Red Sky in the Morning. Elizabeth Laird
against the wall, like pretending, if I was holding something, that it was very heavy, or being in a hurry for the bathroom, but I stopped all those kinds of childish things years ago. Still, I’ve never stopped minding that our hall is so mean and small, not like Debbie’s (she used to be my best friend), and suddenly I got worried about it.
How would they get Mom down the stairs on a stretcher? Suppose it stuck, like that time when Dad was fitting units in their bedroom, and he and Mom were trying to get the old wardrobe down the stairs? It got completely wedged between the wall and the banisters, and Dad had to get a saw and cut it in half before it took off any more wallpaper. He was furious, and it took hours to free the wardrobe. But Mom didn’t have hours. If she got stuck on her stretcher, she’d have to have the baby right there on the stairs.
As it turned out, Mom didn’t need a stretcher at all. Dad came out of the bedroom, looking pale and shaky and awful, and the men ran upstairs, and then one rushed out again and said,
“Where’s the telephone, dear?”
And he dialed, and when I heard him talking I started to feel trembly myself, and sick.
“This is Alan here,” he said. “I’ve got an emergency over on Blythe Road. Lady in labor. Too far gone to get her to the hospital. She’s started pushing, and the baby’s almost there. Stan’s doing what he can, but he says it’s not looking quite right. Best get a doctor over here quick. We’ve got the oxygen and stuff, but we haven’t got all the neo-natal kit if they need to do full resuscitation.”
He must have forgotten about me, because he started off up the stairs again when he’d put the receiver down. I couldn’t bear to let him go. I had to know what was going on.
“Is—is everything all right?” I said. It sounded more feeble than I meant it to, but I didn’t know what to say. I was frightened.
“Course it is,” he said. He was using that awful cheerful voice they use to children when they want to deceive them. “Just a precaution. Your mom’s going to be fine. So’s the baby, I expect. It all happened just a bit too quick, that’s all.”
He patted my shoulder just as if he’d been a relative. I was only twelve then, but I was mature for my age, and it was not surprising that I felt offended.
“I’m quite prepared to give blood, if necessary,” I said. The idea made me feel sick, but if Mom needed my blood, there was naturally no more to be said. He had the audacity to laugh.
“Oh, we won’t need your blood,” he said. “Best thing you can do is be a good girl and keep out of the way. Tell you what, do you know how to make a cup of tea? Why don’t you put the kettle on, then? Me and Stan could do with a cup when we’ve finished with all this.”
If he hadn’t put it like that, of course, I wouldn’t have dreamed of making a cup of tea. But I knew that if I didn’t he’d think I didn’t know how to, so I went to the kitchen, and filled up the kettle. But all the time it was boiling, and while I was putting mugs and milk and sugar onto the tray, I kept thinking about Mom and the baby.
Up until then, I hadn’t thought about the baby much as a real person. Quite honestly, I’d been shocked when Mom told me she was pregnant. I couldn’t imagine her and Dad having sex. The whole idea seemed disgusting. Especially in our house. Their bedroom didn’t look right for it. It was too ordinary. But I’d gotten used to her getting bigger, and being tired, and relying on me more for things. In some ways I’d enjoyed it. I got quite good at frying up something for supper, and heating up pizzas in the oven. I could even do lamb chops and veggies, though it took hours to peel the potatoes.
Somehow, though, I hadn’t thought much about the baby. I’d wanted a brother, I knew that much, mainly because I didn’t want another Katy around the place, and I’d started knitting a cardigan, but I’m not much good at knitting, so I’d pulled it undone and tried to learn to crochet instead. But it got tangled, so I never managed to get anything finished. Dad had gotten the stroller down out of the attic, and Mom had lined the crib again in some new flowery material. It looked pretty, waiting there all clean and empty, beside her bed, but I hadn’t been able to imagine a real, live baby in it.
Then I remembered something I’d read about in a Victorian novel. Grandma’s got a whole stack of them, which she used to read about a hundred and fifty years ago. They have titles like Lost in London, and Little Faith, and they’re all horribly sad and religious. The children go around barefoot in the snow, selling matches, and their mothers are gin-soaked, and the babies die, and when you read them you cry and cry. I even got sinusitis once, because I cried so much over Christie’s Old Organ. But I like them too. After I’ve read one, I feel pure, and refined, and ready to face death.
Anyway, when babies are born in those old books, the mother’s poor eldest daughter is always sent to the kitchens to boil gallons of water. It never explained what the water was for, but I knew that was the right thing to do. So I got out the pressure cooker, and the biggest pans I could find, and filled them up, and turned on every burner on the stove. I spilled a bit on the floor, but I managed all right.
It took quite a long time, finding everything, and filling them up, and I was still at work when Dr. Randall came. He went up the stairs two at a time, and then another ambulance came, and the men took this funny box thing upstairs. After a while they came down again, holding it carefully, and drove away. The doctor was still there. I could hear him in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, which is right above the kitchen. But the rest of the house was quiet. Then I realized that the first medic, Alan and Stan, had gone too, and they hadn’t even bothered to have their cup of tea. I knew then for certain that they’d just been humoring me, and trying to keep me out of the way. Typical!
It was so quiet upstairs that I began to feel a bit worried. What could they all be doing? Was Mom all right? And shouldn’t the baby be crying? Mom had promised that I’d be the first after Dad to see it, but no one had called me. I wanted desperately to know what was going on. But I felt too scared to go up and open the bedroom door and just walk in. Medical things seem kind of holy to me. Bursting in on the doctor doing something would be as bad as jumping up in church and shouting “Hi there!” to the pastor.
Then I remembered the tea. Surely everyone would really and truly want a cup of tea by this time. After all, it was practically morning. The kitchen window was filling with a sort of grayish light, and there were red streaks across the sky. I’d never seen the dawn before. It was eerie and grand. Suitable for a birth, really. I checked that I’d put out enough mugs, filled the teapot (the kettle had boiled ages ago), and staggered upstairs with the tray. Then I put it down, and opened the door a crack, and picked it up, and went in, holding the tray in front of me so it would be the first thing they all saw.
I could see at once that they’d been having a very deep conversation. Mom was lying back in bed, looking white and tired, and Dad was sitting beside her, holding one of her hands. Dr. Randall was on the other side of the bed, looking serious. Mom saw me first.
“Oh Annie!” she said, and gave a wobbly kind of laugh, and then Dad jumped up and came toward me, and made a big fuss about taking the tray. I wasn’t fooled. I knew he was trying to stop me seeing Mom cry. I knew quite well that that was what she was doing.
“Where is it? Is it a boy? Can’t I see him yet?” I whispered to Dad. He just stood there, not saying anything. Then he turned, with the tray in his hands, and looked over to Dr. Randall, and Dr. Randall came toward me and said in that stupid voice they never use to each other,
“Yes, Anna, you’ve got a dear little brother, but he’s not very well, and we’ve had to take him to the hospital.”
“That box,” I whispered. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to speak normally. “He was in that box, wasn’t he? Is he . . . ?”
Dr. Randall smiled for the first time.
“No, he’s not dead, Anna. That was only an incubator. It’s a special box for babies that need extra warmth and attention. He’s not going to die. But . . .”
Now it was his turn to stop and look at Dad, and