Jochebed had recognized the signs before the familiar swelling began. This third child was as welcome to her as the first, another sign that she was no longer different, flawed. True, it would be another little one to prepare for, another mouth to feed, but someday another pair of helping hands—and always, as Amram said, a blessing of acceptance from the Lord.
She caressed her belly, searching for the pulse of life within. Mama, who truly believed in the promises of the Lord, would tell this little one—a boy, she hoped—the stories of their people, and someday, she mused, he would teach his children’s children. The stories were a nice tradition like Mama wanting to be the one to braid the rushes and shape them into an infant’s cradle.
Jochebed glanced at her mother and frowned. Mama’s eyes were closed. Jochebed knew she wove prayers into her work with each twist of the strands, but today her mother worked slowly in spite of the familiarity of the weave. Did this cradle need more prayer, or was it something else? She noticed the swelling of her mother’s fingers. When had the slender fingers become so gnarled?
Almost every childhood memory centered on her mother’s hands—Mother grinding grain, weaving stories into baskets, praying with uplifted palms, mixing mud and straw to patch the walls, pulling up papyrus bulbs and mashing them into stew with onions; Mother straightening mats and tidying baskets so everything was just right; Mother’s hands smoothing the hair from her face when she called out in the fearful dark.
She would be glad to have Mama’s hands to hold on to during the labor and delivery of this baby just like she did with her first two births. Mama would clean and swaddle the newborn grandchild with the same tender care she had with Miriam and Aaron.
Jochebed lifted a stone jar, winced, and staggered as pain snagged her back. She glanced sideways, hoping her gasp had gone unnoticed. Mama could not do heavy lifting, so if water was to be fetched, Jochebed must carry it. Amram had helped with the harder work when she had been pregnant before, but now between his time as a stonecutter, the demands of the conscription, and the fields he tended, he was often gone.
Maybe she had been doing too much. She’d ask Shiphrah next time she saw her. Jochebed paused to consider. It had been a long time since Shiphrah stopped to visit, and that last time Shiphrah seemed subdued, almost reluctant to hear about the pregnancy. Talking with her about this baby had become as uncomfortable as talking with Lili.
Poor Lili, who wanted a child of her own, remained childless after six years of marriage. It had been awkward to tell her of this third child, but Jochebed would rather face Lili than have her hear the news from someone else. In a village this size, nothing remained secret for long.
When Jochebed confided her precious news, Lili gave no response, neither a nod nor a blink. It was as if she refused to hear what she did not want to know.
Would they ever be close again, or was their friendship over, as distant as childhood’s carefree days? Jochebed wished she could dismiss the doubts as easily as she brushed away a swarm of flies. Doubts were a lot like flies, she mused. They always came back and brought more with them.
Clutching the jar, Jochebed steadied herself against the outside wall, feeling wobbly but glad to be away from her mother’s watchful eye. She hoped she would not fall on the slippery banks again, but they had used the last of the water and the sun still reigned in the sky. She could not wait for Amram to return.
Today was hotter than usual, the air tasting scorched and the sand blistering her bare feet. She lumbered toward the river and stood knee deep in the water, enjoying its coolness as the jar filled to the brim. She dragged it to shore, bent to lift it to her shoulder.
Sharp pain clawed her back and snatched her breath, leaving her dizzy, weak. When the pangs eased, she began the steep climb home. She’d return later for the water.
Jochebed pulled the last cloth from the river and wrung it hard before laying it on top of the basket. With one quick splash of water to cool her face, she struggled to her feet, hoping Deborah, standing nearby, did not notice how awkward she had become.
With each pregnancy she seemed to grow clumsier, and this time she was so tired that even breathing was hard. She had never been so exhausted in her life. Could she not even do pregnancy right?
Was it because she knew the struggle of birth and the fatigue that followed? Or was it because this baby would be born so soon after Aaron?
Between Miriam’s too-early birth and Aaron’s struggle to breathe, their crying had lasted for months at a time. After a while, weariness blurred the sleepless nights together like floodwaters melting single bricks into an undefined pile of mud.
Not sleeping was the hardest part of being a mother. It was much worse than the labor of delivery or keeping them safe each day. If little Aaron would sleep through the night, she could manage anything else.
Jochebed strained to lift the basket of wet clothes and carry it to an outcropping of rocks. Shaking the wrinkles from the linen cloths, she spread them on rocks for the sun to bleach. They would dry quickly in today’s heat.
She pushed herself upright and rubbed her back. It hurt most of the time in this pregnancy. She turned and looked into a familiar face.
“Shiphrah, what brings you here?” she said, reaching to hug her friend. “Come back to the house, sit with us.”
Shiphrah flinched at her touch and backed away. “For just a bit. The widow’s daughter was born last night, and I need to get back and help Puah. It was an easy birth, but the woman grieves for her husband. I hope this child will help ease her sorrow. It was only last month that he died. Let me carry the basket, Bedde. You look tired.”
Bedde shrugged. “I am tired, but I’ll be fine, Shiphrah. My back aches, and Aaron still doesn’t sleep through the night.”
Shiphrah took the basket and balanced it on her head.
“Do you let Miriam help you with Aaron? She’s old enough to watch him while you rest.”
“She helps … some.”
“Let her help more, Bedde.”
Jochebed pushed open the door to her home. She paused and smiled at Shiphrah, beckoning her closer. “Sound familiar?”
Shiphrah leaned forward to listen and then nodded.
“… and the Lord painted a rainbow in the sky as a promise He would never again cover the earth with water. He always keeps His promises, Miriam.”
“And someday He will lead us out of Egypt and into the Promised Land, right, Grandmother?”
“Yes, dear, and you must remember this story and the Lord’s promises so that someday…”
“… you can teach your children and your children’s children!” Shiphrah’s and Jochebed’s voices chorused with Miriam’s and Elisheba’s.
Miriam laughed as her grandmother startled and turned.
“Mama Elisheba, it is good to see you.” Shiphrah limped across the room. She knelt and hugged her tightly. “You are the best ever, weaving your stories and baskets together.”
“They are not just stories, dear.”
Shiphrah looked away but did not argue. “Wasn’t that Lili’s favorite story?”
“Yours, too, if I remember correctly.”
Steps pounded on the packed dirt outside the house, and Benjamin, Lili’s little brother, stuck his freckled face inside. “Aunt Elisheba, Lili said hello, and she needs to talk to you, Shiphrah. Hi, Bedde.”
Jochebed waved at her grimy cousin. “Hi, yourself.”
“Why didn’t she just come here?” Shiphrah asked.
“Lili said she’d rather pet a crocodile than talk to Bedde. Bye.” Benjamin left as quickly as he had come.
“Pet a crocodile? That’s a dislike almost as strong as the smell of that boy. I’d guess he’s still soaking skins in oil for the tanner.” Jochebed grimaced. Egyptians owned even a child’s life.
“After all this time she still hasn’t forgiven you for marrying Amram.” Elisheba shook her head. “Will she ever?”
“I’ll talk to her again. Maybe Lili will listen this time.” Shiphrah stood. “Mama Elisheba, I want Bedde to rest more and let Miriam carry Aaron.” She looked sternly at Jochebed. “Bedde, I’m serious. Miriam was born early, and it could happen again. We don’t want to go through that a second time. Don’t let this birth come any sooner than absolutely necessary. Not a week or a day or a minute or a second early. Promise me.”
Puzzled by Shiphrah’s intensity, Jochebed widened her eyes and dipped her head in feigned agreement. She knew she’d never be able to keep such a promise. Miriam was often away helping with the sheep, shooing birds from the fields, or gathering dung for fuel; and Aaron toddled faster than his grandmother could move. When Amram was home, he helped, but he worked long hours, rebuilding Pharaoh’s warehouse city, Pi-Ramses.
Shiphrah was a midwife but not a mother. She had no idea how busy little Aaron could be, or she would not make such a ridiculous request.
Seeing something she did not comprehend in Shiphrah’s eyes, she nodded reassuringly. “I understand.”
She did understand. It was Shiphrah who did not realize the impossibility of such a statement. Bedde smiled at her friend.
“Pray for a girl, Mama Elisheba. We need more weavers like you, and make sure your daughter minds me.” Shiphrah kissed the wrinkled cheek before she hobbled out.
Bedde slid against the wall to help herself balance as she sank to the hard-packed floor. Grimacing at the sight of her swollen ankles, she rubbed her lower back, trying to ease the tired muscles. She wished she could listen to Shiphrah and try to rest more. The aches of this pregnancy did bother her.
She closed her eyes. Benjamin’s comment bothered her, too, and she wished she could massage away that ache. How did things between them go so wrong? She knew the day her friendship with Lili began to change. It was the day she met Amram.
Jochebed tried to think backward. Could she have done anything differently? And why would they pray for a girl when a boy would help more in the fields?
Without knocking, Shiphrah clumped into Lili’s house. “You couldn’t walk next door to talk to me, Lili? Surely after all these years, you are not still jealous of Bedde? Tell me you do not truly believe Bedde stole Amram from you.”
Lili jutted her chin forward. “No, I realize now that my father had someone better in mind for me. Joshua is a good man. I feel bad for Bedde, being married to Amram.”
Shiphrah raised her eyebrows. Amram, one of the most respected men in this village as well as neighboring villages, was well liked, but if Lili comforted herself by believing her own lies, there was nothing to be done about it. Shiphrah and Bedde had tried to bridge the rift with Lili for years. Mama Elisheba prayed and prayed, but there had been no miracle of reconciliation.
“If you feel as sorry for Bedde as you say, then why don’t you reach out to her? You were such close friends, even before I came. We were all such good friends. Remember…?”
“Don’t scold me, Shiphrah.”
“I’m not scolding you, I just don’t understand.”
“I needed to talk with you … alone. Can’t you spare me a few minutes?”
For a moment, Shiphrah thought how Lili looked like the girl who’d peeked around the edge of Mama Elisheba’s door, wanting to see her, the injured Egyptian, found in the bulrushes.
Shiphrah sighed and acquiesced. “All right, Lili, what is so urgent that you want to talk to me about?”
Lili’s eyes sparkled. “I have heard of something I know will help me have Joshua’s child. The next time you go to town, to Pi-Ramses, will you get it for me? I have cheese to barter. How much should I send with you? Please, Shiphrah, I know it will work. It has to work.”
Shiphrah listened doubtfully and then with a nagging reluctance agreed to Lili’s request. What could it hurt? Nothing could change Lili’s barrenness, and so she would never be required to kill Lili’s son.
Jochebed stared at the blood on the floor. There was so much of it. Strange, she did not remember hurting herself. Was the baby bleeding? Switching Aaron to her other hip, she searched his arms and legs for an injury but found none. Wh…?
A slow tightening low in her belly answered her unformed question. The baby! Something was wrong with the baby.
“Mama…”
Her mother looked up from her work, her eyes widening as she saw the darkness pooling quickly around her daughter’s feet. Calmly she spoke to her granddaughter.
“Miriam, take your brother to Old Sarah and then find Shiphrah. Tell her to come now! Jochebed needs her immediately. Then stay with Sarah until I send for you. Quickly, Miriam, quickly. Wait! Watch for your father and tell him…” Her voice wavered. “Just go quickly.”
Miriam pulled Aaron from her mother’s arms and hurried out of the room.
Jochebed sagged against her mother. For a moment, the two women shared wordless fear and comfort before the older woman led her daughter to a mat against the wall.
“Sit and rest.” She moistened a cloth and handed it to Jochebed, who began to wipe herself clean. “Shiphrah will be here soon.”
Jochebed leaned her head into the corner. “When will she come? Will Shiphrah help me?” She traced the cracks in the wall. “Mama, is the baby going to die? Why would the Lord let me conceive a child only to let it die?”
“I don’t know, Bedde. I don’t know,” Mama murmured.
Jochebed clenched her teeth as the spasms came again, sharper this time and longer.
“Jochebed, breathe.”
Pain blurred the features of her mother’s face and dimmed her voice. What had she been told to do?
“Breathe, Bedde.”
The tightening eased. Responding to her childhood name, she unclenched her fists and welcomed the gentleness of her mother’s hands pushing the hair from around her face.
“Mama?”
“Yes, dear one?”
“Maybe I just stood too long. I heard Deborah say her sister Elene had these spells, too,” Jochebed said. “Maybe if I rest for a while, everything will be fine.”
Her mother glanced away. “Let’s hope so.”
But the pain circled again and again, and with each contraction, the dark flow increased and Jochebed grew weaker.
There was no sign of Shiphrah. Jochebed’s tears slid into the hair at her temples, but she made no sound. Breathing took all her effort. She knew when the baby left her body; the pain stopped. She did not need to look at her mother’s face to know the child was lifeless; her heart confirmed the emptiness.
Hovering between exhaustion and awareness, she heard the shuffle of Amram’s feet, heard his heavy sigh, and knew her mother had told him of the lost child. “Lost” sounded as if she had misplaced their child or not watched him carefully—as if she were not good enough. Again.
Maybe she could have depended on Miriam more often. Maybe she should have asked Sarah or even Lili to help with Aaron. Maybe if she had not fallen carrying water jars from the river … maybe this would not have happened. If only she could start over.
A shuddering gasp escaped her, and Jochebed slept, her dreams splintered with a child’s broken cry. She had failed … again.
Empty cradle, empty arms.