Page 149 of The Frozen River

Ephraim studies him on the floor. “There isn’t time,” he says.

“But—”

“It will take too long to get him to the Hook. Without help he’ll bleed to death. If he’s to be saved it will have to be by your hand.”

Saving Joseph North is the last thing I want to do, but we cannot let him die here. Not after all that’s happened.

Ephraim moves toward him, and North growls, “Do not touch me!”

“You would give me orders? In my own home? After what you have done?” Ephraim goes to stand over him. “If you aim to die, it will not be on my property.”

Still, North howls and spits and curses at me, and through clenched teeth he heaves every possible insult he’s ever heard for the female species.

A moment ago, he thought me weak. Vulnerable. And perhaps I was, but I am not helpless.

“It is a pity you hate women so much,” I tell him. “Because you are going to spend the rest of your life pissing like one.”

There are a thousand things I want to know about how Ephraim came to be here in this moment, but, given the look on his face as he surveys the gravity of North’s wounds, my questions will have to wait. He has only just realized what his blade has done.

“Martha…” he says, and I hear the note of uncertainty in his voice.

“I will need my medical bag. And a great deal of ice.”

I am a midwife.

I am a healer.

I do not take life.

I shepherd life into this world.

This is what I tell myself as we staunch the bleeding. Ephraim applies the pressure as North slips in and out of consciousness, his eyes growing wide in alarm, then rolling back until only the whites are showing. Every time he comes to, his body twitches, but then the pain takes him away again and he flops back to the floor.

The bleeding is the main problem, but once we have it under control, I go to work with needle and thread. There isn’t much left to sew. The cut was clean and effective, and time will have to do the rest. I rinse the wound with a tincture of witch hazel so that infection will not set in.

Once I’ve tied off the last stitch, I pile a mound of ice on top of the wound. This will both temporarily numb the pain and shrink the blood vessels. But North is restless, twitching. He won’t stay asleep for much longer. What I wouldn’t give for Dr. Page’s bottle of laudanum.

When I look at Ephraim, there is an ocean of sadness in his eyes.

“I told him not to touch me,” I say.

“Stop. You will not blame yourself for what happened here tonight, or for showing him mercy.”

“I doubt North will ever call this mercy.”

“If it hadn’t been mercy, you would have gone for this throat.”

“I cut exactly where I meant to, Ephraim. An eye for an eye.”

“Then we’ll call it severe mercy, love.” He comes to sit beside me on the filthy, stained floor. “Will he live?”

“I don’t see why not. Assuming there is no infection or fever. Which there shouldn’t be if the wound is kept clean.”

“And are you going to do that for him?”

“Absolutely not. He will get no further ministrations from me. He can find his own nursemaid.”

“What should I do with him, then?”