When no one stood, she moved on to her next demand, requiring us to do what previously she’d forbidden. She told us to reveal how we came to be with child, so that no one might be mistaken for an unrepentant sinner. She prodded each along, demanding that she tell her truth, or Anne would tell it.
Nancy and most of the others flushed pink and said “rape” or “violation.” When asked to name the male offender, several said he’d been a stranger. Nancy named the employer upon whom she had depended; at this, Gina turned in her seat to view our former roommate with a puzzled stare. Some of the girls identified a relative—one, a cousin; another, an elder brother; in Sophie’s case, it was her father, and he had whipped her when he learned his seed had sprouted. The girl’s voice was hushed when she spoke; her face was pinched and pained.
Gina and I were the only ones to claim breach of promise of marriage—the only ones whose condition could be explained by untempered passion and poor judgment. Gina spoke haltingly, her face expressing both mortification and a hint of gratitude that she didn’t have a worse story to tell. Then I told of my own indulgence in the flesh and of trust given undeservedly. Sophie’s eyes bored into me as if to say, “You know nothing of true degradation.” With this I had no argument.
Then Anne read from the lengthy reply she’d sent to The Day, in which she bemoaned the prejudice heaped upon the Haven, the small numbers of women it is able to assist due to meager funds, and the many more who go without help. I recall eloquence along the lines of this: “It is a sad commentary on the community that a girl—perhaps a mere child—is cut off from help and hope, and finds every door fast shut through which she would return to an honest life. Surely one opportunity for reformation may be allowed.”
Not only did Anne draft her defense this morning, but then she rushed for hours through the city, from door to door, and through the force of her intentions has prevented all but one donor from withdrawing their pledges. A doctor even agreed to make the mortgage payments for the entire year.
Thus Anne has saved this institution from having to close and cast its occupants into the street.
Once she’d finished her recounting, we rose to our feet and clapped as one, and surely others felt as I did—that this woman has, by her courage and her sympathy, given me hope for the world’s salvation.
Third Month 26
Sophie entered labor this morning, not long after starting on her chores. The birth was quick. With sorrow we passed the tidings ear to ear: her baby boy was stillborn. She rests now in the recovery room’s second bed, alongside Nancy.
The infant being stillborn shouldn’t surprise us, Delphinia said at midday, and it shouldn’t scare us, either. Sophie arrived even more poorly nourished and roughly treated than most, and she was too young to have carried a baby well.
Later this afternoon, Dr. Stevens gave me an embarrassing and painful examination. With me lying on my side, she reached her hand in to measure the dilation of what she called my os uteri. “Opened to the size of a penny, nearly,” she said. “Your labor will likely begin tonight.”
I’m frightened. This diary is my one true friend; if only it had the power to pray with me.
Third Month 27, midday
Pains woke me in the dark and have occupied me since. Sally has taken temporary charge of the infant Mabel so Nancy can sit with me, as she wishes to help me through. She says it’s fine to write while she sews beside me.
A strong one. The pain rolls over and flattens me, as if I were a sheet of paper beneath the roller of a press.
To think that every person I’ve laid eyes on had a mother who endured hours or even days of this!
Delphinia came in to report that the delivery room is being aired and washed with carbolic acid and is almost ready for my arrival. Sophie left, she told us. An aunt took her in.
Another surge, so strong that I could barely breathe.
Each one assaults me slowly, rises to a vicious peak, and—at last—subsides.
Nancy’s face is puffy from tears. She needs to replace the cloths at her breasts often. Though she’s still nursing Mabel, her breasts are weeping out William’s share of milk.
He’s gone, her William. She couldn’t pay ten dollars to the adoption agency that works with the Haven in order for them to find him a loving family, so he was sent to the foundling department at the city almshouse—the dreaded Blockley. Nancy believes he’ll be placed out with a family soon.
She gave him up after eleven days, instead of the twenty-one days we’re allowed. Anne advised against it, not only because she wished for William to get a solid start through Nancy’s milk, but also because she believes that three weeks of motherhood will strengthen our spirits. Yet she had weakened Nancy’s spirit by having her care for two.
Nancy said it wasn’t the strain of nursing two, however, that made her relinquish William early. She simply found it too heartrending to adore him when she knew they had to part.
Another wave of agony takes over, then recedes. If only there was a way to be freed of my own flesh!
Nancy reminds me—the only way through is to endure.
She fetched my gold locket from my valise. Through each contraction I hold the slender oval between my fingers and imagine its picture of Mother inside, its strand of chestnut hair tied with a black ribbon.
I can write no more. I pray to have good news soon.
NOTEBOOK THREE
Third Month 31
My baby was born two nights ago. Seven pounds, five ounces in weight, and twenty inches long.
I lived the agony, yet somehow I marvel and disbelieve that she came from inside of me!
How is it that every mother discovers this miracle, yet doesn’t proclaim it in the streets?
When the doctor said the head had crowned, I reached between my thighs, and my fingertips met a scalp. There was a hardness. On top of that was hair as soft as milkweed floss. I gave two more mighty pushes, and the whole body emerged.
A girl! A joy. Her breathing and color were deemed acceptable. Things were done to me and to her, as if at a shadowy distance, until she was placed upon my chest.
And there she thrummed, a singular human, giving off a vibration as familiar as my own.
I thought, I already know thee.
Of course! Because in me she came to life.
She squirmed to my nearest breast and opened her tiny mouth to claim its nipple. I saw then how her hair grows in a spiral beginning at the peak of her head, as if she rotated while forming. With her weight upon me, I let my fingers follow that path. I leaned my head forward to her scalp and inhaled, finding her smell—the intoxicating, slight smell of her scalp.
She seems so unformed and pliant, so thoroughly helpless, apart from her glossy eyes. These are fully opened and inquiring. Dr. Stevens has deemed her the most wakeful newborn she has ever seen. “Your baby stares,” she noted, “as if she could eat the world with her eyes.” She said most babies shut out the world by sleeping.
Already, dear Charlotte, thee distinguishes thyself.
I’m calling her Charlotte, but her new family will give its own name.