January 6, 1911
- a voice split off from somewhere inside me, wailing
uncontrollably, and I raised my hips in an effort to relieve
the insistent rasping within my stomach, then tasted and smelled
blood as the equally persistent voice spun louder and louder.
Then the contraction eased, and I fell back on the frayed
mattress, my eyes gripping on the clock. The hands pushed at
me, slowly twisting towards seven.
Quentin - Quentin was not here, but would be here.
He would not be able to stand it here, here sucking in this
damp smell of blood in the tangy air. Caddy, he said, would
say, you chose the wrong pain. His watery scared eyes shone
at me through the bleak waves. I would have been quicker, I
would have tried not to hurt, Caddy, I drowned in your tinged
water. The clock slid two minutes forward, and I bore down
on the rising spasm.
PUSH, the midwife urged, her lank hair falling wetly
down her forehead, push hard, harder, it's coming now. Push,
I echoed, push past it, push past it, push past the loud one-
note moaning and past Herbert floating darkly in the doorway,
and past Jason worried next to him, eyes narrowing slowly.
Push out into the Indiana pasture, past the gold-braided fields
and run to the trees, arms wide and accepting. Push.