Dedication
This book is dedicated to the healer in all of us.
Life can be hard,
but if we hold hands
we can make it across the river.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank first my husband, Tom Harman, for his support of my writing. He will do an extra load of laundry just to give me time at my computer; also, my staff at Partners in Women’s Health Care who have to put up with the changes in my schedule for book-related events.
In addition, I thank my editor, Lucia Macro, and her wonderful staff, as well as my agent, Barbara Braun. They have helped me give birth to another Hope River Novel. Also, I can’t fail to mention the midwives, muses, and patients who have inspired me.
And last, dear readers, I thank you for your letters and e-mails of encouragement. Writing a book is in some ways a lonely endeavor. You have doubts: Is it good enough? Will people like it as much as the last book? I keep thinking of you. I tell the story for you, knowing the women and men of Hope River give us courage, give us hope, help us heal.
Epigraph
Somewhere in Appalachia, there’s a small white house with a blue door. In the back, behind the barn, is a graveyard. Two women kneel in the tall yellow grass.
Under a rock are three babies, two of bone, one of spirit. There are fresh graves too, where black and white sleep together, eight in all.
The women have flowers in their hands, bouquets of daisies, yellow mustard, and pink phlox. One of them makes the sign of the cross. One of them can’t stop crying.
From the private journal of Becky Myers, RN,
reluctant midwife
Wild Rose Road, West Virginia, USA
1934–35
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Spring Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Summer Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Fall Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Winter Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Spring Again Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the author
Meet Patricia Harman
About the book
Interesting Facts about the CCC Camps
Reading Group Discussion Questions
Read on
Have You Read? More from Patricia Harman
Praise for the Hope River Novels
Also by Patricia Harman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Spring
1
Highwayman
“Holy hell, what’s this?” I say to Dr. Blum, who doesn’t seem to notice the beat-up black DeSoto with a table tied to the top that’s pulled over on the side of the road. A young man, wearing a wool plaid jacket, stands on the berm, waving his hat. “Help. Stop!”
The newspapers warn us about highwaymen out to do no good, robbers who pose as distressed travelers in these hard times, lure do-gooders to help them, and then at gunpoint take all their money and valuables. Slowing, I see a woman in the front seat, her feet on the dashboard and her face wild with pain. It’s only that face that compels me to stop.
“Oh, for god’s sake, that doesn’t look fake, does it?” I ask the doctor, backing up to see what’s happening. My passenger doesn’t answer, but then he never does. “Here goes nothing.” I put my leather pocketbook in the doctor’s limp hands and cover it with his coat. “If the man is a thief, unless he puts a gun to your head, don’t give this up. It’s all we have,” I command, jumping out of the Pontiac. Blum doesn’t blink.
“What’s the problem?” I yell to the stranger. “Your lady okay? I’m a registered nurse.”
“Oh, thank god, ma’am. I’m Alvin Norton. . . . It’s my wife, Bernice. She’s having a baby. What should I do? It’s another forty miles to Torrington.”
“She’s having the baby right now?”
I remember the first baby I ever saw born, a premature infant too little to breathe, with a double cleft lip that ran up to his nose. It was a precipitous delivery in the emergency ward and the mother was hysterical. Still in training, I’d been left to labor-sit while the other nurses went on break, and ever since then, I’ve approached childbirth with dread.
I push those images away and run for the passenger side of the auto, where I find a blonde of about twenty, vomiting out the window.
“It’s coming!” she says, her green eyes wide.
“What should I do? What should I do?” Alvin asks again.
“Well, the first thing is . . . get her bloomers off.”
The man blushes, sets his hat on the hood, and pulls off the woman’s wringing-wet pants while I throw off my worn wool coat. It’s old but it’s the only one I have.
“Can you roll on your side, Bernice? Put your head up by the steering wheel and open your legs? My name is Nurse Becky.” The woman squirms around and props one leg up on my shoulder.
“Sir, if the baby is truly coming, I’ll need a blanket or something to wrap it in. If it’s not time yet, maybe you can make it back to Butler Mills. There might be a doctor there.” I sound so calm and confident, but my whole insides are shaking.
“Yes. Yes!” The father is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
“In the suitcase!” the woman yells. “Blanket in the suitcase! Ughhhhhh!” A hairy orb about the size of an apple is already showing. The infant peeks out and then retreats, not ready to enter this hard world, I imagine. I try to act as if I do this all the time, but cold fear grips my stomach.
As a registered nurse, I’ve assisted physicians at scores of deliveries, but the rawness of emotion and the blood and the goo have never appealed to me, and then there is still the vision, deep in my psyche, of that first deformed child. . . . I’d rather set a broken arm, assist with a hysterectomy, or clean a ragged wound.
I have even been present when a midwife delivered the baby of a homeless woman in a tent, pitched under a stone bridge, and the outcome was healthy, but I still didn’t like it. What was it the midwife said to her frightened patient?
“Push a little,” I say, trying to imitate her soothing voice, as cold sweat drips down the side of my face. “Push a little . . . Blow a little . . . Push a little . . . Blow a little. Your baby is almost here, Bernice.” The father comes back, holding a crocheted white baby blanket. I hate to get it bloody, but it’s apparently all he could find.
“We’re on our way to her mother’s in Torrington,” he explains between contractions. “Where we were going to stay until her confinement, but the baby’s not due for two weeks. Will it be okay?”
“Ughhhhh!” growls the woman again and I ignore the nervous father, all my attention on his wife. I have no idea what I’m doing, so I just put my hands around the baby’s head and hold on, trying to keep the mother from tearing.
What a strange way to come into this world, I reflect, one human being squeezed out of another.
“Push a little. Blow . . .” The head is out.
“Oh my God!” the father exclaims, holding himself up on the open car door.
“No pushing now, Bernice! Blow. Let me check for a cord around the neck.”
“Urghhhh!” the mother growls again and the whole baby swivels and comes out on the seat.
“It’s a boy,” Alvin announces before I have time to look. “Oh, Nurse! Oh, my sweet Bernice.” He runs around to the driver’s side and strokes his wife’s sweaty yellow hair. She is smiling; her leg still perched on my shoulder.
“Is it okay?” Bernice asks.
I give the lustily crying baby a once-over, looking, as I always do, for any anomalies, and quickly wrap it in the beautiful blanket, cord still attached.
“Just fine. A healthy male infant.” Now where to put the child while I attend to the afterbirth?
“Do you have something soft? Another blanket?” The new father comes up with a worn chenille bathrobe to make a temporary bed for the infant on the floor.
“I have to push again!” the mother groans.
“Mother of God! Is there another one?” That’s the dad.
“No, it’s the placenta, the organ that gives nutrition and oxygen to the infant. You wouldn’t have a bowl would you?” The father holds out his nice felt fedora and I plunk the whole slimy afterbirth into it.
Then Bernice squirms around and sits up. I hand her the crying, beet-red boy, still attached to the mess in the hat, and she begins to sing to him. “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. . . .”
Alvin sits down on the running board, his face very white. “I don’t know how to thank you, ma’am. Will they be okay, until we get to her mother’s?”
“Yes, but take them to a doctor or nurse right away, someone who can cut the cord properly. I don’t have a pair of sterile scissors. This is important. Don’t do it yourself. It has to be sterile, and then a special dressing goes over the stump.”
“Thank you,” Alvin says again. “I have a few dollars. I’m sorry it can’t be more. I just got laid off at the Cumberland Lumberyard. That’s why we’re moving to Torrington, to live with her folks. Had to leave everything but what we could stuff in the car. You’re an angel sent from heaven, Nurse.”
“No, you keep the money. We don’t need it. We’re almost home.”
“Thank you, Angel,” the mother says, and I realize she thinks that’s my name. Angel! Bernice’s eyes are closed and she has the blissful expression of a person who’s just experienced an earthquake or a wildfire and come out alive.
Alvin finds a towel, which we put between the mother’s legs. I show her how to rub her uterus to be sure it stays firm and assist her in getting the infant to the breast. Then I take my coat off the hood of the DeSoto, say good-bye, and go back to the Pontiac to wash my shaking hands with water from a bottle I’d refilled at the last gas station.
“So,” I say to Dr. Blum, dropping back behind the steering wheel, my heart still pounding. “I delivered a baby. Did you see that?” Blum is snoring and drool is running down his chin. I look at him sadly, my once brilliant colleague, now a baby himself.
The Doctor
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” I hiss at my charge. “To punish me, and for what? I didn’t have anything to do with your losing your mind.”
The waitress, a bleached blonde, watches through the back window of the Four Leaf Clover Cafe just outside Oneida, West Virginia, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass, a small woman with a short light brown bob, an aquiline nose, a pinched mouth, and a puckered brow. Nurse Becky Myers, fallen on hard times.
The doctor just stares at a spot about a foot in front of him, seeing whatever nightmare he imagines or seeing nothing at all. The mountains leer over us, sandstone covered with red maple just budding. I blow out and begin the cleanup.
For more than seven years I worked with Dr. Isaac Blum, as his part-time surgical nurse while I ran the Women and Infants’ Clinic in Liberty, West Virginia. Then, in 1930 when the bottom fell out of the economy and the clinic lost its state funding, I followed him to Perrysville to be his office nurse in the private practice he shared with his brother for another four years.
I’d always admired Blum, the kind of physician who delivered babies, did surgery, made house calls, stayed up all night at the bedside of a sick child, and still saw patients in the office the next morning. He was a brilliant diagnostician and a careful surgeon, with gentle, competent hands.
I’ll admit he wasn’t perfect. He often talked like a professor, used big medical terms that the patients couldn’t understand, and he lacked social skills, but I always smoothed things over. We were a team, and when you face life-or-death together, year in and year out, you form a strong bond.
Now, here I am, a forty-two-year-old registered nurse with an advanced degree in public health, taking care of a grown man who poops his pants, can’t talk, and requires complete care just to survive. Maybe, I sometimes think . . . he doesn’t want to survive.
Blum’s collapse a year ago was a sudden one. After his wife plunged down the bank of the James River and died in that auto crash, it was like someone pulled the plug, and his life force just swirled out of him. It took two days to find her body, trapped under the ice.
I wasn’t a relative or even his lover, but like a good nurse, I took over his full-time care. What else could I do? Watch him starve, or rot away in his own feces? Thinking it was temporary, I moved him into the spare room of my rented apartment and devoted all my time to his recovery. . . . Only he didn’t recover, and we lived on his savings until it ran out. A year of grief later, his brother, Dr. Leonard Blum, senior partner and owner of their two-person practice, finally washed his hands of him.
“For god’s sake, Isaac,” Leonard yelled, the last time we saw him, just two days ago. “I have a living to make and a family to support. You can sit there like a living corpse and starve if you want to, but I can’t carry the practice alone. I’m bringing in another physician.” He slammed the door and roared away in his Packard.
I’d just brought Isaac home from Johns Hopkins (my last hope), where, after studying him for four weeks, the neuro men recommended experimental electrotherapy. They’d shoot a strong current through his brain and hope the pain would jolt him out of his lethargy, but I drew the line at that. (If Blum ever came back and had lost even one brain cell, I’d get the blame.)
Then, just yesterday, our landlady, Mrs. Jenkins, knocked on my door and stood there, her chin up and hands on her hips.
“Nurse Becky,” she said. “You owe three months’ back rent and my patience is as thin as snow in Atlanta. Twenty thousand people in the U.S. are being laid off every day and my husband is one of them. These are hard times, and I’m going to put you out if you can’t pay by Friday. We need the cash.”
I had only forty dollars, not enough for one month’s rent, let alone three. The rest of the doc’s money had gone to Johns Hopkins, but that night, Blum shocked the pants off me. As I was putting him to bed, he spoke for the first time in more than a year.
“Go home.” His voice creaked like a door hinge that needs oiling.
“We are home, here in Perrysville, Virginia.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Other Virginia!”
By this I realized he meant West Virginia, where he still owned a house and his old clinic. So . . . having no other options, I loaded up what I could and we escaped in the night.
Now, we follow the wooded ridge on the county road past small farms with grass so green it makes your eyes sing, past waterfalls that cascade down sandstone cliffs, past mountain streams that laugh for
the joy of it, and as we begin our descent my spirits rise. The old worried Becky is replaced by the other Becky, the optimistic one.
“We should be in Liberty in another ten minutes,” I say to my mute companion. “The electricity at your house may be turned off and it will be dusty and dirty, but we can manage.” The doctor doesn’t comment, but then I don’t expect him to.
Finally, after twenty hours in the Pontiac, we enter a high mountain valley, and I feel my tight stomach soften. There in the distance, I catch sight of a familiar landmark, a winding ribbon of silver they call the Hope.
2
A Poor Welcome
“Explain to me exactly how this happened,” I demand from Mr. Linkous, the attorney who has, for the past ten years, handled Dr. Blum’s affairs in Liberty. It’s only my training as a nurse that keeps me from screaming.
Isaac is seated at my side, immobile, hands balled up on his knees, eyes fixed on the attorney’s framed diplomas mounted on the wall behind his desk. (It’s so sad, really. When I first knew him, you could see his mind working in his very blue eyes, like minnows darting through a clear mountain stream.)
“Well.” The pale young lawyer clears his throat and flips his fountain pen back and forth between his fingers. “I was left in charge of paying Dr. Blum’s mortgage and taxes when he and Mrs. Blum joined his brother’s practice in Charlottesville, but last year he stopped sending funds. I wrote him three times.”
Here he frowns and taps a file on his desk that I assume holds copies of the correspondence. “I wrote to his brother too, November first, 1933, then I put a notice in the papers here and in Charlottesville on January first, 1934, but there was no response. Short of traveling to Virginia or paying the mortgage and taxes myself, there was no choice.”
“We were in Perrysville,” I snap, as if that makes a big difference. “It’s about thirty miles outside of Charlottesville.”
The Reluctant Midwife Page 1