peace. It occurred to me that in the case of this flu there could be no signing a pact with it; what we waged in hospitals was a war of attrition, a battle over each and every body.
A student doctor was telling a story about a man who’d presented himself at Admitting, convinced he had the grippe because his throat was closing up. The chap turned out to be sound as a bell—it was just fright.
The others sniggered tiredly.
But wasn’t panic as real as any symptom? I thought about the unseen force blocking my brother’s throat.
Our queue shuffled forward past the latest sign, which said, in strident capitals, IF I FAIL, HE DIES.
I ate my porridge standing up in the corner and couldn’t manage more than half the bowl.
No russet head when I hurried into Maternity/Fever; no Bridie Sweeney.
Indefatigable in pristine white, Sister Luke moved towards me, a broad ship. Good morning, Nurse.
I found I couldn’t bear to ask about Bridie, as if she were the young woman’s keeper.
On the stairs last night, I’d wasted time chattering about film stars, and Bridie had never actually said anything about coming back, had she? I’d jumped to conclusions simply because I wanted her help so much. It shook me to realise that I’d been irrationally counting on her being here today; she was what the poster called a person one needs to see.
Over on the right, Delia Garrett seemed to be asleep.
Mary O’Rahilly, in the middle, was a snail curved around her own bump. Dr. Lynn had pierced the sac and let the girl’s waters out, so it really wasn’t safe for delivery to be delayed too long; there was a higher risk of infection. I murmured, Any progress there?
Sister Luke grimaced. Pangs every eight minutes. Stronger than before, but the doctors aren’t happy with the pace.
I doubted Mary O’Rahilly was either. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her black hair limp with sweat; even her cough sounded weary.
It occurred to me that Bridie might in fact be here this morning but on a different ward. The office would assign every volunteer to where she was most needed, of course.
Honor White was telling her beads with bloodless hands, mouthing the words.
That one makes a great show of piety, said the nun in my ear.
My temper flared. I answered, very low: I thought you’d approve of prayer.
Well, if it’s sincere. But a year of praying did nothing to reclaim Her Nibs.
I turned to stare. Mrs. White? I whispered. How can you possibly know that?
Sister Luke tapped her nose through the gauze mask. A sister at our convent serves at that mother-and-baby home, and I asked her all about Mrs. over there. It’s her second time there. Not six months after release, didn’t she show up in the exact same condition again?
I gritted my teeth. And then a question occurred to me: She stayed on for a whole year after the first birth?
Well, that’s their term, if the infant lives.
I didn’t follow.
Sister Luke spelled it out: How long a woman has to do housework and mind the little ones to work off the costs if she hasn’t been able to pay.
I puzzled it through. So for the crime of falling pregnant, Honor White was lodging in a charitable institution where tending her baby and those of other women was the punishment; she owed the nuns a full year of her life to repay what they were spending on imprisoning her for that year. It had a bizarre, circular logic.
I asked, Does the mother keep…can she take her child away when the year is up?
Sister Luke’s one eye bulged. Take it away and do what with it? Sure most of these lassies want nothing more than to be freed from the shame and nuisance.
Perhaps my question had been naive; I knew unwed motherhood couldn’t be an easy life. I wondered whether such a woman might pretend to be widowed.
Sister Luke conceded, The occasional first offender, if she’s truly reformed and very fond of the child and if a married sister or her own mother is willing to call it theirs, she might be allowed to bring it home to her family. But a hardened sinner? (Narrowing her eyes at Honor White.) That one will have to stay two years this time. Some are kept on after that, even, if they’re incorrigible—if it’s the only way to prevent another lapse.
That left me speechless.
When I saw the red curls coming in the door, the relief staggered me. Morning,