Shiphrah felt the river breezes unfurl her hair. She stood with her back to the other women, watching the waves lap over each other. Almost a dance, the pattern of ripples wove in and over, around and under, always moving on, always moving forward.
Unlike her, she thought bitterly and pulled first one foot and then the other foot free of the river mud. She was stuck.
Shiphrah hauled the wet clothes out of the river and, working alone, spread them on rocks to dry. Ella was at home with Ati, and as much as she loved the two of them, she welcomed time by herself to think.
Surrounded by the villagers and their laughing children, she was still alone. Few of them spoke to her. She was simply the midwife—tolerated when needed, forgotten when the danger of childbirth was past. She lived and worked alongside them, neither shunned nor included. Deborah had seen to that, never letting anyone forget or forgive what Shiphrah had almost done.
Mama Elisheba had once told her a story of Noah and second chances. Maybe she didn’t deserve another chance. Was it because she was half Egyptian or because she had contemplated such an evil action? If only Mama Elisheba were alive…
Jochebed might have been an ally, a bridge builder between her and the village. She’d always believed the best about people—well, almost always, Shiphrah conceded.
Now Jochebed was lost to her, too. She had retreated within herself, spending every minute with the child she’d given up for lost, the child of the river—Moses, as the princess had named him.
She turned her head to watch Jochebed cuddle the baby boy. A veil of oblivion seemed to separate mother and child from the others. They sat apart, almost as alone as herself. Shiphrah wondered if Bedde realized how isolated she had become. Did Jochebed not see the pain she awakened in those whose children had been destroyed?
She took a deep breath for courage. When she stood in front of Jochebed, she stopped, waited until their eyes met.
“Shalom.”
“Shiphrah, I didn’t know you were here.” Jochebed looked down at Moses. “See how he has grown? He sits up, and soon he will be crawling and then walking and running. If Amram ever returns, he’ll be so pleased. I was just telling Moses the story of Abraham and the promise of a son.”
“Yes, I see he is growing.”
“He’s already outgrown two sleeping baskets and almost another one.”
“Jochebed…”
“Listen to him talk. He’s saying—”
“Bedde, have you talked to Lili?”
Moses slapped his hands together as his mother rested her chin on his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Jochebed shrugged and turned Moses to face her. “Did I tell you that in Egyptian ‘Moses’ means ‘drawn from the river’?”
“I know.”
Moses bounced in his mother’s lap, and Jochebed laughed.
“Do you know how it hurts Lili to see your child alive when hers is dead?”
Jochebed’s mouth thinned to a tight line.
“Do you care that it hurts her?” Shiphrah probed.
“You and Lili would rather have my son be dead. That is what you mean? You, Shiphrah, have worked against me from the beginning. Why? What is the life of one Hebrew boy to you? Are you so like your father?”
“Don’t be absurd, Jochebed. Lili and I do not want Moses to be dead.”
“Don’t speak for me,” said Lili. “I do not need your help, Egyptian.”
Startled, Shiphrah turned and faced an ashen Lili. When had she become so terribly thin?
“I was only saying we did not wish her son dead—that we’re happy for her.”
“Happy?” Lili spat on the ground. “Happy to see her flaunt her son while mine lies at the bottom of the river? Oh yes, I am so happy for her.”
Jochebed sat up straight. “I—I do n–not flaunt him.”
“Every day you bring him to the river to remind us your son lives.”
“That is not true!”
“Every day you hold him while our arms remain empty.”
“You resent my son lives.”
“Every day we relive our loss while you bask in contentment. Do you think we are happy when every day you laugh in our faces?”
“No, never—”
“Enough! Please, Jochebed, Lili, enough!”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Shiphrah!” snapped Lili. “You are as bad as she is. You have Ella. Jochebed has three children—three! Do you know how many I have? One. Dead. Son. Just leave me alone with my grief.”
Lili spun on her heel and stalked away.
“Go away, Shiphrah.” Jochebed spoke softly.
Shiphrah turned to leave and realized the village women had witnessed the scene. Shame darkened her face. Unshed tears pulsed behind her eyes. She had only been trying to help.
Or had she? Maybe she spoke out of her own frustration, her own loneliness. Since Puah had married and moved to another home, she felt so isolated.
Shiphrah clenched her fists, trying to steady herself. She would not cry in front of these gossipers.
She lifted her chin. LiliBeddeShiphrah had disappeared. They were no longer a tightly braided strand. They had unraveled into three separate people who seemed to have no use for each other, who no longer cared about each other. What had happened to their girlish plans, their dreams of being forever friends, their vow to never stay angry with each other?
Shiphrah left the clothes on the rocks. She walked past the women, aware of their disapproval, the dislike, the disdain. Even Sarah did not look her way and Deborah did not speak to her. Shiphrah grimaced. At least that was a good thing.
She took the long way home, avoiding Mama Elisheba’s house, now Jochebed’s house. She missed Mama Elisheba. If only she could talk to her, see the gentleness in her eyes, hear the wisdom of her heart. She would have said…
Shiphrah’s shoulders slumped. Mama Elisheba would say, “While it is yet dark, God is at work.” But it had been dark so long. So very dark. Was God really at work?
Could He free them from their prisons of isolation—Jochebed’s self-absorption, Lili’s grief, and her own discontent?
Not ready to return to Ati and Ella, she stopped in the field of sprouting flax and knelt to weed. She could save some child’s knees a few minutes of torture. In another few years, Ella would be old enough to help with this hated chore.
As she pulled thistles, Shiphrah let her mind wander through the past. Lili’s laughter bubbled in her ears. She could see the tilt of Bedde’s head and the half smile that followed. They had braided each other’s hair, woven purple crowns from flowering flax, whispered secrets throughout the night, and wiped each other’s tears with their sleeves.
The pile of weeds grew taller as Shiphrah fingered each plant. She left the hairless stalks with narrow leaves and yanked out all others. Maybe she would do the same with her memories—keep the ones she cherished and snatch out all others. As the memories continued to invade, she plucked some out and locked them away.
She would refuse to think of Jochebed or Lili. She would avoid Deborah and Old Snoopy as if they were lepers. That should be easy—they treated her as if she were one of the untouchables … but so did her “best” friends.
No tears left her eyes. They remained lodged in her throat.
Shiphrah rubbed fish oil on Ati’s bony hand, its stubby fingers looking even shorter with such swollen knuckles. The warmth of the oil eased the stiffness, bringing a respite to Ati’s constant pain.
“Is that better, Ati?”
She grunted. Shiphrah knew that was all the woman would say. Ati no longer spoke and ate only thin gruel or mashed foods. Shiphrah suspected Ati’s remaining teeth had already fallen out or soon would.
“I’ll be home all day, Ati. With most of the men gone, there are not too many pregnant women for me to tend.”
She glanced at her old nursemaid. “Are you wondering where Ella is?”
The old woman nodded.
“I can see her from the door. She’s playing with the doll you made her. Do you want to be where you can watch her?”
Shiphrah grasped the edges of Ati’s mat and heaved it forward until Ella was in view.
“Ella likes for you to watch her play, you know.”
Ati grunted, and Shiphrah suppressed the urge to grunt back. She loved Ati, truly loved her and cared for her gladly, but she longed to talk with someone, talk and laugh and tease and question.
Maybe not question. There were plenty of questions from Ella, and they did talk and laugh, but Ella was so young and Ati so old. She talked with Aunt Puah, but not often. She wished she had friends, friends like…
Shiphrah stopped the thought. Those days were over. Those relationships ended.
She set her jaw, determined to move forward. She did not need the others. Perhaps if she said it often enough, she’d believe it. She would depend on herself. She and Ella were a family. Puah was family. Ati—Shiphrah did not lie to herself—would not live much longer.
She would spend her days teaching Ella all she knew. Someday they would have a sistrum for music and senet for a game—she could make the pieces and draw the board on the dirt floor.
Ella’s balance was improving, and she could learn midwifery and weaving. They did not need other people. She did not need Bedde, nor did she need Lili.
And it seemed they did not need her.