“I had... no idea...” she said. “How much longer do you suppose...”
“It will be all right,” her mother said. “You’re having a hard time. Do you know it’s nearly midnight? Try not to groan so loud.”
Every now and then she was aware that her mother was fooling with her down there, putting something in apparently, or taking something out, she didn’t know which. It appeared to help; she believed that it helped until the next time came, and then it seemed worse than ever. Once they got her onto her knees, with her head forward and down and her legs spread apart; her mother argued with her insistently that that was the natural way, quicker and better than lying on her back. At first it did seem so, but then all at once it felt as if her legs were being grasped, one on either side, and torn violently asunder; seized with panic she flopped onto her back and wouldn’t let them touch her. It was plain by that time that it wasn’t going to come out at all; this was a part of their scheme; she was done for.
Even then the end was still far off. When it came her mind was numb. She was aware of everything, but the thread of her consciousness was so frayed and attenuated that her awareness was like a vague and feeble dream. She knew that something unprecedented was happening, something that had never happened before; she felt her mother’s hands, quick and strong; and all at once she realized that the terrible expectancy, the desperate gathering of forces from muscles and veins and nerves and bones from which all force had disappeared never to return, was gone. The world had come to an end at last. She wanted to open her eyes, but could not. She heard footsteps — that would be her father — and a door open and close. Her mother was still doing something with her. What for? It was all over...
She opened her eyes. “It came,” she said.
“Yes. Lie quiet. You’re not through yet.”
“It came. Where is it?”
“Getting fixed. Lie quiet.”
“Fixed?”
“Of course. Fixed and washed.”
She closed her eyes. It was not long before other pains came, but they didn’t amount to much. She helped them indifferently, not caring and scarcely feeling them. After a long time she opened her eyes again. Her mother was kneeling on the floor, busy with what seemed to be a pile of newspapers. Her father was not in the room.
“Where is it?” she said.
Her mother looked up. “It’s all right. Go to sleep. You must go to sleep.”
I will not, Lora thought, and then knew nothing more.
When she awoke the shades were up and the pale January sunshine was streaming in at the east windows. She looked idly about. The room had been tidied up. It looked remarkably tidy, in fact; even the chair on which she laid her things when she undressed at night was empty; there were no books or magazines on the little table beside her bed. Most curious of all, and she decided that was why she felt so queer and stuffy, the windows were not open — only a crack of a few inches in the one next to the bureau — and the room was quite warm and there was an odd smell in the air. Her head felt dizzy.
Suddenly she threw the covers back and sat up straight and looked sharply around. She got out of bed and for an instant stood there beside it, swaying a little on her feet, then made for the door and down the hall to the head of the stairs.
“Mother!” she called, and repeated it at once more loudly, “Mother!”
Her mother appeared at the foot of the stairs, and started up towards her. She came quickly, and grasped Lora’s arm.
“Get back in bed,” she said. “You’re crazy, don’t you know you’re sick?” She led her down the hall and into the bedroom. “Come on, back in bed this second. I’ll bring your breakfast. I was only gone a minute or two, and of course you had to wake up while I was away. No, wait, I’ll change the sheets while you’re out. Here, put this around you and sit here. I’ll shut the window.”
Lora took the shawl and stood with it in her hand. “Where is it?” she said.
“Where’s what? It’s all right. Don’t bother me with questions, wait till I get your bed fixed and bring your breakfast.” She was a miniature cyclone, dragging off the old sheets, flapping out the clean ones, running from one side of the bed to the other. “I haven’t had a minute’s sleep, not a minute. Neither has he. And Martha got here late — she was at her sister’s last night — and I had everything to do myself — it’s past ten o’clock and she’s just started on the breakfast dishes—”
Lora took her by the arm and turned her around.
“Where is it?”
Her mother became perfectly still in her grasp as an animal will, feeling itself caught. She made no reply.
“What have you done with it?”
Her mother’s eyes met hers, and she stepped back from them.
“It’s dead. You’ve got to know. It’s dead.”
Lora stared at her. She stared back, and added:
“It was born dead.”
Lora took two steps to the bed and sat down on its edge. “No,” she said. “No, it wasn’t.”
“It was born dead,” her mother repeated. “That’s why you had such a hard time. It was terrible. I ought to know, I took it myself.”
Lora continued to stare at her. Finally she said, “That’s a lie. It wasn’t dead. I heard it. I knew you were no good. Oh, god, I’ve known all my life you were no good.” Her fists were clenched tight, separately, in her lap.
“It’s not the first time a baby was born dead,” said her mother. “I know it’s terrible. It’s hard. Look here, you say I’m no good. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I’m not as big a coward as he is. I’ve stood up to you and told you. He went early, so he wouldn’t be here when you woke up, I know. He went as soon as it was daylight, leaving me to tell you. I know I’m no good, but look at him.” A laugh rattled out of her. “You’re none too lucky in your mother, but your father, your own father—”
“Where is it?” Lora demanded.
“What? It’s dead I tell you.”
“Yes, I mean where is it.” She unclenched her hands and stood up, steadying herself by the bedpost. “I want to see it.”
“It’s gone.”
“It can’t be. I want to see it. Listen, Mother, please, can’t you see I’ve got to see it?”
At that her mother flopped on her knees by the bed and began to cry. Her thin shoulders rose and fell, her head rolled back and forth on her folded arms, and she sobbed as Lora had never heard her before. Lora stood a moment, then sat down on the bed again. After a while words began to come in the interstices of her mother’s sobs, with her head still buried in her arms. Of course Lora wanted to see her baby, she said. Of course she did. She couldn’t. It was really gone. He had taken it. He had taken it right away and gone out of the house with it and stayed a long while; he had stayed two hours or more. When he came back he wouldn’t say anything except that he had attended to it. Then he ate breakfast, a big breakfast, four eggs she had never known him to eat before, and pretty soon, after daylight came, he went again, leaving her, Lora’s mother, to tell her. Lora was suffering of course, but so was she; she had suffered for twenty years and there would never be an end of it.