Chapter 12 Rosalie
TWELVE
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
The rare aroma of savory smoked beef brings about a stomach growl I try to cough over. It’s as if I’m sitting at a royal table.
“This is so lovely, being allowed to sit at the dinner table with my family,” Miriam coos.
The hint of sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, by me, at least. I released her from bed rest as she moved past her assumed due date.
She’s nearly a week late now. “And the luxury of salted beef. I must be dreaming.” That part wasn’t sarcastic.
Philip managed to barter for some salted beef yesterday and asked if I could help make a stew tonight.
The Silbergs sit contently at their dining room table, with me occupying a seat between Stefan and Eloise.
They spoil me, which causes me some guilt, knowing Papa is eating canned food alone in the clock tower while I’m here eating out of a porcelain bowl.
But if given the option, Papa would choose canned food and the clock tower over this. I don’t know why, but he would.
“This is magnificent,” Philip says before dabbing his napkin to his lips.
“You can thank Stefan,” I say, biting at my unfurling smile. “All I did was walk him through the steps.”
Miriam chokes on a small cough and presses her hand to her chest. “Stefan…cooked?”
“Why is that so surprising?” he asks her, brow raised, a twisted grin.
“Well, you don’t know how to make a pot of tea, and that’s just a matter of boiling water,” Eloise adds, taking a swipe at her big brother.
Stefan ignores Eloise as he often does and clears his throat before stating, “Rosalie taught me.”
“Did she now?” Miriam asks, smirking in my direction. “You know what they say, Rosalie…Teach a man to cook, and—”
“He’ll realize how hard us ladies work in the kitchen to prepare a meal?” I counter.
Everyone laughs. Even Stefan, who did admit to not knowing how much time and effort was put into preparing a hot meal for a family.
I’ve eaten all the meat out of my broth and half of the carrots when a spoon clashes against a porcelain bowl, the ting echoes between the flourish-lined walls. Miriam grabs the edge of the table, her knuckles white, teeth gritted.
Philip pushes his chair out from the table and tosses his napkin next to the stew bowl. “It’s time,” he says, panicked. “Stefan, let’s get her upstairs.”
As they’re helping her out of her seat, I charge up the stairwell to prepare her bed, a wave of nerves fizzling through me like they haven’t in longer than I can recall. I’m confident in my abilities, but something is gnawing at my stomach.
An hour of steady, evenly paced contractions has passed.
Stefan is standing by the door, chewing on his thumbnail.
Eloise is sitting in the corner on the floor, a sight that tugs at my heart.
But Philip is smiling, holding her hand, speaking calmly, and guiding her breaths through each wave of pain.
I slip the small beige ear-tips of the stethoscope in place and gently press the metal bell-shaped diaphragm to Miriam’s belly, listening for the baby’s heartbeat, which accelerates upon a growing contraction. “Good,” I say. “Baby sounds good.”
I remove the earpieces and press my hands around Miriam’s belly, checking the fetal position once again, making sure the baby is still in the proper position, which he or she is.
“Stefan, could you boil water and grab the clothes set aside in the washroom? I’ll also need a separate metal basin too. That’s in the washroom as well.” Eloise’s joke that Stefan doesn’t know how to boil water festers in my mind, but she was just teasing him. He did make dinner and did it well.
“Oh—yes, I—can—I can do that,” Stefan stutters through his response before booking it out of the bedroom.
“We’re all nervous, and I’m scared,” Miriam whimpers. “I’m so scared.”
I take her hand and press my other one to her cheek. “You’ve come so far. Your body knows what it’s doing, and so do I.”
Thirty minutes merely passes before the contractions are coming and going every two minutes, lasting longer, and growing more intense. Miriam is dripping with sweat, and her groans have become heavy moans. “I’m going to—I’m going to be ill,” she utters.
Philip is holding a bucket by her bedside in case she vomits, but by the pale-green hue on his face, he might vomit before she does.
“I’m going to check the progress to see how close we are,” I explain, keeping a small smile pinned to my cheeks. Comfort. Visual comfort. That’s what she needs.
I take a moment to slip on my sterile gloves and roll the blanket up to her knees. I close my eyes, allowing my fingers to do the measuring, finding a definitive ten centimeters. I pull my hand back, my fingers covered in blood. It’s time.
“You’re ready to start pushing so I’m going to help you get a bit more comfortable.” I spot a spare blanket on the bureau and roll it up to position her more upright.
“I can’t do this,” Miriam cries out.
“Only a woman could do this…And you’re a vicious woman,” I remind her. The words seem to spark her focus and determination.
“Philip, could you get a warm cloth for me and a cool compress for her head?” He stumbles to stand but moves around the room in good speed, collecting the cloths.
I take the warm one and press it beneath Miriam’s bottom for support.
I position her feet flatly on the bed, keeping her knees bent at a good width apart from each other.
“I want you to go ahead and push,” I tell her.
Fifteen minutes isn’t very long for a mother to have to push, but the baby is already crowning. “I can see the head, Miriam. You’re doing so well.” The head is pale and a bit blue. Not uncommon, but a sign that the cord is around the neck.
Another push and the baby’s head will be out.
Another push will strangle the baby.
The grunts and cries flood the room, my memory, my heart—warming then burning my insides.
Birth and death. Death and birth.
Only birth. Only life.
That’s what I’m here for.
Focus.
The head is out, and the cord is in fact looped around the baby’s neck. “Don’t push. Don’t push. Breathe, in and out, slowly,” I tell her.
I gently hook my finger around the cord and loop it over the baby’s head, once, then the second time.
“All right, give another push but stop when I say so.” The shoulders are out. I quickly but carefully twist the baby to the side a bit. “One more push, Miriam. That’s all.” And guide the baby out into my arms.
The screams of pain continue to circle me and an added whimper and cry from Eloise in the corner. “Mama,” she utters.
I rub the baby’s back tersely and lie him over my forearm to help the fluids dislodge from his throat.
“The baby isn’t crying. Why isn’t the baby crying?” Miriam croaks.
“I won’t let anything happen to your baby.”
The walls begin to close in on me. What if I shouldn’t say such a thing?
Come on, sweetheart. Come on.
“Is the baby breathing?” Stefan chokes out.
I can’t answer him.
I flick the soles of the baby’s feet, eliciting a startling, hearty cry that breaks through all the panic driven noises.
There you are. “A perfect little boy.”
“What do you need?” Stefan asks, breathlessly.
“The scissors,” I say, pointing to my sterile tools spread out on the side of the bed.
He hands them to me. My mama’s scissors, and I clamp the baby’s cord, wrap him in a thin blanket and place him on Miriam’s chest.
The cries of happiness and squeals of excitement whirl around me, but my job isn’t through. I need to deliver the placenta and make sure the bleeding stops.
I press on her lower abdomen to help the placenta move along and deliver it, quickly placing it into the metal basin.
Blood is spurting, not slowing. It’s gushing, soaking through the cloths.
“I need more cloths,” I state for whoever can get them to me fastest.
Stefan hands me a bundle and I press them beneath Miriam’s bottom. “Is she all right?” he asks quietly in my ear. His voice ghostly.
Again, I don’t answer.
I peer into the metal basin at the placenta, spotting a jagged edge.
With another look at Miriam, I notice a blue tinge covering her lips, her eyes, half-lidded.
I press on her belly, finding it too soft.
The uterus hasn’t clamped shut. Partial retained placenta. She’s going to bleed out if I don’t—
“Philip why don’t you take the baby for a moment,” I suggest, calmly though I’m screaming inside. He questions me with a look in his eyes, and I can’t stall to answer or explain.
“Is everything—” he begins.
“Miriam, this might hurt, but I need to extract the rest of your placenta. Everything will be all right. I just need you to breathe through this with me.” She’s too weak to acknowledge what I’m saying. The blood is coming too fast.
I reach inside of her and sweep my fingers across the uterine wall, finding a trailing edge of the placenta still attached. I loosen my fingers, trying my best to keep a steady hand, a steady mind, and confidence that I can do this. I can save her.
Like I should have been able to save Mama.
The last piece gives with a sudden release, slipping into my hands. I drop it into the basin and immediately press my hands to her belly to massage the hollow part of her uterus to stimulate a contraction.
“Mama?” Eloise cries out.
Eloise is me, standing in the corner, watching her world crumble.
Stay with me, Miriam. You can do this. I can do this.
A long hard breath escapes Miriam’s lips, and I release my pressure on the cloths to see if the bleeding has slowed.
It has.
“She’s going to be all right,” I say, my voice quiet and crackling.
I stare at the blood-soaked cloths again. Mama needed someone to save her.
A hand loops around my arm as the room seems to spin. “Rosalie. Come here.”
A cold sweat breaks through my body and my knees grow weak. The gloves are peeled from my hands and I’m moving but can’t feel my feet. The air changes and I’m no longer in the bedroom.
Warm hands settle on my cheeks. “Look at me.” My eyelids are heavy, but I focus on Stefan’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Tears fill my eyes and my throat tightens. I can’t hold it back. I’m supposed to be the strong one here. I should be watching Miriam, helping the baby latch.
“I thought I was going to lose her,” I say, gasping for a breath.
Stefan smiles, the smile that continuously warms my heart. “You saved her life. You delivered a healthy baby boy. You gave our family something no one could give us before.”
My chin trembles. My heart hurts so much and this feeling—this ache—this black hole inside of me will never close. I don’t want to feel pain anymore. I don’t want to feel the guilt.
“It was my fault my mother and sister died. I couldn’t let that happen to Miriam.”
Stefan shakes his head. “No. Why would you say something like that? You were eight.”
“Because I sat there and watched them both die. I couldn’t even call for help.”
Stefan wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, cradling my head in the warmth of his hand.
“That wasn’t your fault, Rosalie. You can’t choose who lives and dies.
Only God can do that. But what you have done…
is taken your grief and turned it into a gift. Your mother would be proud of you.”
No matter how many times someone says this to me, the voice in my head will never go away.