Banish Misfortune (19 page)

deal of discomfort for her to move. She must have slept too heavily to notice.

She was still tired and sleepy. Her daughter had a habit of kicking her into wakefulness two or three times a night, and then a silly childish fear would enter her mind at the thought of her upcoming labor. Marianne would be with her, she'd promised. But during those first dark moments she would suddenly, unreasonably, long for her mother. The mother who had never been there for her, and never would be again.

Jessica moved to the east window to check the thermometer, but the wind had plastered snow against it, and she couldn't read it. It could be thirty degrees or it could be ten.
When the wind blew, there was no way you could warm this drafty old barn of a house,
she thought with wry affection.

On such a miserable day she didn't have much choice. Matt Decker had just finished his first incarnation, the rapidly weakening Ham loved him, and there was nothing to do for the time being. She could sit huddled by the wood stove, staring out at the storm, or she could climb back into bed, turn up the electric blanket, and read a nice, juicy female fantasy. Matt Decker's violence had gotten a bit tedious after a while, and Jessica found she needed the respite of a scented and flowery romance.

Or she could read her baby books over again, checking for the twenty-third time how to deal with problems in breast-feeding, how to bathe a baby, what comprised a basic layette. Not that she'd learn anything new—by this time she'd memorized Penelope Leach. The lovely maternal fantasies were only causing her frustration.

No, maybe Jane Austen on a day like today,
she thought, giving a small anguished groan as she leaned down to load the stove.
And then a nap,
and maybe, if fate had any sense of fairness, it would make up for the hideousness of the weather and take away her backache.

She loved this house, she thought for the hundredth time as she glanced around the living room, the solid cherry walls, the random-width pine floors, the rough but comfortable country furniture. She loved the casement windows, even when they looked out onto a blizzard; she loved the huge country kitchen with the iron sink, the ancient refrigerator and the well-scrubbed oak table. And she loved the bedrooms, the two downstairs, with their neat, narrow iron beds and their marble-topped dressers. But most of all she loved her bedroom, up under the eaves, with its fading flowered wallpaper, its sagging iron bed, the antique trunk full of old quilts and the dresser with its wavering mirror. Even the rag rugs that provided little protection for bare feet in the middle of the night charmed her. If she'd had any sense at all, she would have moved to one of the downstairs bedrooms and shut off the upstairs entirely. It was foolish to heat the whole house for only one person.

But she had fallen in love with her bedroom when she'd arrived in early September, and even forty below in January hadn't evicted her. Granted, she'd had to turn the electric blanket up to ten, the electric heater to high, and then had lain awake all night worrying about whether she was going to end up with a fried baby, but they'd both survived. Even with the damp chill of a spring snowstorm she wasn't going to abdicate now.

Jane was as soothing as ever and though the lumpy, sagging bed probably did her back more harm than good, she snuggled down deeper anyway. There was something to be said for spring storms.

It was hours later when she woke up, and for a moment she couldn't remember where she was. She was cold, bone-chillingly cold, and wet, and the pain in her back had moved around to her stomach, ripping her apart with a sudden shaft of pain that sent her rigid, then collapsing in relief. It was dark, yet she was sure she'd left the light on. And the bed was cold and—God help her—wet.

Sudden, blinding panic swept over her as the full realization hit. The power was off, her water had broken and she was in labor.

With a small whimper of fear she pulled herself off the bed. She had to get to the telephone, to call Marianne and get some help. Thank God another pain hadn't come yet—she'd have to remember to time them. As long as they were ten minutes apart—maybe it was just gas again. But no, there was no denying her soaked clothing. She shivered in the chilly air as she started down the narrow staircase.
Please, not another pain,
she prayed to an impassive God. Let them be at least twenty—

Her prayer wasn't answered as another pain ripped across her stomach, and she nearly fell. How long had it been? More than five, surely. But less than ten. How long did she have? Long enough to make it into Burlington in a blizzard? Long enough for Marianne to get there? Long enough for her to even get to a telephone?

She leaned against the wall, panting, as the pain let up. Why the hell was the telephone so far away? At least it was near the wood stove—she was freezing.

The wood stove was still kicking out the heat, and waves of it washed over her, adding to her dizziness, as she kept up her silent litany with fate and her baby.
Just hold on,
she prayed.
Just stay put for a few more hours, long enough for me to get to the hospital. Please, darling, hold on.

Picking up the phone in chilled fingers, she dialed Marianne's number before putting the receiver to her ear. When she did listen she dropped the phone in numb horror. The phone line was completely, absolutely dead.

"No!" she cried out loud, tears streaming down her face. "No, please, no."

But the phone was silent and still and the snow piling up at a rapid rate around the old house.

It took her a moment to stifle the sudden panic. "Calm down, Jessie," she ordered herself sternly, the sound of her voice in the quiet house soothing her. "Getting hysterical won't help matters. First you've got to check outside and see whether you dare try to make it to Marianne's."

The blur of white answered that first question, and with a trembling hand she let the curtain fall again. "All right, second, you have to make sure you have enough wood to keep it warm in here. Some candles for light, a couple of quilts to spread on the floor." She was mumbling, wandering around, when the next pain hit her, and she sank into a chair, doubled over with the suddenness of it. When it passed she pulled herself upright. How long had it been? Was it shorter between the last two, or longer? Where the hell was the clock?

With a sudden moan of despair she realized that every single damned clock in the damned house was electric. She didn't even have a watch. There was no way she could time her contractions, there was no way she could get help. There was nothing she could do but lie there in the darkened house and have the baby that wasn't listening to her pleas to hold off.

One of her baby books had instructions on what to do if you went into labor when you were alone. But the books were upstairs by her bed, and nothing could get her to traverse the dark, narrow stairs again to get it. She had read it at least five times, surely she could remember it well enough. Put the baby on your stomach afterward, she remembered. Don't try to cut the cord—wait for help. Someone will get there eventually. Won't they? Keep the baby warm. Keep warm yourself.
God help me, is this punishment for all my sins? Have they been so very many that I deserve this?

Even a pile of quilts on the pine floor would be too uncomfortable—she had to try to drag a mattress from one of the downstairs bedrooms and bring it into the living room. It would be all right—God wasn't punishing her. If she just took it slow and easy, she'd be all right, she and her baby. Her daughter, she thought wistfully.
Please, darling, take your time.

At first Jessica thought it was just the howling of the wind. She was tugging away at the mattress on the old iron bed, her ungainly body and exhausted condition making it slow work, when the muffled thudding came again. With a disbelieving cry she stumbled out of the room toward the front door when another contraction hit her, knocking her to her knees.
Don't go away,
she whimpered beneath her breath.
Don't go.

She didn't even wait for the pain to subside. She staggered to the door, fumbling with the latch. Thank God she never bothered to lock the door in the safe Vermont countryside—she doubted she'd be able to manage it. "Don't go," she whispered, "don't go." A moment later the door opened and she fell into Andrew Cameron's arms.

He didn't waste time with foolish words or questions. She felt herself lifted in his surprisingly strong arms and carried back to the stove. He'd kicked the door shut behind him, and a moment later he had her bundled in one of the quilts she'd dropped on her trip to the front door. The small glow of candlelight further dispelled some of the gloom and panic, and for the first time Jessica began to relax. She wouldn't have to go through it alone.

"How close are the pains, Jessica?" Andrew had come to kneel in front of her, his narrow face dark with concern.

"I—I don't know," she replied faintly, huddling in the quilt. "I don't have a watch, and the clocks are all electric." She caught her breath in a shuddering sigh. "If we leave right now, I'm sure we can make it to Burlington." Actually, she was sure of no such thing. She only knew she had to try.

Andrew shook his head. "We can't, Jessie," he said softly. "I skied up here, and I could barely see two feet in front of my face. Even the snowplows aren't out right now—nothing's moving. You're going to have to stay put."

"Oh, no," Jessie moaned, as another pain started its inexorable build.

"Have you called Marianne? You should thank your lucky stars she's your closest neighbor, lassie. She's helped deliver hundreds of babies—she's an old hand. Your son will pop out with no trouble at all with her by your side."

"Daughter," Jessie croaked. "Can't... can't call her."
Breathe,
she told herself.
Remember your breathing.
"The telephone's out," she gasped.

Andrew swore an effective Gaelic curse. "I'll have to go for her, then. I promise, Jessie, I won't be long. Let me make you comfortable before I leave."

She clasped his arm in sudden desperation. "Don't leave me, Andrew. I'm frightened."

"I've got to, lassie. You need Marianne more than you need a helpless Scot. As they said in the movie, 'I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies.' Marianne does." The quote sounded utterly ridiculous coming out in his rich Scottish brogue, and through her tears Jessica laughed. "Trust me, Jessie. I won't abandon you, and neither will Marianne."

"Will she even come with you? She's been avoiding you since I came back from New York."

"Since Christmas Eve, to be exact. Don't worry yourself, Jessie. Her caring for you far outweighs her fear of me. She'll come with me—probably even beat me back here." He pulled the comforter closer around her shivering body, then bent to load the stove. "Is there anything I can get you before I leave? Anything to make you more comfortable?"

"You could get me a clean nightgown. My clothes are soaked." she admitted.

"Good idea. You can change while I'm gone, but don't go far from the stove. I don't want to find you've birthed your baby in the kitchen."

"I wouldn't do that. I—" A new pain began to ripple across her, and she stared up at him in renewed panic. "Hurry, Andrew," she whispered urgently. "They're getting closer."

It was a long afternoon
, a longer evening and an endless night. It was almost an hour before Marianne could make her way through the waist-high drifts to the isolated house, and in the meantime Jessica was absolutely convinced she was going to die. Marianne and Andrew

would arrive back and find her dead What was that

hideous line from Macbeth's three witches? Something about a birth-strangled babe, ditch-delivered by a drab— Why did she always have to remember things like that when she least wanted to?

But Marianne fought her way into the house, and Jessica's labor had slowed its headlong pace. Andrew arrived an hour later, after having delivered Eric and Shannon to Mrs. LaPlante's for the night. And then the hard part began.

Hours and hours of breathing and panting, hours of holding back, hours of pushing. Andrew was stationed at her head, holding her hand and helping her breathe, while Marianne cosseted and threatened, cajoled and cursed her baby into the world. It was hard, exhausting work, and Jessica lay there with sweat pouring down her pale face.

"Why d'you think they call it labor?" Marianne had snapped. "Hold her head, Andrew, damn it. Try to relax, if you can, Jessie. We've got hours to go."

Jessica burst into tears for the twentieth time, and even Andrew groaned. "Bunch of pansies," Marianne muttered unsympathetically. "Get her mind off the pain, Cameron. What made you decide to show up tonight, anyhow? It isn't exactly the weather for a pleasure ski."

A wry grin twisted his mobile face. "You've forgotten, you heartless woman, that I'm a Scot. Blessed with the second sight, I am. I knew something was happening. It was probably the bairn calling to me. He knew it was time to make an appearance and he was calling to the only available male in this matriarchal society."

"It's a girl," Marianne said wearily, pushing a hand through her straggling brown hair. So far she had avoided looking him in the eye, as she had avoided his very presence for the past four months. She had the unpleasant feeling her isolation was about to end, and she didn't know whether to be relieved or panicked. Maybe she was a little bit of both, she decided.

"Thank you, Andrew," Jessica whispered. "I haven't thanked you yet, have I?"