Excerpt of The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
(Page 8 of 10)
Printer Friendly Excerpt
"Where is the baby?" his wife asked, opening her eyes and
pushing
hair away from her flushed face. "Is everything all right?"
"It's a boy," the doctor said, smiling down at her. "We have a
son.
You'll see him as soon as he's clean. He's absolutely perfect."
His wife's face, soft with relief and exhaustion, suddenly
tightened
with another contraction, and the doctor, expecting the
afterbirth,
returned to the stool between her legs and pressed lightly
against her abdomen. She cried out, and at the same moment he
understood what was happening, as startled as if a window had
appeared
suddenly in a concrete wall.
"It's all right," he said. "Everything's fine. Nurse," he
called, as
the next contraction tightened.
She came at once, carrying the baby, now swaddled in white
blankets.
"He's a nine on the Apgar," she announced. "That's very good."
His wife lifted her arms for the baby and began to speak, but
then the pain caught her and she lay back down.
"Nurse?" the doctor said, "I need you here. Right now."
After a moment's confusion the nurse put two pillows on the
floor, placed the baby on them, and joined the doctor by the
table.
"More gas," he said. He saw her surprise and then her quick nod
of comprehension as she complied. His hand was on his wife's
knee;
he felt the tension ease from her muscles as the gas worked.
"Twins?" the nurse asked.
The doctor, who had allowed himself to relax after the boy was
born, felt shaky now, and he did not trust himself to do more
than
nod. Steady,
he told himself, as the next head crowned.
You are anywhere,
he thought, watching from some fine point on the ceiling as
his hands worked with method and precision.
This is any birth.
This baby was smaller and came easily, sliding so quickly into
his
gloved hands that he leaned forward, using his chest to make
sure it
did not fall. "It's a girl," he said, and cradled her like a
football, face
down, tapping her back until she cried out. Then he turned her
over to see her face.
Creamy white vernix whorled in her delicate skin, and she was
slippery with amniotic fluid and traces of blood. The blue eyes
were
cloudy, the hair jet black, but he barely noticed all of this.
What he
was looking at were the unmistakable features, the eyes turned
up
as if with laughter, the epicanthal fold across their lids, the
flattened
nose. A classic case,
he remembered his professor saying as they examined
a similar child, years ago.
A mongoloid. Do you know what
that means? And the doctor,
dutiful, had recited the symptoms he'd
memorized from the text: flaccid muscle tone, delayed growth and
mental development, possible heart complications, early death.
The
professor had nodded, placing his stethoscope on the baby's
smooth
bare chest. Poor kid.
There's nothing they can do except try to keep him
clean. They ought to spare themselves and send him to a home.
The doctor had felt transported back in time. His sister had
been
born with a heart defect and had grown very slowly, her breath
catching and coming in little gasps whenever she tried to run.
For
many years, until the first trip to the clinic in Morgantown,
they
had not known what was the matter. Then they knew, and there
was nothing they could do. All his mother's attention had gone
to her, and yet she had died when she was twelve years old. The
doctor had been sixteen, already living in town to attend high
school, already on his way to Pittsburgh and medical school and
the life he was living now. Still, he remembered the depth and
endurance
of his mother's grief, the way she walked up hill to the
grave every morning, her arms folded against whatever weather
she encountered.
(c) 2005, Kim Edwards. Reproduced with the permission of the publisher, Penguin Group.
