Page 100 of The Frozen River

“I am here. So is Mrs. Ney. You can do this. And we will help you. But on the next contraction you must begin to push.”

And she does. Not hard or well. Eliza is tired and inexperienced and afraid. But for the next hour she bears down over and over and over. Crying. Panting. Grunting. And swearing—but only once, and in French, an astonished merde!—when the head, covered in thick black hair, pops from her body. One and a half more pushes for the shoulders and then I pull a slimy, wiggling baby boy from Eliza’s body.

“Hello little one.” I greet him as I do every child, but this time I laugh.

He is enormous. Easily nine pounds. I roll him over, counting fingers. Toes. I rub him down with a soft cloth. Check his palate. His eyes. And, when the afterbirth is delivered, I snip and tie the cord with a smooth, practiced movement.

I set the boy gently on Eliza’s chest so they can meet each other. He is bawling, loud little lungs shrieking his displeasure at all the light and noise. He does not like the air on his skin. He does not like being removed from his safe, warm home. But when Eliza says, “Thomas, hush now,” he stops crying, and, much to everyone’s astonishment, lifts his head right off her chest and looks directly at his mother. And in that short silence, as we are speechless at the strength of this new little Robbins, we can hear his stomach growl. I choke out a boggled sort of laugh.

Mrs. Ney jumps into action then, plucking Thomas up with one arm and helping Eliza prepare to nurse with the other. “Let’s get you a meal then, hungry boy.” She looks at her young ward, beaming with pride, and says, “Your boy has arrived wanting meat and potatoes!”

The rest of my job is easy. There is no tearing. No excessive bleeding. Only the bathing and changing. The wrapping of linen cloths and the disposal of afterbirth. I help Eliza get Thomas latched onto her breast, then Mrs. Ney and I sit by the new mother and praise all her good work. We commend her on a beautiful baby. And, once they are situated, Mrs. Ney slips away to prepare a simple, cold meal for me and the famished new mother.

It is well after sunset when I tell Eliza, “I will be back shortly,” and I leave the room with the bucket of waste.

“Will you ask Chandler to come up?” she calls after me.

“Of course.”

I slip through the kitchen and out the back of the house to the privy. First I relieve myself, then empty the bucket.

“Leave that here,” Mrs. Ney says, nodding toward the bucket, when I come back inside. “I’ll wash it.”

I watch the older woman cut cheese and bread and thick slices of smoked ham. She pours milk. Arranges shortbread. Makes tea. Clucks like a proud mother hen.

“Eliza is lucky to have you,” I say.

There are tears in her eyes when she looks at me. “ ’Tis is the other way ’round. Her mother would be so proud of her.”

“Is she…?”

“Aye. Not long ago. Passed the year after Eliza married. A terrible shame. She was a good woman.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” I pat Mrs. Ney on the shoulder. “I’ll go get Chandler.”

Dr. Page is passed out, on his back, on the chaise in the drawing room, one arm thrown over his face, and a leg dangling off the side. There is an empty brandy snifter balanced on his chest and it wobbles with each breath.

He has no staying power, I think. Then I look at Chandler, also asleep, but sitting upright in his chair, head lolled to the side. The pipe still sits in his hand, curling gentle strands of smoke into the air. The men never do.

I gently shake Chandler’s shoulder, and he snorts awake. “You have a beautiful, healthy son,” I whisper.

He leaps up and is about to shout his joy, but I set a firm finger across his mouth, shake my head, and point to Dr. Page. I would rather not have to converse with the man again unless I have to, so I guide Chandler into the hall and close the drawing room door behind us.

“Eliza was magnificent. They’re both resting upstairs.”

“A son.” He runs his hands through his hair. “What will we name him?”

“Thomas, apparently. But if you disagree, you’d best tell your wife soon. She’s been calling him that from the moment she saw his face.”

“Thomas.” He smiles, wide as the ocean, and then, as if realizing for the first time that he’s still holding his pipe, puts it to his lips. He draws in a mouthful of smoke, then forms his mouth to make a ring. No such luck. The smoke comes out in a white ball, then dissipates, but he is undeterred. “Thomas it is!”

Ever since being called to the Robbinses’ this afternoon, I have wondered how I would broach this subject. There is no easy way, so I dive right in.

“May I ask you something? Quickly. Before you go up?”

“Of course.”

“It’s a strange question, so bear with me.”