Each time she hobbled to the lavatory, she would discover brownish blood. More than once, the maid Terese had found her curled on the bathroom floor, done in not so much by the sight of the blood but by the hopeless conviction that it would never stop coming. This might have gone on for days, or weeks; she didn’t know. Time had taken on a curious elasticity, a meaninglessness that she quietly savored. The Sonata Pathétique ran through her mind over and over, yet her hands felt too heavy to move. She had forsaken her household management duties, and did not even go down to dinner to defend the table settings; Terese only consulted her on major questions. Terese took care of the baby, too.

Wilma had been torn badly, Dr. Seguin had said, wiping his hands when the ordeal was over. He prescribed rest, and seemed remarkably unconcerned, once Terese had taken the squalling baby away. Wilma herself was certain that she had come close to death, and, day after day, in those weeks following the trauma, would shiver at the visceral recollection of her body raging, splitting in two, while the baby tore from her with a force she would not have thought possible. She was horrified, too, to recall her own screaming, the way she had surrendered her sensibilities—clearly breaking Rule Number Four, to ignore or at least not mention physical discomfort. She wondered how she would ever face the doctor again—or anyone, for that matter—now that it was clear she was not the lady she had always pretended to be, but merely an animal.

Whenever John ventured into the room to sit on the edge of the bed and rest his hand near (but never touching) her, she would pretend to be asleep, and keep her head turned from him, though the scent of his cologne made it impossible to pretend that he wasn’t there. He would stay for a few minutes, perhaps say her name. Finally, with a sigh, he would give up, and leave her. Then she would open her eyes and study the pattern of the wallpaper, the swirls of vining roses. Her flesh ached, dreading that he would soon decide that she had been given sufficient respite from her wifely duties. Dreading, too, the moment when Terese would bring the fussing baby to her and demand that she bare herself to him like a mother pig, or cat, or dog, and let him eat off her until both her nipples were raw, for the milk of one small breast was never enough to satisfy John James Mickelson, Junior.