Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

pleaded, "I'm much further along in my pregnancy. It's getting harder and harder for me. Isn't it dangerous for me to work so hard now?"
    "Of course not. It's just like someone like you to think so, someone spoiled and soft. The harder you work, the stronger you will be at the time of delivery," she said.
    "But I'm tired. It's more difficult for me to sleep now and . . .”
    "Wash this floor immediately!" she cried, pointing down. "Or when the time comes, I'll have Luther put you in the barn to give birth with the pigs."
    "I should see a doctor," I mumbled, but kept my eyes down. I wanted to say more, but I was afraid she might just do what she promised and the only thing I would accomplish would be the death of the baby.
    I struggled to my feet and went to fill a new pail of water. Then I put in the soap and returned to the spot she had indicated on the floor. She stood in the doorway watching me work.
    "Press down harder," she commanded, "and make wider circles when you scrub. I thought you claimed to have worked as a chambermaid in my sister's hotel."
    "I did, but we never had to do this!"
    "That hotel must be filthy then. So much for what my sister knows. She was always the favorite, the apple of my father's eye and never did her share. She always managed to get me or poor, stupid Charlotte to do her work. She's still managing it," Miss Emily said. "You're here. Harder. Wider circles," she repeated and pivoted out the door.
    I did the best I could and when I was finished, I found I couldn't get up quickly. My back was so stiff, I had to sit against the wall to catch my breath and wait for the ache to subside.
    As time went by, the list of chores I usually completed by late afternoon now took me into the evening. When I was finished, I had to make my way alone through a dark house holding a candle. Gradually, the climb up the stairs became harder and harder and took longer and longer. I was terrified of passing out and falling down, for I was sure I would lose the baby.
    One night toward the end of the seventh month, when I had completed my chores and pulled myself up the stairway to my closet of a room, Miss Emily marched through the door just as I entered. It was as if she had been waiting in the shadows in the corridor outside, for she was right behind me, practically breathing down my neck. She was carrying her kerosene lamp and something in a large paper bag.
    "It's time to take stock," she said when I turned with surprise.
    "What do you mean?" I cried. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. I hoped she didn't mean doing some sort of inventory.
    "We have to check you," she said.
    "But why now?" I moaned. "I'm tired and it's time to sleep."
    "What do you want me to do, adjust my schedule to fit your needs? Take off the dress," she ordered.
    Reluctantly, I began to lift the garment over my head, but she was impatient and seized it in her hands and tugged it abruptly, nearly sending me to the floor. I embraced myself, covering my bloated bosom, and glared at her. She placed the palm of her right hand roughly over my abdomen, pressing so hard, I had to cry out.
    "Just as I suspected: you're constipated," she declared.
    "No I'm not," I said, "I . . ."
    "What do you mean, oh, no? Don't you think that after all these years and the dozens and dozens of babies I've delivered, I know when a pregnant woman is constipated and when that constipation is causing undo pressures on the womb and the fetus?"
    "But . . ." I shook my head. Was she right? I wondered. Was that why I had such trouble breathing?
    "No buts. You want to do what's right for the baby, don't you?"
    "Yes," I said. "Of course."
    "Good." She reached into the paper bag and brought out a large bottle of castor oil and an enormous glass. She opened the bottle and filled the glass to the top. "Drink this," she said, thrusting it at me. I took it slowly.
    "All of it?"
    "Of course, all of it. I think I know how much you need. Drink it."
    I brought the glass to my lips, closed my eyes, and swallowed and swallowed. The horrible tasting liquid bubbled as it settled in my stomach. To my surprise, she filled another glass.
    "Again," she said, thrusting it back at me. She kept the glass in my face. "Drink it!" she snapped.
    I took it slowly and emptied the glass as quickly as I could.
    "All right. That will clean you out and take the pressure off your womb," she said. In the glow of the lamps, she almost smiled. Maybe now that my time was drawing closer and