Spinning the Moon (8 page)

“I am sure you are,” Stuart said as he took another sip of the rancid brew, and grimaced.

The mention of Pennsylvania and Lee's initiative pricked my memory. “Gettysburg,” I murmured. The one piece of trivia that stuck in my mind was that following the battle, Lee's train of wounded stretched for more than fourteen miles.

“What do you mean by Gettysburg?” The doctor looked at me with irritation, his hand waving my comment aside. “No, Mrs. Truitt, it is rumored that General Lee is going to the state capital of Harrisburg—and will hopefully do to them what Grant's army is doing to those poor suffering people in Vicksburg.”

I knew nothing of Harrisburg, but the name Gettysburg and its bloody aftermath would be etched on the minds of the American people for centuries to come. Not wanting to get into an argument, and perhaps reveal more than I should, I let his remarks go without comment.

I looked at Stuart, a soldier in this conflict. Although I didn't really know him, I was comforted in the knowledge that here was one less soldier whose bullet-ridden body would be lying on the field of battle in a war that was to me a foregone conclusion.

Stuart stood and limped over to the window. “Julia, Mrs. Truitt seems to have suffered a blow to her head and cannot remember much more than her name and the street she lives on. I would like to offer her our hospitality until her memory returns or we find out who she is.”

Julia turned to me. “Of course. You may stay as long as you like. I am beholden to you for what you did for my Willie.” She placed a warm hand on my arm and squeezed it gently.

“Thank you both. I'll do my best to help you with the house and children, Julia. And I'll find some way to repay you for your kindness.”

“You already have. Do not think any more about it.” Julia patted my arm gently.

“I'd also like to ask your friends and neighbors to see if they know anything about a baby being found on the mountain. I don't know where else to look.”

Julia's hand on my arm tightened and I winced. Her face blanched and she clutched her rounded belly with the other hand.

“Are you all right?” My voice seemed higher than usual. “Is it the baby?”

She nodded, her face contorted with pain. My first impulse was to rush to a phone to let the hospital know we were on our way. But this was 1863; no hospitals, no high-tech birthing rooms, and no epidurals. A woman was left to her own devices.

“Where is your husband?”

She took a gasping breath. “I am not sure. He is off fighting with the Yankees out west. I have not heard from him since last September, when he was here on furlough.”

If this were a dream, this would be the moment for me to wake up. I clenched my eyes, but when I opened them again, I was still there and Julia's hands were clutching her abdomen as the two men hovered behind me.

“What can I do?” I asked, trying to push the panic out of my voice. I knew next to nothing about natural childbirth, but I did know the presence of another woman would be comforting.

“Just help me walk. It is not my first baby so it should not take too long. And somebody go get Sukie.”

I put my arm around Julia's shoulder and gently led her to the stairs. She stopped suddenly and shook her head.

“No, not in my bedroom. The birthing room has been prepared down here.”

Before we could proceed, Julia gasped and a small puddle pooled at her feet. She looked back at the two men standing in the parlor doorway and her cheeks burned red.

Feeling her discomfort, I said, “Don't pay any attention to them. They know that if childbearing were left to men, it would be the end of mankind.”

I caught a scowl on the doctor's face but a quick smile from Stuart as I led Julia to the little birthing room at the back of the house.

In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

—GENESIS 3:16

T
he birthing room, which would become part of a modern kitchen addition in about one hundred and fifty years, was sparse and clean. There were no beeping monitors, no running water, and no television to while away the time. I had been left alone with Julia, and it dawned on me that I had somehow been elected to be the birthing coach. I assumed being a woman was my best qualification. But my own child-birthing experience in 2007 bore no resemblance to the episode unfolding before me.

Sukie came in with a clean cotton nightgown and helped me dress Julia. She was so petite and her burden so large that I was concerned, until I remembered that this wasn't her first child. If she had already survived childbirth before she stood a greater chance.

“Julia, is there a midwife here that I can fetch for you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No, our midwife died last year. But Dr. Watkins is here.”

Her words offered no consolation. As if on cue, there was a light tapping on the door and the doctor strode in. He walked over to Julia and picked up her hand. The gentleness with which he touched her surprised me. The look of devotion was plain on his face, revealing the extent of his feelings for the patient. I was quite certain his feelings weren't returned.

“Julia, I will need to examine you now to see where the baby is positioned.”

A small groan escaped through Julia's clenched lips as another
spasm swept through her. She struggled under the sheet, her covered mound roiling as if it were a ship on a stormy sea.

Dr. Watkins looked up at me expectantly. “Madam, I require your assistance. Please hold up the sheet for me.”

Things were happening so fast. The day before I had been in my car, listening to the radio in the year 2014. And now I was standing in an un-air-conditioned room in 1863 and being asked to help deliver a baby. I stood staring at the doctor, unsure how to respond.

“Is there a problem with your hearing? Have you never been present at a birth before?”

I nodded. “Just once—but I was the one giving birth.”

“Surely, then, you can hold up this sheet. But only if you don't think you might faint. I have smelling salts in my bag if you require them.”

I stumbled forward and grasped the sheet while the doctor began his examination. I immediately had a flashback of my own birth experience, of doctors and nurses garbed in sterilized gowns, with masks and rubber gloves. Everything had been coated in a reassuring antiseptic smell. I knew that modern technology was out of reach, but I also knew enough about the basics to realize that Dr. Watkins didn't understand the first thing about germs.

“Excuse me, Dr. Watkins. Don't you need to wash your hands?”

He regarded me with complete disdain. “Madam, I am the doctor here. If you would like to assist me, I will accept that. But please leave the doctoring to me.”

I bristled under his dismissive attitude. I was tired, cranky, and thoroughly confused with the situation I now found myself in. My temper sparked. “I'm sorry, Doctor, but your unsanitary methods are not acceptable. Haven't you ever heard of germs? Not sanitizing your hands could kill both Julia and her child.” I remembered how “childbed fever” had been one of the leading causes of death among women in the nineteenth century and now I knew why. I didn't really know the woman in the bed, but there was some kind of a bond between us. Whether it was a bonding of two mothers was immaterial. But it was suddenly very important to me that she and her baby survive this birth.

I bent over the form writhing in the bed and laid my hand on her arm. “Julia, I know I can help you here. Please ask Dr. Watkins to
follow my instructions, or it could be a matter of life or death for you and your child.”

Julia looked up at me with my fear mirrored in her eyes. But I also saw trust in them, and a woman's bond was formed.

“Charles, please listen to Laura. Do it for me and for William's baby.”

The doctor put the sheet back down slowly and stood at the other side of the bed. “I will do this for you, Julia, and for the baby. But not for William. Not anything ever again for William.”

“Thank you.” Her voice weakening, Julia stifled a shout as she ground her teeth.

I went to the door and called out Sukie's name. She appeared quickly and listened attentively as I gave her a list of items I thought we would need: clean towels and sheets, alcohol, whatever kind of soap she could find, and lots and lots of boiling water.

My mind raced as I tried to think of what kinds of anesthetics they used to have. I faced the doctor. “Do you have anything to help with the pain?”

He turned on me with harshness in his voice. “Madam, suffering in childbirth is not only dictated by God, but is also necessary to induce maternal love. Her mind needs to be unclouded now to realize and appreciate this blessed event. I would say that using anything to lessen the pain would be sacrilegious.”

“Obviously spoken by a man who has never had to suffer through childbirth!” I snapped. “If you care anything for this woman, you will find something for her. The contractions are taking away her strength—and if her labor continues for a long time she won't have the energy needed to push the baby out.” I was almost choking on my anger and anxiety and I might have actually laid my hands on the man to physically send him on his way, but Stuart's entrance stopped me.

“You two step out of this room immediately so you can discuss whatever it is without disturbing Julia. I could hear your voices outside on the porch.”

A sudden groan brought everybody's attention toward the bed, where Julia struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. Through gritted teeth, as she staved off yet another labor pain, she managed to gasp, “Stuart, it is all right. Charles knows . . . what he needs to do and he had better do it pretty soon. . . . This baby is not . . . waiting much
longer.” She squeezed her eyes shut and then managed to say, “Now get out!” Her burst of strength disappeared as she dropped back down to the mattress and another labor pain assaulted her small body. The doctor left the room.

Her spirit made me smile, and I went back to the bed. Dipping a cloth in the washbasin that Sukie had placed on the nightstand, I wiped Julia's forehead.

“You're an original steel magnolia, aren't you?”

She smiled weakly and I turned to Sukie, who had returned with the requested items.

“Can you stay with her for a few minutes while I talk to Mr. Elliott and the doctor?” Without waiting for a reply, I grabbed Stuart's elbow and led him out the door.

The doctor spoke first. “Mrs. Truitt, you are probably unaware that the South is surrounded by a Yankee blockade. Even if I wanted to give Julia some laudanum, I couldn't. We have not seen laudanum or morphine in a long, long time.”

“Is there nothing we can do to help her pain?”

The doctor shook his head. “No. There is not. Just comfort her. It is not her first, and they do get easier.”

“I've got to get back to Julia. Go wash your hands, Dr. Watkins—and don't forget to scrub under the fingernails.”

The doctor glared at me as he turned to go.

Stuart turned to face me. “What, exactly, is a steel magnolia?”

“I'll explain later. Could you bring me some whiskey? Not for me—for Julia. It might help calm her nerves.”

He nodded, and I returned to Julia's side to begin my vigil. Sukie washed Julia and placed towels under her hips. I washed my hands up to the elbows in preparation and sat down to wait, and wondered what I was supposed to do when it was time for the baby to be born.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, sending a bright sliver of yellow light through the window. I'd given her a little whiskey, but it had made her choke and she wouldn't take any more, no matter how hard I tried. Every once in a while Julia would moan but she never cried out. I finally turned to her and said, “It's okay to scream. We all know it hurts—there's nothing to be ashamed of.”

But still she lay quietly, her drenched face a mask of pain. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked on, marking the minutes of Julia's labor, its solemn ticking interspersed occasionally by the groans of childbirth.

As the clock struck nine, the doctor reported that Julia was ready to deliver. I tried to remember anything I'd learned in Lamaze, but my mind came up blank. Julia screamed, and I put my hand in hers as she began to bear down. The bones in my hand ached from the pressure, but I hardly noticed as the baby's shoulders appeared and were gently turned and guided out by Dr. Watkins.

The baby was laid on top of Julia as the doctor cut and tied the umbilical cord. Wet membranes covered the child, but the startling blue skin underneath shone through clearly. Sukie handed the doctor a cloth that he used to wipe the child. The doctor looked strangely agitated and started to gently slap the baby on the bottom. It was then I realized the baby wasn't crying. The doctor tried a few more slaps and movements to revive the child, but the baby lay still and blue, ethereal and peaceful. Solemnly, the doctor shook his head and handed the still form to Sukie, who wrapped the small boy in a blanket.

“Charles? What is it? Why isn't the baby crying?” Julia's feeble voice called out from the bed. I moved to her side and reached for her hand.

I stared dumbfounded. This couldn't be happening. All that pain and effort for nothing. The doctor directed Sukie to press on Julia's abdomen to deliver the placenta and then took the baby from her. “I'm sorry, Julia. Your son has been born dead. There is nothing I can do.”

Her sob brought me out of my stupor. As the doctor started to walk from the room, I remembered the infant and child CPR class I had taken when Annie was born.

I quickly walked over to the doctor. “Dr. Watkins, please let me have the baby. I think I can help.” I reached for the swaddled baby but the doctor eluded my grasp.

“Woman, the child is dead. He has been delivered unto God and we cannot reach him. Cease your squawking right now so this family can mourn their loss.”

Out of desperation, I tugged at the blanket. “Damnit, give me the baby!”

Startled, he relinquished his grasp. I took the limp bundle from his
arms and laid the baby down on the floor and knelt down by his side. I tried not to think how much this child resembled the little girl in the morgue with the translucent skin and dark lashes. I put his head in a neutral position with one of my hands on his forehead and the other hand under his chin, just like I'd been taught. Placing my mouth over his nose and mouth, I gave two slow breaths, and watched his tiny abdomen rise and fall. I checked for a pulse in his upper arm and couldn't find one. With my two fingers on the child's breastbone, I methodically began to do cycles of chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth breathing, periodically checking for a pulse. My knees ached from kneeling on the hardwood floor and my fingers felt as if they would break, but I continued. I was aware of other people in the room but I focused on my task. I was about ready to collapse with exhaustion when a feeble pulse beat in the baby's arm. I put my face down and felt warm air coming out of the baby's mouth. Quickly, I picked the baby up and shook him gently, causing a startled cry to come out of him. In my relief, I fell back, slid down against the wall, and sat there, cradling the child. My shoulder ached from my exertions, but it didn't matter. The child was alive.

Two hands reached out to take the baby from me and I resisted until I realized it was Stuart. He took the child over to Julia, who seemed dazed.

I couldn't move. I didn't know whether it was from the physical exertion of the past few hours or the realization of the power I had over these people. I had just altered history. This child would not have survived if I had not been there to save it. Would this event change the course of history's path? I didn't know. And I was too tired to care.

At that moment, a large dark-skinned man, his black hair streaked with gray and running down past his shoulders, pushed open the door and walked in. In his broad hands he carried a delicately carved wooden cradle, which he placed at the side of Julia's bed. At his heels followed the dog, Charlie. I looked at Charlie, and his features somehow seemed familiar to me. I glanced up at the doctor and immediately saw the resemblance: the droopy brown eyes, the perpetual frown. Someone had obviously given the doctor a namesake. Looking between the two, I burst out laughing and continued to howl until the tears ran down my face.