The days wore on with no opportunity to go visit Lilah or arrange a trip to Argenta to see the Reverend and Mrs. Mayhew. Papa’s whereabouts remained a mystery. In every idle moment, I speculated on where he could be, what to make of the strangeness in the woods, and how to account for Katherine’s unexplained presence there. But those moments were few and far between.
The hay was ready to be cut and baled, and it took all of us—Big Tom, Hettie, Abel, and me—working together to accomplish the task. Long, sweltering days of forking hay into the press, helping tie it into bales, then lugging the cumbersome square bundles to the barn left me little time to do anything except eat, sweat, and sleep.
One evening, as I was feeding the chickens and stewing on how to approach my unsuspecting grandparents, the racket of hooves on gravel sent the hens into a flapping uproar. Abel galloped into the yard on Merlin, his voice carrying over the squawking hens. “I just came from Mama’s place. It’s Clara. The baby’s coming, and Mama needs help. Get Aunt Hettie and come on.” He wheeled and rode away without waiting for an answer.
Hettie froze for a moment when I delivered the message, then spun into a tornado of activity. Work forgotten, she saddled Lady May in a feverish hurry. “Get on,” she said. “None of that sidesaddle business. We don’t have time to be proper.” I was only too happy to comply. We covered the few miles to Abel’s homeplace at a breakneck pace.
The Atchleys’ dogtrot house sat cupped in a shady valley between two hills. As we drew near, a little boy wearing cut-off overalls with no shirt underneath hopped out of a rocking chair on the front porch. He raced over the yard with bare feet flying and stretched onto tiptoes, catching hold of Lady May’s bridle. “Clara’s having that baby. They keep running me off, and nobody will tell me how they’re gonna get it out of her.” He turned wide blue eyes on me. “Do you know how?”
“In theory,” I said, sliding off the horse’s back after Hettie. We charged up the rickety front steps just as Abel came out onto the porch.
“How is she?” Hettie asked.
Abel shook his head. “I can’t say. Mama hasn’t come out in a while.”
Hettie slipped into the cabin and disappeared through a doorway to the left. Abel turned to the little barefoot boy. “Hey, Jep, why don’t you go see what Theo is up to?” He nodded toward another, even smaller boy, who was busily rolling a metal ring around the yard. “You haven’t beaten him in hoop trundling yet, have you?” Jep ran off, Clara’s baby forgotten for the time being.
The screen door banged shut as I followed Abel into the breezeway that cut through the middle of the house. Two small girls—twins, I thought—peeked out at me from a room to my right. Their small, freckled faces looked pinched with worry. Behind them, a door to the side yard opened, and another girl came in, a basin full of water balanced against one hip. I recognized her as the solemn-looking older daughter I’d seen with Mrs. Atchley at church. “Any news?” Abel asked.
“’Bout the same,” the girl replied. “I’m Faye,” she added with a glance in my direction.
“Verity Pruitt,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come around. Abel’s told me all ’bout you.” Abel’s ears went slightly pink, and a little bolt of pleasure zinged through my chest.
Faye stepped past us and across the dogtrot into the single bedroom that made up the left side of the house. From inside, I could hear Hettie speaking in firm, soothing tones.
“Y’all take care of them, all right?” Abel said as a cry of pain split the air. His face turned pale.
I moved to the doorway Faye had gone through, trying to smile reassuringly. In truth, I wasn’t sure I knew how to help either Clara or the baby if something went wrong. “We’ll do our best,” I said, stepping over the threshold and closing the bedroom door.
The scent of blood tainted the air inside the hot, dim space. Iron bedsteads lined both walls, three on each side. I found myself staring at the newsprint papering the walls, the rag rugs littering the floor, the faded patchwork quilts draped over the beds. At anything but the slight girl on the bed farthest from me.
Clara’s labored breathing mingled with Mrs. Atchley’s soft hushing sounds. Faye placed a wet cloth from the basin on Clara’s forehead, then stepped back, wringing her hands. She looked at Hettie, standing grim-faced at the head of the bed, then to me. “Do you need anything else?”
“Run along and check that fire under the big kettle in the backyard,” Hettie said. The girl looked relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I’ve helped with a handful of birthings over the years,” Hettie added for my benefit. “Always boil the rags and sheets. It helps keep the mama from getting childbed fever after the baby comes.” She handed me a new cake of lye soap from the bedside table and gestured toward the basin. “Be sure to wash up real good.”
Clara shifted her attention from Hettie to me. Sweat-darkened hair clung to her forehead, but her bright blue eyes were clear. Before she could speak, a contraction wrenched a guttural moan from her throat. I gathered every scrap of courage and stepped forward.
Mrs. Atchley offered me her seat by the bed. “Never thought anything could be more fearful than birthing my own babies,” she said. “But watching my girl go through it is worse.”
I took Clara’s hand and wiped away the tear sliding down her cheek. “I’m Verity. You’re going to be just fine.” She nodded with a jerky, frantic motion. The mound of her belly shifted, like an earthquake inside her body. From her stool at the end of the bed, Hettie announced it was time to push. Clara breathed fast and shallow as another wave of pain washed over her. The bones of my knuckles ground together in her panicked grip.
For hours it went on. Clara would push until her strength was gone, then collapse back against the bed. Before she could stop gasping for breath, the next pain would crash over her. Hettie urged her on with all the tenderness of an army general, but Clara seemed to respond to the toughness. “One more. With all your might, girl,” Hettie said. “You’re almost done.”
With a scream that vibrated through my skull, Clara gave a final push.
“It’s a boy!” Mrs. Atchley shouted as Hettie lifted the newborn into her arms, directing me to tie off the umbilical cord with a length of crochet thread before cutting it with sterilized scissors. Clara’s cries turned from exhaustion to relief.
A sudden, awful quiet filled the stifling bedroom. Under the blood and mire, the baby’s skin was dusky. His soft breaths, fluttery and slow, grew fainter and farther apart.
“What’s wrong?” Clara asked.
Mrs. Atchley’s beaming face crumpled with worry. Hettie smacked the soles of the baby’s feet, but there was no response. A blue line appeared around the tiny lips.
I acted before I had time to second-guess myself. With one swipe, I cleared the bedside table. Snatching the newborn from Hettie, I laid him down and grasped both his wrists in one hand. Then I extended the tiny arms over his head, and quickly brought them back down. My voice was steady as I counted to four, then repeated the motions. Stretch the arms, expand the chest, swing back down, apply pressure on the thorax.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Clara’s soft sobs sounded distant. Her mother’s worried questions barely registered as I counted. I couldn’t take my eyes from the baby’s rib cage, fragile as a bird’s bones under my hands.
I leaned in close, listening. Praying. Arms up. Arms down. Press in, listen, count. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hettie, hands to her mouth, despair filling her eyes. No breath. No change. The room felt hollow, as though all sound had been siphoned away with the baby’s breaths.
And then, a sigh. Petal-soft, delicate as a whisper.
I lifted his arms again and heard a shaky inhalation. A cough, and finally, a cry. Faint and wavering and miraculous.
Scooping the baby up, I held him to my face. Tacky blood smeared my cheek. I listened to his breaths gather strength. The mewling cry grew stronger as angry color flooded his cheeks.
Clara reached for her son. I handed him over, light-headed with relief. She pressed him close and his cries settled. He opened his eyes to peer at his mother.
“Hello there, little one,” Clara said, voice trembling. She placed a kiss on the wrinkled forehead. “You gave us quite a scare.”
Hettie and Mrs. Atchley hugged, spinning in a giddy circle. I burst out laughing in delirious gratitude that the baby boy lived. “How did you know what to do?” Mrs. Atchley asked.
I wiped blood from my cheek with the hem of my skirt. “My father taught me, in case I ever needed to resuscitate someone. He’s a physician.” The pride in my voice surprised me. The swell of joy that came with helping Clara’s baby enter the world took me completely aback. Nothing I’d done before had ever felt this significant. A deep, settled peace rested over me. There were still so many things I didn’t understand, there was still so much I couldn’t do well, but in this one thing—when it counted most—my skills were enough. My work mattered.
From out in the dogtrot, Abel hollered, “Is everything all right?”
“It’s a boy, Uncle Abel. And he’s perfect,” I shouted back.
“His name is William,” Clara announced. While Mrs. Atchley persuaded her to hand the newborn over for his first bath, I washed up and ventured into the main room of the little cabin. Exhaustion and elation swirled through my veins. I felt like I could take on the world. But maybe after a solid nap.
I collapsed beside Abel, who looked up from a stick he’d been carving into a whistle for his younger siblings. “It sounds like you did great in there. Do you think you’ve got a future in midwifing?”
“You know, maybe I do.”
He reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you for helping Clara. And William.” The buttery light of a new day spilled over the five youngest Atchley children, all bedded down on quilted pallets on the floor. Jep sucked his thumb, one arm flung over Theo’s shoulder. Faye slept with her curly-headed little sisters snuggled against her chest.
“It was an honor,” I said.
Abel watched his siblings, looking thoughtful. “If you’re going to have a child with no daddy to speak of, this is a good family to do it in,” he said. “William won’t ever lack for love or someone to watch out for him.”
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, thinking of my own mother. Her entire life would have been different if her family had treated her as the Atchleys had Clara. If she’d told them the truth, perhaps they would have.
Hettie opened the door, rubbing tired eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ll stay to help out for a little while, but y’all can head on back.” She looked to me, and the lines around her mouth deepened with a smile. “You did good in there.”
“Thank you,” I said. Getting to my feet, I looked out over the fields to the west, toward Argenta, only a few miles away. I could be standing in my grandparents’ home in little more than an hour. “There’s something I need to do in Argenta before I head back.” I wetted my parched lips and rushed ahead. “It turns out I may have some family there.”