Page 94 of The High Tide Club
Carlyle uncapped the gin and dribbled some on the cotton ball. He stuck the hypodermic in the vial of liquid, drew back the plunger and flicked the tube once, twice with a forefinger, to dispel any air bubbles.
He nodded at the woman. “I’ll need you to hold her down for a moment.”
“I’ll try,” she whispered, standing to lean across the bed.
“Noooo!” the patient cried.
“Just a small prick,” he said pleasantly. “Then you’ll have a nice sleep, and when you wake up, this will all be over.”
Her body tensed as another contraction began, and she writhed in pain.
“Hold her down!” he barked, and he jabbed the needle into her arm.
***
When he emerged from the bedroom, he carried a tiny, squalling infant wrapped in a pillowcase.
“It’s a boy,” Dr. Carlyle said, thrusting the baby into the woman’s arms.
“Healthy?” She looked down at the beet-red infant. “He’s so tiny.”
“Because he’s too early,” Carlyle said. His shirt was sweat-soaked and clung to his chest, his forearms were flecked with blood, and his white hair was plastered to his skull.
“Where’s the bathroom? I need to wash up.”
“Just there.” She pointed to the next door. “And how is she?” The woman gazed anxiously through the open doorway where the patient lay unconscious atop a mound of blood-soaked sheets and towels.
“She’ll live. But there won’t be any more surprise pregnancies, I’ll tell you that.”
“Just as well,” she murmured.
She heard water running. She looked down at the baby, no bigger than an undersized roasting hen. She didn’t particularly like babies, but she felt a strange pang of sympathy for this one. She touched a tentative finger to his fist, and he stopped crying, grabbed hold, and clung on with a surprising ferocity.
Carlyle was wiping his hands on a clean towel. “You’ll want to wash her properly when she wakes up, keep the incision clean, watch that she doesn’t run a fever, which is a sign of infection. If she does seem feverish, call me immediately before she becomes septic.”
“And what about the baby?”
“What about it?”
The woman looked down at the now sleeping infant and then pointed withher chin toward the bedroom. “She’s not married, you know. If anybody found out…”
He yawned, impatient to get home to his bed. “What are you trying to say?”
She bit her lip. “It would be better if she thought… well, if she thought the baby died.”
Carlyle bristled and feigned shock, though in his line of work this was a very old story.
“What if we could find somebody to take care of it?” the woman went on.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Surely there are orphanages?”
“This baby is not an orphan,” he said. “In any case, orphanages require paperwork. Questions would be asked.”
“Oh.”
He looked at her, waiting, expectant.
