes over, deep and, thankfully, dreamless.
Overtired as she is, she perhaps would have slept through the night entirely, her body trying to regain the strength needed to face another day. However, the night is far from over when she is awoken by a hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly.
It takes a moment for her to prise her eyes open and another moment to recognise the figure standing by her bed as Daisy. Confused, she sits upright, trying to ignore the light dizziness overtaking her as she does.
"Shhh," Daisy makes, putting a finger to her lips. The room is dark except for a lamp that she placed on the nightstand, which casts a faint glow on both their faces. With everything outside of the lamp's immediate reach shrouded in shadows, Rilla doesn't see immediately that Daisy is holding something, but when she does, her heart suddenly beats faster.
It's a bundle.
A bundle that is moving and emitting soft, mewling sounds.
"Here's someone to meet you," whispers Daisy, moving so that Rilla can get a better look at the bundle cradled in her arm.
It's a baby.
A real, living, breathing baby.
The thought shouldn't come as such a shock, Rilla is aware, yet for several seconds, she can but stare at the tiny face in utter confusion.
A baby?
"It's your son," adds Daisy in a quiet voice. "Do you want to hold him?"
Does she?
Rilla isn't so sure, to be entirely honest. She never liked babies, after all, and she doesn't quite see why this baby would be any different. Yet, Daisy clearly went through some effort to bring this particular baby to her, and it would be rude to refuse her offer, wouldn't it?
Feeling herself nod before having made a decision for good, she sees Daisy's face light up in a soft smile. Leaning forward, she passes the bundle into Rilla's arms with a muttered, "Be sure to support the head."
Uncertain what is meant by that, Rilla looks up at the other woman questioningly. "Like this," explains Daisy, understanding, and moves one of Rilla's hands to rest beneath the baby's head.
It feels soft, with a light fuzz of hair that is silky under her fingertips. She is surprised, she must admit, by how small babies can be, staring in wonder at the tiny hand that curls and unfurls repeatedly. The face is small and a little squished and she thinks she sees a light abrasion at the side of the head.
"He looks…" she begins, before breaking off, searching for words in vain.
"Like an angry old man?" finishes Daisy, laughing softly. "Yes, all babies do. It'll pass."
She is certainly glad to hear that, Rilla can't deny.
There's truth to Daisy's simile, especially when the baby in her arm frowns and pulls a face. For a terrifying second, Rilla is afraid he might wake and start to cry, but then his expressions softens again and his eyes fall shut, his eyelashes casting shadows on his chubby little cheeks.
Studying him, Rilla finds that he doesn't look so much like an angry old man when he's sleeping. He has a small button nose and nicely-shaped ears that she thinks would meet with Susan's approval. He has also, she finds when she timidly raises a finger to stroke one cheek, very soft skin, and a little dent in his upper lip that she knows he got from her.
Her son.
Her son, with the same dent in his upper lip that she has.
Very gently, she touches the tip of her little finger to that dent. The baby moves but doesn't wake.
"He's a sweet one," states Daisy quietly and when Rilla looks up, she sees her smiling.
She doesn't smile back. She might smile, she thinks, or she might start to cry as easily. It's all jumbled inside her, confusion and amazement and a strong ache somewhere in her chest, where she thinks her heart is.
Looking down at the sleeping baby in her arm, she tries to make sense of what she's feeling. There's no sudden rush of overpowering love like she read about in novels, but the feeling of his weight in her arms doesn't seem wrong to her. Cradling him a little closer, she finds she's not inclined to give him back to Daisy either. Instead, as she gazes down at him, she feels a surge of protectiveness rise within her, mingling with a sense of wonder at this little human, so tiny yet so perfect, that she brought into the world.
"Jims," she hears herself whisper, and while she can't say where the name came from, she feels instinctively that it is right. The world might call him whatever it wants and they might put down whatever name in his birth certificate, but to her, he will simply be Jims.
Jims.
It feels impossible, still, for him to be her son, for her to have a son at all, and yet, here he is, a small, perfect little human, and he has the same small dent in his upper lip that she has. With it, can he be anything but her son? Could anyone possibly deny that he is hers, when the same fairy that pressed a little dent into her upper lip when she was born now also did so with his? Could anyone, in light of this, deny that he belongs to her, improbably and impossibly so?
Could anyone really, truly deny, that, through some madness she cannot explain, he is hers to keep and to protect and, eventually, also to love?
To Guest No.1:
Yes, the previous chapter was bleak and certainly, so is this one, at least in parts. We don't disageee there. It's just, honestly, the thing is, I'd apologise for the bleak and depressing parts, but... being an unwed teenage mother in the 1910s was bleak and depressing. To write the story as anything but that would feel, to me, like I was minimising the struggles faced by countless of unmarried young mothers all over the world. That's not to say there won't be improvements or happy parts (or even a happy ending!), but I feel strongly that a spade ought to be called a spade, and that includes not glamourising the lives of unwed mothers a century ago.
To Guest No.2:
I'm not generally opposed to trigger or content warnings and have used them in the past, though did so sparingly and with reason. (Interestingly, there's actually quite the professional controversy around the use and even the possible harm of trigger warnings among experts, which you might want to read up on some time.) I actually considered adding a warning for childbirth to the previous chapter as well, except I felt it was obvious from the first two or three paragraphs that child birth was what this chapter was heading towards. In that sense, because it built up towards it, I felt the chapter was acting as its own warning and anyone who didn't want to read about childbirth therefore knew right from the beginning not to continue reading. An added warning would therefore, in my mind, not actually have accomplished anything that the chapter didn't already do by itself, which is why I decided to go without one initially. Before making a decision on the matter, I did therefore give this a lot of thought and weighed the different options, though it's honestly not a hill I'm going to die on either. Thus, as requested, content warnings have been added to the previous and the current chapter.
To Guest No.3:
I'm sorry! I know it was bad timing to skip a week right at this point, but there wasn't any way around it. I really tried to get out of that work trip (and predictably, it ended up being incredibly boring), but there wasn't anyone else who could have gone and my boss was oddly unresponsive to the idea that fanfic is more important than work ;). Happily, I have no trips, neither for work or for fun, planned until September, so unless something unforeseen happens, it should be a good while until the next break =).