Judith Wall - The Surrogate

Jamie turned on her headlights and squinted to make out the faded name on the mailbox. It was McGraf. There would be no help for her at the end of this lane, but at least she would be out of the weather.

The lane was completely buried under snow, but she was guided by the fence posts that marched along both sides. Just as she pulled up in front of a small frame house with a sagging roof and boards nailed over the windows, she had another pain-a hard pain that took her breath away.

She took a flashlight from the glove compartment, found her boots among the pile of things in the backseat, and exchanged her sneakers for them. At one time the front door of the house had probably been padlocked, but now it stood open. She shined the light around the small front room. The floor was littered with beer cans and trash. A broken chair lay in one corner. She walked over to a stone fireplace. There was cold air coming down the chimney. A good sign. The chimney would draw.

Working in between the pains, she began gathering wood and piling it beside the fireplace-any sort of wood she could find-twigs, sticks, fallen fence posts, the broken chair, loose boards from the front porch. Ralph was always at her side. Poor little dog. How confusing this must be for him. She would have to remember to feed him and put out water for him when they settled down inside.

She slipped and fell several times, at one point striking her forehead so hard against the edge of the porch that she saw stars. Another time she slipped and slammed her hip against a tree.

Once she had a sizable pile of wood, she dug around in the trunk and backseat, locating blankets, quilts, towels, a box with the few dishes and utensils she had kept from her grandmother’s kitchen, and another box with snacks, dog food, and water bottles she’d packed with her journey in mind.

The pains seemed somewhat closer together. Not unbearable but getting harder. She kept fear at bay with busyness. Doing what had to be done.

There were two old mattresses in one of the bedrooms. She dragged them both into the living room, putting the least filthy one in front of the fireplace.

She piled wood in the fireplace then tore open the spare mattress and pulled cotton batting from it to use for kindling. She had no matches but found a tin can among the trash scattered about the house and poked some of the cotton batting inside it. Then she took the can out to the car and used the cigarette lighter to ignite the cotton.

She knew that one was supposed to boil water before a delivery, although she wasn’t quite sure why. Since she had only three water bottles, she filled her grandmother’s soup pot with snow, and set it close to the fire.

What else might be useful? she asked herself.

She would need string and scissors for the umbilical cord. She waited for the next pain to end, then went back out to the car and located her grandmother’s scissors in the sewing stand. In lieu of string, she cut a narrow strip from a towel. And she placed the scissors and strip by the mattress.

She closed the living room off from the rest of the house to prevent heat from escaping and continued making forays outside in search of more firewood and to collect snow to melt in the pan by the fire. She discovered that it took a lot of snow to make only a little water.

The snow was getting ever deeper, but she had no way of knowing how much wood she would need and decided she would keep gathering wood as long as she was physically able. She tore rotting boards from the front gate and a collapsed shed.

She would fall to her knees when the pains began. And moan with Ralph whimpering beside her.

Finally, too exhausted to do anything more, she put out food and water for Ralph and spread a blanket over the mattress by the fireplace. It crossed her mind that she might be preparing her deathbed. And that of her son.

If she thought she was about to die, she would try to open the door so that Ralph would at least have a chance of surviving. But probably he would be eaten by wolves or coyotes if he didn’t freeze to death first.

Before she gave herself over to the mattress, she tried to think. Was there anything else she could do?

She remembered a movie she had seen about a woman having a baby alone on an island in the far north country of Canada. The woman had tied a rope to a bedpost to give her something to pull on while she was in labor. But Jamie had no rope and no bedpost. What she wanted was someone’s hand to hold. Someone’s soothing presence and voice to get her through this.

The only sounds she heard came from the howling wind.

At the end of each pain, Ralph would lick her face and put his head on her shoulder. And she would fall asleep thinking what a good little dog he was. A perfect dog for a little boy.

Then she would awaken to another pain. Terrible, agonizing pain. Pain that took over her body and her mind. Pain that took away her self-control and brought forth frantic thrashing and scream after scream. Pain that made her not care if she lived or died.

She would look at her watch and immediately forget what she had seen. Time lost all dimension. She never knew if the time between pains was seconds or hours. She forced herself to check the fire after each one. And she would reach between her legs, hoping to feel the top of the baby’s head. Then she would sleep until the pain began again.

She knew that it would end only if she could push the baby out of her. Out of desperation, she grabbed hold of her knees and pushed with all her might. Which only increased the pain.

She let go of her legs but felt such an urge to push that she pulled them back again. Toward her chest. It felt as though her insides were being pushed out of her body. She was being turned inside out. But the pushing was no longer a choice. It was something she had to do. Along with screaming. She pushed and screamed. Then dozed. And then she repeated the cycle. Again and again.

After each pain, she reached down between her legs.

He was stuck in there. In the birth canal. They were both going to die. Sooner rather than later, she hoped.

If they didn’t survive, she wondered how long it would be before they were found. Would their deaths even be reported, or would they be secretly buried and forgotten? It really didn’t matter, she supposed. Dead was dead. And with every pain, she felt closer to death. With every pain, she wondered if it was time to open the door so that Ralph could escape.

She grabbed her legs once again. And this time she felt something happening. Something moving. When the pain ended, she reached down once again and felt the top of the baby’s head.

She pulled her legs back and pushed with all her might.

This time when she checked, she felt his neck and a tiny shoulder.

Again she pushed, with all the strength left within her body. “I will not die,” she screamed. “I will not die.”

She felt the rest of the baby slide from her body. He was born.

She rolled onto her side and scooted her body around him. The baby wasn’t moving. His arms and legs were blue. His lips were blue.

She pulled his wet, slippery body toward her and shook him. Then she put her mouth over his and blew air into him.

And again. But to no avail.

“Breathe, baby,” she implored. “Please breathe.”

She stuck a finger in his mouth, which was full of mucus. She suctioned it out with her own mouth, spit out the mucus, and breathed into him again.

Then his little chest moved up and down.

And he cried. A thin, weak cry.

She clutched his slippery, bloody body to her chest. Only then did she realize how cold it was. She was shivering. The fire was almost out.

But there was more stuff happening down there. She pulled a corner of the blanket over the baby’s wet body and waited until she felt the afterbirth come sliding out.