“But Eliza—er, Miss Rogers, you know you pick type faster’n I do.”
“Too bad,” she muttered as she stormed down the hall. “You should have thought of that before . . . before . . .” She swung open the door and turned up the gaslight by the mirror. Sure enough, there was a black smear on her right cheek. “Ugh.” She dampened a cloth from the pitcher, rubbed it over the soap bar, and scrubbed at her cheek. Printer’s ink was near to indelible if not washed off right away. Her father’s hands were mute testimony to that, with ink under his nails and cuticles no matter how hard or how often he scrubbed with lye soap and a stiff-bristled brush.
With a curl of hair dangling toward her eyes, she whipped off the kerchief she’d tied over her hair to keep it out of the way and, tucking the errant lock back in a comb, retied the kerchief. Her glance in the mirror spoke the lie she’d heard from her father’s employee’s lips. According to her, her gray eyes lacked color, her nose was too upturned for fashion, and calling her chin firm or decisive didn’t begin to describe it. Stubborn and mule-headed were terms she’d heard more than once. Her unruly hair—the closest description came to dishwater brown shot with red flames—was best kept tied or braided back out of the way. Not that her description made much sense. Her legs were long enough to do what they were destined to do, but her hands, now that was where a hint of vanity came in. While her mother called them hands for a piano to entertain thousands, she saw them handling doctors’ instruments to save lives.
But then she and her mother never had agreed on much. Or rather she and her stepmother. Her real mother was a distant memory of soft voice, gentle hands, and a face growing paler day by day as she succumbed to the ravages of the babe growing within her. Neither she nor the baby survived, like so many other women who died in childbirth or shortly thereafter.
Elizabeth Rogers wanted to change what men took for granted. Women did not need to die giving birth to babies. No matter that the Bible said women would have travail in the birthing, it didn’t say so many of them needed to die.
She turned the lamp back to low, rinsed out the cloth, hung it on the bar near the sink, and returned to the pressroom where Hans had only half of the display ad set. Tarnation, how can he possibly be so slow? Surely there are other men or boys Father could hire.
“Look, Hans, you set to sweeping up, and I’ll finish the ad. Otherwise we will be here all night, and I have homework to do.” Thinking of the stack of books waiting made her fingers fly faster. Besides, she’d rather study than work at the newspaper any time. But the ads needed setting, and her father had a meeting that night. As a member of the Northfield town council, Phillip Rogers served the city in two ways. First, by keeping the council from spending money they did not have, and second, by taking notes for the next article he would write on what the town fathers were planning and doing. He also printed letters from citizens venting their opinions on the decisions made by the governing body. The people of Northfield held strong opinions. Having two colleges in town, St. Olaf on the hill and Carleton downtown, most likely had something to do with that.
With the ads set and the paper ready to be put to bed, Elizabeth locked the door behind her and walked with Hans to the corner, where she said good-night. Two blocks farther on she turned right and walked down a block to the two-story brick house she’d lived in since the day she was born. Letting herself in the front door, she hung her sweater on the hall tree.
“Mother, I’m home,” she called.
“That’s good, dear. Your supper is in the warming oven.” The voice floated down the curved walnut stairs. As usual when her husband was out, Annabelle Rogers, Elizabeth’s stepmother, had already retired. She loved to read in bed as much as Elizabeth did, but when Phillip was home, he expected her to sit with him in the parlor while he read, so she would work on her needlepoint then.
Elizabeth detested needlepoint or any other kind of handwork unless it involved sewing up an injury. She’d practiced on her dolls, cats, dogs—anything that needed suturing. Somehow that word appealed to her more than sewing, though the principles were the same. She’d been in her element the day her cousin split his knee open when they were out on a picnic. Elizabeth just happened to have her surgery kit along and sutured the wound as if she’d been doing so all her born days. There had hardly been a scar.
Elizabeth traversed the long hall, not bothering to turn on the gas jets. Jehoshaphat, her golden tiger cat, met her halfway, winding his way around her legs so she’d trip if she didn’t stop to pick him up.
Cuddling the monstrous cat under her chin and rubbing his ears until he set to purring so loudly she could hear nothing else, she bumped the kitchen door open with her hip and dropped the cat onto his chair by the stove.
“Now you stay there while I eat, and then we’ll go upstairs.”
The cat set to cleaning himself, carefully licking each paw and wiping it over his ears and head.
Elizabeth picked up a potholder and, opening the warming oven on the top of the cast-iron wood stove, took out her plate and set it on the table. Her place had already been set, including her napkin in a silver ring, sliced bread under a glass dome, and butter under another one. She filled her glass with milk and moved the teakettle to the warmer part of the stove. “A cup of tea would be nice, don’t you think?”
Jehoshaphat mewled an answer and continued his bath, his tongue rasping over the fur on his chest.
Before she sat down, Elizabeth fetched a book from the study and, opening to the correct chapter, began studying biology. She read from the text she’d purchased at the Carleton College bookstore and ate at the same time, stopping her fork hand to take notes on the pad of paper beside her plate, underlining and jotting notations on the book pages also. The teapot whistled, and she dropped a pat on the cat’s head as she retrieved the tea tin from a glass-fronted cupboard.
Muttering the phyla for vertebrates, she dumped tea leaves into the china pot, poured in the hot water, and set the teapot on the table, reaching for the knitted cozy as she passed the counter. With the tea steeping, she read on, fork mechanically lifting food without her paying attention.
She glanced up, mumbling the list again.
Jehoshaphat chirped again, but with no answer leaped to the floor and crossed to twine himself about her ankles. When that elicited no response, he put both front paws on her thigh and whined plaintively.
She left off eating and stroked his head with one hand, never giving him a glance. She even managed to pour her tea in between words. She’d just lifted her teacup to her mouth with her right hand when the cat leaped into her lap, banging her elbow and sending tea splattering everywhere.
“Bad cat!” With a yowl, he jumped back to the floor and scooted under the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” She brushed the drops off her hand with her napkin, then scrubbed the marks off her textbook before cleaning her skirt. “Stupid animal.”
“Meow.”
“Too bad. You could see I was busy.” She caught herself, reviewing what she’d said. “As if you know what I’m saying.” Shaking her head, she laid the book face down on the table and, lifting the cutwork linen tablecloth, stuck her face under the edge. “Jehoshaphat, come here, boy. I’m sorry.” She made comforting noises, but the cat was having none of it. Tail in the air, he padded out from his hideout, stalked over to his chair, and leaped up. Without looking at her, he proceeded to clean again.
“Serves you right.” Elizabeth poured herself another cup of tea and continued reading. Later, when she cleared the table, she saw the tea stains. “Oh no. Mother will be after me now.” She glanced over to see the empty chair. Jehoshaphat had scrammed. “Always one more thing. What’s wrong with being allowed to study without interruptions?” All the while she lifted the cloth from the table and set it to soak in cold water. Perhaps the stain would just disappear. Perhaps the sun would rise in the west too.
When the page blurred and rubbing her eyes no longer helped, she climbed the stairs to h
er bedroom. Had her father come in without stopping to talk? Or had he stopped all right, but not at home?
She paused beside the closed dark oak door to her parents’ bedroom, listening for her father’s floor-shaking snore. Nothing. He’d not come home yet. Morning would be stiff again with her mother hardly talking, and if he did make it to church, he’d fall asleep during the sermon. She was grateful she sang in the choir so she didn’t have to sit with them.
Sometimes she hated council meetings. Or wherever else he’d been.
The next morning church passed as she’d thought it would. She kept her gaze off the slumped figure in the third row on the right. You’d have thought at least her parents would have had the decency to sit in the back. But no matter, third pew on the right belonged to the Rogers family, as much as if they’d paid for it. Relief surged through her when the pastor pronounced the benediction and the choir stood for the closing hymn. If her salvation depended on what she’d learned in church this morning, she’d be heading the other way. As Pastor Mueller made his way to the narthex to greet people as they filed out, she and the other choir members exited to the choir room to divest themselves of their robes.
“Went right well,” Dr. Gaskin, lead baritone, pronounced. The fact that he said the same whenever he made it to church made no difference. Everyone nodded and wished each other a good week.
“Miss Rogers?”
Elizabeth turned. “Yes?”
“I’m thinking Mrs. Sidney might be going into labor today. If you want to come along, you be ready.”
“Oh, thank you. I will.” Elizabeth followed the others out the side door of the brick church, complete with bell tower and white window trim. She shaded her eyes with her gloved hand. Her mother and father waited in the buggy. New leaves, still tight to the branches, furred the oak trees that lined the hitching posts where members of the congregation tied up their horses. When she reached the buggy, she looked up at her father.
“I think I’ll walk home. It’s such a beautiful day.”
“We’ll be eating right away. Your father says he has to go back down to the paper.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth climbed into the rear seat of the buggy. Since this was the cook’s day off, she knew she’d be expected to help put dinner on the table. And if her father had to wait, he’d turn into a grumbling bear. “I thought you weren’t going to work on Sundays anymore.”
“That’s what he always says.” Annabelle clasped her hands on her watered-silk dress, nodded to an acquaintance, and shot her husband a look compounded with equal parts sadness and disdain.
The ride home passed in silence, matching that on the drive over.
They’d just finished dinner when the doorbell clanged.
“I’ll get it.” Elizabeth wiped her mouth with her napkin and pushed her chair back. “That was delicious, as always, Mother. Thank you.”
“Won’t you be having dessert? Cook made a canned peach pie.”
Elizabeth left the dining room and, like a diver coming up for air, paused to take a deep breath and let it all out. Now her step regained its usual bounce, and a smile returned. “I’m coming,” she answered to another knock. She opened the door. “Oh, Dr. Gaskin, so soon?”
“Told you to be ready. You coming or not?”
“I’m coming. Let me tell Mother and get my apron. Should I bring anything else? Like peach pie?”
“We’ll get that later. This baby’s in a hurry.”
Elizabeth flew back down the hall, called to her mother as to what she was doing, grabbed her apron and a shawl in case they were late, and was out the door before the doctor had finished climbing into his buggy.
“Whew. Oh, I forgot my hat.” She paused before sitting down.
“Too late.” The buggy was already in motion, causing her an abrupt connection with the leather seat. He clucked the horse to a fast trot and headed south of town. “How’s school coming?”
“Near to the end of the term. I’ve been studying like mad for my biology exams. The lab class takes a lot of time, memorizing and dissecting. Going to Carleton for science classes is not really convenient.”
“You think that’s hard, wait till you get to med school. You have to memorize every bone, muscle, nerve—every part of the human body. But with a mind as good as yours, that won’t be hard.”
“If they let me in.”
“Don’t borrow trouble. The Lord says to let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.”
“I know.”
“Now tell me the steps for a delivery.”
Elizabeth listed them, using her fingers to count on for memory.
“What if the baby doesn’t start to breathe?”
“Then rub the chest, raise the arms over the head, and if all else fails, smack the buttocks.”
“Sometimes breathing in the face helps or compressing the chest real gentlelike. Remember to check the throat and nose for any obstructions.”
“I read in a book that swishing the baby in warm water can help too.” Elizabeth turned sideways to look at her mentor and friend.
“Hmm, not surprised. After all, the baby’s been swimming in warm water for nine months.” He turned the team into a long lane that led to a white two-story farmhouse. A dog ran out to bark at the wheels. A man stepped down off the porch as soon as they reached the gate to a picket fence.
“I’ll take care of your horse. You better hurry.”
“You got the water boiling?”
“Yup. And clean towels and sheets and things for the baby. Martha’s been prepared for days now. Go straight through the kitchen. She’s in our bedroom.”
“Think I don’t know the way? Third baby in less than three years— going to wear her plumb out.” The doctor muttered his way into the bedroom, where shades were drawn over the windows.
“Howdy, Miz Sidney. Looks like that baby’s in some kind of hurry.”
The woman on the bed arched with another contraction, this one lifting her clear off the bed. “In . . . a . . . hurry, but . . .” She sighed and sank back down, panting as though she’d been running. “Can’t seem to go no farther.”
“All right. Let me get scrubbed up here and see what we can see.” He turned to Elizabeth. “You scrub too. If it’s what I think, those small hands of yours are going to come in plenty handy.”
Elizabeth did as she was told, flinching at the groan that came from the bed. This was her third delivery. She should be used to the agony that preceded the ecstasy of a baby to hold. She watched as the doctor examined the woman, shaking his head, humming a little tune all the while.
“Now, Miz Sidney, I think what we have here is a breech. I’m going to have Elizabeth help turn the baby when I give her the signal. First, let’s help you up onto your hands and knees.”
“Doctor, you got—” She huffed a couple of times as another contraction hit, then groaned deeply.
“All right, dear, ride with it. That’s right.” When she relaxed again, Dr. Gaskin nodded for Elizabeth to wipe her face. “Now roll this way.” He pulled the woman by the shoulder. “That’s right. Hands and knees. See, this takes the pressure off the baby and lets it relax for a minute.”
He nodded to Elizabeth. “Now you see if you can help that baby turn around, just like they do with lambs and calves.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her hands shaking so badly she was afraid they wouldn’t do what was needed.
“Now, this is going to hurt some, Miz Sidney, but bear with us.”
Oh, God, please help me. I don’t know what I’m doing. But at the doctor’s insistent nod, she did as told.
“What do you feel?”
“A foot, I think.”
“Okay, now with the next contraction, turn that baby.”
As Mrs. Sidney let out a scream that could be heard clear to town, Elizabeth pushed the foot back while the doctor manipulated the hanging belly. Elizabeth gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and concentrated on what her hand was feeling. The baby was movi
ng.
Mrs. Sidney screamed again—long, drawn out, tapering off as if she had nothing left to scream with.
“You’re doing fine. You got to stay with us,” Dr. Gaskin said.
“It turned. I have the head.” Elizabeth removed her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It turned, Doctor.”
“I know, dear.” He beckoned to Elizabeth again. “Now, I’ll hold her while you help ease the baby out. Turn the shoulders gently as soon as the head presents.” He looked down at his sobbing patient. “We did it, Miz Sidney. Just a couple more contractions, and we’ll be done here.”
“Yess.” The voice hissed on another contraction.
“The head. I can see it.” Elizabeth touched the crown with a tender finger. On the next pain the baby slipped right into her hands, squalling as soon as she felt the air. “She was tired of being cooped up like that,” Elizabeth murmured. Oh, dear God, look what you’ve done here.A beautiful baby girl. Elizabeth held up the squirming baby for the doctor to see.
“Good. Lay her here on her mother’s belly so the two of them can finally get acquainted face-to-face.”
Elizabeth did as told, blinking back her tears so she could see better. With the baby in place she picked up a corner of her apron and wiped her eyes. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your whole life?”
“And it never changes. Birthing a baby is about the most wonderful act of worship I know of.”
The woman in the bed cupped her daughter’s head with a hand full of love. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.” Dr. Gaskin cut and tied the cord, then turned to his helper. “Let’s get back to work. You clean up the baby, and I’ll take care of the rest here.”
Elizabeth washed the baby, gently wiping her eyes and nose with a soft cloth. When she’d dried the red little body, she pinned a folded diaper in place and wrapped the baby in a cotton blanket before laying her in the crook of her mother’s arm. Then she wiped the mother’s face and brushed the soaked hair back from her forehead. After sliding a fresh sheet under Mrs. Sidney, she stood and looked down at the two, both now sleeping soundly.
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