“You got it. It’s going to be all right. Remember, you didn’t do anything wrong. Praying is a good idea.”
Kendra heard from her mother shortly thereafter. She realized it might have been a good idea to ask Shar to keep the awful news quiet for a while.
“Honey, I’m so worried about you. This is exactly the kind of thing Antoine Zibarro was waiting for—”
“Mom, don’t you think I know that? Could we please talk later? I need to try to wake up and get into the hospital to check on Alice. Her situation is more important than mine right now.”
“Well, I think they’re pretty well intertwined, don’t you? You shouldn’t have taken on—”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t want to interrupt you. But I honestly have to talk with you later. Okay?”
A sigh. “I’m sorry, too, honey. You don’t need to hear this right now. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Pray. Alice needs comfort and hope. And I need guidance and protection.”
She didn’t hear from Steven. Or Marianne. That was certainly no surprise. She figured he had probably told Marianne how horrible she was to him.
Every time she thought about how vicious she sounded, she wanted to crawl under a rock. How could she have struck at the one remotely vulnerable thing he had told her? She knew his parents pushed him to be more aggressive, or at least more commercial, with his carpentry. She understood her own relationship with her parents well enough to know Steven probably hurt a little at his parents’ pressing him like that. If they thought he should be doing something other than what he was doing, he probably sensed some disappointment on their part. Grown man or not, that was likely a tender spot. So, of course, that’s exactly where she hit him. How dark was her heart, to come up with such a harsh comment?
Before she left to visit Alice, she spent some time on her knees: Lord, soften my heart. You know what Alice needs to hear from me today. Please put the words in my mouth that will help her now. You and I both know how poorly I can choose my words, especially when I’m tired and emotional, which I am right now. And guide me, Lord. Please. Are You trying to guide me away from what I’ve always thought was my calling? Is that what’s happening here?
Alice and Lonnie were amazing. Their hearts were broken. But Dr. Chastain had assured them that the baby was lost because something wasn’t developing as it should.
“God showed mercy on our little sweetheart. Our Theresa,” Alice said through her tears. “She would have had a hard life if she had made it—” And she stopped to cry again.
Kendra cried, too, especially hearing the baby’s name. She reached out to brush Alice’s hair away from her face. “Alice, I’m so sorry. I’m so—” She stopped to swallow down the thickness in her throat. And to pray quickly again. She searched for the right words.
“Kendra.” Lonnie put his hand on her shoulder. “We don’t blame you. Is that what you think?” He wiped his hand across his eyes. “We don’t.”
Alice shook her head. She was crying too much to speak.
And Kendra joined her in that struggle. This couple—the lively, fast-talking blond and the laid-back sports-watching couch potato—had undergone what was probably the worst thing a couple can endure. And they were actually making an effort to comfort her.
It took only two more days for the article to hit the paper. This time Kendra was watching for it. As she expected, Dr. Zibarro was quoted, and he was virulent and far more vocal this time around. Now he attached an incident—an unnamed forty-one-year-old mother’s sudden loss of her child on July 4—and a name—Kendra’s—to the dangers of relying on midwifery. He was careful but damaging in his wording. Without pointing the finger specifically at Kendra, he said that “losses like this one are often connected to inexperience and the lack of proper care and facilities.”
Marianne finally called.
“Don’t let him get to you, Kendra. People who know you still believe in you. You know that, right? And they’ll talk you up. I’m going to see to that.”
Zibarro’s suggestions were wrong, but Kendra knew people tended to believe what they read in print. “You mean you still want me as your midwife?” After what happened to Alice and with Steven, she was honestly shocked.
“Why wouldn’t I? Everyone knows Alice’s situation had nothing to do with you. You had barely even taken her on as a patient. Antoine knows that, too, believe me. He’s covering his own skin just as much as he’s trying to tar and feather you. He was her caregiver a lot longer than you were.”
She hadn’t thought of that. Should she make an issue of that? Call the reporter and defend herself?
The very thought of engaging in a public argument like that felt wrong somehow. Maybe that was some of the guidance she’d prayed for.
Marianne’s comment cut through her thoughts. “We start weekly exams this week, right? How’s this weekend? I could make dinner for you and Steven after.”
Clearly Steven had said nothing to Marianne about how mean Kendra had been to him. She felt a sudden urge to see him. To apologize and make sure he would forgive her. “Uh, that works for me, Marianne, if it works for Steven.”
She wasn’t one for impromptu visits, but she was on full-guidance mode, and this felt right. She knew Steven had a lot of projects going, including her desk, so she rushed to his shop. She saw him through the window, placing a call. Just as she tapped on the window, her cell phone rang.
She ignored it. Just this once, she was going to ignore it. She watched him turn, and delight actually lit his eyes when he saw her. He set his phone on a workbench and came to the door.
Kendra spoke the moment he opened it. “Please forgive me. Please.” She almost started crying again, especially when she realized he meant to embrace her. She spoke into his chest. “That was one of the worst things I’ve ever said to anyone. And you’ve been so wonderful. Your work is wonderful. I’m just self-centered and—”
He chuckled and pulled back to look into her eyes. “I was calling you just now. You didn’t answer.”
She hesitated. “Oh. No. I didn’t. I was too worried you wouldn’t come to the door. Do you forgive me?”
He nodded. “You were having a rough day. You think that’s the worst I’ve ever heard?”
“Well, it’s the worst you’ve heard from me. I’m so sorry.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I need to show you something.”
He guided her into the shop, toward her desk. She couldn’t believe how nonchalantly he had treated what she struggled with for days. He had sanded her desk, and the drawers lay about on a workbench. “I have a feeling you didn’t know about this,” he said.
He had removed the upper left side of the desk, as if he were dismantling it. But from that spot he pulled out a drawer.
Kendra frowned. “I didn’t think those top drawers were actual drawers. Let alone drawers that pull out the side. Why would they make it like that?”
“It’s a secret drawer. One of the coolest I’ve ever come across.” He picked up the side panel that normally covered the drawer. “This covers it, and you have to pull up on it and remove it from the desk to find the drawer.”
She broke into a grin. “That’s completely awesome!”
He laughed. “There’s the smile I’ve been missing. But that’s only half of what I wanted to show you.” He picked up a package and handed it to her. “This was in the drawer.”
It felt like a book, but a layer of soft, pale leather was wrapped around it, and the open edge was sealed with wax. The wax had broken and flaked enough that Kendra could peek inside. “It’s a book.”
He nodded. “Didn’t you say this desk belonged to—”
“My great-grandmother. Or great-great, I don’t remember.”
Steven leaned against a worktable. “So. You going to open it or keep it sealed for future generations?”
She tsked. “Are you kidding? Didn’t I just tell you I was self-centered?”
She broke away the remainin
g wax and gently unfolded the leather. The book inside was in surprisingly good condition. The cover was also leather, but it had no title. She set the book down, gently opened it, and touched the top page. “This paper almost feels like fabric.”
“High rag content,” Steven said. “That’s why old books usually last longer.”
“How do you know things like that?”
He shrugged. “You know. It’s a wood thing. I’ve studied papermaking, too.”
She gasped when she turned a few more pages. “Steven, I think this is a journal.” She rubbed down the goose bumps erupting along her arms. “And look!” She read aloud. “March 2, 1843. A midwife means ‘with woman’—Steven! She was a midwife!”
“I am so floored.” Steven stared at the journal as if it had just dropped down from heaven. “I’ve been praying about how I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I want you to get some …”
“Comfort?”
“Yeah.”
“And guidance?”
He smiled. “Uh-huh.”
She tenderly wrapped the leather back around the journal and held it against her chest. “Me, too.”
Chapter 12
Over the following week, Kendra felt as if her ancestors had come calling—not just one, but a group of women who understood her in a different way than any other family member had. Grandma, yes, she was Kendra’s early inspiration and her mentor of sorts. But Kendra’s mother had been right. Even when Grandma no longer saw her own patients, she always seemed involved with other people more than her own family. As a child Kendra felt special to have been chosen as Grandma’s favorite, the one to whom many of the delivery stories had been told.
Still, this journal made her feel as if she were there as the stories unfolded. As odd as that sounded, Kendra knew it was true. Grandma’s stories were a wizened old woman’s memories. Sadly, she hadn’t been aware of the journal’s existence. These entries were written at the moment they impacted Kendra’s ancestors, and they pulled her in. There were entries filled with joy, but Kendra was most ministered to by the words written during the tougher times.
There was Adele, a Wisconsin widow in the mid-1800s who remarried but continued to help birthing mothers, her daughter, Polly, by her side. She wrote no account of losing a baby in the birthing process, but she did lose one of the mothers under her care. She described the sorrow in that loss, writing, At times I feel helpless in being “with woman” during times of uncertainty and fear … a faithful midwife learns to love, to cry, to pray, and to say good-bye.
And Adele’s daughter, Polly, embraced the journal as a family tradition as she traveled the Oregon Trail. She wrote about a patient whose loss was similar to Alice’s:
Katie Jo lost the baby two nights ago, just five months into her time. We don’t know why it happened, but the Lord does. I couldn’t write about it until now, when the Lord moved me to record the sadness, so that next time I’ll know that He moves us beyond it. I’ll read this later and remember. He does move us so.
Polly’s daughter contributed her wisdom as well, but it was Christiana, Polly’s granddaughter—Kendra’s great-grandmother—who wrote the simple line Kendra most needed to hear at this point in her calling: I was not the one in charge. I was merely God’s handmaiden.
Kendra was seeking comfort. And guidance. And protection from people like Dr. Zibarro. But this was exactly how she needed to see herself if she hoped to experience any of those things. She wasn’t in control. God was.
Lord, I’m going to do my best, always, to help these women— these mommies—deliver healthy babies. But I surrender my efforts to Your will and control. Please help me to accept and communicate the love behind Your will, regardless of the circumstances. I love that You entrust these women and children to me, Your handmaiden. And I trust You, Lord, in all things. Amen.
As if on cue, her cell phone rang upon her “Amen.” Marianne, sounding chipper as always. “Hey, Kendra, are you feeling any better? I tried to give you a good solid week before calling—”
“No, that’s fine. We’re still on for your exam tomorrow, right?”
“Well, see, that’s why I’m calling. I think we need to reschedule.”
Kendra grabbed pen and paper. “Okay, just as long as we don’t go too far down the road, with you due in less than a week.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. I think we might have to push that date up a bit.”
Kendra sat up straight. “Are you saying—?”
“Five minutes apart. That’s okay at this stage of the game, right?”
Kendra stood to gather her things. She laughed. “Yes. Marianne, I swear you’re the calmest pregnant lady I’ve ever met. Oh, but wasn’t Alice going to be your birth partner?”
“Yeah, that’s my problem. I went ahead and called her, just in case for some crazy reason she wanted to be a part of this, but I guessed correctly the first time that she wasn’t up for it. My mother is on her way, but she hadn’t planned to be here already. She’ll take three hours.”
Kendra nodded. “Sure. Okay, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I can bring one of the midwives I’m going to open the clinic with.”
“Perfect. Hey, that reminds me. Did you see the—hang on—”
Kendra heard Marianne breathing through a contraction.
“Huh,” Marianne said when she was able to talk again. “That was only four minutes.”
Kendra dashed out the door, lugging her boxes of equipment while she juggled the phone. “Okay, let me hang up so I can get help. You can tell me whatever you were going to say once I get there. If the pains get bad enough that you might not be able to open the front door, be sure to unlock it.”
“Key’s under the mat.”
In the short drive between her home and Marianne’s, Kendra called one of her midwife colleagues and Steven, both of whom headed to Marianne’s—one to assist and one to pace.
Between ever-closer contractions, Marianne told Kendra what she tried to tell her earlier: “The paper.” She pointed toward the bedroom doorway. “On the kitchen counter. The Gazette. Letters to the Editor.”
“Ugh. What now?” At least Kendra felt better equipped to read bad press after the strength she had gained from her journal. And from God.
“No, it’s good,” Marianne said. “And you’re not going to believe who—oh, here comes another one.”
The paper had to wait. But not for long. Marianne’s birthing experience was one of the good ones. Intense but smooth and quick, with no complications. Kendra had little doubt Marianne felt the pain of carrying and delivering her child without the support of a spouse. But her eyes were full of joy when her daughter loudly announced her arrival into the world.
As soon as Marianne was presentable, they let Steven come in. Marianne cooed to her baby, “Callie Marie, this is your big, strong uncle Steven. I know you’re just going to love him to death.”
Steven wouldn’t take hold of the baby until Marianne bullied him into it.
“You do delicate, detailed work with your hands all day long. I think you can be trusted with Callie. And you’d better hold her while you can. Once Mom arrives to help out, I’ll be lucky to hold her again.”
He laughed. “All right, give her here.”
Kendra watched him. She had a hunch about how he might react to holding that tiny bundle, and she was right. She saw him clench his jaw, swallow, and try to blink away the moisture in his eyes.
She walked her colleague to the front door and took the time to flip to the back of the newspaper Marianne wanted her to see. She found the Letters to the Editor page and had to sit down. Normally a one-page item, this week’s edition covered three pages because of all the letters Kendra’s patients had written, supporting her and defusing the damage done by the past two articles. Unlike Steven, Kendra didn’t fight her tears.
But her tears didn’t keep her from homing in on one of the writers’ names. Dr. Gina Chastain. Dr. Zibarro’s partner, the woman who destroyed Marianne’
s marriage, and the doctor in charge when Kendra and Alice arrived in the emergency room on the Fourth of July. Kendra braced herself for this one, most assuredly one that would differ from all the others.
But it didn’t.
As the obstetrician on call when midwife Kendra Silverstone’s patient suffered the tragic loss of her baby, I must respectfully disagree with my colleague, Dr. Antoine Zibarro. The loss of the baby was tragic but was in no regar connected to the care the mother received from Ms. Silverstone or from the OB/GYN practice of Zibarro and Chastain, the mother’s previous medical team, of which I am a partner. In fact, Ms. Silverstone’s swift actions prevented the mother from suffering any further medical complications as a result of her tragic loss. She is to be commended.
Kendra walked back into Marianne’s room, holding the rolled-up paper aloft. She caught Marianne’s eye, and Marianne widened hers to match Kendra’s expression.
“Ah! You read that hussy’s letter! Isn’t that a kick in the pants?”
Kendra huffed. “I’m so conflicted about her now. I mean, she—”
Marianne waved her comment away. “I know. Don’t worry about it. Even a messed-up clock is right twice a day, right? Some people have very selective consciences. Steven, I want my sweet baby girl back. And go away now so Kendra can teach me what to do. Poor little Callie has a first-time mommy.”
“She has the perfect mommy,” Kendra said.
Steven appeared reluctant to surrender the baby. He looked at Kendra and chuckled. “I want one.”
They laughed together, but when their laughter stopped, their eyes remained focused on each other. Warmth spread over Kendra like a warm summer shower.
Kendra sighed and looked from Steven to the child in his arms. Yes, please, Lord. One of each would be just fine.
Chapter 13
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