Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [95]
She will refuse to obey him, she thinks. She will accept his implied challenge and set off on her own. But in the next moment, she asks herself: How will she be able to do that? Without her father’s support, she cannot hope to survive. And if she herself does not survive, then a child cannot live.
Her father pretends to be examining the revelers, but Olympia knows that all he can see is himself and her, framed by the cream molding of the window’s deep sill. He seems not to like what he sees, and turns back to her.
“After your training, I should like you to find a position somewhere away from Boston, where your story will not immediately be known,” he says, and it is clear that he has been thinking this through for days. “Even so, you must be prepared for a life in which people will eventually know your circumstances, for I doubt there is anywhere you could go where there will not at least be a possibility of the story reaching those around you. Unless you change your name . . .”
He considers this idea for a moment.
“No,” he says. “No, you will not do that. There is no need for cowardice in this family. Of course, you will be provided for. I do not think you could live very well on a teacher’s salary. I shall not be lavish, merely adequate. Olympia, despite all” — she looks sharply up at him, for she detects a tiny crack in his composure — “your mother and I do love you.”
Her eyes sting at this pronouncement, for she does not believe that her father has ever spoken of love to her.
Her father sighs, as though this confession has taken more out of him than he anticipated. He raises his chin and takes a quick breath.
“So, now,” her father says, having ventured too far into sentiment for comfort. “Fetch your cloak and hat. I shall take you for your walk this evening in the park. And then we will come back and make ourselves some cocoa, and in this modest way we shall celebrate the new century, in which I hope you will have a life of contentment, if not actually of happiness.”
Olympia tries to stand. Her father reaches for her arm, and she sees that he is disconcerted to realize just how large she has become, for it has been some time since he has stood this close to her.
She disentangles her arm from his. “You are wrong in one thing, Father,” she says as calmly as she can. “Quite wrong.”
“And what is that?” he asks almost absently, having discharged his duty in a timely fashion and now somewhat more relaxed than he was when he entered the room.
She looks at his face and waits until his eyes meet hers.
“You predict that by the fall of next year, I will be entirely recovered from this ‘episode,’ as you call it. But you are wrong. I will never recover, Father. Never. If you take the child from me, I will never get over it.”
He studies her for some seconds.
“Olympia,” he says. “You are so very young.”
• • •
Shortly after midnight, in the early morning of April 14, Olympia wakes to a sensation of wetness. On further inspection, she discovers that her gown and her bed are soaked with warm fluid. Heavily, she climbs out of the bed and changes into a dry nightdress. She knows from the medical book what this means. She walks to the bottom of the stairs leading to the third floor and knocks as hard as she dares against the wall. She does not want to rouse either of her parents.
Josiah, his hair matted into a comical shape, comes to the landing in his dressing gown.
“Fetch Lisette,” Olympia says.
Lisette enters the room in plaits and nightdress. She embraces Olympia and seems as excited as if it were she who is about to give birth. Since Lisette’s lack of fear and good spirits are somewhat infectious, Olympia is less apprehensive than she might be. She sits on a chair in her room and watches while Lisette changes the bedclothes. When she is finished, Olympia climbs back into bed, draws up the coverlet, and waits. It is a warm night. She asks Lisette if she has ever witnessed a birth. Lisette says yes, several times. She is the eldest of seven children, and her mother “popped them out like biscuits.”
“I have seen a birth