is dropping my grandson too soon.”
“How much too soon?” Sarah asked, remembering her rash promise to Antonio that everything would be fine.
“They are married only . . . not six months,” Mrs. Ruocco said, the admission a vile taste in her mouth. “The baby was started before they marry, but not long before. A month, maybe two.”
Sarah nodded. A month, or even a few weeks, could make such a difference—the difference between life and death for the infant. She’d know when she talked to the mother if they had those weeks or not. “Sometimes babies who are only a couple of weeks early don’t live,” Sarah warned her.
“If this one is two whole months early—”
“I will do anything for the baby to live,” Mrs. Ruocco told her fiercely. “I will pay anything you ask. I want my grandson.”
If force of will could give the baby life, this one would live to be a hundred. “I’ll do the best I can, but God is the one who decides these things, not me,” Sarah reminded her.
“He better decide my grandson lives,” Mrs. Ruocco hissed before turning and leading Sarah down the hall.
As they approached the last door on the right, the moaning grew louder and a female voice cried out. “It’s coming again! Mary, Mother of God, make it stop!” The last word ended in a shriek of agony.
Mrs. Ruocco set Sarah’s bag on a chair just inside the door and hurried over to the bed where a girl even younger than Antonio lay, wailing like a banshee. Before Sarah could guess what she had in mind, Mrs. Ruocco drew back her hand and slapped the girl soundly across the face.
The wail ceased instantly, and the girl gaped at her in shock, holding a hand to her burning cheek.
“Stop screaming,” Mrs. Ruocco ordered her. “You disturb your husband.”
The girl blinked stupidly, but she didn’t utter another sound.
Mrs. Ruocco turned to the other woman in the room, whom Sarah hadn’t yet noticed. She recognized her as Maria Ruocco, Joe’s wife.
“Mrs. Brandt, she here,” Mrs. Ruocco told Maria. “Do what she say. If she need anything, get.”
“Yes, Mama,” Maria replied calmly. If the sight of her mother-in-law slapping her sister-in-law had alarmed her, she gave no indication.
Mrs. Ruocco turned back to Sarah, who still stood trans-fixed in the doorway. “If you must choose, save baby.”
The girl on the bed gasped but quickly covered her mouth when Mrs. Ruocco turned that razor-sharp gaze toward her again. Satisfied the girl was adequately intimidated, she nodded and took her leave, ushering Sarah into the room and closing the door behind her.
Sarah took a deep breath and somehow managed a smile she hoped was reassuring. “I’m Sarah Brandt,” she told the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Nainsi O’Hara,” she replied in a whisper, then quickly shook her head. “I mean Ruocco. Nainsi Ruocco.”
Irish trash, Mrs. Ruocco had called her. She was certainly Irish, with her reddish hair and smattering of freckles. She was probably pretty under better circumstances, and Sarah doubted she was older than fifteen.
“Well, Nainsi, can you answer a few questions for me?
Honestly, because I need to know the truth so I can help you.”
The girl glanced at Maria, who nodded permission. “All right,” she said reluctantly, still rubbing her cheek.
“When did . . . when did your baby get started?”
Again the girl glanced at Maria, and this time a flush rose up her neck and colored the cheek that wasn’t already red from the slap. “I . . . August,” she said. She’d be embarrassed by that, of course, since she hadn’t been married in August.
Sarah’s heart sank, but she didn’t allow Nainsi or Maria to see her dismay. She went to the washstand and washed her hands thoroughly in the warm water someone had re-cently carried up, drying them on a crisply ironed linen towel. Then she opened her medical bag and got out the pocket watch that had belonged to her late husband. She handed it to Maria.
“Would you keep track of how often the pains come? It’s probably been about four or five minutes since the last one.”
Maria took the watch carefully and nodded. “They are still far apart,” she reported. “Maybe ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, relieved to know she’d have a little time. “Nainsi, I’d like to examine you. It’s so long before your baby is due that maybe you aren’t really in labor at all. Lots of women have false labor pains.”
“Her water broke,” Maria reported solemnly.
This time Sarah knew there was no hope. The baby would be born, no matter what. “How long ago?”
“About an hour. That’s when we sent Joe for you.”
“Another one’s coming,” Nainsi announced, holding the bulge of her stomach with both hands. “Make it stop! It hurts so much!” she cried, biting her lip against the scream that threatened.
Sarah laid her own hands over Nainsi’s stomach to feel the strength of the contraction. It was strong enough to qualify as real labor, but certainly not the forceful contractions that would come later. Like most of the young girls Sarah had delivered, Nainsi didn’t tolerate pain very well and lacked the self-discipline to deal with it. They were in for a long evening. The thought had no sooner formed in her mind than Sarah noticed something very interesting about Nainsi’s baby.
As the contraction eased, Nainsi fell back on the bed, pant-ing. “Don’t let me die,” she begged. “Please don’t let me die!”
“Don’t be stupid,” Maria snapped. “You will not die.”
“She said to let me die!” Nainsi whined, obviously referring to Mrs. Ruocco. “She wants me to die!”
“She was just reminding me of the Catholic doctrine to save the child first if a choice must be made,” Sarah said to soothe her fears. “That’s not going to happen to you, though, so you don’t have to be afraid. Try to rest now. You’ll need your strength later.”
Nainsi looked skeptical, and Sarah couldn’t blame her for doubting. She apparently wasn’t a cherished member of the family.
Sarah began preparing the room. Someone had already covered the bed with an oilcloth and a clean sheet. Sarah ordered some hot water and more clean towels to keep Maria busy. When Maria was gone to fetch them, Sarah finished fluffing the pillows to make Nainsi more comfortable and said, “I’d like to check your stomach again, to make sure the baby is in the right position.”
“How can you tell that?” the girl asked, her eyes wide.
“I can feel his head,” Sarah said as she began to knead the mound of Nainsi’s stomach, tracing the outline of the baby’s body. “You can tell a lot of things by just feeling.”
“Is it?” Nainsi asked when Sarah was finished. “Is it in the right position? I knew a lady whose baby wasn’t, and they had to cut it out of her. She . . . she died.” The girl shivered with dread.
“It’s in the right position,” Sarah assured her. “And it seems awfully big, too.”
Nainsi’s hands went protectively to her stomach again.
“Does it? Does that mean it’s too big to come out?”
“No, it should come out just fine. I mean it seems big for only seven months.” In fact, it seemed big even for nine months, Sarah thought, but she didn’t say it.
Nainsi was a sturdy girl, and from what Sarah could tell, she was carrying low and all around instead of straight out in front. Depending on how they carried, some women hardly looked pregnant even when they were full term. If Nainsi had lied and the baby wasn’t early, perhaps it would have a chance.
“Nainsi, could your baby have gotten started earlier than August?” Sarah asked.
Nainsi looked up at her, and for the first time Sarah saw a hint that she might be more clever than she’d seemed. “It could’ve, but it didn’t,” she informed Sarah with a hint of satisfaction.
Before Sarah could ask what that meant, Nainsi’s eyes widened as another contraction began, and Maria returned with an armload of towels. After that, the contractions came in earnest. Sarah gave Nainsi a towel to bite on so she wouldn’t scream and draw Mrs. Ruocco’s wrath again. Maria helped Sarah support the girl when the time came to start pushing, and just as the sun was setting, Sarah delivered her of a strapping baby boy.
