Seed on the Wind

It proved to be many times worse than any picture her imagination had drawn. As the book had said was customary, the pains were at first infrequent, only five or six of them in the first two hours, but after that the intervals were shorter, until finally it became, as it seemed to her, an unbroken and intolerable agony. Her father, who had arrived shortly after her mother had telephoned, had said at first that there was no hurry about the doctor; somewhat later, as she lay gasping trying to arouse her strength for the next one, she overheard talk between them which confirmed her suspicion that no doctor had been summoned. A wave of fear and fury swept over her; she sat up in bed and started to shout at them, not knowing what she was saying; they both ran over and pushed her back onto the pillow; she felt another convulsion gathering itself together down in the center of her, and braced herself and held her breath to meet it. She would deal with them after it passed. But then she was so exhausted that everything seemed hopeless and futile; she looked at them and thought of things to say, tried to invent a formula for imposing her will on them, but it floated off out of her grasp, no words would come. It wasn’t important enough; nothing was important but to get rid of the terrible and inexorable pressure that was tearing her body in two and ripping her bones open. She saw her mother’s face leaning over her.

“I had... no idea...” she said. “How much longer do you suppose...”

“It will be all right,” her mother said. “You’re having a hard time. Do you know it’s nearly midnight? Try not to groan so loud.”

Every now and then she was aware that her mother was fooling with her down there, putting something in apparently, or taking something out, she didn’t know which. It appeared to help; she believed that it helped until the next time came, and then it seemed worse than ever. Once they got her onto her knees, with her head forward and down and her legs spread apart; her mother argued with her insistently that that was the natural way, quicker and better than lying on her back. At first it did seem so, but then all at once it felt as if her legs were being grasped, one on either side, and torn violently asunder; seized with panic she flopped onto her back and wouldn’t let them touch her. It was plain by that time that it wasn’t going to come out at all; this was a part of their scheme; she was done for.

Even then the end was still far off. When it came her mind was numb. She was aware of everything, but the thread of her consciousness was so frayed and attenuated that her awareness was like a vague and feeble dream. She knew that something unprecedented was happening, something that had never happened before; she felt her mother’s hands, quick and strong; and all at once she realized that the terrible expectancy, the desperate gathering of forces from muscles and veins and nerves and bones from which all force had disappeared never to return, was gone. The world had come to an end at last. She wanted to open her eyes, but could not. She heard footsteps — that would be her father — and a door open and close. Her mother was still doing something with her. What for? It was all over...

She opened her eyes. “It came,” she said.

“Yes. Lie quiet. You’re not through yet.”

“It came. Where is it?”

“Getting fixed. Lie quiet.”

“Fixed?”

“Of course. Fixed and washed.”

She closed her eyes. It was not long before other pains came, but they didn’t amount to much. She helped them indifferently, not caring and scarcely feeling them. After a long time she opened her eyes again. Her mother was kneeling on the floor, busy with what seemed to be a pile of newspapers. Her father was not in the room.

“Where is it?” she said.

Her mother looked up. “It’s all right. Go to sleep. You must go to sleep.”

I will not, Lora thought, and then knew nothing more.

When she awoke the shades were up and the pale January sunshine was streaming in at the east windows. She looked idly about. The room had been tidied up. It looked remarkably tidy, in fact; even the chair on which she laid her things when she undressed at night was empty; there were no books or magazines on the little table beside her bed. Most curious of all, and she decided that was why she felt so queer and stuffy, the windows were not open — only a crack of a few inches in the one next to the bureau — and the room was quite warm and there was an odd smell in the air. Her head felt dizzy.

Suddenly she threw the covers back and sat up straight and looked sharply around. She got out of bed and for an instant stood there beside it, swaying a little on her feet, then made for the door and down the hall to the head of the stairs.

“Mother!” she called, and repeated it at once more loudly, “Mother!”

Her mother appeared at the foot of the stairs, and started up towards her. She came quickly, and grasped Lora’s arm.