Page 35 of The Frozen River

“And how many well-bred women have you delivered, Mistress Ballard? How many ladies? Or governors’ daughters? How many wealthy women have you sat beside?” Dr. Page does not wait for me to finish drawing the breath that will school him on how many hundreds of women I have delivered, from all walks of life, before he plunges ahead, “As I thought. Now get out of the way and let me assist this woman so that I may relieve her of these false pains.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mrs. Hendricks says, voice breathy and submissive. “What can you do for her?”

“Administer laudanum. She will sleep and her pains will cease.”

“Grace,” I make my appeal directly to the girl now, “medical textbooks do suggest laudanum for a false labor. Your labor is still early, but quite real, and this medicine will do you great harm.”

Dr. Page clenches his jaw. “I am confident in my diagnosis.”

“A diagnosis determined by what?” I demand. “You have not once checked her. Internally or externally.”

“By observation. And medical skill. Remember which of us,” he turns to Grace as he finishes, “has the medical degree in this room.”

Grace looks at her mother, confused and terrified. “What should I do?”

“Listen to the doctor, darling. He went to school for this.”

It is decided then, and I watch in horror as Dr. Page pulls out a bottle filled with reddish-brown liquid. “Fifty drops ought to do it,” he says.

“That will knock her unconscious!”

“How else do you expect her to sleep? You’ve kept her up the entire night, chattering and performing needless examinations.”

Dr. Page pulls out a dropper from a small velvet bag and begins to measure the drops into a tiny goblet. “Here,” he says after a few moments, handing the cup to Grace, “drink.”

“Please do not take that medicine,” I all but yell.

But Grace Sewell tips the cup backward and drains the contents into her mouth. Shivers at the bitter taste. Swallows with a delicate gulp. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Within moments her eyes are heavy and she’s breathing slowly.

Dr. Page puts his things away and buckles his bag. “Have her husband call for me when the real pains begin. Though I do not expect that to be for some days yet.”

I watch him go but say nothing as I do not want to discourage his departure. The sooner that fool leaves, the sooner I can care for Grace.

Mrs. Hendricks glares at me. “Aren’t you leaving as well?”

“Absolutely not. Your daughter,” I say, pointing to where the girl lies, sprawled on her back, “will soon be deep in the throes of labor. But she has been rendered unconscious by that idiot. It will be a miracle if he hasn’t killed her and the child both.”

“You don’t really think that—”

“Of course I damn well do!” I shout, and am gratified by the look of horror on Mrs. Hendricks’s face as she shrinks backward. “Why do you think I argued with him? I will stay exactly where I am until I know that your daughter and grandchild are well. But if they aren’t, you will have Dr. Page to thank for that. Remember that the next time you panic and call a man to do a woman’s job.”

Grace sleeps for nine hours. I sit beside her the entire time, fretting, my fingers on the girl’s wrist, counting each heartbeat. They are too slow, the contractions too weak. Not nearly what is required to press a child into the world. But they do not stop, and that is its own kind of miracle.

Finally, Grace begins to sweat. Each contraction hardens her belly, and she moans deep in her throat. It is the kind of sound a soldier makes when he lies near the cusp of death on a battlefield. Of a wounded animal in the forest. It is the sound of a woman arriving at transition—that painful shift between labor and birth. At first it is a panting. Then a whistling, followed by a groan from deep inside her chest. If she were awake, I could prepare her for what comes next.

When Grace starts to gag, I have only seconds to sit her upright and lean her over before she vomits a foul brown plume onto the bed. Grace is covered. Her clothes are covered. The bedding is covered. But she is finally awake and instantly aware that her body is deep in the work of birthing her child.

The voice comes from behind me. “Mrs. Ballard, I…”

When I look to Mrs. Hendricks, I can see her throat working hard to swallow the apology.

She looks away. “Can Grace manage the rest of her labor?” Stupid, prideful woman, I think.

“Yes. But thanks to you, she is no better equipped to handle the next birth. She will only remember the worst of this one,” I say, then order her away to gather warm water and clean linens.

“What happened?” Grace asks as the last of the laudanum fades from her system.

“I believe that you have learned exactly what kind of doctor Benjamin Page truly is. Now”—I look her directly in the eye as I begin to help her out of the soiled gown—“will you allow me to assist you with the thing that I do best?”