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left me alone to undress. It was cold and uncomfortable under the thin sheet, my nipples pointed to the ceiling, the small mound of my stomach covered in goosebumps. The instruments I’d known in Father’s office hung on the walls and rested on the desk – stethoscopes, scalpels, drug bottles of the trade. An odd sort of homesickness gripped me.
    Every day of my life I’d watched Father rushing off in black coat and cap to the next emergency. In recent years he’d taken to helping people in the backwoods around St. John’s, poor souls who could rarely pay. But he didn’t mind, took pleasure instead in their grateful eyes and offers of prayers for him. “For me!” he would chuckle. He’d delivered their babies, performed their surgeries, comforted their bereaved, all without fanfare. He was a practical man. And he’d groomed me, hoping one day I might take over when he could no longer keep up the gruelling pace. Mother wasn’t happy about it, displaying a muted envy at the collegial friendship grown between us, dismissing us. And Father stood back. He had, it seemed, endless capacity to put up with his wife’s petty and facile nature.
    â€œMore time for his patients than his own family.” It was Mother’s ritual complaint.
    He might have just arrived home from watching an entire family succumb to diphtheria, yet he would apologize for being late, peck her on the cheek and sit silently eating his cold supper while she spoke of the poor selection of beef at the local grocer’s, told how the neighbours were fighting over the indiscretions of a certain cat, or complained no one appreciated the good work she did at the church.
    â€œWhy don’t you tell her about your life? The important work you do?” I’d asked Father while on the way to deliver a baby. “She is utterly self-centred and thoughtless.”
    â€œMy dear, she is your mother and I won’t let you speak of her that way.”
    I was stung. I’d miscalculated, assumed our relationship had gone beyond his scolding protection of her position.
    â€œBut Father...”
    â€œThere are some things you don’t know about your mother. And I don’t intend to tell you. But she didn’t have it easy. She’s had her suffering. If she seems harsh now it’s only because she wants so badly to hang on to what she has.” We were driving up to an all-too-familiar house. Seven babies had been delivered in the tiny back bedroom. “Now let’s get in there and help Mrs. McGiver. I hope she can survive another one.”
    I jumped down and collected Father’s bags and the things we’d need – sheets, towels and Mother’s rosary. Mrs. McGiver prayed the beads while in labour and was determined everyone in the room do the same. The sound of children quarrelling in the house was backdrop to Hail Mary ringing out amidst screams and groans, until, on cue with the final sign of the cross, the baby was born. I’d been there for two of the more recent births, sat and held the woman’s hand, marvelled at her timing. I’d been encouraged to sponge Mrs. McGiver’s forehead, to coax her to breathe and push. It was embarrassing, but I felt it my duty to offer up the occasional Glory Be or Our Father until the cord was snipped and there was a chorus of hallelujahs with the baby’s first cry.
    Until that last one. Another ill-conceived infant born to a woman whose faith dictated length of labour and time of birth. This time I caught the baby, a boy born with a beatific face and curly blond hair who never uttered a cry, never, in fact, learned to say one word or to take care of himself. For this one the sign of the cross came too late.

    i i i
    The doctor’s knock was startling. I hadn’t expected the tears and quickly wiped them away. He poked and prodded my belly, used an uncomfortable finger to check for cervical abnormalities, and