We’d prepared the defibrillator, dialed down to its lowest charge; the syringes of atropine and adrenaline filled to the proper dosage placed side by side; cloths and blankets set out. But like any birth, there came the time when all anybody could do was wait. For several more hours we’d done just that, sleeping sitting up in chairs, or our heads resting on folded arms on the table, until Wyatt nudged us awake.
We gathered at the basin in such quietude the air seemed to vibrate. Raj, face haggard, broke away from the group, wandering into the living room. Instinctively, we closed ranks tight around the baby, listening to Raj pray, a low muttering chant. Wyatt looked annoyed by his departure, and at some level it bothered me, too. It was as if the baby needed all of our energy in the room in real time to live.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Wyatt said. “Like we talked about.”
I was the first to touch him. I was terrified but slid my hands into the lukewarm water and under his tiny buttocks and shoulder blades as instructed and held him. His skin softened slightly at my touch as I gently settled him back down. Jeanne carefully poured more warm water into the tub as Nora, cooing, massaged his shoulders, arms, and fingers, cracking off what was now just a patina of ice from his tender baby flesh. The rag that had partially covered him, perhaps the remains of some ancient diaper, disintegrated in our hands like slimy brown seaweed; we wiped it off him with a clean cloth and dropped the remnants in a bowl. A whiff of wet leather, iron, stones, an earthy tang. Wyatt, in wonder, stroked the baby’s face, massaging him where flashes of ice held on stubbornly—under his fingernails and behind his ears.
“Jeanne, are you ready to turn him? We’ll need to clear his lungs.”
“I can turn him,” Nora said.
“No,” he said gruffly. “Stick to the plan we agreed on. Val, you with us?”
“I’m here,” I said.
Raj’s prayers grew louder, more insistent.
“Raj, get in here, man!”
Clearing his throat wetly, Raj quieted and came to stand between Nora and me.
Using a coffee cup, Nora scooped warm water from the basin and dripped it over the baby’s forehead, kneading the thawing wisps of black hair.
“What do you need me to do?” Raj said.
“Give him some love,” Wyatt said. “Like we talked about.”
With his long, graceful fingers, Raj reached into the sink and stroked the child’s stomach; it seemed to give at his touch, a pearl of ice escaping from the wink of his belly button. I rubbed my thumb along the child’s nose and across his forehead. Flecks of ice slid off his fat cheeks, dissolving in the bathwater.
His flesh had real give now, though it was still so terribly cold. Nora tenderly laid her thumbs on the two petite frozen ponds over his eyes; in moments they slid away. Only a small cap of ice covered his slightly parted lips. With the handle of a knife, Wyatt tapped at the clear chunk; it broke up, and he brushed it away. He dislodged the ice plugs at the baby’s nostrils with a toothpick. Reached into his mouth, swiped it with his little finger. The baby’s jaw dropped down—we all gasped—Wyatt held it open and peered down his throat with a flashlight.
“His throat is clear.”
Supporting his head, Wyatt lifted the baby out of the water, which coursed off his little body, splashing down into the tub. His tiny shoulders slumped, his arms and legs hanging limply while his open eyes seemed to gaze into mine. Hurriedly, Jeanne drained the sink, plugged it and poured in a fresh round. Wyatt gently laid the baby back down in the new bathwater.
“Come on, guys, it’s time,” he said. “Jeanne, take him.”
Jeanne took a step back, hands dripping onto the tiles. She looked momentarily stunned.
“Jeanne.”
She snapped out of it, reached in, and lifted up the child. One foot resting on a chair, she swiftly and carefully turned him over so he lay facedown along her arm, which rested on her thigh. With the heel of her hand, she rapped him on his back. His arms juddered forward with the force of her blow.
He lay motionless as if he had fallen from a great height, his flesh glistening in the glare. She gave him another firm rap. Nothing.
“Again, Jeanne, come on!”
She clapped him a third time, a fourth; we all leaned toward them, listening for the cough, the grab for breath, the miraculous cry. She rapped at the space between his shoulder blades three more times in quick succession. Each time his body jumped at her touch, then stilled. I had to remind myself to breathe. Sigrid, her face solemn, broke away from the scene, drifting into the living room where she sat on the floor with her drawing supplies. We all felt the loss of her spirit in the room.