Free Life Among the Savages by Shirley Jackson

said.
    â€œIs your husband the father of this child? Do you have a husband?”
    â€œPlease,” I said plaintively, “can I go on upstairs?”
    â€œWell, really,” she said, and sniffed. “You’re only having a baby.”
    She waved delicately to a nurse, who took me by the same arm everybody else had been using that morning, and in the elevator this nurse was very nice. She asked me twice how I was feeling and said “maternity?” to me inquiringly as we left the elevator; I was carrying my own suitcase by then.
    Two more nurses joined us upstairs; we made light conversation while I got into the hospital nightgown. The nurses had all been to some occupational party the night before and one of them had been simply a riot; she was still being a riot while I undressed, because every now and then one of the other two nurses would turn around to me and say, “Isn’t she a riot, honestly?”
    I made a few remarks, just to show that I too was lighthearted and not at all nervous; I commented laughingly on the hospital nightgown, and asked with amusement tinged with foreboding what the apparatus was that they were wheeling in on the tray.
    My doctor arrived about half an hour later; he had obviously had three cups of coffee and a good cigar; he patted me on the shoulder and said, “How do we feel?”
    â€œPretty well,” I said, with an uneasy giggle that ended in a squawk. “How long do you suppose it will be before—”
    â€œWe don’t need to worry about that for a while yet,” the doctor said. He laughed pleasantly, and nodded to the nurses. They all bore down on me at once. One of them smoothed my pillow, one of them held my hand, and the third one stroked my forehead and said, “After all, you’re only having a baby.”
    â€œCall me if you want me,” the doctor said to the nurses as he left, “I’ll be downstairs in the coffee shop.”
    â€œI’ll call you you if I need you,” I told him ominously, and one of the nurses said in a honeyed voice, “Now, look, we don’t want our husband to get all worried.”
    I opened one eye; my husband was sitting, suddenly, beside the bed. He looked as though he were trying not to scream. “They told me to come in here,” he said. “I was trying to find the waiting room.”
    â€œOther end of the hall,” I told him grimly. I pounded on the bell and the nurse came running. “Get him out of here,” I said, waving my head at my husband.
    â€œThey told me—” my husband began, looking miserably at the nurse.
    â€œIt’s allllll right,” the nurse said. She began to stroke my forehead again. “Hubby belongs right here.”
    â€œEither he goes or I go,” I said.
    The door slammed open and the doctor came in. “Heard you were here,” he said jovially, shaking my husband’s hand. “Look a little pale.”
    My husband smiled weakly.
    â€œNever lost a father yet,” the doctor said, and slapped him on the back. He turned to me. “How do we feel?” he said.
    â€œTerrible,” I said, and the doctor laughed again. “Just on my way downstairs,” he said to my husband. “Come along?”
    No one seemed actually to go or come that morning; I would open my eyes and they were there, open my eyes again and they were gone. This time, when I opened my eyes, a pleasant-faced nurse was standing beside me; she was swabbing my arm with a piece of cotton. Although I am ordinarily timid about hypodermics I welcomed this one with what was almost a genuine echo of my old reassuring smile. “Well, well,” I said to the nurse. “Sure glad to see you.”
    â€œSissy,” she said distinctly, and jabbed me in the arm.
    â€œHow soon will this wear off?” I asked her with deep suspicion; I am always afraid with nurses that they feel that the psychological effect of a