Meek and Mild (42 page)

T
he hours crawled into darkness.

In a narrow wooden chair with her knees pushed up against the side of the bed, Fannie held her mother’s hand and folded her spine over her lap to press her forehead into the mattress. This was as close as Fannie had come to prayer in months.

“I’m so sorry,
Mamm
,” Fannie murmured. “So sorry. So ashamed. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“Love,” Martha said between labored breaths. “Love bears all things.”

Martha’s face transformed as another contraction sliced through her. Her grip crushed Fannie’s fingers. Fannie looked up at the midwife, who spread her hands on Martha’s belly and nodded.

“It’s better?” Fannie asked.

“The child is in position.”

Fannie let out a long, slow breath.

Atlee Hostetler came into the room, ashen. “It’s never been this way before.”

“Every birth is different,” the midwife said.

“Why would God ask her to go through this?”

Fannie vacated her chair, making room for her father to sit beside his wife. He was never in the birthing room for the arrival of his other children. This time he shuffled in every hour or so when he seemed not to tolerate waiting in the front room, staying for a few minutes before withdrawing again. Even he felt the trepidation.

In the corner, next to the fireplace warming the room, Clara sat on a second narrow wooden chair. Fannie moved across the room and leaned against the wall beside Clara, whose face had no more color in it than Fannie’s father’s.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Fannie murmured. “I only knew I wanted you with me. I know how you feel about births. If you want to go—”

Clara shook her head. “You were right to send for me. I only wish I could do something to help. I hate how she is suffering.”

“Even the midwife can think of nothing to do but wait,” Fannie said.

“Then we shall wait,” Clara said, “but I am praying with every breath.”

They watched Atlee wipe Martha’s face with a damp cloth, love still passing in their glances after more than a quarter of a century together.

“What if she doesn’t survive?” Fannie’s words rode a breath.

“We will pray that God brings her through her travail,” Clara said.

But Clara sounded unconvinced. It was impossible that she was not thinking of her own mother’s passing, Fannie realized.

“My father will not be able to manage a baby,” Fannie said.

“Don’t think of it!”

“I have to,” Fannie whispered. “I’m her daughter. She would want me to take in the baby.”

And in that moment, Fannie realized she would do so without hesitation. A helpless, motherless baby would suffer enough in the years ahead. She could give it a good start.

“At least…at least until he
could
manage,” Fannie said. After all, the baby would not be hers. It was her sibling, not her offspring. Fannie would not try to replace the emptiness of her own womb with the fullness of her mother’s. Her father would want to hold and rock his own child.

But Fannie would rouse to do whatever the child needed.

“Of course you would,” Clara said. “And I would stay and do everything I could, just the way your mother did everything she could for me. But we must
pray
, Fannie. We must pray that this child will know your mother’s love for many years.”

Atlee kissed his wife’s forehead and withdrew once again. Martha rested between contractions.

Fannie signaled the midwife, who joined the huddle in the corner.

“Tell me the truth,” Fannie said.

“I don’t know,” the midwife said. “The labor is going into its second day, and your mother is very tired.”

Fannie bore her gaze into the midwife’s face. “Will she survive?”

Martha groaned.

Andrew had never met Atlee Hostetler before, but already he liked him. Nearing fifty, Atlee looked not like a sun-wrinkled, worn-out farmer, like many men Andrew knew, but like a bronzed, hard worker in robust health. The brown curls of his hair and beard showed no hint of going gray. This was Clara’s
onkel
, the man who welcomed Clara into his home for weeks at a time during her childhood. Andrew studied Atlee’s features, searching for some glimpse into the years before Clara Kuhn had flooded into Andrew’s daily thoughts. This home, this farm, had always been a refuge for Clara. On another occasion, Atlee’s eyes might have been a clearer window to Clara’s history.

Atlee’s face creased more deeply with each hour that Andrew observed him. Andrew had spent most of the evening on an amply stuffed davenport, while Atlee pulled a cushionless straight-back chair from the dining room—that could not have been comfortable beyond the first twenty minutes of his vigil—and positioned it in the corner of the front room nearest the bedroom. Atlee came and went from that chair, never seeking better comfort or a bit of nourishment. This was as close as Atlee could come to sharing Martha’s suffering, Andrew supposed.

Atlee had sent his sons to bed hours ago. Andrew wondered whether any of them were sleeping. The oldest Hostetler son, Abe, had taken his little boy to an upstairs bedroom and stayed with him after extracting a promise from Lizzie to wake him the moment there was news. Lizzie floated between the kitchen and the front room with continuous pots of coffee and plates of food, first meats and cheese and later sweets. No one ate. Occasionally she went into the bedroom to minister to her mother-in-law in some small way.

Midnight came and went.

“Thirty-seven hours,” Atlee murmured. “The others were not like this.”

Andrew thought of the
meidung
. What if it were Mattie Schrock in travail and Caleb sitting stiffly in a chair? Or John Stutzman and his wife? If he was needed, Andrew would have come.

He stood up, crossed the room, picked up a dining room chair, and set it next to Atlee. He would not speak or make any pretense of understanding what Atlee felt, but he could sit beside him rather than in comfort across the room. Andrew listened to Atlee’s breathing, shallow and jagged with nerves.

Lizzie came in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee and filled the empty mug in Atlee’s hands.

The scream that erupted from the bedroom jolted the three of them. Atlee sought a place to set down his jiggling mug, and Lizzie took it from him before he sloshed coffee all over himself.

Rapid footsteps closed the small distance between the bedroom and front room. When Clara appeared, the strain in her face lurched Andrew’s heart rate up. At the same time, footsteps thudded down the stairs, and Abe appeared.

Lizzie set down the coffeepot. “I’m going back in.”

Andrew stood, catching Clara’s elbow. “What happened?”

“The midwife says the baby is coming soon now.” Her breath came shallow and fast.

Was it still alive? Andrew left his question unspoken. He could only imagine its weight on Atlee, who stood to lose both wife and child.

Atlee rose abruptly. “I’m going to the barn. I have a cow that’s been poorly.”

They watched him go out the front door. Andrew looked from Clara to Abe, who seemed unperturbed at Atlee’s withdrawal. Atlee had not left the house since Andrew and Clara arrived—and probably not for hours before that. A midnight visit to the barn confused Andrew.

“He’s going to pray,” Abe explained.

“He has claimed a sickly cow as long as I can remember,” Clara said.

“Should someone be with him?” Andrew said.

Abe and Clara shook their heads.

“He is not alone. He will meet God in the barn,” Abe said.

Andrew nodded. It would not be the first time God made Himself known among animals and hay.

“Am I weak for needing a break?” Clara said. “Martha has no relief.”

“Lizzie went in,” Abe said. “And Fannie is still there. My
mamm
will never be alone in this.”

A wail came from upstairs.

“Is Thomas all right?” Clara asked.

“Probably just dreaming. I’ll go back to him.” Abe padded out of the room and up the stairs.

Fannie stumbled into the room, and Clara stepped over to embrace her.

“She’s hardly talking.” A sob disrupted Fannie’s effort to speak. “She’s exhausted. I don’t know what to do.”

The cousins clutched each other. No
meidung
could break the bond Andrew witnessed.

Fannie drew in an enormous breath. “I must go back.”

“I’ll be right there,” Clara said. “Whatever happens, love surrounds
Aunti
Martha.”

Fannie withdrew to the bedroom. Clara turned to Andrew.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Clara blanched. “I can’t help thinking about so many other births.”

“They bring great joy.”

“Most of the time,” Clara conceded. “I was too young to come when Fannie’s brothers were born, but I remember the celebrations still going on by the time I visited to see the new babies.”

“Is the midwife worried?”

“She’s not sure if she’s hearing the baby’s heart rate too slow or Martha’s heart rate too fast.”

Anguish passed through her face. Andrew gave no voice to the looming question. Shouldn’t there be two heartbeats?

“Rhoda’s first three babies came far too soon. No one would let me see them, but I know they were far enough along to look like babies.”

“Don’t dwell on that now,” Andrew said.

“It’s hard not to.”

“This is not the same. This baby is ready to be born.”

“When this is over,” Clara said, “I have to tell you about Rhoda.”

“And I’ll be here to listen.”

Clara could not bear the thought of watching Martha suffer. Neither could she wait outside the bedroom. A scream directed her choice. She jumped away from Andrew and pushed open the door to her aunt’s anguish.

The midwife was on alert. Lizzie and Fannie were on either side of Martha, supporting her back for the final push.

“Here’s the head,” the midwife said. “Now the shoulders. Yes, here we go. One more big push.”

Four women held a collective breath while the fifth bore down.

“A girl!” the midwife said.

Where was the cry? Clara was present when Sadie was born, and her cry filled the room immediately. Josiah, Hannah, Mari—she’d heard all their cries from down the hall. It was taking too long.

The midwife tied the cord and cut it in a well-practiced motion. “A blanket,” she said.

Lizzie lurched into action, unfolding soft cotton.

“She’s not breathing!” Martha reached out a hand.

The midwife turned the infant upside down. The tiny girl protested immediately. In five seconds Lizzie had her in a blanket.

“Let Clara hold her,” Martha said, falling back against the pillows. “She is Catherine.”

“Catherine!” Clara laid one arm across the other to cradle the child. The tiny one looked like an
English
doll, perfectly formed with long dark lashes sweeping against her cheeks. Tears filled Clara’s eyes at the baby’s perfection—and safe arrival. She raised a glimmering glance to her aunt. “I’m so glad you’re both safe.”

“After your mother died, Atlee and I always said we would name our next daughter for her.” Martha laughed. “Then we produced a string of boys.”

“You should hold her.” Clara watched her aunt’s beaming, exhausted face.

“Let me see her face,” Martha said. “Then go show Atlee all is well.”

Clara glanced at the midwife, who nodded as she awaited the afterbirth. All was indeed well. Seeking the fine line between holding the babe securely but gently, Clara inched up the side of the bed and turned little Catherine for her mother’s inspection.

“If you ask me, she even looks like your mother.” Martha cupped her new daughter’s head. “That chin favors yours.”

Clara smiled, uncertain that it was possible to detect a resemblance in a baby less than five minutes old. Nevertheless, it pleased her that Martha wanted this baby to look like her sister. Martha’s damp hair was plastered against her skull, and perspiration stuck her nightgown to her skin. She hadn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours.

And Clara had never seen her aunt look more satisfied, more grateful, more simply and radiantly lovely.

“Go,” Martha said. “I want Atlee to see for himself, but I want to be cleaned up before he comes in here again.”