When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  At times I think God must be saying, “I’m sorry, Millie. You’re right. You’ve been through enough. I take it back.” Even before the mare kicked me, He had kind of offered me a choice by letting me know there were options, herbs, medicines. All along there were ways to bring a different ending to this tale. He has left it up to me. But there’s cruelty in that, too. I go back and forth, riding the rift between love and hate, forgiveness and fear. Sometimes, I want to make it all disappear. But then I think about Bump, talking to this child, calling her his little bean, falling to his knees when he found out he would be a father. And then I feel her move inside of me, tiny pulses and tugs as she dances against the pleats of my lungs. My heart swells with love for this sweet soul within me. And just as I start to believe we can do this, that Bump and I can make this work, I remember she isn’t his daughter after all. And then I’m back to wanting it all to end. But then, I imagine burying this child, and I’m sickened.

  I am living a lie, and I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make this choice. Either way, someone gets hurt. So, I just wait, and hope God chooses for me. That the burden will no longer be mine.

  I’m deep in thought when Oka knocks on the door. “Millie? You awake?”

  “Come on in, Oka,” I say. “Can you believe … when we first moved here, I was so tired. All I wanted was to spend just one late morning in bed.”

  Oka laughs and says, “God give you what you want.”

  “He’s got a wicked sense of humor,” I say. “Surely He knows you’re the one who deserves some rest. You never stop working.” She’s not only turned my starter rows into a well-fertilized garden, she’s also become a master at trout fishing, spending long hours at the river catching rainbows, browns, and cutthroats. And she’s been managing the flock of hens we brought from town. The chickens deliver fresh eggs, which Oka whips into delicious batters using butter she’s churned from the goat milk. Now that the days are getting shorter and the hens lay fewer eggs, she’s tricked them by hanging a lantern on their cage for an hour after sundown each evening. It’s a brilliant solution, one she hopes will keep them laying long into winter.

  This week, she’s been making a pair of moccasins to send home to her grandson. I watch closely now, trying to learn the craft. As we sit together, I feel such love and acceptance from Oka, I am pulled to open up to her, to say things out loud. I need to put an end to all these secrets, and for some reason, I trust my grandmother more than anyone else. I’m hoping she can give me some good advice.

  “Oka,” I bite my lip in nervous pulses, “I know everyone’s excited about the baby, but to be honest, I don’t know if I want this.” The words bring fire to my veins. Shame. I no longer consider this baby a curse, but I still don’t know if I’m ready to mother Bill Miller’s child. The emotions have been hitting me in waves, peaking and crashing. Love. Hate.

  Oka nods but doesn’t look up from her work. I’ve just admitted one of the most awful things a mother could admit, and she says nothing. Just keeps pushing her needle through the thick leather segments of the shoes.

  “It’s not what everyone thinks.” I try to explain.

  Her fingers continue to work the seam. Her way of listening.

  “Bump … he’s … he’s not the father.” My voice drops on the final word. I can’t believe I’ve said this out loud. For months I’ve kept this secret. I’ve been terrified to set it free. But just like that—seven sharp syllables—it’s out. I don’t feel dizzy or shaky or hot or cold. I just feel numb.

  Oka puts the moccasin down on the nightstand and takes my hand. “You wrong, Millicent.”

  “You don’t understand.” I figure the meaning has been lost in translation.

  Oka squeezes my hand and speaks again. “I do, Millicent. I understand. But the start, it not matter. That past.” She puts her hand on my stomach. “Now. Here. You and Bump. This what matters.” Oka pats my stomach with two gentle beats. “You no different than others, Millicent. You think you not deserve this?”

  Her words crush me. Of course I think I don’t deserve this. Who would deserve this? But then I realize what she’s trying to say. Bad things happen. Every day. To people everywhere. People just like me.

  Oka continues to deliver truth, no matter my reaction. “This baby fighting to be yours. You, the mother she want.”

  “But what if … what if I don’t want her?” I whisper. Words too heavy for my voice to hold.

  “Hush now,” Oka says. “Let this baby choose.” She rubs my stomach gently. “This soul can change its mind too. You know?”

  Oka has taught me to let the words sink in, to process my thoughts and let words roll from my tongue slowly. Let this baby choose. This soul can change its mind too. You know?

  “Are you saying this baby chose me?”

  Oka nods.

  “You don’t know, Oka. There’s more to this story than anyone knows. This was not my choice, you understand? There was a man. He—” How do I explain what took place in that steeple?

  She waits for me to finish.

  “I’ll never be able to look at this baby and see anything but a monster.”

  “Listen, Millicent. Listen close.” She takes both hands now and leans over me for full attention. “My husband, he not a good man. But never, never, do I say my children a curse. They mine. They choose me. God give them to me. I never look at them and see Boone. I see only my babies. You understand?” She does not cry. She does not raise her voice or show emotion in any way. She simply tells me her tale, leaving it up to me to make of it what I will. “Understand?” she asks again.

  “I understand.”

  “Want to show you something,” she says, and then she leaves me alone again. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I leave the bed and follow her upstairs to her room where she pulls several photos from a Bible. She selects one picture from the slim set and hands it to me. Two young boys, shirtless and shoeless, peer out from the image. They wear big, broad, open-mouthed smiles.

  “This Jack.” Oka points to the boy carrying the other. I am mesmerized by the joy I see on my father’s young face.

  “This John.” Oka touches the younger boy who rides on Jack’s back. She may leave out a few letters and twist the verb tense. Even her vowels sound off-key, but Oka’s meaning is clear when she says, “Jack take care of John. Of us.”

  Then she selects another snapshot. “This my favorite.”

  Jack looks about eight years old. He sits on the porch steps next to his brother, John. They are both looking down at a toddler who sits between them. Jack is touching the young girl’s face. Even in the photo I can tell the touch is nurturing, loving. A touch he never once extended to me, his daughter.

  “Who is this?” I ask, pointing to the girl.

  “Choctaw never talk about our dead.” Oka doesn’t look up from the photo.

  “She died?” I ask.

  Oka nods and hands me the picture.

  “Your daughter?”

  She nods again.

  “How old was she?”

  Oka holds up three fingers. Her hands shake.

  “Three years old?”

  Another nod. Tears.

  “Can I ask? How did she die?”

  “Fever,” Oka says, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. I hope she will tell me more, but she adds nothing.

  “I don’t know how you ever get over a loss like that,” I tell her.

  Oka is so quiet, I worry I’ve said the wrong thing. Then she says, “You know this Chahta story? How we carry bones?”

  I shake my head and hope she’ll teach me everything there is to know about being Choctaw.

  “Well, long ago, before my time, when we walk to motherland, if Chahta die, the family wait for bone picker to come. Then we carry bones. We walk for years, and we carry bones, but bones get too much. Some Chahta make trips, back a
nd forth, back and forth, to carry bones. And they heavy, too.”

  She bends her back as if she’s weighted down with a heavy sack. I nod to show I understand.

  “Well, one day, Chief call Chahta together. He say, ‘This not smart. This burden too big. It time to make choice. Choose now. Which bones to carry. Which bones to bury.’”

  The words hit me, and I know what she is trying to say.

  “You see?”

  I nod.

  “Sometime, Millicent, our past too heavy to carry.”

  I sit on the bed and look at the photos for a long time. Oka sits beside me, letting it all sink in. Finally, she asks, “You pray, Millicent?”

  I’m surprised by the question. “You know I do.”

  “No, not just for supper. I mean, you pray for other things?”

  I nod, hesitantly. “Do you?”

  “I pray every day, Millicent. I pray for me. For you. For baby. Bump. Everybody.”

  “You pray for the baby?” I’m surprised to learn others are asking God to protect this child. Maybe I’m not the only voice He’s hearing. Maybe that’s why this baby still dances within me.

  “Of course. Will be nice when she get here,” Oka says, putting her hand on my stomach again. “Been long time since I have little girl to hold.” And just like that, I know for sure, Kat was right. This pregnancy isn’t all about me.

  Chapter 19

  It’s Christmas week. Bump is already snoring as I finish the last of the gifts for his family. I’ve knitted scarves for the girls, socks for the boys, and stitched needlework patterns for the women. I’ll be late getting them to Mississippi, but I’m glad the task is complete.

  I’ve also made a blanket for the cradle Bump built. Oka’s helped me sew a set of infant day gowns, as well as cut some small diaper cloths out of the softest cotton we could find. I expect to go into labor any day now. Since Doc warned us the baby could come early, I’m hoping no one catches on. I’m sickened by the lies I weave, and at the same time I’m sickened at the thought of my sweet husband ever learning the truth. There is no easy path. As the days have stretched into months, it’s even harder now to know the right thing to do, if there is such a thing.

  Our little bean has moved lower this week, and the pressure has been building within me for days. My breasts are swollen, I have no appetite, and I am always on full alert. Nothing goes unnoticed. Not a sound, not a smell, not a sight. I now understand the hesitancy of the mule deer as they try to cross the pasture with their fawns. Fear. Determination. A fierce and primal mothering.

  Bump sleeps beside me while I toss and turn, my body readying itself for birth. As I try to imagine our child, I hope only that I can look at her, hold her, love her, without seeing those steeple bells above me. Maybe it’s the cold winter winds, or the rise of the mother in me, but this week, something deep within has tilted. I am riled with energy, tethered to this fragile little soul.

  The entire house sleeps as I spin thoughts, wide awake. I’m not afraid of labor. Maybe it’s because I’ve watched countless mares deliver. Even the first-time mothers seem to know what to do when the time comes. They never hesitate to clean the site, groom the foal, and nurse the baby before breaking for water or hay. Oka has been easing my fears as well, telling me stories about the Choctaw women who still give birth the traditional way. “Walk alone to quiet place in woods,” Oka explained. There, they deliver their child with no help at all. Then, they return to normal chores within a few hours, baby at their breasts. If they can do this, if Oka can do this, I can do this.

  By nine p.m., my water breaks. I gather sheets and towels, bowls and buckets. A bottle of alcohol and another of saline. I work quietly, using only the light from one lantern and trying to stay close to the fire. I am careful not to wake Oka, who sleeps upstairs, or Bump, who needs his rest after another long workday. I could be in labor for hours, and I’d rather them both sleep while they can.

  For a few hours, I walk through the contractions, counting my soft steps between bends, listening to the wails of the wind. The lonely moans of winter remind me that things change. That one day you can be soaking up sunshine, singing along with the songbirds of spring, flitting with the bees through fields of flowers. And then, you turn a page, and you’re all alone, in a blank white desolate world, met only by bitter winds and hungry howls. You can never start to believe the spring will last.

  What if Bump learns the truth? What if it’s all more than he can take? What if he leaves me, and I’m left to care for this child all alone? What kind of life can I offer her? Have I made the wrong choice? Not just for me and for Bump, but for this baby?

  As hours stretch, the pain worsens and my worries expand. The contractions fall heavier now. I begin to recite poetry silently, trying to stay calm. I force myself to breathe to the beat in my brain.

  Inhale: I wandered lonely as a cloud

  Exhale: That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  Inhale: When all at once I saw a crowd,

  The pains become closer, stronger. My body tenses and tightens from deep inside. Breathe, Millie. You can do this.

  Exhale: A host, of golden daffodils;

  Inhale: Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Exhale: Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  I walk through the pain, reciting Wordsworth’s poetry aloud now. I whisper each line, trying to pull myself from fear.

  Continuous as the stars that shine

  And twinkle on the milky way,

  They stretched in never-ending line

  Along the margin of a bay:

  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

  Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

  My breaths become short and shallow. I focus on only one sound at a time, moving through the poet’s field of dancing daffodils. As I reach the last lines, I am no longer able to breathe my way through the contractions. I think of the horses I watched give birth to their foals. I close my eyes and imagine myself in the pasture with Firefly. In my mind, as the next contraction takes over, Firefly picks up the pace. She runs faster and faster, galloping through the worst of the cramps, carrying me bareback across the prairie with the mountains at our side, the blooms below. She stays with me, running me right through the pain. I cling to the chair, pretending it’s her mane. I squeeze my hands. I bend my back. I huff. I puff. We run.

  The winter wind blows cold and fierce with a high-pitched scream through the gaps in the walls. With the fresh snow, there’s no way we could drive to Doc’s Place, even if we needed to. When this contraction hits, I let out a small cry. I hope I haven’t woken Bump. He never complains, but it’s easy to see the red threads that lace his eyes and the wrinkles that form under his hat. His hands are so chapped they bleed, and he barely finishes his prayers before he’s sound asleep each night. I’ll wake him when it’s time. But for now, as much as I need him, he needs sleep more. When the pain gets worse, I remind myself again of the Choctaw women. I try to be brave.

  Hours continue to pass as my muscles contract again, and again, and again. Each time with more intensity. Now I buckle in pain with each hit, letting the cramps crash like waves. As soon as I come up for air, I am slammed again with another heavy breaking crest. Breathe, cry. Breathe, cry. Try not to vomit. Cry. Call out for my mother. “Mama?!”

  I don’t know where it has come from, but suddenly, I want my mother. I wonder what she would be doing now if she were alive. Would she be here? Would she help me through this? Maybe I’d never be in this situation at all if Mama hadn’t died. Or if Jack hadn’t beaten her just as I was supposed to meet River. I would have left town with the gypsies, and I would have never met Bill Miller, and I wouldn’t be giving birth now, in a cold winter cabin, at the age of seventeen.

  But I also wouldn’t have Bump.

  I fall with another contraction, and this time I can’t help myself. I
scream in pain. Within seconds, Bump is at my side. “What on earth?” he asks, tripping over the stack of bowls I’ve placed beside the kitchen table. “Millie? Is it time?” Bump becomes a pile of nerves, bouncing around the house, accidentally knocking towels off the counter.

  “Oka,” I gasp. “Get. Oka.”

  Bump scrambles up the stairs yelling for my grandmother. Within seconds, Oka comes downstairs smiling. “I tell Bump to stay upstairs and go back to sleep.”

  “He … didn’t listen.” Another wave drags me under, as Bump barrels past Oka on the stairway and jumps from the third step down to the first floor. I breathe hard and heavy with each rapid breath. And now no amount of poetry will stop the pain.

  Oka sits in a chair and begins to work on a quilt. She knows the best thing she can do right now to help me is to be quiet and calm. Bump, on the other hand, stays right by my side, talking a mile a minute, and trying to gather his wits.

  I think of Mama, giving birth to my brother, John David. How unfair for her to have to go through all this, only to lose her baby in the end.

  What if our baby is born blue, like my brother? Bump holds my hand and seems so tender. Was Jack ever this kind of a man? Before he lost his family? And then his son? Could Bump ever be hurt so deeply that he would build a callused heart, like Jack?

  The next contraction hits, and this time I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. Then another, nearly as soon as the last one ends. And another, and another. As morning breaks, Bump insists I move to the bed. I squeeze Bump’s hand hard, and he takes it. Firefly runs faster and faster in my mind, and before I can reach the mattress it’s time to push. “Bump?” I half yell, half cry. “I’m pushing!” I lift my nightgown off the floor as Bump lets go of my hand and suddenly, Oka is right here, handing him towels. I brace myself against the wall. I close my eyes. I push. I pray. I push. I pray. With each rapid contraction, I push. I pray.