Monsters (17 page)

“And there are bigger stars?” asked Bruce. “How could they be bigger? They all look the same size to me. Are the brighter ones bigger?”

“The brighter ones are probably just closer, not bigger,” Jane replied, staring up at the sky. “If the biggest star was the size of our grain silo, then our sun would be the size of a handful of grain, and the entire Earth would be no bigger than the tiniest speck of dust.”

“And yet here we are,” Bruce replied, “thinking they're so small.”

“All this,” she said, “everything we see around us, is just a speck amidst a sea of monstrous stars.”

Bruce hugged Jane, pulling her in against the cold. They stood there silently for a while, watching the wooden logs slowly collapsing in on themselves. They left the pyre to burn through the night.

Snow flurries swept across the countryside, burying the land.

Bruce finished working on the barn and repaired the breach by the forest before the deep snows arrived.

Jane was worried.

Whereas once the baby within her womb had been quite boisterous, moving and kicking, now the babe lay still. As much as this alarmed Bruce, there were so many other things he had to care for that he lost himself in his duty to the farm. Jane, though, grew depressed. She was sullen and moody. Her zest for life faded.

After a few weeks it was clear she would never regain the use of her right hand. The logs had crushed the same arm she'd injured in the village and she'd lost all feeling below her wrist.

Jane told Bruce there were moments, in the early morning, where she'd get the sensation of pins and needles in her hand and she'd think she was getting better, but her hand remained lame.

Bruce could see how dejected she had become. He offered to make a run to the village and from there on to the library to retrieve some of her favorite books, hoping these would lift her spirits. But it was wishful thinking, and they both knew it. Winter had already set in. Jane showed her thankfulness for his attention by being tender and considerate, but he could see she was putting up a front.

The drifts arrived, but not before Bruce had reinforced the barn and stacked hay bales four wide and six high in a line between the cabin, the barn and the chicken coop.

Once the snow mounted up outside and became hard-packed with the plummeting temperatures, Bruce began removing the hay bales, taking them back into the barn and revealing a snow tunnel between the buildings. He used wooden cross-members to shore up the tunnel every ten feet and poked holes for ventilation.

Snow buried the cabin but melted away around the chimney. Bruce dug narrow culverts on an angle away from the windows, leading up to the surface to ensure adequate airflow and natural light reached them in the cabin.

Winter was unusually cruel and cold, making it impossible to venture beyond the farm, but the snow drifts provided a degree of thermal insulation, keeping the temperatures in the barn around freezing while the outside world plummeted to lows Bruce had never seen before.

On those rare occasions when he braved the surface, he found it hurt to breathe. The air was so cold the wind would burn any exposed skin. But they had plenty of supplies and could make it through the worst of the storms.

Jane's belly continued to swell as the baby grew within her. She said it was a good sign, that if the unborn child had been killed in the crush her body would have rejected it as a stillborn babe by now, and yet the child failed to move.

When her waters broke, Bruce was ready. Jane had schooled him in what to expect, making sure he was well drilled in each of the particulars.

Bruce had seen his older sister give birth, so he knew what to expect, and Jane had acted as midwife for several of the villagers. Ideally, it would have been better to give birth in the village, where there were more women to help, but winter prevented any travel.

Jane fortified herself. Bruce was impressed by her focus and deliberation as the contractions set in. Her labor was long, reaching through the night into the next day.

As dusk fell on the second day, they braced for another long night. Bruce had towels and water handy, along with a knife he could sterilize in the fire to cut the umbilical cord.

As her contractions increased in intensity, Jane squatted, using gravity to assist the birth. She was sweating, breathing in short pulses. Bruce knelt before her as she held onto the arms of two chairs he'd placed on either side of her. She was magnificent, he thought, but he couldn't tell her so. She was in no mood for small talk.

Between contractions she sat back on the edge of a chair, her legs spread apart, and Bruce could see the baby's head crowning.

Jane cried in agony as her contractions increased in intensity.

“Oh, Bruce. It feels like I'm burning up inside,” she cried.

“Hang in there,” Bruce replied, feeling woefully inadequate. “You're almost there. I can see the baby.”

Jane panted as she knelt between the chairs, taking up a crouched position. The baby's head came out and she groaned, fighting the urge to push. She had told Bruce what to do at this point. He had to check to make sure the umbilical cord wasn't wrapped around the baby's neck, strangling the child.

Bruce ran his fingers around the baby's throat as Jane pursed her lips and took short, sharp breaths, fighting against the natural urge to push the baby out.

“All clear,” he said. “You're good.”

That was all Jane needed to hear. With one last push, the baby flopped out into Bruce's waiting hands. His face lit up with a smile. Jane was too relieved to care in that moment. Her head tilted backwards as she breathed deeply. With a warm, damp rag, Bruce wiped away the thick mucus and fluid from around the baby's eyes, nose, and mouth.

The baby didn't breathe.

Jane looked at Bruce with sadness in her eyes. She feared the worst, he could see that, but he kept a brave face. He turned the baby over, resting its chest in the palm of his hand, his thumb and forefinger supporting the baby's small head.

“Come on,” he said, his hand rubbing the child's back, gently patting him, willing him to breathe. Him, he thought, surprising himself with the realization that they'd had a son. The baby spluttered and cried, breathing for the first time.

Jane had tears in her eyes. The look on her face was one of exhaustion and relief. She held out her hands and Bruce handed her the baby, kissing her on the forehead. He clamped and cut the umbilical cord.

“Oh, he's so beautiful,” Jane said, peering at the baby in her arms.

“He certainly is,” Bruce replied, giving Jane a cloth as she sat down on a stool by the fireplace.

Bruce cleaned up as Jane gave the baby the opportunity to suckle.

“So is he a Julian or a James?” he asked, bringing up the names they'd agreed upon over the last couple of days. Bruce wanted to call the baby James, after his father.

“Neither,” Jane said, glowing with a smile.

“Well?” asked Bruce. “Don't keep me in suspense.”

“I don't know what suits him yet,” Jane replied softly. “But I'll think of something.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Bruce said, coming around beside her and resting his hand gently on her shoulder.

Jane grimaced, leaning forward. She had told Bruce beforehand that the contractions to pass the afterbirth were less severe than those of birth, but they looked even more painful to him. Over the next half an hour, she continued to struggle with what looked like stomach cramps.

When the placenta came out, Bruce placed it in a bucket. Jane had him turn it over so she could see the underside. She used a knife to examine the placenta. To his untrained eye, it looked like a large liver or kidney, although it was clearly more complex than either of those organs.

Jane's stomach cramps continued, and she put the baby down in the small crib she'd made for him, keeping him by the warmth of the fire.

“This is not good,” she said.

“What?” asked Bruce, not understanding her concern.

Jane doubled over in pain. A thin trickle of blood ran down one leg.

“What is it?” he asked as she reached out to hold his arm, steadying herself.

“I think the placenta may have torn away part of my uterus.”

Bruce wasn’t familiar with the term uterus. He’d seen the afterbirth of farm animals and had heard his mother use the word uterus on a couple of occasions. He knew it related to reproduction, but Jane’s harsh use of the word caused a chill to run through him. He knelt down with her as she rested on the blankets spread out by the fire.

“Oh,” she cried, grabbing at her stomach. “Oh, no.”

Blood ran freely.

Bruce was flustered, he didn't know what to do. He grabbed a couple of towels and a blanket, using them to mop up the blood.

The color drained out of Jane's face and she sat slumped up against the chair, her legs apart, blood running out on the floor.

“You're the best thing that ever happened in my life,” she began softly, running her fingers through his hair as he padded towels against her, trying to stem the flow of blood. Wiping his hands, he reached up and felt her forehead, even though she was in front of the fireplace, she felt cold and clammy.

“Tell me what to do?” he pleaded, a quiver in his voice.

“Oh, my dear, sweet Bruce,” Jane began. She was unusually calm. Her eyelids were half closed as she spoke. “There's nothing you can do. Take good care of our son. Teach him to read.”

“No,” Bruce said, holding her bloodied hand to his lips and kissing the back of her hand. “Please, don't leave us. Don't leave me.”

“I don't want to,” Jane said softly, her voice barely audible. “Oh, how I don't want to.”

Her eyes looked glazed. Her movements slowed. There was a lethargy to her motion, as though she were floating in water.

“There must be something I can do,” Bruce cried, looking around, his mind racing through the possibilities. “There must be some way I can fix this, something I can do to help.”

“My dear, there is nothing that can be done. This is one monster from which you cannot save me.”

“Oh, Jane. Don't say that. You're going to be OK. Please tell me you're going to be OK.”

Jane's head dropped. She forced herself up, struggling to stay conscious.

“Promise me you will teach our baby boy to read.”

“I promise,” Bruce said, shaking.

Jane slumped to one side, unable to hold herself up.

Bruce padded a blanket, making it into a pillow for her, gently resting her head upon it. She looked up into his eyes. He'd seen this look before—a life fading in the twilight. On Bracken Ridge, he'd seen this same glazed look in his brother's eyes.

“Please. Don't leave me alone. I don't know what to do.”

“James,” she whispered. “His name is James.”

Bruce sobbed, holding her hand to his forehead. Jane's eyes flickered as her hand fell limp. He knelt beside her, his chest heaving in grief. With his fingers pushed up gently against her jugular vein he felt her pulse weaken, grow erratic, and finally stop.

“No,” he cried, clenching his fist into a ball.

“No,” he yelled, staggering to his feet.

Bruce paced around the cabin screaming, “No. No. No!”

He was distraught. He pulled at the hair on his head, feeling the pain from his pulsating skull. The world around him seemed to narrow, as though he were standing in a tunnel. The cabin was small, too small. He wanted to pace, to walk at length, to run. Bruce rubbed his temples, mumbling to himself as he strode back and forth.

“Oh, please, no. This cannot be happening. Please tell me this is a dream. Let me wake from this nightmare.”

The more he paced, the more he felt the muscles in his body building in tension. He picked up a log of wood and began pounding the bench top, trying with all his might to either break the wood or to break the bench. With thundering blows, he slammed the wood down, each time screaming, “No.” But neither the bench nor the wood had any give. He could rage all he wanted, but nothing made a difference.

The baby was crying, but Bruce couldn't hear its cries until he paused, his hands throbbing from the reverberation of each blow through the wood.

Bruce stood over the crying baby, looking at James so small and helpless. Tears streamed from the baby's eyes as his tiny hands shook with anguish.

“There, there,” Bruce said, reaching in and picking him up. “It's OK. No one's going to hurt you. Everything is going to be fine.”

The baby continued to cry, so he bent his index finger in toward his palm, giving baby James the opportunity to suck on his knuckle. It wouldn't suffice for long, but it soothed the poor boy, allowing him to calm.

Bruce sat there, rocking back and forth on the edge of a chair, rocking the newborn baby back to sleep as his mother lay dead just a few feet away.

He put baby James back in the crib and tried to compose himself.

“Please wake up,” he said, knelling down by Jane. “Please, just like in the woodpile.”

But the touch of her cold, pale, lifeless skin told him there would be no miracle this time. He had to do something, anything. To do something would distract him from the haunting reality of his loss.

Bruce was manic.

He arranged a blanket over against the wall and moved her body there, getting her out of the bloody mess in front of the fireplace. With considerable care, he lay Jane's limp body near the door, placing a pillow under her head.

Bruce wasn't thinking straight, he wrapped her with a blanket, wanting to keep her warm. He turned her face toward the wall so it seemed as though she were sleeping. Then he returned to the fireplace and began cleaning.

Using soap made from animal fat and several buckets of water, he worked fastidiously, with close attention being paid to each subtle detail. Bruce soaked up the blood, cleaned in between the cracks in the floorboards, wiped the bloodied handles of the chairs. It was all he could do. For Bruce, it was either work hard or lie down and die. Through it all, he sobbed, his chest heaving with grief.

The baby stirred.

The water Bruce had boiled earlier was lukewarm. He took a small cup and crushed up a little bread, mixing it with a few drops of goat's milk. Bruce stuck his finger in the milky mixture and tasted. To him, it tasted like nothing more than dishwater, but he hoped it would give baby James something to sustain him.