Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [38]
“Mother?” I say, from the doorway. She turns to me. My eyes drift down to the burden in her hand: a lumpy, dirt-stained sack of cloth.
“Where are you going?”
“To bury the child,” she says.
I look at the cloth, see now that the dark stain upon one side is the color of dried blood. “The child is here? Why?”
“I made a promise to the mother . . . to give the baby a proper burial.” She stares at the sack lying heavily in her hand, cannot meet my eyes. “She had concealed the pregnancy. It was a bastard child. That is all.”
“Where will you go?” I ask.
“To the clearing behind our house. I’ll not be seen there.” She is right: the clearing behind our house is well concealed and rarely entered by anyone but ourselves.
“Do you need help?” I ask.
“No,” she says, much to my relief. “Stay with the boy.” And with that she turns and goes, never once meeting my own bastard gaze.
I close the door and return to the fire, taking up the iron poker and prodding it absently, the bloodstained sack like a stubborn weed planted resolutely in my brain. It is not the first time I have seen her with a sack of blood: the other night in my dream it was much the same. But I know that the real image, the seed, is from another, earlier time.
When I was eight, I secretly followed my mother in the dead of night to Dora’s house. Her time had come, and I was determined to unravel the mysteries of my mother’s nocturnal life, with or without her permission. And so it was I came to witness my first birth. I followed my mother through the cold, damp night, and perched outside the cottage, peering through a chink in the rough-hewn walls. When we arrived, Dora was already deep within the throes of labor. Her hair was wet and matted, her face an unearthly pink in the glow of the firelight. She wore a simple nightdress, pulled up to reveal the cream of her large thighs, and was crouched by the bed on all fours. I watched as my mother coaxed her onto the bed. She took out a cone-shaped instrument from her bag, one that I had seen her use countless times before in her examinations, and pressed it hard against Dora’s abdomen, her face taut with concentration as she listened for the life inside. Dora moaned, and my mother laid a hand upon her shoulder to silence her, and then there was nothing but the spitting of the fire. I watched my mother’s face, the look of intensity in her eyes as she strained to hear the life within. After some moments, she shut them tightly, as if to block out everything, and both women remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, Dora scarcely daring to breathe. And then her body jerked with a spasm of pain, and her deep moan split the silence. My mother opened her eyes, and I saw at once the uneasiness they held. Dora rolled over onto her stomach, her haunches slipping to the floor. She stretched her arms across the bed, her face buried in the bedclothes, her upper body heaving with the effort. And then I saw the blood spill forth from between her split-wide legs.
My mother crouched below her, one hand reaching up into her womb, the look of concentration still heavy upon her face. After a few moments, she removed her arm, now stained with blood, and moved round to face her. She took her by the shoulders and spoke directly to her with some force.
“The baby is sideways,” she said. “There is no sound of life.” Dora panted and blinked and then once again was gripped by pain. My mother released her shoulders and stepped back, and I watched in horror as Dora squatted and pressed down with all her might. The sounds coming from her throat made my blood run cold: a deep, low growl that was more animal than human. The blood spurted forth anew, and I thought for a moment that she would lose her insides. Instead, a tiny hand appeared between her legs, small and purple and limp. My mother leaned forward again, and grasped her shoulder.
“The baby is dead. I must act quickly. Do you understand?” She said, her voice rising to a near shout. Dora nodded, blowing