The gynaecologist looks at her over his glasses. Jo can’t work out what he’s thinking. Whether he reckons she’s stupid or is thinking about his own daughter – if he has one, which is possible, he’s their father’s age – maybe he’s judging her sister, maybe he’s feeling sorry for her. Jo has a strong imagination and hostility to spare, she wonders if she’ll have to jump at his throat, but would rather not because he’s the only one able to help them, so for fuck’s sake shut up and do it.

“No, we can’t wait for your maman. You can do it on your own, my dear, and, besides, you’re not on your own.”

The bastard’s clever. And the suddenly familiar tone doesn’t shock anybody. Except perhaps the midwife, who looks up and frowns.

“If you’re old enough to have a child, that means you’re no longer a child yourself,” she states categorically.

An especially violent contraction prevents anyone from replying: Céline lets out a throaty scream that extends into a push.

“Very good,” the gynaecologist says matter-of-factly. “I can see the head, let’s go again.”

Jo lets her sister dig her fingers into her arms and squeeze her wrists until it hurts. Céline is panting violently. And then, in one last push, this time without screaming, she expels a red, sticky little thing which the man immediately grabs. Several white coats rush towards it. Jo realizes she’s shaking from top to toe, and despite the stifling heat even her teeth are chattering as if she’s freezing. There’s blood on the sheet, she can see it clearly but doesn’t know if it’s normal.

Céline panics. “She’s not crying. Why isn’t she crying?”

A wail contradicts her. Not a scream, not the sound of a full-term child’s lungs being deployed, not the sound of a victorious child who’s going to rule the world. But a lively little noise all the same.

Jo strokes her sister’s head; never have they been as close and alone as at this moment.

“It’ll be all right,” Jo can’t help repeating on impulse – falsely conspiratorial, but not without hope.

Like the Song

Like the Song