When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  Before I’ve fully realized what’s happened, Bump is laughing. “It’s a girl!”

  I collapse onto the bed. Bump shouts again, this time loud enough for Fortner to hear outside in his teepee, “It’s a girl!”

  The baby cries, and I can’t help myself. I laugh, I cry. “Oh, listen to her! What a beautiful sound.” Proof. This baby has survived.

  “December 21,” Oka says, noting the birthday. Mama once said I caused the world to do “an about face” when I was born on the vernal equinox. Now, my child arrives on the winter solstice and just like that, the world is back in balance. Everything is okay.

  Bump’s veterinary training has served him well. He places this tiny, blood-streaked being directly to my breast and cuts the cord with a sharp, sterile knife. She nurses instantly, a gentle give-and-take between mother and daughter. There are no words. I have never known such love.

  After so many hours of hard labor, I should be exhausted, but my body has been resting for months. I feel as if I could get out of bed right now and run the mountain trail to the prayer circle where I once rode with Kat. I am energized and ecstatic, fueled both by adrenaline and absolute adoration. As Oka helps deliver the afterbirth, I feel relief, release, renewal. And I realize, this is not an end, as I had feared, but a beginning. A beautiful new beginning.

  Oka has boiled water and together we gently clean the baby as she nurses. Her eyes stay closed, and she knows just what to do. “She is so peaceful,” I say. “So perfect.” How could I have ever, for even a second, not wanted her?

  I rub my fingers across every inch of her. Her soft, round head blanketed with a coat of my own dark curls. Her flaccid, chubby cheeks, pumping for sips of colostrum, a word Bump taught me during the last foaling season. Her velvet skin, coated in fine white infant fur. She is strong. She is eager. She is ours.

  I trace her tiny outline: protruded belly like a ball, miniature fingers bent round my own, tiny toes on padded feet. She opens her eyes and looks at me. She sees me. Knows me. Her dark blue eyes change within minutes to a deep black, like mine. Like Oka’s. Nothing like Bill Miller’s.

  I am disgusted by my thoughts these past months. All the times I prayed for God to take her back. The plans I made to fake an accident. To drink poison, or worse.

  All along, I knew I needed to heal, but I had no idea how to make that happen. Now, with this child in my arms, I think of a song Mama used to sing. “It is well, with my soul.”

  I kiss the top of her head, and I am well. It’s how Oka said it would be.

  “What are we gonna name her?” Bump asks, bending down to give each of us a kiss.

  All these months I have avoided choosing a name, resisting that bond with her. But now, as her eyes hold my own, as her swift heartbeat erases all my scars, I know her name. I will never again hear church bells and feel the fiery flames of hell. “Isabel,” I whisper, forming the word bell into something beautiful and innocent again.

  “Isabel?” Bump asks.

  “Isabel Anderson,” I say, rubbing her soft curls.

  “I like it,” Bump smiles. “My sister will love it!”

  His family is so large, I’d almost forgotten one of his sisters is named Isabelle.

  “My mother said the name can mean two things: pledged to God, or God’s promise. Either way, I like it.” He kisses Isabel’s head gently and she pumps her lips to drink faster.

  “She loves you already,” I tell him.

  “She know her daddy,” Oka says. And with that, the secret goes deep underground, like the box Mama buried so many years ago. Only this time, I hope no one will ever uncover it.

  “I want to give her a Choctaw name too. What do you think, Oka?”

  There is a long pause as Oka considers the answer. “How about Hofanti?” she finally says.

  “Hofanti?” I toy with the sounds. “What’s it mean?”

  “It mean …” Oka thinks of how to say this in English. “It mean brought up, cherished, nourished. It mean protected.”

  I smile at Bump, and we both repeat the name. “Hofanti,” he says. “It’s perfect.”

  Bump and Oka work together in silence, bringing clean cloths until Isabel’s small body no longer tints red, and her skin is dry and warm and swaddled in a soft white blanket on my chest. When the work is done, Oka grants us privacy.

  Bump climbs into bed with Isabel and me. We lie here, in the quiet early hours after the dawn, looking at our daughter. Our daughter. Our perfect, our beautiful Hofanti. Isabel.

  And then Bump looks at me. My eyes lock into his, and I feel the heat of tears. “Could there be anything better than this?” I ask him.

  He kisses me. “You’re already a wonderful mother, Millie.”

  Tears fall hard now, as the three of us pull together. A family. Bump, Isabel, and me. The We.

  Chapter 20

  The first few days, Isabel nursed a couple of times each night, took several peaceful naps a day, and spent most of her time either sleeping or eating. Other than interrupted sleep, there was nothing hard about it. But by the time we celebrated her first full week of life, she had already begun to cry, a lot, fighting to end her hunger, biting hard when the milk would bring her pain. “Colic,” Bump said. “Don’t worry. She’ll outgrow it.”

  I’m glad Bump has had medical training in vet school, but I don’t always trust he knows as much about babies as he does about foals. This time, he was wrong. It hasn’t passed. Days have turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Isabel is now three months old, and still my head rings with her screams.

  I place Isabel in her cradle for the third time tonight and hope she’ll manage to get some sleep. I lie down next to my husband. Kiss him. Move my hands across his chest. Bump deals me a quick peck and then turns his back and pulls the covers. “Try to get some sleep before she starts cryin’ again.”

  I can’t remember the last time Bump showed any real desire for me. He’s always too exhausted, or in a hurry, or needing to get a job done. Always stressed. I lie against his back, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine, wishing he would turn and kiss me. Touch me. It’s not the kind of love I ever wanted from him before. In fact, I did everything I could to avoid being intimate. But now, he seems so distant. So cold. I’d do anything to feel his love again, even if it is just physical. Instead, he keeps his back to me. I feel invisible.

  Within minutes, Isabel’s piercing cry startles us both. “Please … make her stop,” Bump snaps. “She’s been cryin’ for three hours.” He covers his head with the pillow.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” I whisper. I too want to cover my head and tune it all out. I’ve tried everything. Rocking her, nursing her, singing to her. I’ve changed her diaper cloth, taken her outside in the cold, inside by the fire. I’ve placed her on her stomach, her back, in our bed. I’ve fastened her into the cradleboard Fortner made for me and walked her with every speed of stride I could manage, trying to find the perfect pace to calm her. I’ve placed her in the crib Janine ordered for us, curling up next to it, sobbing along with her. Still, she wails, and for me there is no escape.

  “I can’t stand it.” Bump leaves the bed, taking a blanket and pillow with him.

  “Again?” I ask. This isn’t the first night Isabel’s crying has sent Bump to the extra bedroom floor. I hold her in my arms while she screams herself hoarse.

  “I gotta get some sleep, Millie. Headin’ up to Estes Park tomorrow to meet with the rodeo producers and work out a deal to buy some cattle from MacMillan.” Bump moves upstairs, and I try again to hush our baby.

  I sing softly to Isabel, my voice cracking with tears, as I rub her stomach in gentle circles. “Little star, little star, shine, shine, shine. Little light, little light of mine, mine, mine.” This quiets her a bit. Her bottom lip quivers and her eyelids droop. She’s exhausted too. Lack of sleep is getting to all of us, but it seems to
be affecting Bump most of all. His temper has flared, and he’s said things he would never normally say. “Burned the food again?” or “What exactly have you done all day?” or “Would be nice to come in to a clean house once in a while.” He seems to resent me now, as if his life would be better without Isabel and me always getting in the way. Just as I had feared.

  I finally broke down last week to Oka. “It’s not like him. He’s so angry.”

  “Give him time,” Oka said.

  “But Isabel’s already three months old,” I argued. “Bump said she’d outgrow it by now.”

  I stroke her tiny belly, rub my thumbs across her miniature heels, sing every lullaby I know. What I didn’t tell Oka is that Bump hasn’t been intimate with me in months. No matter how I try. I remember his father’s prayer, at our wedding reception. When times get hard, Mr. Anderson said, as they will, and when marriage becomes strained, as it will, and when Kenneth and Millie are so desperate they want to give up and walk out, may they find strength in You, Lord. May their faith draw them back to one another, and at the moments when they need it most, may they remember the love they feel today.

  “Please, please,” I pray. “Let Bump remember the love he felt that day.”

  “I gotta send a telegram over to Mr. Tucker. How ’bout we go into town today?” Bump cracks a few nuts and tosses the shells on the ground from where we stand on the front porch.

  I beam. “You think it’ll be okay to bring Isabel?”

  “I think so,” Bump says. “We’ll be quick.”

  I offer a kiss and clap my hands together with a surge of joy. I haven’t left the ranch in months.

  “Let me get Fortner set.” Bump steps toward the barn.

  “I’ll be ready.” I rush back inside to change into nicer clothes.

  Oka laughs at me as I rapidly change into a dress. She says, “You look pretty.”

  I blush. “I’m fat, Oka. Admit it.”

  “No. Not fat. Mother. Ishki.”

  I move across her bedroom and pick up a beautiful hand-woven basket. “You want me to bring some of your work to the store? See if Sheriff Halpin has room to sell it there?”

  Oka shrugs. “Nobody want that.”

  “Oka, these are incredible. Nobody knows how to make these things.”

  “Lot of Chahta do this.” She takes the basket from me and sets it back down on her floor.

  “But look around, Oka. You’re the only Choctaw in this town. People are starting to collect this kind of stuff now. And even if they aren’t collectors, this isn’t just art. It’s useful. You could make a lot of money.”

  She eyes the basket and the pile of beaded necklaces, bracelets. “You think people buy?”

  “I have no doubt.” I smile and gather a few of the most intricate pieces. Oka helps me stack them in the truck, making sure they won’t get damaged during the drive. Then she hands Isabel to me, and Bump takes us away from the ranch.

  By the time we get to town, it’s nearly noon. “How about we try that diner,” I suggest. “I’m starving.”

  “Good idea.” Bump parks in front of Sheriff Halpin’s store and we walk the short distance to the restaurant. I recognize a few familiar faces across the room, and we make a point to stop and say hello to the reverend and Mr. Fitch who are seated together at a table for four. They gush over Isabel and she cries at the sight of these strangers, Mr. Fitch with a silver mustache, the reverend’s balding head shining like a light.

  “The new church looks like it’s coming along,” I tell the reverend.

  “It sure is,” he says. “Starting the roof tomorrow, if the weather holds out.” I look outside at the wild spring weather. Snow is falling in the higher altitudes while the sun brightens the green valleys below. Here, we are caught in an unpredictable mix, with a constant wind to batter anyone on that roof.

  “It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” I admit.

  The reverend nods proudly as I struggle to unbutton my coat. Isabel squirms in my arms. “Maybe she can be the first to be baptized in the new building,” he says, reaching his finger out for Isabel to touch. She pulls away instead.

  Within seconds, Kat appears with Henry. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.” Kat looks like she’s just come off of a pinup calendar, and the men respond, as always, to her magnetic pull. Standing next to her, I feel like a whale, which makes Kat a siren, a tall, glamorous siren. I latch onto Bump’s arms so he doesn’t swim away. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, and it seems she’s become even more beautiful since our last visit. Kat smiles and taps Isabel’s rosy cheeks. “Join us for lunch?”

  “Oh, no, we—” I start to explain that we’re spending the day together, just the three of us, but Bump is already pulling two extra chairs to the table. Henry climbs in next to his grampy while Bump holds one chair out for Kat. Then another for me. He sits between us, and I hold Isabel. We’re all crowded together so close, it seems accidental when Kat rests her arm against Bump’s. But I’m beginning to wonder.

  Reverend Baker notices too. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. Bump doesn’t seem to mind. He leaves his arm where it is. “Came to post a telegram today. Have to give my boss the bad news that the cattle never showed.” He’s still disappointed because the deal Mr. Tucker arranged never panned out.

  “You have good news to send too,” I say, hoping everyone knows how much Bump has done on that ranch. “Bump’s about to buy a stallion,” I explain. “We’ll be breeding by summer.”

  “Kat says you’ve already made a lot of progress,” Mr. Fitch adds to my praise.

  Bump smiles at Kat. “Mostly on account of Fortner. He might be old, but I never met a harder worker.”

  “Thank goodness Uncle Halpin didn’t hear you say that,” Kat says, tapping Henry’s elbows to encourage him to move them off the table.

  I put my elbows on the table just to make Henry laugh.

  “Perhaps it’s difficult for him to see Fortner content again,” Reverend Baker suggests.

  “With all due respect, Reverend, that sounds like a bunch of hogwash,” Mr. Fitch argues. “Halpin is convinced Fortner murdered an innocent woman. Maybe two. He’s not happy to have a killer on the loose when it’s his job to keep us safe.”

  “Maybe so,” the reverend agrees, but I get the feeling it’s only for the sake of avoiding an argument. I’m guessing Mr. Fitch is the biggest donor to the church building fund, and the reverend would be a fool to risk those ties.

  “One thing’s for sure. Love can make a man do crazy things,” Kat says. “Take the rut. Did you see the elk last fall? Smashing their heads together like they have no sense at all. Those bulls are a perfect example of how men stop using their brains when a woman’s involved.”

  Everyone looks at Kat. No one knows how to respond. She’s said exactly what we all think every time we see her. If anyone has the ability to make a man do crazy things, it’s Kat. I’m hoping Bump has more sense than most men. But by the way he’s smiling at her right now, I doubt it.

  “I really don’t think Fortner is dangerous,” I admit, trying to draw Bump’s focus back away from Kat. “I mean, he’s nearly become part of our family. He shares meals with us, and he’s pitched his teepee right behind the house. He’s done nothing but help us from the start.”

  Mr. Fitch motions for the waitress and says, “Bump, you spend more time with him than any of us. What’s your gut tell you?”

  Bump speaks clearly, with not an ounce of doubt. “To be honest, Mr. Fitch, I think I’m more violent than Fortner, and I ain’t never even hit a man.”

  The waitress brings water for each of us, which crowds the table even more. Henry accidentally spills his glass and Kat snaps. “Henry! I told you to keep your arms off the table!” Then she looks at me and says, “I swear I don’t know how much longer I can manage on my own. Some days, I’m tempted to enlis
t. It’s bound to be easier than this.” She laughs, but it’s a tired laugh. Then she turns to Henry and tries to wipe his shirt dry.

  Bump leaves the table to find more napkins. As he walks out of earshot, Kat whispers to me, “You’re so lucky, Millie. To have a husband at home.”

  After lunch, Bump and I walk to the post office, where we find Abe hanging a new war bonds poster. He greets us cheerily and hands me a stack of mail. When he makes silly faces at Isabel, she cries.

  “I’d like to post a telegram,” Bump says. Abe motions for us to follow.

  “I’ll wait outside with the baby,” I announce, sorry Isabel greets everyone with a wail. I bundle her beneath my coat before returning to the chilly air. Outside, I thumb through the letters, shielding them from the falling snow by standing close to the wall, beneath the eaves. The first note is short, with pink lipstick kisses stamped in every corner.

  Dear Millie,

  I miss you. Come home. NOW!

  Camille

  P.S. I’m wearing lipstick!

  I laugh and open the second, a pink envelope that must have been sprayed with perfume. The sharp paper delivers a fine slice across my thumb, and a tiny line of blood rises through my skin.

  Dear Millie,

  Mother took all my makeup AND my magazines. I want to move to Colorado.

  Love,

  Camille

  And finally, a third one, postmarked the very next day. The cold wind nearly blows this one away, but I hold tight until the gust weakens a bit.

  Dear Millie,

  I can’t move to Colorado. Garrett Jenkins is now my BOYFRIEND! Has that cute gypsy found you yet?

  XOXO,

  Camille

  At the bottom is a big heart, in which she’s inscribed Camille loves Garrett followed by lots of x’s and o’s floating around the heart like stars. My emotions have been a mess throughout this pregnancy, and I’m still a hormonal wreck. The thought of Camille sitting on her bed drawing these tiny symbols nearly makes me cry. Instead, I tuck the letters into my purse with the rest of our mail as Bump joins me, suggesting we head to the store. We stop by the truck to grab Oka’s baskets and beadwork, and then head inside to show off her talents. I set the jewelry on the counter and a woman with a flowery hat eyes it.