The Birth House. Ami McKay

like everything else. The dreary attic was now a wide, ample space. Ten spare beds with tight white sheets lined the walls. In the centre of it all was a large table, set with candles, finger sandwiches and fine china. Dr. Thomas motioned for us to be seated. “Please, won’t you join me for tea?”

      He took each of the ladies’ hands as they entered the room, complimenting their dresses and hats, commenting on mutual acquaintances, distant relatives and the weather. He paused when he came to me, repeating my name after I said it. “Miss Dora Rare. A lovely name.”

      We sipped our tea as Dr. Thomas explained “the advantages of modern childbirth.” He pulled on a sheet that was hanging from the ceiling and let it fall down as a partition between two beds. “At the Canning Maternity Home we have both privacy and efficiency. Up to ten women can labour at once and still have the best in obstetrical care.” He pushed the sheet back and tied it to the wall. “And more beds can be added as needed.” He stood at the end of a bed and turned a crank. The head of the bed rose and lowered and then rose again. “The new mother can labour and rest in the same bed.” He bent down and yanked a metal footing from either side of the end of the bed, smacking them into place with a hard jolt. “Stirrups. For support during birthing.”

      The ladies all smiled and nodded. While they continued to eat their tiny sandwiches, Dr. Thomas wheeled over a metal cart. It was draped with a sheet and looked something like a caddy for tea and sweets. Aunt Fran gasped when he revealed the contents of the tray. The doctor chuckled. “It may look ominous, but I assure you, it’s all part of progress.” The tray was cluttered with shining silver knives, scissors and other medical instruments. Stored in the compartment beneath were jars of every shape and size. He took two medicine bottles and nestled them around the flower arrangement in the centre of the table. “Pituitrin and chloroform, a mother’s two best friends.” He then held up a pair of large wide tongs. “Forceps, the obstetrical physician’s best friend.” He passed them around the table. “I brought out all these things—the surgical knives, the scissors, the needles, the bottles of ergot and ether—not to frighten you, but to show you the path of modern medicine. These things hasten childbirth and put the labour process in the doctor’s hands. He has complete control. The faster the birth, the less chance for infection, and the less time the mother has to suffer. I’m sure you’d all agree, the less a woman has to suffer, the better.”

      The women whispered and nodded, Trude Hutner adding, “Two days of labour it was with my Grace.” She patted Grace’s hand. “Can you imagine? Two whole days.”

      Dr. Thomas sat down at the head of the table. “Late last week I was called to a birth in the village of Baxter’s Harbour. The local midwife attended the young mother’s birth, but as the labour progressed, it was clear that the mother was in much distress. The father, having been sent away from his home by the midwife, had sense enough to come to Canning to enlist my help. When I arrived, the mother was in a state of utter exhaustion and was too weak to deliver the child. It was too late for her to get any relief from the medicine I administered, too late for the use of forceps.” He shook his head. “That poor mother and her child are not alive today.” He took the forceps and placed them back on the cart. “Every time I recall that tragedy, I realize that there are more occasions than any of us care to think when a physician’s hand is the only saving grace.”

      While the ladies were all shaking their heads in silence, Dr. Thomas continued, looking in my direction. “I don’t think that young mother was much older than your dear Miss Rare.” The ladies all turned and looked at me. “She’s the perfect example of one of Scots Bay’s fine young ladies who will be needing my assistance in the future.” He smiled and then winked at me, as if he knew me, as if we shared a secret (or as if he might have known I was hiding at Miss B.’s the day he called on her). My face, my ears, the back of my neck went hot. “It’s never too soon to start thinking about the day she’ll be a bride, a wife, a mother.”

      As the ladies all agreed with Dr. Thomas, Grace choked on a petit four. Mrs. Hutner poured more tea in her daughter’s cup and encouraged her to drink (or at least hold her cup to her face to stifle her laughter).

      Dr. Thomas placed a small booklet next to each place setting around the table. “A Mother’s Share from the Farmer’s Assurance Company would make a wonderful gift for a new bride.”

      Mrs. Thomas added, “For any woman, really.”

      The doctor stood behind his wife and placed his hand on her shoulder. “It gives a woman the peace of mind of knowing that she has a safe, clean place to have her babies.”

      Although impeccable with his manners and polite at every turn, it was clear to me that Dr. Thomas was less concerned with a woman’s circumstances and more concerned with selling his services. You ain’t tellin’. You sellin’. Thinking of Miss B., I raised my hand to speak, my voice wavering as I questioned Dr. Thomas. “What about the cost? I don’t know many families in Scots Bay who can afford what you’re asking.”

      Aunt Fran hissed at me. “Dora, don’t be rude.”

      Mrs. Thomas smiled. “What a family spends on coffee and tea each month could easily buy a share.”

      Not feeling as if I’d had a proper answer, or that Mrs. Thomas had the slightest notion of what the word cost means to most families in the Bay, I ignored Aunt Fran’s scolding and held up the back of the pamphlet. “But it says right here, ‘A Mother’s Share costs twenty-five dollars for one year.’ That’s an awful lot of coffee beans.”

      Aunt Fran snatched the pamphlet from my hand and whispered, “I won’t hear another word from you.”

      Dr. Thomas interrupted. “No, she’s right, not every woman may be able to afford her own share, but that’s why I’ve brought you ladies here today. This is a wonderful chance for women’s organizations like the White Rose Temperance Society to help the ladies of their community. What price, I ask you, is greater than life?”

      Although she was all politeness and smiles, when the tea was over, Aunt Fran was the first to head to the door, pulling me along and muttering under her breath as she went. “For heaven’s sake, my own niece. If I’ve told Lottie once, I’ve told her a thousand times, you’ve got to keep an eye on that girl. Keep her away from books and those boys.”

      Dr. Thomas followed close behind. “Mrs. Jeffers, a word, if you please?”

      She turned, forcing her angry grimace into a pleasant smile. “Certainly, Doctor, although we’ve already taken up so much of your time today.”

      He took her hand in his. “I wanted to thank you for coming and for bringing your niece along with you. It’s a pleasure to see such thoughtfulness in a young lady, don’t you agree?”

      Aunt Fran blushed. “Why, yes, how kind of you to say so. I’m always telling Dora that she needs to speak up more, open that dear mouth of hers on occasion.”

      Dr. Thomas looked at me. “So good to see you, Miss Rare. Please give Miss Babineau my best, will you?”

      I nodded. “Yes, I certainly will.”

      Aunt Fran interrupted. “Dora, dear, you neglected to tell me that you had already made Dr. Thomas’s acquaintance.”

      Before I could insist that we’d never met, Dr. Thomas looked at me and grinned. “I imagine that Miss Rare is hiding all sorts of surprises.”

6

      MY SATURDAY VISIT with Miss Babineau the following week was spent at Mabel Thorpe’s place. Miss B. had her birthing bag packed and was ready to go as soon as I walked through the door. “Turn yourself around. Mabel’s bornin’ her third, so we’d best get over to the house and lend a hand.” I thought of Mrs. Ketch and of baby Darcy and how I held him until his breath was gone, his body cold. In the time that had passed since his birth, my nightmares had disappeared only to be replaced with the thought that perhaps I had caused his death, that Laird Jessup