Free The Midwife by Jolina Petersheim Page B

paused a moment before saying, “But I know if I were the parent of a contracted baby, I’d also want the surrogate to be honest with me.”

5
Rhoda, 2014
    At the knock, I get out of bed and whisk the shawl off the back of my desk chair. Spooling it around my shoulders, I pull open the door. I see a pale girl with wet hair dripping across the front of her floor-length nightgown.
    “Lydie?” I ask. “You all right?”
    She shakes her head. “I think . . . I think Star’s hurt.”
    I step back inside my bedroom. Holding the fiery stub of a match, I lift the oil lamp’s glass and touch the flame to the wick before snuffing the match out. I adjust the wick and bring the lamp closer. “What happened?” I ask.
    Turning from the light, Lydie shakes her head. “I don’tknow. When I came back from my bath, Star had locked me out. But . . . I heard her moan.”
    Passing the oil lamp to Lydie, I grab the birthing satchel I keep beneath my desk. Then, without speaking, the two of us hurry down the hallway. The lamp sloshes light across the log-and-chink walls. Our matching white nightgowns float around our ankles.
    I rap my knuckles on the door to the bedroom Lydie shares with Star. “It’s Rhoda,” I say sharply. “What’s wrong?”
    Silence.
    I hang the satchel over Lydie’s other arm and motion for her to move. Twisting the doorknob hard to the right, I shove my shoulder into the door, displacing the ancient hook lock along with my shawl. The tang of metal and sweat assaults my senses. My eyes struggle to see in the dim light. Once they do, years of experience are overtaken by uncertainty. But only for a moment. I reach for the lamp, and Lydie wordlessly passes it to me. I set the lamp on the floor, where it illumines the scene. Lydie gasps and clamps a hand over her mouth. I hear her nostrils pump in and out with fear.
    Star is tucked into the space between the dresser and the window on the left-hand wall. Her knees are pulled up to her chest. Blood spreads from the seat of her pajama pants   —soaking her multicolored slippers   —and sheens on the hardwood floor. Even in the darkness, every color fades next to the garish spectrum of the girl’s purple hair contrasted with that waxing flood of red spilling from herwomb. I have seen enough miscarriages to recognize postpartum hemorrhaging. If I cannot stop the bleeding, we will lose Star too.
    Lydie is so dazed, she is not even aware that I am asking her to give us space. I bracket her small shoulders and push her toward the door. As Lydie clings to the doorframe with her eyes wet and lips moving in silent prayer, I dig into my satchel for Pitocin. I insert the syringe’s needle into the vial and push down on the plunger. I turn the vial   —attached to the syringe   —toward the ceiling like a gun and extract all ten milliunits. Removing the needle, I set the vial down before flicking the side of the syringe to make sure the liquid is void of bubbles.
    I lean over Star and peel down the shoulder of her bathrobe. Lamplight casts shadows over the galaxy of tattoos and scars whittled into her right arm, which has always been hidden under long sleeves. Some of the scars have faded with time; some are as bright as if they were inflicted yesterday. Perhaps they were.
    I use an alcohol wipe to clean a circle on Star’s skin before jabbing her deltoid with the needle. Star’s sore eyes flicker open. They close again. Her chin dips onto her chest.
    “How long have you been cutting?” I ask, recapping the syringe and cleaning the area of the shot.
    “Dunno,” she replies.
    “How long have you been bleeding?”
    “Dunno,” Star slurs again. “Awhile.”
    I trace the scars on Star’s forearm. I turn the arm overto expose the paler flesh lacerated with angry red stripes running parallel to the sunken purple veins. I say, “You’re lucky you didn’t nick one.”
    Star drops the back of her head against the bedroom wall and rolls her eyes to the