Midwives (14 page)

Of course, there were signals right away that should have told my parents clearly and concisely that any hopes they had that the State would not press charges were unfounded, any optimism unwarranted. Throughout the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday that followed Charlotte’s death, my mother kept expecting Anne Austin to call. My mother was genuinely concerned that her young apprentice had been so deeply scarred by what she had seen, she would give up her plans of becoming a midwife herself someday. Consequently, my mother phoned her on Saturday morning before she and my father went in search of attorneys, and again when they returned at the end of the day. She called Sunday morning, and again Sunday night.

Like us, Anne had an answering machine, and my mother left a message each time. When Anne had still failed to call back by the time we had dinner Sunday night, my mother wondered aloud if Anne had gone to Massachusetts to visit her parents, and put some literal distance between herself and the house where Charlotte Bedford had died.

“And for all we know, she’s tried reaching you a dozen times and gotten nothing but busy signals,” my father added.

The Sunday newspapers, too, should have been a pretty good indication that the State would prosecute. Saturday morning there had merely been a couple of three- or four-inch articles in the
Burlington Free Press
and the
Caledonian-Record
noting that a woman named Charlotte Fugett Bedford had died during a home birth, but there was no mention of Sibyl Danforth. Anyone who came across either article would have assumed from the stories that while the woman’s body had been taken to the medical examiner, it was just a formality and there was no reason to suspect anything other than death from a natural cause.

Sunday’s stories, however, were very different. They were lengthy, more detailed, and grisly. They also lacked my mother’s perspective on that long night in the Bedfords’ bedroom, because she had chosen not to return any of the phone calls from reporters that Saturday. And while Stephen explained to my parents that they should forward press inquiries to him, they didn’t know that as they sat in his office the first time, and so there were no comments from Stephen Hastings in Sunday’s stories either.

Consequently, the articles that ran on Sunday were not only gory, they were one-sided and wrong. They were filled with quotes from doctors and midwives who hadn’t been in the room with my mother, people who were willing to conjecture about what “must have happened” or what “might have occurred.” The ob-gyn from North Country Hospital who greeted Veil soon after he was born was happy to talk both about what he knew (the boy was fine) and what he didn’t (why the mother wasn’t).

“We’ve all been lulled into believing that birth is as safe as having a cavity filled or a broken arm set,” Dr. Andre Dumond told reporters. “Obviously, as this incident proves, it’s not. The list of things that can go wrong in a home birth is frightening and it is endless. That’s why doctors prefer the technological and institutional support of a hospital.”

Even as a thirteen-year-old I can recall thinking as I read this remark that I personally wouldn’t have had my teeth filled at home or a broken arm set in my bedroom, but I still understood his point. And I knew other people would as well.

Dumond was also asked by the reporter from the Associated Press whether Charlotte Bedford specifically would have died had she had her baby in the hospital, and his response to the question should probably be studied by public-relations executives and law students who understand the role the media can play in a trial:

“At this point I have no idea whether the poor woman would have died in a hospital. I don’t know all the details yet of what happened. Would she have had her stomach ripped open with a kitchen knife? Of course not. Would she have had to endure a cesarean section without anesthesia? Of course not.”

Of the half-dozen doctors who could have met my mother and Veil when they arrived at North Country Hospital, Dumond was the worst choice from my family’s perspective. My mother and Dumond knew each other, and they disliked each other. I have no doubt that Dumond was a fine obstetrician, but he was in his mid-fifties then, and he was the sort of doctor midwives referred to euphemistically as “interventionist.” He believed that birth was a dangerous business, and it demanded constant monitoring and lots of drugs. My mother and the other midwives sometimes called him “Ol’ Doctor Forceps” and the “Electrolux Man”—a reference to the skull cap-like vacuum physicians such as Dumond would apply to the infant’s cranium to help pull the child from the vagina—because he was so quick to make baby skulls look like turnips with his delivery room toys.

My mother thought it was absolutely ridiculous (but completely predictable) when Dumond convinced a pediatrician to keep Veil at the hospital over the weekend for observation. The two doctors went so far as to place the healthy, howling eight-and-a-half-pounder in the closest thing the hospital had to a neonatal intensive-care unit: a special, sealed room they set up beside the nursery with oxygen, monitors, an incubator, and bilirubin lights available. The baby even slept on a mattress through Sunday with an alarm inside that would sound if he stopped breathing.

In some articles, an anonymous official in the state’s attorney’s office, in all likelihood Bill Tanner himself, explained that Vermont was investigating the death. “We won’t know for a while whether there’s a basis for criminal charges, or whether it’s merely a civil matter,” the source said, suggesting that even if the State didn’t press charges, my mother could expect to be sued for every penny she had.

Only the reporter from the little
Newport Chronicle
tracked down Asa Bedford for a short statement. The reverend hadn’t exactly gone into hiding, but he had taken Foogie with him Friday night and spent the next few days at the home of one of his parishioners. Saturday morning or afternoon he told the newspaper writer that he was still in shock on some level, and he had nothing to say about my mother or his wife’s labor:

“I am very, very grateful that I have been blessed with another child. But I don’t even know how to begin to convey my grief over Charlotte’s death. I just don’t have those words. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say anything more.”

He didn’t preach on Sunday morning. He wasn’t even in church. In fact, he never preached in that church again. He attended services there twice more, but by early May he had left Vermont and returned to Alabama, where he had family.

Some weeks later his expression “I shouldn’t say anything more” would take on a life of its own for my father. For a time he became convinced that either Bill Tanner or some ambulance-chasing attorney had told Asa to say that, to make sure the reverend didn’t say anything that would come back to haunt the Bedfords when they took the Danforths to court. And even if the words hadn’t been suggested to Asa by a lawyer, the Sunday morning we saw them we should have realized they—along with the observations of Dr. Dumond and the source in the state’s attorney’s office—meant that my mother was going to trial.

My mother and I almost never made dinner together, and yet, ironically, that is essentially what we were doing late Monday afternoon when Stephen Hastings and his photographer rang our doorbell. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, trying her best to stay off her feet. Despite the Band-Aids on three of her fingers, she was attempting to peel the skins from the red peppers we’d roasted, while I chopped vegetables on the cutting board by the sink.

It was barely four-thirty, so my father wouldn’t be home for at least another hour.

My mother knew her lawyer was coming by at any moment to talk with her some more and to pick up whatever papers from her records he deemed important. Perhaps because the state police had sent two men to our house Friday night, one who asked questions and one who took notes, I answered the front door expecting to find on the other side a fellow roughly my parents’ age in a dignified suit, and a much younger person—probably dressed more casually—whose sole responsibility would be to capture the conversation on paper.

Instead I saw a man in slacks and a blazer, no necktie, and a slightly older man in blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a down vest. Like a pack animal, the fellow in jeans had camera bags slung over both of his shoulders, and in his hands were coils of extension cords and a pair of large metal lights.

The press, I feared, had decided to descend upon our house since my mother had refused to return their phone calls.

“I don’t think my mother wants to speak with you,” I said, standing tall and straight in the doorway.

The photographer turned to the other man, and although the photographer’s beard was as thick as steel wool, I could see him frown. He raised his shoulders in a way that made the straps from his bags slide in toward his neck, and he sighed deeply with disgust.

The fellow in the blazer extended his hand to me and smiled. “You’re Connie, aren’t you?”

I refused his hand, but I nodded. I liked his voice and his tone—confident and serene, unaffected—but the last thing I wanted to do was to get involved in a protracted conversation with reporters when my mother’s attorney was due at any moment.

“I’m Stephen Hastings,” he continued. “I met your mother and father Saturday afternoon. This is Marc Truchon. He’s with me to take some pictures.”

Truchon nodded, as I reflexively took Stephen’s hand.

“I thought you were reporters,” I said, and I tried to laugh, but the noise sounded more like a grunt. Even today I’m not especially good at smoothing over social gaffes, and as a teenager—as awkward and self-loathing as most—I would sometimes blush a pink so deep I looked like I was choking. As I escorted the two men back into the kitchen, a moment’s humiliation had probably cooked my skin so that it looked as if I’d spent a week in the sun.

My mother rose from her seat as we entered the room, holding on to the back of another chair for support.

“God, Sibyl, don’t get up!” Stephen said, using his hands to motion her back into her seat as if he were directing traffic. When she was sitting down again, he grinned and added, “On second thought, why don’t you get back up and jump around a bit? Let’s get that ankle as big as a grapefruit.”

For almost thirty minutes Marc Truchon photographed my mother in the living room, snapping pictures of parts of her body against a small white backdrop he had brought with him inside one of his bags. He recorded lacerations that ran along the palm of her left hand like lighthearted swoops, including a gash that ranged from the edge of her wedding band to her thumb. He took pictures of her inventory of abrasions and bruises, many with dozens and dozens of pinpoint-small dots formed by fresh scabs.

At first I was surprised that Marc began with my mother’s arms and hands, since her legs were much more seriously beaten up and bruised. But then when he said, “Okay, Mrs. Danforth, shall we do the legs?” and Stephen wandered back toward the kitchen mumbling something about a glass of water, I understood: That afternoon my mother had been wearing a long paisley peasant skirt, a modest dress that fell almost to the floor when she stood, and she was now going to have to pull that dress up practically to her hips. In addition to her sprained ankle, she had bruises dotting both of her legs, including what I understand was a strawberry on her thigh so painful she was unable to wear jeans, a contusion so deep it was considerably more black than blue.

Quickly I followed Stephen into the kitchen to give my mother and the photographer their privacy. Besides, I didn’t want to see the worst of my mother’s bruises.

“Where do you keep glasses, Connie? I really would love a drink of water,” Stephen said, wiping his eyeglasses with a white handkerchief.

I opened the cabinet door and reached for two glasses. Then, remembering how my mother was always offering people coffee and herbal tea, I pulled down the metal container in which my mother kept tea bags. “Would you like coffee instead? Or herbal tea?”

“Does your family own stock in some coffee or tea company?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, not realizing until after I’d opened my mouth that this was a joke.

“No,” he went on, “water would be perfect right now.”

I filled each glass from the kitchen sink.

“Eighth grade, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Up at the union high school?”

“Yup.”

“They send a school bus up here, or do your parents have to drive you back and forth?”

“Oh, no, there’s a school bus.”

He shook his head. “Must be a dream in mud season.”

“It’s hard to stop a school bus.”

“Do you know Darren Royce?”

“Mr. Royce, the biology teacher?”

“One and the same.”

“Sure, I know him.”

“Is he one of your teachers, or do you just know who he is?”

“I have him for biology. Fifty minutes a class, plus all the labs.”