She nodded, but made no comment. Worry and concern were etched in the ripples along her forehead and the darkness that entered her eyes. My heart pounded. In fact, it had been beating so hard and so fast for so long, I was worried it would just give out. These thoughts brought more cold sweats. I squeezed Mama's hand harder and she tried to keep me calm. She gave me tablespoons of one of her herbal medicines that kept me from getting nauseous. Gladys Tate insisted on knowing what it was, and when Mama explained it, Gladys insisted she be given some.
'I want to be sure it's not some Cajun poison that works on babies,' she said.
Mama checked her anger and let her have a tablespoon. Gladys swallowed it quickly and chased it down with some ice tea. Then she waited to see what sort of reaction she would have. When she said nothing, Mama smirked.
'I guess it ain't poison,' Mama said, but Gladys looked unconvinced.
Suddenly it began to rain, the drops drumming on the window, the wind coming up to blow sheet after sheet of the downpour against the house. There was a flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the great house and rock my bed as well. We could hear the rain pounding the roof. It seemed to pound right through and into my heart.
Mama asked Gladys to turn on the lamps. As if it took all her effort to rise from the bed and cross the room, she groaned and stood up with an exaggerated slowness. As soon as she had the lights on, she returned to her bed and watched me enduring my labor, closing her eyes, mumbling to herself and sighing.
'How long can this last?' she finally inquired with impatience.
'Ten, fifteen, twenty hours,' Mama told her. 'If you have something else to do . . .'
'What else would I have to do? Are you mad or are you trying to get rid of me?'
'Forget I said anything,' Mama muttered, and turned her attention back to me.
Suddenly, at the end of one contraction, I felt a gush of warm liquid down my legs.
'Mama!'
'It's your bag of waters,' Mama exclaimed. 'The baby's going to come tonight,' she declared with certainty. Gladys Tate uttered a cry of excitement, and when we looked over at her, we saw she had wet her own bed.
Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to bring a newborn child into the world.
Hours passed, the contractions continuing to grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my progress. She examined me periodically and shook her head with concern. The pain grew more and more intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly on me now and barely paid her notice.
Mama referred to the watch, felt my contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her face tense.
'What's wrong, Mama?' I gasped between deep breaths.
'It's breech,' she said sorrowfully. 'I was afraid of this. It's not uncommon with premature births.'
'Breech?' Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her imitation of my agony. 'What does that mean?'
'It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its buttocks is pointing out instead of its head,' she explained.
'It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no,' she cried, wringing her hands. 'What will I do?'
'I have no time for this sort of stupidity,' Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was nearby, pacing. 'Bring me some whiskey,' she shouted at him.
'Whiskey?'
'Hurry.'
'What are you going to do, Mama?' I asked.
'I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just relax. Put your mind on something else. Think about your swamp, your animals, flowers, anything,' she said.
A few moments later, Octavious appeared with a bottle of bourbon. He stood there in shock. Gladys was writhing on her bed, her eyes closed, moaning and occasionally screaming.
'What's wrong with her?' he asked Mama.
'I wouldn't even try to answer that,' she told him, and took the whiskey. She poured it over her hands and scrubbed them with the alcohol, while Octavious went to Gladys's side and tried to rouse her out of her strange state, but she didn't acknowledge him. Whenever he touched her, she screamed louder. He stood back, shuddering, confused, pleading with her to get control of herself.
Mama returned to my bedside and began her effort to turn the baby. I thought I must have gone in and out of consciousness because I couldn't remember what happened or how long I was crying and moaning. Once, I looked over and saw the expression of utter horror on Octavious's face. I knew Mama was happy he was in the room, witnessing all the pain and turmoil, hoping he would see it for years in nightmares.
Fortunately for me and the baby, Mama had miraculous hands. Later she would tell me if she had failed, the only alternative was a cesarean section. But Mama was truly the Cajun healer. I saw from the happy expression on her face that she had managed to turn the baby. Then, guiding me, coaxing and coaching me along, she continued the birthing process.
'Push when you have the contractions, honey. This way two forces, the contraction and your pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you some energy,' she advised. I did as she said and soon I began to feel the baby's movement.
