Chris Bohjalian - Midwives

There are expressions to convey silence; there are all the old cliches. There are the poetic constructs and affectations. A silence deep as death, a silence deep as eternity. Quiet as a lamb, a quiet wise and good. The silence of the infinite spaces, the silence upon which minds move.

After B.P. spoke, did the living room grow so quiet we could have heard a pin drop? Rooms are often that still, and the floor of that particular living room was hardwood painted gray. We could have heard pins drop in the quiet of that room most days and nights. No, the stillness that overtook the three adults and me, the stillness that fell upon our house was very different from silence. It was not the silence of thought, the quiet of meditation. It was not the silence that grows from serenity, the hush that flowers around minds at peace.

It was the stillness of waiting. Of preparation. Of anticipation tinged-no, not tinged, overwhelmed-overwhelmed by gloom.

How long we all remained still-the adults in the living room, I in the kitchen-was probably far different in reality than it feels to me now in memory. I remember the stillness lasting a very long time; I remember leaning over the sink on my arms for what seemed a great while. But I was so dizzy I feared I might become ill, and in reality the stillness may have lasted mere seconds. A pause in the conversation-albeit one in which everyone present understood that our realities were changed by B.P.'s news, that our lives before and after his remark would be very different-but a simple pause nonetheless.

And then it broke. The stillness brought on by words was done in by words.

"If you'd like," my mother said simply, "I'll talk to Anne tomorrow and put an end to this."

"She won't be here tomorrow, Sibyl, I'm telling you that."

"Why are you so sure? Did she say something to that effect?"

"She didn't have to. But it's clear. It's clear from the fact she hasn't connected with you since… since the woman died. She's avoiding you."

"Avoiding me." More of a statement than a question. My mother sounded more incredulous than concerned.

"Avoiding you. Yes."

I took in a few deep breaths to try and calm myself, to settle my stomach. But my knees were going and so I gave in, I allowed my body to slide to the kitchen floor. I fell slowly, as if I were slipping serenely underwater, my back sliding against the cabinet under the sink as I collapsed.

"What did you say to Anne when she called?" I heard my father ask, and for a brief moment the voices sounded so far away I feared I would faint, but the moment passed.

"I told her I doubted what she said was true. I told her I'd already spoken to you and Andre, and my sense was she probably saw a lot of blood and it was probably very frightening. But she hadn't seen you cut open a living woman. It just wasn't possible, given who you are."

"Who I am," my mother murmured. An echo.

"Yes. An experienced midwife. A woman with excellent emergency medical training."

"And then?" My father again.

"She seemed to understand, and I hoped that would be the end of it. I suggested she call you and get it all off her chest. Get it all out in the open between the two of you."

"But she never called me," my mother said, and in her voice I heard as much hurt as I heard fear.

"Apparently not. But later that day, she did call Reverend Bedford."

"She called Asa?"

"And then she called the state's attorney's office."

"And she told them she thought this woman had been alive when Sibyl did the C-section?" my father asked.

"So it would seem. What she probably told the state's attorney-and this is why I wanted to come by tonight-is that she and Asa both saw blood spurt when you made your incision. In her opinion, the heart was pumping when you began the operation."

"Then why didn't she say something?" my mother said, raising her voice for the first time that evening. "No, she knew Charlotte was dead-and Asa did, too!"

My mother wasn't frantic, but her tone suggested she understood clearly that Asa's perception of the tragedy affected everything. My father, perhaps with some cause, feared that frenzy was just another revelation away, and asked quickly, "B.P., why are you here tonight? This moment? Did something happen today?"

"I was interviewed. I guess that's the right word. Interviewed. I was interviewed today by a couple of state troopers. They wanted a statement. And based on their questions, I got the distinct impression that everyone-state's attorney, medical examiner, father-believes that somebody's dead right now because a midwife performed a bedroom cesarean on a living woman."

…

Later that night my mother knocked on my door and asked if I was awake. She probably knew that I was because she could see the light on under my door, and I was never the type to fall asleep while reading. Through the register in the floor I could hear my father downstairs, adding a last log for the night to the woodstove.

"Come on in," I said, rolling over in bed to face the doorway, and tossing the magazine I was reading onto my night table.

I was surprised that my mother hadn't yet gotten ready for bed. B.P. had left hours ago; it was probably close to midnight. But my mother was still dressed in her loose peasant skirt, and she still had her hair back with a barrette. She limped across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside my window the moon was huge, an oval spotlight one sliver short of full.

"You're up late," she said.

"It's the coffee," I told her, teasing. I'd seen how closely she'd watched me that morning when I'd decided to test one of my limits. It was a completely spontaneous exploration, absolutely unplanned. I simply saw Mr. Coffee, and my arms and hands did the rest.

She picked up the magazine, one for women in their twenties, and thumbed through its pages. That particular issue had articles on super summer shorts and the pros and cons of tanning salons, as well as a special pullout section on birth control. There was no woman in the state of Vermont with a figure as perfect as the Texas blonde on the cover, and no girl with hair that big.

"Anything interesting in here?"

My mother knew exactly which parts of the magazine I found interesting.

"There are some shorts I like on page 186," I told her, not a complete fabrication, but not exactly the truth either.

She nodded and smiled. "They'd look good on you."

"Yeah. But they are sort of yachty," I said, making a word up when I couldn't find the right one. "I think you'd have to live on the ocean to get away with them."

"Probably."

"Or be some rich guy's mistress," I added, an inside joke between us. Whenever we saw a young woman in Vermont who was mind-numbingly overdressed for our little state, one of us would whisper to the other, "Over there-some rich guy's mistress," drawing out the word rich until it became almost two syllables: ri-ichhhhhh.

"Oh, good, there's an article on how to choose the right tanning salon. That should be very, very helpful," my mother said.

"There is one now in Burlington, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Yup."

"We're becoming pretty hip up here in the hills."

"Mostly I just look at the ads. To see what's cool."

She skimmed the headlines and captions in the section on birth control. "How are you and Tom doing?"

"Fine."

"Was it strange not going to the dance with him Friday night?"

"Strange?"

"Did you miss him?"

"We talked on the phone. And he came over Saturday afternoon, you know."

"I know. But I'll bet it's not the same as hanging out with him at a dance."

"Nope. Not exactly."

She looked down again at the magazine, and with her eyes on the section about diaphragms she said, "Don't ever forget: When you think it's time, you tell me. We'll go straight to the clinic." The clinic was our word-saving shorthand for Planned Parenthood.