She was shaking her head violently as another contraction took hold. This one refused to let go, and she grasped at me, leaning her head back, her moan intensifying, pulling itself from deep within her. Beneath that, I could hear the Lake whispering as it tumbled against the rocks and reached up the shore. I had no choice.
I took off my coat and laid it on the ground, crouching on it and gathering my sister in my arms. She leaned into me, her back cradled by my body, her head resting against my chest. Her screams mingled with those of the gulls overhead. I was terrified, tears streaming down my face as her back arched with each spasm, sure that I was going to lose her, sure that this child was going to rip her apart. But her body knew what to do, and she followed its rhythm. When it was time, she gathered her strength, pulling her knees up, and reached below her skirts to guide our baby into the world with a final rush of water and blood.
She brought the child up to her chest, tucking her beneath her coat, beneath her blouse, against her skin, nestling her between her breasts. I knew enough to anticipate a cry, to watch for the intake of breath, and I held my own, waiting. Finally, I heard her gasp a couple of times, her little chest rising and falling, her fingers and toes turning pink, her tiny cries echoing through the trees. Emily looked at her. She looked at her like she looked at the columbine, taking in every tiny detail, the matted black hair, the dark blinking eyes, the creases in her legs and arms, the shape of her ear. She traced her face with one finger and cupped her tiny head, moving her gently so that her bow-shaped mouth could grasp a nipple and begin to suckle.
I started to laugh. She was perfect. Absolutely perfect and she was ours.
It was then that I heard Emily speak. For the first time, for the only time. And while it was far from clear, formed by a voice that had until then only created sounds, infrequent and undefined, I knew without a doubt what she said—“Anna.”
47
Morgan
“You’re kidding, right?”
I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not kidding. I don’t think she’s one to kid about something like this.
“It is an interesting coincidence, is it not?” she replies. “Oh, Morgan, it was so long ago, I wonder at times if my mind is playing tricks on me. But to think that this”—she picks up the silver rattle and shakes it gently—“belonged to a baby of the same name, well, I . . .” Her voice trails off. “I don’t know how we came to possess it. Perhaps it was given to Peter, or Charlie . . .”
She doesn’t say it might have been given to her. She knows it isn’t hers. She would have remembered it. Maybe she’s right, maybe it was a gift, but why would someone give them a silver rattle with another baby’s name on it? Or keep it all those years, hidden away even, if it was some hand-me-down toy?
Never mind. Emily had a baby. It doesn’t matter what her name was, the old lady has a niece out there. That’s fucking interesting.
“Where is Emily’s baby . . . Anna, now?”
She has grown quiet, as if remembering is too painful. She puts the rattle back down in her lap, on top of the waterlogged book.
48
Elizabeth
As romantic as it sounds to give birth on the volcanic sands of an island next to the cleansing waters of the Lake, beneath the pastel blue of a spring sky with gulls wheeling overhead, the reality quickly became something different. Emily began to shiver, her body spent, the fresh breezes coming off the water unrelenting. I knew we could not stay where we were. Anna was snug and content, her head resting on her mother’s chest, listening to the heartbeat that had been her constant lullaby for months, warmly tucked beneath the layers of Emily’s coat and mine. Emily was weak as I helped her stand, and she leaned on me as we crossed back to the boat harbor. From there, I helped her and our baby into the cart and began the journey back to the point and the warmth of the cottage, back to Mother and Charlie.
As soon as the white buildings came into view, I called for them, my voice carrying with it a mixture of effort and urgency. Charlie arrived first, pausing only briefly to take in our appearance; me, coatless and shivering, a look of concern overshadowing the excitement I felt at the arrival of the baby, Emily, wrapped in both my coat and hers, riding in the box of the cart. He hurried toward us and gathered Emily into his arms. Mother appeared in the doorway of the cottage. She saw Charlie with Emily’s tiny frame, took one look at the fresh blood that stained her skirts, and shuffled back inside. Charlie laid Emily on the bed, Mother pushing forward, reaching out with knowledgeable hands, lifting the folds of her skirts, scowling at the blood that soaked her clothes and seeped fresh between her legs. She did not realize that the child had been born, did not see her tucked away, hidden beneath the layers of coats. She could not have anticipated that Emily, in spite of all her odd ways, had chosen how and where to bring our baby into the world, and summoned a strength that none of us could ever have imagined.
The tiny sounds of the newborn stilled Mother’s exploring hands.
“It’s arrived?” she asked, startled, and pulled the coats away from Emily so that the babe could be seen.
“She has arrived,” I answered. I began to shiver, my legs weak from emotion as much as from the effort, and it was all I could do not to collapse onto the floor. “Her name is Anna.”
Mother looked at me, and I read pity and judgment in her eyes, as if this were all an unfortunate incident we could have avoided. She quickly tied a knot in the cord and cut it, removing the afterbirth to a bowl, then reached to take the child from Emily. My sister resisted.
Mother was not pleased. She was not touched by the miracle of Anna’s birth as I had been. She did not see the beauty and hope in the tiny perfect little body. Instead she appeared annoyed, disappointed when she looked at the fragile form of her grandchild resting comfortably in the arms of her daughter.
“Give her to me.” Her voice was soft but firm. Emily’s grip tightened, and she shook her head.
Charlie stepped out of the shadows and peered down at Emily and the baby. And then he left. He turned away from all of us and walked out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.
Mother dropped her hands to her side and stood silent and exasperated, hesitant, considering, and I worried that she would pry the child from Emily’s arms. I stepped into the space between them, and leaned down to remove the coats and replace them with a quilt. I turned and busied myself lighting the stove, my hands shaking as I struck match after match until one flared long enough for me to hold it to the tinder and twigs I had piled on the hearth. When they finally caught, I stoked the box so that warmth spilled out to fill the room, then set the kettle on to boil water. Still my hands shook.