All in Her Hands: A Novel

CHAPTER TWO

Thank the Lord," Mrs. Franklin breathed as Nora burst into the back bedroom. "You're here. It's happening now."

"What's the trouble?" Nora asked, searching out a safe spot to store her vaporizer and already dreading whatever made the stoic Mrs. Franklin look so anxious.

"Breech. Which is no great problem, usually. I just have a feeling." The woman's wrinkled brow glistened with exertion, but she forced a smile onto her face as she turned to the patient. "You'll be fine, Betsy. Dr. Gibson's here to help."

"Let me take a look." Nora knelt at the end of the bed. As Mrs. Franklin had said, this birth was well underway. And breech. Instead of a bit of scalp, she caught a glimpse of baby buttocks crowded against Betsy's opening—still small, which was a concern. Nora had no idea how long Betsy had been laboring, but big babies and little pelvises always flooded her with dread.

"Blood loss?" Nora asked as she unbuttoned her sleeves.

Mrs. Franklin jerked her head. "No. But poor Betsy's worn out. This is her first. I usually wait for the babe to make his own way through, but we've been here for hours."

A moan mounted, ending in a scream that tore at Nora's chest. Patients coped with pain differently, but as Nora added up factors—breech presentation, prima gravida, unproductive labor, maternal exhaustion...

"It's good that you sent for me." She glanced at the vaporizer, then turned back to the patient. "Betsy?"

No response. She was too lost in her suffering to register anything.

Mrs. Franklin gripped Nora's arm and angled her away from the bed. "Betsy's my niece. My sister died three weeks after giving birth to her." Her jaw clenched, and Nora noticed her drenched collar and glistening neck. "I can't let it happen again."

Nora scrutinized the scene with new eyes. Everything changed when family was attending.The baby's buttocks inched forward with a contraction, then slid back again. At least the child was prone—face to the tail, as the midwives said. "It's not the worst position," Nora reassured Mrs. Franklin. "We'll take care of Betsy together."

Nora yanked out her jars of wine and olive oil and threw some of the oil over her hands just as Magdalena had taught her.

Betsy screamed again and the buttocks slid forward, far enough that Nora could see the hip joints.

"That's progress," Mrs. Franklin cried.

Nora was about to lower into a better position, but Mrs. Franklin was already there, weathered hands poised and a mask of fierce concentration on her face. "Bear down now, Betsy. It's a boy. We're almost through it."

"You continue," Nora said, shifting sideways. "I'm here if you need me."

For all her earlier anxiety, Mrs. Franklin was confident now. Nora understood the sudden change. Frequently, an oncoming crisis simply forced uncertainties to vanish, compelling you to succeed. And sometimes that swift, blind courage worked, but it was hell when it didn't. So as Nora leaned back, crouching on her heels, she watched carefully.

Betsy groaned and panted as the baby's body slowly emerged, his legs pinned up, unable to fall loose. Betsy's thighs shook with pain and pressure and Nora longed to pull the child out and make the suffering stop, but birth required faith and restraint. The progression stopped and Nora and Mrs. Franklin leaned in closer. The tiny feet had wedged behind the vulva like bolts in a lock, impeding further descent. Nora started to reach forward when, with practiced movements, Mrs. Franklin hooked her fingers behind the baby's knee joints and flexed upward, freeing the feet to pop out and dangle as she held up the child's belly.

Nora smiled. Most doctors would have tried to stretch the opening laterally, but someone had taught Mrs. Franklin this gravity-assisted technique—one Nora had only seen in Italy. Nora spared a glance at Betsy's purple face, swollen and distended from hours of exertion, her eyes tormented slits.

"Nearly there," she said, reaching up to press the mother's tightly clenched fist.

The baby's back slid into view, tilting to take advantage of every sliver of open space. Screaming, Betsy grabbed at her bedcovers, so Nora jumped to her side, rubbing Betsy's upper arms and shoulders with hard, grinding strokes as the nuns had taught her.

"I'm going to die like my mother," Betsy sobbed.