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Trixie had never claimed to be stupid. She'd have liked to be, actually. Maybe it would have been easier. But stupid and desperate, she found, were often identical from afar. And while Trixie had never claimed to be stupid, she knew desperation intimately.
This was a new type of desperation, though.
A woman had certain duties. A nurse had others. She'd been raised in the sickly in between, a girl who should have had neither, the duties of a nurse in her unwavering care for her father, in the facade she projected, in the way she never let anyone see through the cracks, the duties of a woman in her lies, in her confidence, in her laughter. Her duties had never failed her. She believed in doing her duty.
(She'd done her duty to Tom, and look where that got her.)
It was the truth that she hadn't suspected anything until after she broke off their engagement. For all of Tom's flaws, and for all of hers, she was sensible enough to know that if she had had any idea, they'd have both kept that ring on her finger for as long as possible. Only, Trixie had never exactly been regular, what with her love for new and exciting diets, and the fatigue and nausea could easily be blamed on the alcohol and the anxiety and her generalised impending sense of dread that seemed to seep through her soul whenever she wasn't drinking, and even, when she was particularly unlucky, when she was. The headaches and vomiting were, admittedly, more uncommon for her, but at that point she was so unutterably miserable with Tom that she was drinking rather more than she cared to admit, and so it seemed like a rather simple case of cause and effect.
It was only when she'd missed her second period, and the periodic vomiting had settled in as part of her routine despite that fact that she should have adjusted to her new level of drinking weeks ago, that she began to suspect anything was amiss. Which, she had to admit, for a midwife, was rather embarrassing. But once she'd begun to suspect, she knew she had to do something about it. Fast.
It wasn't like she could just walk into clinic. None of her colleagues would ever judge a woman who came into clinic, she knew that, excepting maybe Sister Winifred, but the midwives of Nonnatus House had a certain reputation to maintain. Walking into clinic like any other patient was a sure fire way to dissolve that otherwise impeccable reputation. None of them could afford that, whether to their own personal reputation, or to the reputation of Nonnatus House as a whole. Once upon a time, her next port of call would have been Cynthia, or one of her other friends. But Cynthia was Sister Mary Cynthia now, and Patsy clearly favoured Delia over her, and Barbara was just so young. She loved them, she really did, but she couldn't trust them to help her. Not like this. Trixie would have to do this alone. That was becoming something of a recurring motif, she found. Trixie. Alone.
It wasn't like there was something so simple as a test to help her, but Trixie had always been talented at finding fact in the vapour of nuance, and there was plenty of nuance for her to examine. First question of an exam for pregnancy: have you engaged in sexual intercourse since your last monthly period? Yes, was her answer, stupidly and drunkenly, although very little she did wasn't drunkenly, and she had always rather excelled at doing stupid things. The second and third and fourth questions she asked herself were met with equally flying colours. That was enough to send her, retching, to the toilet.
She was pregnant. Pregnant and unmarried and utterly alone. God, how many times had she been on the outside of this? How many mothers had she helped figure out what to do, in this exact situation?
Well, there was no one to help her figure out what to do. No one to be her for her.
Panic rose up so fast in her chest that she forgot to breathe. That was a familiar sensation, though, so she picked herself up from the cold tile and retreated to her and Patsy's room. She could be alone there. Patsy was never in it.
Half the time she suspected that Patsy had never really liked her, that she'd just been a stand in for someone better, that now that Delia lived with them Patsy didn't need her, didn't even want her.
She was pregnant and unmarried. So she had to change one of those things. Or both. If she was particularly desperate.
Tom would do the right thing, she knew that. He'd slip that ring back on her finger and she'd stand there in a white dress she didn't deserve and shut her mouth around a bottle of gin until when she looked in the mirror her mother and her father would both stare back at her like ghosts. She couldn't do that. It would kill her. Not really, not physically, but she couldn't survive it. She knew that.
And it wasn't like being on her own was new for her! Trixie had been on her own for as long as she could remember. But the problem was, she wouldn't be on her own, not really. She would be on her own in all the ways that mattered, and trapped with someone in all the ways that didn't. On her own when it came to being cared for, on her own when it came to understanding, on her own when it came to partnership and paying the bills and all the hundreds of trivial things she'd never thought twice about, not really. And trapped with someone, when it came to her inability to cope, when it came to bills to pay and mouths to feed, when it came to walking down the street with eyes following her. That kind of life was manageable, to some. But those people were braver and bolder and stronger than Trixie could ever be. Trixie had always thrived when she fit in, when she was with friends, when she was admired, when she could control how she was perceived, how she performed. She wouldn't handle a life of judgement and ostracism and desperation, no matter how hard she tried. She'd drink herself to an early grave if she didn't find another way to get there sooner.
Except those were her two options, weren't they? Married and miserable and her mother. Unmarried and miserable and alone.
Except. Trixie was a midwife. She wouldn't be, not for much longer, not if someone came to the same realisation she had, but for now she was a midwife. That meant she knew more than most, about what happened in back alleys and bathrooms. If you were desperate enough, you could get rid of a baby.
She'd held those women while they cried, cleaned their wounds, wiped their sweat, held their hands, sat beside them in courts and hospital beds and stood next to their graves.
It hadn't ever occurred to her that she could be one of them.
She needed a sharp object. For God's sake, she'd read about this in medical textbooks. Long and thin and sharp should do the trick. Wire, she was fairly certain, was the go to, but she'd been at the bedside of a woman who'd used a fork. Anything would do.
Patsy favoured wire clothes hangers, didn't she? Trixie had always favoured the fabric-coated ones. But Patsy's were wire, plain and simple, and she had so many of them. She wouldn't notice one going missing. She didn't even use all of them.
Under normal circumstances that made Trixie laugh. It suddenly seemed a lot less silly.
Trixie didn't want to do this. She didn't want to kill what could one day be a life. She didn't want to rip her organs. She didn't want to hurt.
But she didn't have the luxury of want. It was either do it or kill herself, and the desire to do that was still so fresh that thinking about it felt raw, like scraping a half-healed scab in her soul, but she didn't have that desire anymore. For the first time in a long time, she could honestly say that she wanted to live. She had to live. So she had no choice.
The wire was cool in her hand, just short of cold. It bent out of form easily enough. She'd have to wrap it in something when she disposed of it. It wouldn't be possible for her to bend it back into shape, and it wouldn't do for Barbara or Patsy or Delia or Phyllis to find it, let alone one of the nuns.
The cold of the tile didn't feel right underneath her bare thighs. She was a stickler for propriety, and this was anything but. The lines of the grout built little pink welts into her pale skin. The sunlight bleeding through the window couldn't quite reach her.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. This was not a time where she could afford to make mistakes.
The angle was difficult. The cool of the wire scratching its way inside her felt wrong, unsurprisingly, she supposed. Even Tom hadn't felt right. But it was better than the feeling of a baby tearing out. She was a midwife. She knew that.
After a minute or so she felt resistance. That meant she'd found her baby. No. No. Professional detachment. The resistance was indicative of having successfully passed the cervix and instead entered her uterus. A termination could be caused by damaging the uterine lining. All she had to do was damage. Wasn't that her strong point?
She jerked the wire, deliberately reckless, like doing her eyeliner. All bluster and confidence. The pain was like nothing else she'd ever experienced, like someone had taken a serving spoon and scooped out her organs like the guts of a pumpkin. A moan burst from her lips and she bit it back so hard that she tasted blood.
She jerked again. White flashed across her vision. Hot blood trickled across the tile.
Again. She was getting dizzy now. The pain was so intense that even breathing sparked it further, blinding waves hurtling through her at the slightest movement. The tile beneath her was growing slick with blood.
Again. Her grasp on the wire had started to loosen. Red stained her pristine nails.
Again. Trixie made a noise like a wounded dog and curled in on herself. She retched, a little pool of vomit dribbling over her bitten lips onto the blood-slick tile. She eased the wire out. It felt like her innards were filled with hot coals, and every slight movement of the wire set then alight.
Once the wire was out, all she could do was stare at it. It looked so little. So harmless, if you could ignore the blood. It had done so much. It had saved her. It had saved her. It had saved her, right?
Everything felt slightly tipped off of its axis as she peeled herself off the floor. Except that didn't quite work, so she found herself sort of slumped against the wall, leaning dizzily backwards as pain throbbed irritably from her stomach. The bloody wire clattered against the floor long before she realised she'd dropped it. She reached for it with a delicately manicured hand and managed to haul it to the bin. Her fingers came away tacky with blood.
Blood. It was all over the floor. She'd have to clean it. But she was just so tired.
She mopped up the worst of it with toilet roll, then slid the bathmat to the side until the stain vanished underneath it. She wiped the trickle of vomit off her cheek half heartedly, then achingly pulled her knickers and pyjama bottoms up. Even that slight movement sent such a blinding burst of pain through her that her vision went white. Her ears wouldn't stop ringing.
Trixie peeled herself off of the floor. She stuck to it like trodden gum, reeling bank and forth and side to side before she found some semblance of balance against the wall. She'd clean the bathroom properly later, when she wasn't so tired, and when every movement didn't feel like setting off a live wire.
It was only really about two metres from the bathroom to her room, then another metre to her bed, but she'd never had a journey quite like it. The walls spun and skittered away from her. Her thoughts frayed and knotted like cotton wool, until she was dizzy, until she was putting one foot in front of another but the black dots in her vision wouldn't let her know if she was getting anywhere. Was it supposed to hurt like this? She didn't know. No one had ever told her that.
Her door gave way to her and she stumbled straight into her bed, biting her lip against the pain as she fought her duvet over her. Saltwater tears leaked unbidden out of her eyes. Was she being punished? She didn't mean to, really, she didn't. She was just so desperate and afraid and alone.
Another cramp crashed into her and she saw stars. The loose fabric around her thigh clung stickily to her skin. It was fine. Really, it was fine. Trixie was always fine.
Except maybe she wasn't. Holding onto consciousness was like holding onto barbed wire, and she was too raw and bloody to really want to. But she would be fine by morning. She would wake up before Patsy - if Patsy ever came back to their room, that was, which she sometimes never did, and really, Patsy, blonde and air-headed she may be, but she wasn't completely stupid - and she would clean up the blood from the bathroom and, she was starting to suspect, her bed, and herself, and she would head down to breakfast and no one would ever have to know.
No one would have to know how much she hurt.
Trixie hadn't come down for breakfast. No one else had commented on it, yet, but Barbara kept on making faintly awkward eye contact with Sister Julienne, who was doggedly chewing her toast with the kind of determination usually reserved for labouring mothers. Patsy was very determinedly not looking at anyone, especially, it seemed, Delia. Which meant, she was fairly certain, that Trixie was passed out drunk. Again.
Only, not coming down for breakfast wasn't like Trixie. She was rather attached to her morning cup of tea, and Barbara knew she'd be grumpy all morning if she hadn't eaten anything. But then again, Trixie hadn't been behaving like herself at all, recently. Barbara had only known her for a year or so, but she knew that even for Trixie, drinking like that and smiling like that and the way her gorgeous blue eyes welled up when she thought no one was looking wasn't like her. So maybe Trixie was fine. She was fine! It was fine.
She was dragged out of her rapidly spiralling thoughts, perhaps fortunately, by Phyllis's voice.
"Nurse Mount, did Nurse Franklin seem quite alright before you came down for breakfast?"
The tips of Patsy's ears flushed slightly pink. "Oh, I wouldn't know. Delia was showing me some of her new records and I seem to have fallen asleep in her room."
Now that she thought about it, Delia had also gone slightly pink.
Phyllis nodded with her eyebrows only slightly raised, which, based on the flush slowly spreading across Patsy's skin, was actually rather generous.
"Barbara, would you mind popping up to check on her? It's not like her to miss breakfast entirely," Phyllis remarked.
No. It really wasn't.
She all but jogged to Trixie's room. It wasn't that she was worried! Trixie was a grown woman who was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Only. Sometimes it felt like she maybe needed someone but didn't quite feel like she had anyone.
"Trixie?" She knocked on the door, softly, then harsher at the lack of response. "Trixie, it's Barbara, can I come in? Trixie?"
Well, if she hadn't been worried before, she was now.
Barbara gently eased the door open and stepped into the still of the bedroom. The divide between Patsy and Trixie's side of the room was rather obvious. Patsy's bed was impeccably made, her wardrobe door neatly shut and several small posters were tastefully hung at the head of her bed. On the other hand, the door to Trixie's wardrobe didn't seem to quite be able to shut. A uniform dress was inside out on the floor, and pots of nail polish were stacked haphazardly on the bedside table. And the bed was still occupied.
Trixie was facing towards her, uncharacteristically limp blonde hair strewn across her face. She took a rapid step towards her, frowning as her shoe clung to the carpet. There was a trail of tacky spots of blood from the door to the bed, dried into the carpet. Worry suddenly stopped being able to cover it.
She surged towards Trixie's side. Her skin was pale and clammy and positively radiating heat. Her knees were tucked to her chest and the sheet around her was damp with sweat.
Blood rushed in Barbara's ears.
"Trixie? Can you hear me, Trixie?"
Trixie didn't move. She shook her, and Trixie lolled back and forth, completely limp, like a rag doll.
"Sister Julienne?" she called out.
Silence.
"Sister Julienne?"
Still silence.
"Help!" she screamed, so loudly she almost didn't realise it was her screaming.
Time dragged on. She yanked Trixie's duvet off to cool her down. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. A gasp stuck in her throat. Blood had soaked straight through her pyjamas into the mattress.
She was a midwife, for God's sake. She wasn't stupid.
The door burst open in a flurry of activity. Phyllis saw the sight before her and immediately spun on her heels, calling out, "I'm calling an ambulance," as she left, Sister Winifred hot on her heels. Sister Julienne darted to Barbara's side, laying two fingers against Trixie's next. Patsy froze in the doorway, eyes wide as she took in the sight. Delia almost crashed directly into her, before Patsy blurted, "I'm going to check the bathroom," grabbing Delia by the hand and dragging her with her, leaving just Sister Julienne and Barbara with poor Trixie.
Sister Julienne smiled at her gently. "She has a pulse, thank God."
Barbara prayed fervently that that wouldn't be the only piece of good news she received today.
"Nurse Franklin? Nurse Franklin, can you hear me?"
Trixie gave a soft, horribly wounded whimper. Barbara's heart threatened to crack in her chest.
Hesitantly, Sister Julienne leant over Barbara's side and reached for Trixie's hand. Trixie half-consciously curled away from her, her breathing wrenching from her chest in ragged gasps. It was actually, physically painful to hear.
"Trixie," Sister Julienne began, turning a sideways glance at Barbara just for long enough that she understood that she was addressing her just as much as she was addressing Trixie. "I'm afraid I suspect you have a rather nasty infection on top of the injury. Nurse Gilbert and I are going to sit you up, so you don't choke on your own vomit."
Her confusion at that must have shown on her face, because Sister Julienne continued, softer, turned away so that Trixie couldn't fully hear her.
"If we leave her on her side, I fear she's in too much pain and too close to unconsciousness to stay still. She may choke regardless. If we sit her up, I doubt she'll be able to return to her current position unassisted. But I have no doubt that this will be rather... uncomfortable for her."
Barbara was fairly certain that uncomfortable was an understatement. The movement was going to be absolutely horrible for poor Trixie. And putting Trixie through that was going to be horrible, too.
With as much determination as she could muster, she slid a hand under Trixie's arm and eased her upwards as Sister Julienne did the same. Trixie dropped to an even paler shade and attempted to curl in on herself, but she was so weak that she couldn't quite manage to really curl herself together. Barbara took her clammy hand in hers and did her best to provide what comfort she could. It felt like painfully little, especially as Trixie crawled closer back to consciousness, her eyes wide and scared and unfocused.
"Barbara," she managed, sticking thickly on the word.
"Yes?"
Trixie's brow creased. "Hurts." Her voice cracked on the admission, those wide, half-focussed blue eyes growing slick with tears.
"Oh, Trixie. I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't notice, we're getting you help, I promise."
It felt like such shockingly worthless reassurance. Of course it hurt. Trixie had been hurting long before this. Especially if she was right, and there had been a baby. She would have had to been in so much pain, to do this to herself.
Trixie seemed to cling to the reassurance regardless, clutching at her hand and drifting sideways until she was propped up more on Barbara than the bed frame.
"Sister?" a voice called out from the doorway. Barbara flinched, and Trixie gave a short, sharp gasp of pain.
The tears welling in Barbara's eyes slipped out, but she turned to the door regardless. Patsy, of course, her jaw set and her eyes a little too wide, the way she always was when she was upset, especially in a crisis. In one hand she was holding a crudely bent wire, still wrapped in tissue paper at one end.
"I found this in the bathroom. I believe it's a clothes hanger. One of my clothes hangers, specifically." She bit her lip. "And the tile was covered in blood. A little bit of vomit, too, I suspect, although evidently she did all she could to clear it up, despite the state she must have been in."
Sister Julienne somehow forced a smile. "Thank you, Nurse Mount."
She gave a flinch of a nod, her eyes widening, just for a second, the way that they always did when she was uncomfortable. "Is she going to be alright?" Patsy asked, uncharacteristically hesitantly, shuffling from foot to foot and determinedly looking at anything but Trixie.
"I hope so."
That made Barbara's heart drop. Sister Julienne never said anything that wasn't as reassuring as possible. And she was always sure. Except she wasn't, clearly, and Trixie looked so small and grey and weak.
Patsy's eyebrows knotted together as she tried to force herself to look at Trixie. For a long, ragged moment, she stared straight at her. Trixie forced a reassuring smile.
Patsy bolted.
"Sister?" Trixie's voice was horribly small.
"Yes?"
"Can you tell Patsy it's not her fault, please?" she asked, each word clearly a struggle, but her blue eyes focussing just enough to meet Sister Julienne's gaze regardless.
Sister Julienne's whole face crumpled. She nodded furiously, clasping Trixie's thin hand in both of hers. "Oh, my dear," she said, more a shaking exhale than actual speech. "Of course I will."
Her brow creased in confusion. "You never call me that."
"Surely, in all your years at Nonnatus House, I have?"
Trixie shook her head as furiously as she could. It turned out as more of an uncoordinated wobble, and it clearly cost her, if the gasp she attempted to stifle was any accurate suggestion. "No. I always thought you didn't like me enough."
Tears spilled from Sister Julienne's eyes unbidden, and Barbara could have sworn she saw her bite back a sob. "No, my dear-" Trixie attempted a smirk at that, even if it was rather dulled by her wet eyes. "-I simply thought you didn't need it. If you did, and I have ignored you, I am so sorry."
Barbara was fairly certain that Trixie's need to be cared for was, in fact, fairly obvious. If not always, especially after she'd confessed to Sister Julienne that she'd found her passed out drunk when she was meant to be working. But she was equally certain that there was something about Trixie's struggles that made Sister Julienne rather uncomfortable. It wasn't something she could fix, with a kind word and an offer of support. It ran deeper, and was far more private, especially for Trixie, who, despite being so loud and wild and bright, was such a private person. Perhaps that made her think the kind word and offer of support was unneeded, or worse, unwanted.
"It's quite alright," Trixie choked out, sliding backwards down the bed frame. "You said it now."
A flurry of footsteps pounded at the stairs. The ambulance, finally. Which meant that they would help Trixie. Which meant that they might prosecute Trixie. Which meant both.
"Babs, do you think I deserve this?" Trixie half-whispered.
"Of course not, Trixie. Of course not."