Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

what you are and what you will always be—sinful."
    "I'm not," I protested calmly. "I only wanted . . ."
    "To know where the devil has been before. I understand your interest," she said, nodding again. "Very well, feast your eyes upon it," she said, gesturing around her.
    "I don't understand," I said.
    "This room was where we kept the child until it died and went to hell."
    "Died? What child? Whose child?"
    "The devil's own," she said. "Charlotte gave birth to it, but it was the devil's own."
    "Why do you say that?" I asked.
    "Because no one but the devil himself could have made her pregnant. Suddenly one day she was pregnant, don't you see?" she said, her eyes maddeningly wide. "I knew it all the time and when the baby was born, I had only to take a look at it to confirm it."
    "You told her it had pointed ears, didn't you?"
    "It did," she said. "Thankfully, it didn't survive."
    "What did you do?" I asked, my heart pitter-pattering so hard I could hardly speak loud enough for her to hear me.
    "Nothing but say my prayers over it day and night," she replied, a far-off look in her eyes. She was silent a long moment and then remembered where she was.
    "But my pathetic half-sister didn't understand, couldn't understand. And so . . . I let her keep this fantasy."
    "This is cruel." I gazed into her terror-filled face. "You think my baby is evil, too, don't you? That's why you tried to cause a miscarriage by making me do such hard work and giving me too much castor oil and starving me. You're crazy," I said before I had a chance to prevent myself from uttering the words. She spun around on me.
    "You would say that! Get out of here," she ordered. I started for the doorway. She walked toward me threateningly. "Get out and back where you belong!"
    "I will and I don't belong here," I cried back. "I want to go away . . . anywhere else but here and you can't stop me."
    As soon as I reached the doorway, I turned and started to run, the image of her hateful eyes lingering.
    "Get thee behind me, Satan!" she screamed. I ran faster, but I made the mistake of looking back when I reached the end of the west wing and I tripped. I screamed and spun around, slapping myself against the wall before falling to the floor. Miraculously, the lamp did not shatter, but the light went out leaving me in darkness. I groaned. This time, the pain in my stomach was accompanied by an intense tightening.
    Oh, no, I thought. Oh, no. . . . I screamed in agony.
    Slowly, Miss Emily came up the corridor, her light before her. I pressed my hands to my stomach.
    "Help me," I cried out. "Something's happening . . ." I looked down between my legs and realized I was all wet. "My water's broken!" I screamed.
    She lowered the lamp slowly and saw it was true.
    "Get yourself up," she commanded. "Quickly." Charlotte, who had finally awakened, came up behind her.
    "What's wrong with her, Emily?" she asked. "Why is she lying on the floor?"
    "Help her to her feet," Miss Emily commanded and Charlotte stepped forward.
    The walk back to my room was the most excruciatingly painful walk I could ever imagine. The pain grew worse as my stomach tightened and tightened. I fell on my back on the bed. Miss Emily came in calmly and put the lamp down on the table.
    "Go wake Luther up," she told Charlotte, "and tell him to bring us a pail of hot water." She glared down at me, her face twisting into a smile of contempt. "She's gone and hurried things along." She turned to the amazed Charlotte who continued to gape. "Move," she commanded.
    "Oh, God," I cried. "It hurts so much."
    "The more sinful you are, the more it does," Miss Emily replied with great satisfaction.
    She pulled up my dress and had me bend my knees. Then she put her palm on my abdomen. "You're contracting," she concluded. Then she smiled. "Now we shall see if you are strong enough to bear the burden of your guilt."

 
    16
MY KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR
     
    "Push!" Miss Emily screamed into my face. "You're not pushing. Push harder!"
    "I am pushing," I cried. I took deep breaths and tried again and again. The pain was so excruciating I began to consider the possibility that Miss Emily had been right—my agony was more severe as part of some divine punishment for my actions. Momma Longchamp had never told me giving birth was this painful. I knew it was no Sunday picnic, but I felt as if someone with giant hands was squeezing my stomach. It seemed to become a knot of knives. I thought I would pass out before delivering and