Adrift

Liquid fire ran through her body with each contraction. She felt the heat may burst her open if not for the cool sea air pinning itself to every cell of her body. Her eyes scanned the darkness in terror as she hid away to labour. The smell of the old rope the fishermen use in their dories, their oilskins hanging limp from the hook. The Twine Shed wasn’t the ideal location to have a baby, but nobody would find her here at night, and she would be protected form the cold North Atlantic wind.

She could hear the waves lapping against the spindly foundation of the shed and the wharf extending out from it into the sea. She wished she could jump from the end, like a mermaid, and swim away from this little bay forever. They must never know what happened to her. They can never know about any of this.

Between the thunder of each contraction, her mind found its way back to one person - her mother. A connection deep and sacred rushed over her as she prayed to her mother to help her. She was 13 years old and it had been two years since she cried for her mother. The day of her funeral. After that, she promised herself that she would not burden father with her sorrow, so even in the worst moments, she denied herself even a glimpse of her memory. Until now. All she could see now was her mother’s face, calm and full of love.

The flu took her mother away in what felt like a blink. With her death, her anchor disappeared. She was fired into the dark and lonely life of a motherless girl. Her father, truly heartbroken, was her focus. She had to help him with her brothers and sisters, and be the woman of the house. She begged him not to worry; to go ahead and make a plan for a long trip fishing as he did every year at this time. They needed the money, and she was 12. Most of the boys were out fishing by this time, so if they could do that she could keep a house. Her father stayed home from sea as long as he could, but money was getting scarce.

She walked down to the fishing wharf to see her father off. She watched his boat as it left the harbour and she stared until it had disappeared into the sunset. It was then she felt the first pang of panic. He was gone. Her parents were gone. She set her jaw and pushed the thought away - it was time for her to get to work. She marched back to the house to light the lanterns and prepare the oatmeal for the morning.

For the first week, the neighbours were lovely, bringing bread and jam and checking-in that she and her siblings were okay. But they were busy with their own homes, and had little to share, so they let her get on with it. All, except Mr. Janes. He never stopped coming to visit.

Mr. Janes was a well-respected man in the community. In fact, he was one of the councillors, and a good friend of the Priest. When home from the fishing grounds, men would gather at his kitchen table to hear him speak on some topic of interest, with a few shots of rum thrown in of course. She knew her father had attended some of these gatherings. She felt a rush of pride that her father would be in the concern of such a knowledgeable man. She made Mr. Janes tea and was happy that she had a cookie to offer him as well. It was not long into the visit that he revealed his true intentions with his hand reaching across the tea cups to fondle her breast. A motherless child has no protection here.

He came to visit at least once a week, garnering the praise of the townspeople for such kind acts of concern for a neighbour. Like a deer in headlights each time it happened, she blamed herself. She must be doing something to tempt him. Perhaps she was too friendly? Too welcoming? Maybe she should lock the door. But how could she deny a man of his reputation entry into their home? Her father would be mortified. On fine evenings she would sit on the wharf and stare at the sunset, willing a glimpse of her father’s boat heading back to her over the horizon.

Another crushing contraction ripped through her body and she muffled her scream into the scarf around her neck. She may die in this shed, this baby will surely die. But if there was a chance she would survive she had to keep all of this a secret. She had already managed to hide it for nine months. She did not even know the baby existed until at least three months along. It was the odd feeling of flutters in her abdomen. Tiny bubbles bursting against her skin that gave her the first clue as to why she had been so tired, so ill. Her siblings were too young to imagine such a thing could be. The neighbours were busy with their own lives, and only saw her at church were she sat in the back in loose dresses to hide her expanding belly. The neighbours thought she looked well, plump in the face which meant they were all coping well without their father.

When her father arrived home she must have been six months along. He looked tired and worn. He hugged her tightly and commented that she had gained weight. He was very impressed with how well they all looked, hearty and clean. Despite his praise, she could see the sorrow in his eyes as he entered a house with no wife. She made him tea and toast and got the water for him to wash. He went to bed and she vowed he would never know the shame she had brought upon his name.

Hiding the pregnancy continued with little effort. Layers of clothes protected them from the windy gales but also hid her body. Mr. Janes stopped coming to visit. He stopped months before, as he may have gotten a clue from her swollen breast and protruding belly. But if he did he made no mention, just tipped his hat as he left like every time before.

All alone in the shed, she pushed the fear away from her mind as she pushed the baby down through her body. The pain was unbearable but she knew she must stay quiet. She grabbed an old piece of rope laying next to her and willed this hell to be over. The cold wind whipped around the outside of the shed, and the water began to crash against the rocks of the shore. She wailed into her scarf as she felt the baby emerge from between her blood-soaked legs. One last push, and it was done. Her body was empty.

She reached down instinctively to grab the blood-covered child. She saw it was a boy. A little baby boy. How could he have been inside her all this time? How could she have made this in her own body?

She held him close and he began to whimper. She was afraid he would cry and someone would hear him, so she nuzzled him to her breast as she had seen her mother do with her youngest sister. He latched and began to suckle and she smiled genuinely for the first time in months.

As she lay there, blood soaked and in shock, she knew the fishermen would be coming soon. She had to get back to the house and prepare breakfast. She searched the shed for a place to hide him. She saw a loose floorboard and she pulled it up. There was already hay padding inside so she wrapped the baby in her scarf and laid him there. He was sleepy now that he had been fed, so she lowered the floorboard to hide him, and she painfully made her way back to the house.

She changed her clothes and washed her face. She could hear her siblings stirring and her father moving in his upstairs room. She boiled the water for tea and began making the toast. She felt chilled and her mind was foggy, but she had to be calm.

A knock on the kitchen door stopped her cold. Who would be here at this hour in the morning? She was afraid to answer so she just stared out the window at the grey-blue ocean. Her father came past her and grabbed the door handle. She heard another man asking him to come with him to the Twine Shed. He could hear a strange sound and he could not locate it. He said he saw blood on the floor down there too. He was confused.

She did not move as she watched her father accompany her neighbour down to the shed. She could see other fishermen ready for a day of work making their way toward the wharf as well, and she contemplated using the bread knife in her hand to end her life, but she was frozen.

It was then she saw her father running toward the house with the bloody scarf in his arms, the baby still wrapped inside.

Mr. Janes denied it all. The rage of her father did not encourage him to tell the truth, and Mr. Janes chose instead to spurn her name as a liar and a slag. She was a motherless 13-year old with a baby – how could she prove this learned man wrong?

The years that followed were hard. Her father refused to leave them any more and their only income came from cutting wood and meager farming. She worked as hard as she possibly could, feeling immense guilt every time one of her siblings cried from hunger or cold. Her little boy was growing up along side of them. They had decided to tell her siblings he was adopted from a poor family in the next harbour. They would find out from the whispers soon enough, but for now her father tried to protect her good name at least within her home.

A good husband was no longer an option for her, so she threw herself into helping her father and the church. She avoided Mr. Janes at all cost, and he did the same to her. He was still a well-respected man in the community. She was just a bay girl with loose morals.

Despite it all, her son grew up tall and strong. Her father taught him the ways to be a hard-working, honourable man. The shame of his existence had left her, and she felt nothing but pride and love for him now. It was always tinged with sadness, but it was pure.

In the end, it was this boy, born in a shed on a cold North Atlantic night, that held her close as she died. He bathed her forehead and made her tea. He wrapped his arms around her with love and devotion. In those days she looked back at her life with wonder and confusion. She cried for that young vulnerable girl, all alone in that shed. She wept for the baby born in secret and shame. She wondered about the life she may have lived. She reflected with pride on her own strength and resilience.

And then, in a warm bed, she died in his arms. Her smile genuine again as she drifted into the next life, surrounded by true love and finally, overcome with peace.