However, Linda, the deformed daughter, survives because the nurse doesn’t listen to the doctor. She looked at the doctor with utter incomprehension at first, then cried, “No!” Shall we use extraordinary means to salvage it?” Your other child has a congenital deformity and may die. Lasher, I have something important to say. Stepping between me and the mother, the doctor addressed her. She was stopped by the doctor, who pointed out my head and legs. I then proceeded to die in earnest, going from slightly pink to a dull gray-blue, at which point the nurse tried to scoop me into a bed warmed by lights.
The nurse had wrapped my brother in a blue flannel blanket and was just about to hand him to his mother when she whispered, “Oh, God, there’s another one,” and out I slid, half dead. It’s another relatively short story, but again the author is in complete control and gets a lot of traction from the few words used. If the other things I’ve recently read by Erdrich didn’t convince me to looks at her work more closely, “The Years of My Birth” certainly would have. And now a new short story appears in The New Yorker. The last book I read in 2010 was her most recent novel Shadow Tag then I was pleased to read her interview in the most recent issue of The Paris Review.
Having never read anything by Erdrich before (though she has been in the magazine several times before), the last few weeks have practically been all-Erdrich-all-the-time. "The Years of My Birth" by Louise Erdrich Originally published in the Januissue of The New Yorker.
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