Lie Down with Lions (1985)

the room, Jane had been feeling new sensations in her abdomen: a distinct feeling of pressure accompanied by a growing urge to push. The urge became irresistible, and as she pushed, she groaned, not because she was in pain, but just with the sheer effort of pushing.

She heard Rabia’s voice, as if from a distance, saying: “It begins. This is good.”

After a while the urge went away. Zahara brought a cup of green tea. Jane sat upright and sipped gratefully. It was warm and very sweet. Zahara is the same age as me, Jane thought, and she’s had four children already, not counting miscarriages and stillborn babies. But she was one of those women who seemed to be full of vitality, like a healthy young lioness. She would probably have several more children. She had greeted Jane with open curiosity, when most of the women had been suspicious and hostile, in the early days; and Jane had discovered that Zahara was impatient with the sillier customs and traditions of the Valley and eager to learn what she could of foreign ideas on health, child care and nutrition. Consequently Zahara had become not just Jane’s friend but the spearhead of her health education program.

Today, however, Jane was learning about Afghan methods. She watched Rabia spread a plastic sheet on the floor (What had they used in the days before there was all this waste plastic around?) and cover it with a layer of sandy earth, which Zahara brought from outside in a bucket. Rabia had laid out a few things on a cloth on the floor, and Jane was pleased to see clean cotton rags and a new razor blade still in its wrapping.

The need to push came again, and Jane closed her eyes to concentrate. It did not hurt exactly; it was more like being incredibly, impossibly constipated. She found it helpful to groan as she strained, and she wanted to explain to Rabia that this was not a groan of agony, but she was too busy pushing to talk.

In the next pause, Rabia knelt down and untied the drawstring of Jane’s trousers, then eased them off. “Do you want to make water before I wash you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She helped Jane get up and walk behind the screen, then held her shoulders while she sat on the pot.

Zahara brought a bowl of warm water and took the pot away. Rabia washed Jane’s tummy, thighs and private parts, assuming for the first time a rather brisk air as she did so. Then Jane lay down again. Rabia washed her own hands and dried them. She showed Jane a small jar of blue powder—copper sulfate, Jane guessed—and said: “This color frightens the evil spirits.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Put a little on your brow.”

“All right,” said Jane; then she added: “Thank you.”

Rabia smeared a little of the powder on Jane’s forehead. I don’t mind magic when it’s harmless, Jane thought, but what will she do if there is a real medical problem? And just exactly how many weeks premature is this baby?

She was still worrying when the next contraction began, so she was not concentrating on riding the wave of pressure and in consequence it was very painful. I mustn’t worry, she thought; I must make myself relax.

Afterward she felt exhausted and rather sleepy. She closed her eyes. She felt Rabia unbutton her shirt—the one she had borrowed from Jean-Pierre that afternoon, a hundred years ago. Rabia began to massage Jane’s tummy with some kind of lubricant, probably clarified butter. She dug her fingers in. Jane opened her eyes and said: “Don’t try to move the baby.”

Rabia nodded, but continued to probe, one hand on the top of Jane’s bulge and the other at the bottom. “The head is down,” she said finally. “All is well. But the baby will come very soon. You should get up now.”

Zahara and Rabia helped Jane stand and take two steps forward onto the earth-covered plastic sheet. Rabia got behind her and said: “Stand on my feet.”

Jane did as she was told, although she was not sure of the logic of this. Rabia eased her into a squat, crouching behind her. So this was the local birthing position. “Sit on me,” said Rabia. “I can hold you.” Jane let her weight settle on the old woman’s thighs. The position was surprisingly comfortable and reassuring.

Jane felt her muscles begin to tighten again. She gritted her teeth and bore down, groaning. Zahara squatted in front of her. For a while there was nothing in Jane’s mind but the pressure. At last it eased, and she slumped, exhausted and half asleep, letting Rabia take her weight.

When it started again there was a new pain, a sharp burning sensation in her crotch. Zahara suddenly said: “It comes.”

“Don’t push now,” said Rabia. “Let the baby swim out.”

The pressure eased. Rabia and Zahara changed places, and now Rabia squatted between Jane’s legs, watching intently. The pressure began again. Jane gritted her teeth. Rabia said: “Don’t push. Be calm.” Jane tried to relax. Rabia looked at her and reached up to touch her face, saying: “Don’t bite down. Make your mouth loose.” Jane let her jaw sag, and found that it helped her to relax.

The burning sensation came again, worse than ever, and Jane knew the baby was almost born: she could feel its head pushing through, stretching her opening impossibly wide. She cried out with the pain—and suddenly it eased, and for a moment she could feel nothing. She looked down. Rabia reached between her thighs, calling out the names of the prophets. Through a haze of tears Jane saw something round and dark in the midwife’s hands.

“Don’t pull,” Jane said. “Don’t pull the head.”

“No,” said Rabia.

Jane felt the pressure again. At that moment Rabia said: “A small push for the shoulder.” Jane closed her eyes and squeezed gently.

A few moments later Rabia said: “Now the other shoulder.”

Jane squeezed again, and then there was an enormous relief of tension, and she knew that the baby was born. She looked down and saw its tiny form cradled on Rabia’s arm. Its skin was wrinkled and wet, and its head was covered with damp dark hair. The umbilical cord looked weird, a thick blue rope pulsing like a vein.

“Is it all right?” Jane asked.

Rabia did not reply. She pursed her lips and blew on the baby’s squashed, immobile face.

Oh, God, it’s dead, thought Jane.

“Is it all right?” she repeated.

Rabia blew again, and the baby opened its tiny mouth and cried.

Jane said: “Oh, thank God—it’s alive.”

Rabia picked up a clean cotton rag and wiped the baby’s face.

“Is it normal?” asked Jane.

At last Rabia spoke. She looked into Jane’s eyes, smiled and said: “Yes. She is normal.”

She’s normal, Jane thought. She. I made a little girl. A girl.

Suddenly she felt utterly drained. She could not remain upright a moment longer. “I want to lie down,” she said.

Zahara helped her step back to the mattress and put cushions behind her so that she was sitting up, while Rabia held the baby, still attached to Jane by the cord. When Jane was settled, Rabia began to pat the baby dry with cotton rags.

Jane saw the cord stop pulsing, shrivel and turn white. “You can cut the cord,” she said to Rabia.

“We always wait for the afterbirth,” Rabia said.

“Do it now, please.”

Rabia looked dubious, but complied. She took a piece of white string from her table and tied it around the cord a few inches from the baby’s navel. It should have been closer, Jane thought; but it doesn’t matter.

Rabia unwrapped the new razor blade. “In the name of Allah,” she said, and cut the cord.

“Give her to me,” said Jane.

Rabia handed the baby to her, saying: “Don’t let her suckle.”

Jane knew Rabia was wrong about this. “It helps the afterbirth,” she said.

Rabia shrugged.

Jane put the baby’s face to her breast. Her nipples were enlarged and felt deliciously sensitive, like when Jean-Pierre kissed them. As her nipple touched the baby’s cheek, the child turned her head reflexively and opened her little mouth. As soon as the nipple went in, she began to suck. Jane was astonished to find that it felt sexy. For a moment she was shocked and embarrassed; then she thought: What the hell.