Dances Naked (6 page)

I was stunned and didn’t know what to say. Wallace had told me he thought that this baby was the result of incest, that she was little sister to both Grant and Captain Asshole. So
,
rather than ask about why it would be their fault
,
I decided to ignore the remark and offer my help as a coach instead. She was doing fine by herself
,
but since I was already here, I might as well make myself useful. I put one hand on her belly and said, “Here, let me hold your hand and, oops, here’s one now. Start your breathing.”

Well, every couple of contractions merited a drink and she wasn’t just sipping the firewater either. She was handling her labor better than I had
,
although I knew her pains had to be just as intense. Of course
,
by now, I doubt she was feeling any pain. I was surprised she was still awake.

“I didn’t want to do it so that’s why he gave me the whisky the first time,” Rachel said
,
her eyes
glazed. It was if she was reliving that moment.
She tossed back another shot
. “Atholl told me to drink some of it, that it would make me feel real good and warm inside. It smelled nasty and I didn’t want it
,
but Grant glared at me
,
picked up a branch and started whittlin’ the little side shoots off of it
,
so I gulped it down. Atholl started rubbin’ up against me, his hands all up and down my chest and backside
,
and then he grabbed me and started kissin’ on me and pullin’ at my dress. I was only eleven and didn’t know what was going on but did know I didn’t want to take off my clothes. It was winter and cold and we only had a small fire. But
,
he hit me and said he’d beat me good if I didn’t take them off, that he’d cut the dress off me and maybe take a little skin, too, if I didn’t do as he said.”

Rachel was still staring off into space, replaying the episode of shame in her mind, but not sharing the gory details. She put out her little cup and Sarah added a healthy shot of amber anesthesia to it. A contraction hit suddenly, I squeezed her hand
,
and she transitioned into labor breathing mode, forgetting everything else. The contraction ended and she turned to stone, only
her
slow, steady breathing indicating that she was alive.

The air had become heavy with the awkward silence and
,
evidently,
Sarah felt it, too. I could see her twitching, fidgeting with her skirts.

Rachel started speaking again just as suddenly as she had stopped. “So I could do it with or
without the beatin’. And Grant:
he just sat there and watched, never sayin’ a word, just holdin’ that switch, smackin’ his hand with it, checkin’ it out to make sure it was nice and smooth. He was hopin’ I wouldn’t do as I was told so he could hit me. You see, Atholl didn’t let him beat me unless I had been bad. Those two didn’t really get along or care much for each other…”

I squeezed her hand again; the contractions were coming much faster now. Rachel stopped talking and started her huffing and puffing again. Her eyes widened and then she started panting. “Phew, that was a big one,” she
said
after the contraction ended. “Anyhow, Atholl was bigger and older than Grant. He used to call him names and make him feel bad. I think that there’s somethin’ wrong with Grant, I mean because of the names that Atholl called him, but I really shouldn’t talk about it; it’s real personal. But
,
it’s just as well I suppose
,
because he never bothered me ‘that way’, still doesn’t. But he sure gets mean sometimes.”

Rachel tipped back the last of the whisky in her glass
and
then set it down awkwardly. She was definitely drunk now. “So, late the next summer
,
I had Esther. She was beautiful and didn’t cry too much. I saw that the animals got milk after havin’ babies and I did, too. She was real easy to take care of…” Rachel felt me squeeze her hand
and started her breathing. She exhaled after it was over and said, “They’re getting’ real close together now, I think, and tougher, too!”

“So a
nyway,” she continued her story
like the labor she was enduring was a minor inconvenience to her story telling. The liquor was certainly loosening her lips. “I had to take care of the animals and the baby. It wasn’t a problem though because we only had a few chickens and a couple of
goats
. I had been outside for a little bit longer than usual because I wanted to get all the eggs. We didn’t have a hen house so I had to go lookin’ in the bushes and where all for the eggs. Esther was asleep when I left. She was still quiet when I got back so I didn’t pay her no mind. I cooked the eggs for Atholl and me for dinner. Grant wasn’t home; I can’t remember…” I squeezed Rachel’s hand and she was huffing and puffing right away.

“I gotta get this out!” she exclaimed in exasperation.

“Let me check you,” Sarah said in her midwife tone, “It might be time…”

“No, no,” Rachel screamed. “Not the baby. I have t
o tell someone! It was Atholl! H
e k
illed my daughter, his daughter!
She wasn’t s
leeping when I checked on her—s
he was dead. He had pulled off her clout
,
and she was all bloody down there
,
and she was dead! Aaahhhhh!”

I could tell by Rachel’s belly that she was contracting
,
but I don’t think the soul-shaking scream was from that. Still, I rushed down to her feet and applied my thumbs to the pressure points on her soles, trying to ease
,
at least
, her physical pain. There wasn’t anything
I could do for her mental a
nguish.
I doubt any amount of alcohol could numb that pain.

“He killed her and it was all my faul
t. I told him to leave me alone,
that I didn’t want to do that no more. I, I, should have let him…Aaaaahhh!” Another contraction
and another scream
so powerful, it seemed to rattle the tea
cups on the counter. It was either from anger, frustration
,
or pain
,
but most likely from all three of them. This young girl had definitely been through a lot.

Sarah sat down at the foot of the chaise and pushed apart Rachel’s knees, stuck one hand on the distended belly and the other up inside of her to check her dilation.

“It’s time for her to push,” Sarah told me. “Get behind her and support her shoulders. I don’t know how much
help she’s going to be though; s
he’s pretty snockered.”

So
,
I stood behind Rachel and Sarah pressed
on her belly and yelled ‘push.’
It must have been good instincts because Rachel was so drunk she couldn’t sit up by herself but still gave a couple of hearty pushes until Sarah hollered, “Whoa, stop pushing!”

The smell hit the air even stronger than when
her
water broke earlier. But
, we all—well Sarah and I—
were high on adrenaline and the odor didn’t bother us a bit.  “It was the cord,” she said softly to me as she unwrapped the cord from around the baby’s neck. “Now push again,” she ordered Rachel.

Rachel obliged and two seconds later a perfectly formed
,
but dead and gray
,
baby girl was born. She was about the same size as Wren had been when she was born which meant she was probably four to six weeks premature.

Sarah wiped the baby’s vernix off and wrapped her in a cloth. “Here,” she said to Rachel. “You have to see her. She’s perfect.
T
he umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. There was
n’t anything
you or anyone else did wrong
,
and there was nothing anyone could have done to save her. Look at her. She’s beautiful.”

Rachel was immediately alert and sober
,
or at least appeared to be. She rolled over on to her side and held the bundle that Sarah placed next to her. “Look,” Rachel said softly and tenderly, “she has
hair already. And you’re right—
she is beautiful.”

Rachel started to cry silently and let the tears fall for a full five minutes before she attempted to rein in her emotions. She sniffed and wiped her nose and eyes on the shoulder of the hospital gown. “So it wasn’t my fault that she died?” she asked.

“Not your fault or anyone else’s.” Sarah said emphatically. “And everything went well with this delivery so you can have more babies. That is
,
after you find a good man and remarry. I’m sure there are many men out there
who
would love to have a wife as lovely as you with a ready-made family. At least he’d get a son right off the bat!”

Rachel smiled at the remark. “Thanks for making me look at her. It does help. Should I give her a name?”

Sarah nodded rapidly. She had named her stillborn daughter years ago and I’m sure she was glad she did. Rachel looked over at me for my opinion.

“You can name her whatever you’d like. She is
your
daughter,” I encouraged. “You knew her before she was born, when she turned over inside of you, kicked you in the ribs. She is
,
and always has been
,
yours. And
,
now she is with the Lord.” I hoped I was saying the right words. They came from my heart and not from experience.

I still had amnesia for the most part. My short-term memory was fine. I clearly remembered the last twelve months and the births of my triplet
s,
but remembered nothing of Leah, my first born from my previous life in the 20
th
and 21
st
centuries, until I came face to face with her.

Leah had been my recovery room nurse a week ago chronologically calculated
,
but 232 years into the future according to the calendars. Although I had no recall of, well, anything of my previous life in the 21
st
century, I
knew
that I was her mother the moment I saw her, the obvious age discrepancy not even a consideration. I guess the maternal bond was stronger than the chemicals or whatever it was
,
that had erased my memory and made my body so much younger. And
,
Leah wasn’t under any such influences yet she
knew
who I was immediately, too, even though I looked to be her junior by at least five years. I mean really, the last time she
had seen me I was nearly sixty-years-
old. Last week I didn’t even look twenty. But
,
she still knew I was her ‘Mom.’

Ever since I had come back home to 1781 from the hospital and the year 2013, I had been getting lightning bursts of memories of my Leah. They were short glimpses, like snapsh
ots flashed in front of my face;
of when she was a toddler, holding a dolly in one hand and her blanky in the other; when she was a frustrated teenager, crying about being dumped by a boyfriend
;
or of the huge grin she sported when she graduated with honors from the nursing program. But
,
the one clear memory I could hold on
to was the feel of her i
nside of me when I was pregnant,
her little feet underneath my right ribcage, pounding away at 3 a.m. every morning. I could have set a clock with her neonatal routine. Hopefully
,
Rachel had a similar memory she could keep with her forever. And
,
she really did need to name her.

Rachel stroked the hair down over her daughter’s forehead, just like Wallace did with our daughter. “Since she’s with Jesus now, I think I’ll name her Mary, after His mother. But
,
I don’t want to give her the last name of MacLeod. She’s just Mary.” Rachel leaned over and kissed her little girl’s forehead. “Here, I think I’m ready to let her go. This is just the shell. She’s already in heaven. Can I go to sleep now? I’m real tired.”

Sarah took the baby from her and said, “You did a great job, Mommy. Get your rest. When you wake up, I’m sure your son will be ready to nurse. That’s the one gift Mary was able to give her big brother: a fresh supply of milk.”

Now I was the one
who was crying. Yeah, right—
crying and leaking. “Excuse me, Sarah. Somewhere out there is a baby in need of feeding.” I looked down at my wet blouse. “I’ll send in Jody with the casket. He and Wallace had it almost finished when I came in.”

“Thanks. You did a good job, too. It’s hard to think of the right words to say at a time like this
,
but you did great.”

August 13, 1781 Pomeroys