One thing about that night Judith would never forget was the snow. Before that night, she had always thought of snow as beautiful and cheerful, like something you’d see in a Currier and Ives print. Before that night, the very thought of snow had her humming the tune to “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” She would get excited about it, the snowball fights with her cousins and the snow angels they’d make. Snow meant hot chocolate with marshmallows and days off from school.
But the night of the blizzard was the most frightening of Judith’s young life. Her mother, usually so docile and kind, turned into someone she did not recognize. Her gregarious aunt became quiet and nervous. The storm, and the isolation it caused, changed them. The snow kept them apart from her father and uncle. It blocked the hospital’s ambulance routes, detained the doctors and turned two routine labors into a fearful ordeal. Judith would never see snow again without remembering that night.
Judith blamed the weather for the corruption of her recollections. Its presence was so all-encompassing that it trivialized every other thing about that night, even the birth of the babies. When Judith tried to recall specific details, she felt like she was looking at a distant scene through the glass of a snow globe. Their house and all the people in it were tucked safely inside. But she couldn’t see anything clearly because the flakes were in constant motion, covering the house and refusing to settle to the bottom. No matter what angle she approached from, she could never get an unobstructed view.
The last clear moment of the night was when her mother announced the midwife’s arrival. Judith and Aunt Helen were in the living room sitting on the couch. They had just finished getting things ready—putting out clean towels, sheets and diapers—when her mother came rushing into the room. Before that, Rose had stayed in the bedroom, hiding from everyone and staring out the window.
The sight of the single female figure outside in the snow jolted her mother out of her dormant state. “The midwife is here! It has to be her! She’s coming down the street—look!” Through the window they were just able to make out the figure of a woman fighting her way through the storm toward their house. For every three steps the woman moved forward, she was pushed back two steps by the wind. When they opened the door a few minutes later, a gust of snow practically blew the midwife into the living room so that she seemed, for a moment, almost to be floating. Snow continued to hover around her until the warmth of the room evaporated it. Aunt Helen hugged the midwife and kissed her, while her mother took the midwife’s hand to shake. Judith stood shyly to the side, then headed to the kitchen after her mother asked her to heat some water for tea. The midwife must have introduced herself then.
The midwife was a small, sturdy woman in a navy blue dress with a kind but authoritative air about her. She was neither young nor old and immediately took charge in a way that Judith found comforting. When Judith returned from the kitchen with the tea, the midwife was in the middle of a question: “Which one of you am I here for, then?” Judith set the boiling cup down on the side table. She was the first to respond. “Both of them.”
The midwife thought Judith was making a joke. But her mother and aunt confirmed it, nodding sheepishly and explaining the situation. The midwife downed her tea in one gulp.
There was a brief discussion then that Judith didn’t follow concerning the timing of contractions, the breaking of water, the number of pregnancies and various other details. The midwife wanted to examine both of the expectant mothers and expressed her desire to set up separate birthing rooms for each of them. “But I want to be with Helen,” her mother insisted. “I don’t want to be separated from her.” It was decided that both women would start off in Rose’s room, Rose in her bed and Helen in the rollaway cot. If necessary, they would be separated later.
Judith watched the midwife prepare. Everything she needed was stowed inside her valise. Judith had never seen such a bag before. Fresh blankets and rubber pads materialized from it, as did large bottles of various antiseptic solutions. When the midwife pulled out a lollipop and handed it to her, Judith didn’t recognize it because she thought it must have been some sort of medical instrument. The midwife told her what it was and laughed. She took out her gloves and asked Judith to leave the room because she was going to examine the patients.
Judith could still remember the taste of that lollipop. She couldn’t describe the flavor, but it was something between grapefruit and peach. It was the most delicious candy she had ever tasted. She wanted to find out the name of it so she could ask her mother to buy some for her sisters, but she couldn’t find the wrapper after she removed it. She looked all over the floor, even under the couch, but she couldn’t find it.
After the lollipop, the rest of the evening was a blur. Judith lay down on the living room couch with her book. The midwife must have been in the bedroom with her mother and aunt, and at some point Judith dozed off. Several hours later she woke up. The lights were out but someone had lit candles in the dark living room. The lollipop stick was still in her hand and her book was lying on the floor. What is that noise? Crying? Are the babies born already?
Judith ran into the bedroom and found her mother propped up in bed holding two tightly swaddled bundles. The midwife was doing something to Aunt Helen that Judith couldn’t watch, so she turned away and closed her eyes. “She has to get the whole placenta out or there could be an infection,” her mother whispered. “Your cousin was born first but then I had to start pushing. It happened very fast. The midwife delivered Helen but the placenta tore. I couldn’t wait anymore so she delivered me and went back to Helen. She’ll be fine. Just a few stitches and she’ll be all done.” The midwife made a satisfied grunting sound when she was finished. Judith sniffed a strong ammonia-like smell, and the midwife told her she could open her eyes. When she did open them, the midwife was almost finished tidying everything up. “I’m going to warm up some water,” she announced. “I’ll be right back and we’ll clean up those beautiful babies.”
The remainder of that night was even murkier. Judith took one of the babies from her mother and rocked it in her arms. “Oh my gosh, I completely forgot!” Judith said. “Which is which? I mean, which one is my cousin and which is my…?” Her aunt and mother looked at each other for what seemed like a very long time. Her mother answered first. “You’re holding your cousin Natalie.” Then her mother gestured toward the baby she was holding and spoke very softly. “This is your brother, Theodore.”
At some point, Judith had left the apartment to tell Harry and the other children the news. The snow stopped, the sky lightened and people began to stir in the streets.
The midwife must have returned from the kitchen after Judith had gone upstairs. She must have cleaned the babies then, written down their names on the certificates and said her goodbyes. She must have. But Judith couldn’t remember that part. She could only remember the part that came before. She searched her memory over and over, just as she’d searched the living room floor for the lollipop wrapper. But just like the wrapper, the midwife was gone.
Part Two
Chapter 17
MORT