The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [126]
“Are you sure her—calculations—are correct?” I still could not help thinking of Minnie as that shy shadow that trailed me wherever I went, except to school; surely she had made a mistake.
“It appears she kept a very detailed diary of her—womanly days. She was obviously planning this child, keeping track. So yes, I believe her calculations. She’s a little over four months along.”
Minnie had been planning this? It wasn’t just one—singular—unfortunate accident? Unwanted images filled my head, of Edward and Minnie in bed night after night, clinging together, sweating, panting, loving each other as man and woman were supposed to do, but as I had never experienced, never wanted to experience—I was dizzy, nauseated, desperate to sit down so that I would not collapse. But the doctor remained standing. He was a tall, aristocratic man with impeccably shaped, buffed nails. For some reason I could not take my eyes off them; they were obviously a source of pride for him. Could a man be a good doctor and have such vanity? But obviously Mr. Barnum thought he was; I must accept him.
“Then what are we to do?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from his hands. Finally, he appeared to notice the disparity in our heights; his eyes, behind gleaming spectacles, softened, and he looked about for a chair. I gestured to one, and he took it. I had never been so glad to sit down in all my life; once relieved of their duty, my legs began to tremble. I had to press my hands upon my thighs to keep my silk skirt from rustling like aspen leaves in the wind.
“I think the only humane thing is to convince your sister to abort her child. There’s no question it will be a normal-size baby if it’s taxing her so early on.”
“She thinks it will be a tiny, like she is. She doesn’t seem to recall that she and I were both normal-size at birth, and so far I haven’t had the heart to tell her. I’m afraid—if we tell her, and she refuses to abort the child, then she has to spend the next months in fear, dreadful fear. But if we don’t, she won’t understand the severity of the situation. I don’t know what to do—oh, I don’t know what to do!” And I wanted, so desperately, for Mr. Barnum to be here now; I trusted no one else to make this decision for me.
The doctor looked at me in sympathy. Then he removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Placing those glasses, with his fine, manicured hands, deliberately back upon his face, he said, “There is nothing for you to do. We must tell your sister the facts as we know them, and she must decide.”
“But you don’t understand, I’ve looked after her all our lives; she’s not as—as—” But I broke off, ashamed of what I was saying. Minnie wasn’t as—what? Smart as me? As quick? As perceptive?
As cowardly?
“I think your sister is of perfectly sound mind,” Dr. Feinway said gently. “But I do hope you can persuade her to see the medical facts. Even the soundest of minds grow soft at the idea of a child.”
“If she were to—abort—the child, how is it done?” I was sick, sick to my stomach, sick to my spirit; I had already killed one child, and now I would soon have another on my hands. This irony fell upon me like a particularly ugly, ungainly costume; it turned me into someone else, someone I couldn’t recognize in the mirror.
“There is risk in the procedure, I won’t lie. The usual way is a flushing out of the uterus with special waters, although I’ve read about a newer practice involving scraping.”
I flinched at the words; my own abdomen tightened, and I felt bile rise up in my throat.
“But if she carries the child to term?”
Dr. Feinway hesitated. “I have been present when a large child was born to a small woman; it’s an impossible situation, but sometimes Providence provides a way. But I’ve never before seen a fully mature woman as small as your sister. There are instruments that can assist—forceps, primarily—but those would be of no use in this case. There are instances when the child can