Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

I did the best I could and when I was finished, I found I couldn't get up quickly. My back was so stiff, I had to sit against the wall to catch my breath and wait for the ache to subside.

As time went by, the list of chores I usually completed by late afternoon now took me into the evening. When I was finished, I had to make my way alone through a dark house holding a candle. Gradually, the climb up the stairs became harder and harder and took longer and longer. I was terrified of passing out and falling down, for I was sure I would lose the baby.

One night toward the end of the seventh month, when I had completed my chores and pulled myself up the stairway to my closet of a room, Miss Emily marched through the door just as I entered. It was as if she had been waiting in the shadows in the corridor outside, for she was right behind me, practically breathing down my neck. She was carrying her kerosene lamp and something in a large paper bag.

"It's time to take stock," she said when I turned with surprise.

"What do you mean?" I cried. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. I hoped she didn't mean doing some sort of inventory.

"We have to check you," she said.

"But why now?" I moaned. "I'm tired and it's time to sleep."

"What do you want me to do, adjust my schedule to fit your needs? Take off the dress," she ordered.

Reluctantly, I began to lift the garment over my head, but she was impatient and seized it in her hands and tugged it abruptly, nearly sending me to the floor. I embraced myself, covering my bloated bosom, and glared at her. She placed the palm of her right hand roughly over my abdomen, pressing so hard, I had to cry out.

"Just as I suspected: you're constipated," she declared.

"No I'm not," I said, "I . . ."

"What do you mean, oh, no? Don't you think that after all these years and the dozens and dozens of babies I've delivered, I know when a pregnant woman is constipated and when that constipation is causing undo pressures on the womb and the fetus?"

"But . . ." I shook my head. Was she right? I wondered. Was that why I had such trouble breathing?

"No buts. You want to do what's right for the baby, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "Of course."

"Good." She reached into the paper bag and brought out a large bottle of castor oil and an enormous glass. She opened the bottle and filled the glass to the top. "Drink this," she said, thrusting it at me. I took it slowly.

"All of it?"

"Of course, all of it. I think I know how much you need. Drink it."

I brought the glass to my lips, closed my eyes, and swallowed and swallowed. The horrible tasting liquid bubbled as it settled in my stomach. To my surprise, she filled another glass.

"Again," she said, thrusting it back at me. She kept the glass in my face. "Drink it!" she snapped.

I took it slowly and emptied the glass as quickly as I could.

"All right. That will clean you out and take the pressure off your womb," she said. In the glow of the lamps, she almost smiled. Maybe now that my time was drawing closer and closer, she would behave more like the midwife she claimed she was, I thought. She put the nearly emptied bottle of castor oil back in the bag along with the glass. "You can put your dress back on," she said and marched out.

It was not long after she left that a cramp, sharp and dreadful, shot across my abdomen. The next time one came, it nearly doubled me over. Then the pains came quickly, one after another. I got out of bed as fast as could and, without pausing to turn on the kerosene lamp, lunged for the bathroom door. I pulled on the knob firmly because the door was always stuck. Only this time, the knob came off in my hands and the thrust sent me reeling backwards. I couldn't stop myself from falling and sitting down hard. The impact caused me to have an immediate accident.

"Oh no!" I cried as my bowels rampaged. All I could do was lie there and wait for it to end. Then, slowly, as carefully as I could to keep myself from getting any dirtier, I slipped out of the soiled dress. I rolled it up quickly and returned to the bathroom door. I put my hand in the hole where the knob used to be and tugged until the door opened. Then I went in to wash myself. Yet the towel and cloth I used to clean myself wasn't enough. I groped about in the darkness and then went out back into the bedroom, deciding I would call for Miss Emily. But before I could open my mouth my stomach in reply began to rumble again. This time I made it to the bathroom. However, my bowels went wild and when it was finally over, I felt so limp and weak, I could barely stand. My abdomen ached. I had trouble catching my breath. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would split open my chest.

"Miss Emily!" I cried out, hoping she might hear me and come to help me. "Miss Emily!" I listened, but there was no response and no sound of footsteps in the corridor outside my room. She could never hear me shouting from here, I thought.

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nbsp; Terrified of what was happening, I pulled myself to my feet and desperately made my way back to my bed. The pains in my stomach spread to my back and became sharper and more intense. I realized I had to make another trip to the bathroom and quickly. I slipped off the bed and crawled on my hands and knees, just reaching the toilet in time, but the end of this ordeal left me as limp as a wet washcloth. I couldn't even crawl back to my bed. I collapsed on the floor, groaning, too weak to cry out. I realized I was in great danger of losing the baby, but I didn't have the strength to do much more.

Thankfully, the pain began to ease. I closed my eyes and held my stomach. In the morning Miss Emily found me still lying there. I had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor.

"This is disgusting!" she shouted. "Look at this room. You're worse than one of my pigs!"

"Miss Emily," I moaned, struggling to get up, "I couldn't get into the bathroom. You gave me too much castor oil," I cried, the tears streaming down my cheeks.