“Where’s Maman?”
Jo can’t answer. Their mother must be stuck at work, it’s what they tell themselves, it’s the best thing to tell themselves, of course.
“I’m here,” Jo whispers, wishing she was somewhere else, in the rain or still crouching in the rows of vines, anywhere but here, in this ridiculous pale-blue hospital gown and paper cap, with these doctors fussing over her sister who, legs spread and breathing erratic, is calling for her mother.
Céline is shrieking, clutching Jo’s hand; neither of them knows how long they’ve been here waiting for things to happen without them, since nobody’s talking to them.
A woman in a white coat slides a large, cold cylinder over Céline’s belly, a thing connected to a machine that beeps and displays figures in red. Another one floods Céline’s crotch with Betadine. They appear to think it’s going to happen right now, they’re saying that the cervix is dilated, and given the screams Céline is letting out at regular intervals, the contractions are close together. The gynaecologist finally arrives: they assume it’s a doctor, judging by the sudden deference of the nurses as soon as he turns up. He slowly washes his hands, concentrating on every bit of skin, rubbing in the hollows between his fingers and his wrists, up to halfway up his forearms. He finally sits on a stool at the foot of the bed, without looking at the girl’s face.
“It’s happening, Mademoiselle. Let’s pull ourselves together and get on with it.”
Céline is crying, her nose running, she’s in pain and she doesn’t know what let’s get on with it means.
The gynaecologist taps on her thigh, visibly annoyed.
“Listen … Céline?” He’s stuck his nose into the admission record hanging on the edge of the bed on wheels. “You’re going to have a baby, so either you get down to work, or we give you a Caesarian. It’s up to you.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she asks, her voice hoarse from crying.
“Haven’t you attended any childbirth classes?”
Céline starts crying even harder. The gynaecologist sighs. He looks at his patient and at Jo, next to her. He finally seems to realize he’s dealing with two kids; he gestures at the midwife, mutters a few words to her, she nods and adds a couple of notes to the file.
“We can’t give you an epidural, so you’ll have to be brave. But it won’t take long. The baby’s here, begging to come out.”
“But it’s too soon, isn’t it?” Johanna finally dares to ask.
“Of course it’s too soon, but if … Céline gets down to work quickly, we should manage it and the baby will go into an incubator. We’re not in the 1960s any more, and I’ve delivered babies that were even more premature than this one.”
Jo thinks the man’s quite nice. Even if he looks bored, even if he looks annoyed at Céline’s fear, though as far as Jo’s concerned she’s quite entitled to be terrified.
“I’d like to wait for my maman,” Céline finally blurts out with a sob.
The gynaecologist looks at her over his glasses. Jo can’t work out what he’s thinking. Whether he reckons she’s stupid or is thinking about his own daughter – if he has one, which is possible, he’s their father’s age – maybe he’s judging her sister, maybe he’s feeling sorry for her. Jo has a strong imagination and hostility to spare, she wonders if she’ll have to jump at his throat, but would rather not because he’s the only one able to help them, so for fuck’s sake shut up and do it.
“No, we can’t wait for your maman. You can do it on your own, my dear, and, besides, you’re not on your own.”
The bastard’s clever. And the suddenly familiar tone doesn’t shock anybody. Except perhaps the midwife, who looks up and frowns.
“If you’re old enough to have a child, that means you’re no longer a child yourself,” she states categorically.
An especially violent contraction prevents anyone from replying: Céline lets out a throaty scream that extends into a push.
“Very good,” the gynaecologist says matter-of-factly. “I can see the head, let’s go again.”
Jo lets her sister dig her fingers into her arms and squeeze her wrists until it hurts. Céline is panting violently. And then, in one last push, this time without screaming, she expels a red, sticky little thing which the man immediately grabs. Several white coats rush towards it. Jo realizes she’s shaking from top to toe, and despite the stifling heat even her teeth are chattering as if she’s freezing. There’s blood on the sheet, she can see it clearly but doesn’t know if it’s normal.
Céline panics. “She’s not crying. Why isn’t she crying?”
A wail contradicts her. Not a scream, not the sound of a full-term child’s lungs being deployed, not the sound of a victorious child who’s going to rule the world. But a lively little noise all the same.
Jo strokes her sister’s head; never have they been as close and alone as at this moment.
“It’ll be all right,” Jo can’t help repeating on impulse – falsely conspiratorial, but not without hope.