“Amram.” He turned in his sleep but did not answer.
“Amram, I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait?” he mumbled.
Disappointed, she didn’t reply. He was right. It could wait. But the news was so exciting, so unexpected, she wanted to share its joy, wanted him to know, needed him to know. She sighed.
Amram grunted sharply. “What, Jochebed? You may as well tell me since you woke me.” She had forgotten how hard it was for him to fall asleep again. This was not a good time to tell him about the baby, but she knew he would be more irritated if she didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry, Amram. I didn’t think. I should have waited, but I just realized … I think maybe … Actually, I’m quite certain … I’m with child.”
The silence stunned her. Its length frightened her. She waited for a response, watching his chest rise and fall.
“Are you sure?” The sleep-hoarsened voice gave away nothing.
“Yes.”
Jochebed waited for Amram to take her in his arms and tell her he was happy, assure her he’d take care of them, and say everything would be all right. Without a word, Amram turned his back.
She had never felt so alone.
Jochebed picked up Aaron and pretended to wipe a smudge from his face. She couldn’t bear to look at Amram yet, so when Aaron squirmed out of her arms, she murmured an excuse and followed him outside.
“Go river, Mama.” Aaron caught her hand, and they walked down the dirt path to the water. Jochebed welcomed the chance to splash water on her face and cool it from last night’s shame and rejection.
Aaron squatted on the bank and patted a handful of mud into a lopsided ball. He flattened it with his little fist then pounded the ball into the ground until the shape was no longer discernible.
“Jochebed.”
After six years and last night, his voice still warmed her.
“I’m sorry about … I just don’t know how we’ll manage to feed another…” Amram stopped. “The Lord will provide. He always has. I trust He will provide for us; at least, I want to trust in that.”
Jochebed shooed a fly from their son’s ear.
“Sometimes I think I’m more like that glob of mud Aaron has instead of a man created in the image of the Lord,” Amram said slowly. “We’re being pummeled into nothingness by this time in Egypt. The land He promised—will we ever see it, or will our children and their children live and die under Egyptian heels? Perhaps we should leave this prison.”
He looked toward the north. “Others have fled. If we hide during the day, traveling at night … perhaps … We might still have relatives in Canaan, Laban’s family.”
“Four hundred years later? Really, Amram?”
“If we leave when the moon is new and there’s less light, I won’t be missed until—”
“Amram, it is not the right time with Aaron so young and now this little one coming.”
Shoulders drooping, he sighed. “I’ll think of something.” Amram rubbed his hand across his brow. “Jochebed, promise me you will take care? Let Miriam care for Aaron,” Amram urged. “I truly want this child, my dear. Help him to live. Somehow we’ll manage.”
That night while Miriam and Aaron slept, Amram pulled Jochebed close and yawned. “Who will attend you at this birth? Will you send for Shiphrah?”
“I don’t know, Amram. When we are together, I trust her. I can’t imagine her ever hurting me or mine.” Jochebed rested her head on Amram’s shoulder. “I saw her remorse at almost killing Deborah’s son. It tore her apart, frightened her that she edged so close to evil. But when I hear the other women talking about Shiphrah, it’s as if doubts like a flock of geese come alive and corner me, stretching out their beaks to peck apart my confidence.” She frowned into the night. “Does that make sense?”
Amram didn’t answer.
“Can I trust our child’s life in Shiphrah’s hands, and yet what choice do I have? Mother Is … gone. Lili thinks of nothing but the coming of her first child. Miriam’s too young, and Sarah is so slow. The other women are busy with their own babies or slaving on Egypt’s behalf.” Her voice rose in frustration. “Deborah still resents me for what Shiphrah almost did. Puah travels in the opposite direction, and the other midwives are farther away.”
Jochebed snuggled closer to her husband. “I hope my doubts are foolish. Surely Shiphrah will not hurt me—if not for my sake, then for Mother’s sake. Amram, Shiphrah carries so much pain. She still won’t tell me how her hip was lamed or how she came to be by the river with a broken leg.”
Amram wove his fingers through Jochebed’s. She loved the feeling of her hand nestled in his, loved being cared for and protected.
“I can’t imagine being treated as Shiphrah must have been.” Jochebed blinked back a tear. “How can anyone treat a child so cruelly? What is within them—what hurt, what pain festers—that can only be eased by harming an innocent? Are they really lashing out at their own suffering? Amram, what happens to the pain? Will it erupt and destroy everything it touches? Does it turn to dust and blow away when there is acceptance and friendship?” She waited. “Amram?” A soft snore answered her.
“What of my pain?” Jochebed whispered into the flat darkness. “Will I ever stop thinking of things I want to share with Mother or wondering who my lost child might have become? If only I could have told Mama about this baby.”
She eased her head to one side. Mama had trusted the Lord no matter what. And if Mama trusted Him, then should she maybe…? What about trusting Shiphrah? Too many hard questions, and she was tired. She would figure it out later.
She lay in Amram’s arms, their hands interlaced even as he slept. She was grateful for this man her kinsmen chose for her husband. With each passing year, they grew closer, accepting life’s scars, knowing each other’s ways, speaking without words. He was the Lord’s gift to her, unfailingly kind, ready to listen to Miriam’s girlish chatter, and willing to help when Aaron became rambunctious. His temper, though quick to flare, had only once been directed toward her.
Gray streaked through his thinning hair, making him even more dignified than when they married. His shoulders curved under the weight of years of hard labor, and his strong hands were rough, the knuckles knobby and often achy. Men aged quickly under Egypt’s ruthless sun and Pharaoh’s heartless demands. Jochebed thought Amram the handsomest man she had ever seen in spite of the whip scars on his face and back.
Jochebed felt safe, protected by Amram’s strength. What a dear man.
Within her womb, their baby moved, and she treasured the assurance of life. As she drifted into sleep, she prayed the baby would be a girl to name Elisheba, in memory of her mother.
Chapter 22
Straining under the burden of carrying the two youngest children back from a morning stroll and bath, Shiphrah had no trouble walking slowly enough for their four-year-old sister to keep up with her. Thin as they were, together they were a heavy load, but one she gladly bore. She felt a special love for the youngest child, having ushered her into the world.
Joseph’s girls, long-lashed like their father and with the straight black hair of their mother, Elene, could not have looked more alike. Their personalities could not have been more different. Ella, the two-year-old, kept her face buried in Shiphrah’s neck, not responding even to gentle foot tickles. The three-year-old squirmed until Shiphrah thought her arms would break off from trying to hold her securely, and the four-year-old seemed never to stop talking—even in her sleep.
“Aunt Thifah,” lisped the oldest, “you come when Mama have baby?”
“Yes, Eleena, just like when Ella was born. It will be soon, too.”
“I don’t ’member when Elefa wath born, but I ’member Ella. Mama yelled. Aunt Thifah, did you yell when your baby wath born?”
“I don’t have a baby, Eleena.”
“Aunt Thifah, why—”
“Shiphrah! Shiphrah!”
Miriam hurried toward her and reached for the ch
ildren she held. “Mama said Elene needs you. It’s time.”
“Joseph.” Shiphrah called into the dark, her voice soft but urgent. “Are you there?”
“Here, Shiphrah.” The shadows moved. “Has the baby come? Is everything all right? Elene, is she…”
“I need you to find Puah and bring her here.”
Shiphrah sensed Joseph staring at her and knew he understood the unsaid. Elene was not all right; the baby had not been born, and something was wrong.
“Is…?” Joseph did not finish his question.
She turned to go back inside and heard his gait change from long strides to swift running footsteps. The sooner he returned with Puah, the better Elene’s chance of survival. Maybe she should have sent for Puah sooner.
Shiphrah lifted the dim lamp to study the laboring woman. Strings of sweat-drenched hair clung to a face with no color, no hope; her mouth hung open, revealing a broken tooth. Exhausted from hours of contractions, Elene slumped against the wall, unable to sit on the birthing bricks.
Shiphrah rubbed her own tired eyes and pressed her fingers against her temple. Had everything possible been done? She’d tied ropes for Elene to pull against, rubbed the extended belly with salt and fish oil, and tightly bound Elene’s upper abdomen to force the baby down.
Shiphrah lowered Elene to the dirt floor and tried again to turn the child in its mother’s womb. Joseph needed to hurry if he were to see his wife alive. There wasn’t much time left.
Wiping Elene’s face, Shiphrah thought of the three little girls soon to be motherless. Poor wretches. Who would watch over them?
Joseph, with his work at the brickyard, would be unable to care for the children. He would probably ask Elene’s sister Deborah to care for them. Saddened, she realized she’d not be allowed to visit or have any contact with the children. Deborah did not trust her, and someday, if Deborah had her way, the three children would be taught not to trust her either. Not that she deserved it, but she still hoped for Deborah’s forgiveness.
“Shiphrah.”
The voice, so faint she almost missed it, pulled Shiphrah closer.
“I’m here, Elene.”
“My girls.”
“They’re fine and with your sister, asleep. Rest, Elene, Joseph will be here soon. He’s gone for Puah.”
“You…” A spasm racked the weakened woman. Shiphrah held her hands gently.
“Elene, hush. Save your strength. Puah is on her way, and she’ll know what to do.” She hoped she sounded calmer and more convincing than she felt.
“Girls love you.” Her voice rose. “You take them.”
“Elene, no, don’t think like that. Puah will be here anytime, and maybe she can—”
“Promise.” The murmured word faded, dissipating like smoke in the wind.
“You know I love your girls, but they need you. I don’t know how to—”
A deep voice interrupted her. “She promises, Elene. It will be as you wish, my love.”
Shiphrah had not heard Joseph’s return but knew he had come just in time. The gentleness of Joseph’s voice and touch as he crouched by his wife seemed to comfort her as she slipped into death.
Puah closed Elene’s eyes. “Quickly, Shiphrah, stand here and place your hands on each side, like this. Press and don’t release … now.” Grasping a single, tiny foot, Puah pulled, knowing Elene no longer suffered.
The infant emerged. Puah cut and tied the umbilical cord before giving Shiphrah the baby to clean. Shiphrah dipped soft wool in warmed water and wiped the tiny face. The infant’s long lashes were like his father’s. As she removed the birth stains from him and rubbed his limbs with oil, she wished Elene could have held him before she died.
Shiphrah wrapped the baby in worn linen. She crossed to where Joseph still knelt by Elene and handed him his newborn son. How long would this child survive?
Joseph carried the mewling infant to Deborah to nurse along with her own son, leaving the two midwives to wash Elene and prepare her for burial. They worked silently, knowing what was necessary without words. Death in childbirth came too often.
Rinsing and wringing out cloths before handing them to her aunt, Shiphrah relived each moment of the delivery. If she had done something differently, maybe Elene would still live.
“Puah? I wish you had been here. You could have saved them both.”
She shook her head. “It’s almost impossible when they’re turned like that.”
“But what if I caused it? If I’d sent for you sooner…”
“No, Shiphrah, you did nothing wrong. Sometimes we can turn the baby, sometimes we can’t. Joseph lost Elene but has a son. At least this time one of them survived.”
Life so quickly becomes death, Shiphrah mused, but even sorrow sometimes holds a shade of joy.
Shiphrah rose to her tiptoes to lengthen her throw. She grasped one corner of the fishnet and hurled the rest of the net into the river. When most of it sank beneath the surface, she waded into the swirling water to catch another corner and began to pull it toward her, trying to stay balanced in the slippery mud.
This was not something she enjoyed doing, but neither was being hungry. After the last few births, she and Puah had been paid less than their usual ration of corn, and Shiphrah did not want to eat papyrus bulbs again that night.
Aware of being watched, she turned to see who it was just as something jerked the net. Shiphrah fell face forward into the river. Spluttering, she tried to stand but fell a second time. As her knees gave way again, she panicked, fighting to keep her head above water while clenching the net with one hand. Unable to balance in the soft mud long enough to regain her footing, it became harder to catch her breath.
A strong hand grabbed her, lifting her out of the water as another hand pried her fingers away from the net. “Crocodile! Let go.”
Someone dragged her to shore and gently set her high on the riverbank.
Gasping for breath, Shiphrah turned and looked into dark eyes with long lashes.
“You,” Joseph said, “are a stubborn woman.”
Poised to flee, Shiphrah searched his face for any sign of anger. Finding none, she realized both of them were dripping wet. Was Sarah anywhere near? This story might be the most exciting reputation ruiner she ever told. Shiphrah groaned.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Joseph. I was just thinking that if, uh, someone saw us…”
“Sarah?” He slanted his eyes at her.
“Can you imagine the story she’d tell?”
They grinned, and then the smile slid from Joseph’s face. “Shiphrah, I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone.”
Shiphrah looked at the ground.
“I loved my wife and will honor her as best I can, but the children should be with family, and I…” He swallowed awkwardly. “I could not hold you to a promise you did not make. I wanted Elene to be at peace when she died and answered for you, thinking only of her. You have no obligation to us, but the girls do love you and want to see you.”
“Deborah does not approve of—”
“This is not about her. I am their father, and I know you care about my girls. They miss their mother. When you have time, if you are willing, please visit them. Their aunt has little time and no patience for four extra children. Deborah will not stop you from seeing them.”
Shiphrah blinked back tears. “Joseph, thank you. I do love your girls.”
“Then it is settled. Now, tell me why you were in the river.”
She blushed. “Fishing.”
“That I know. Why are … Do you not have … Are you and Puah hungry?”
“No! No, we’re fine. Truly, but I have to admit I don’t like eating papyrus bulbs so many nights.”
“Shiphrah, no more fishing. I’ll see you and Puah have food.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’m sure you did everything you knew to help Elene. Allow me to repay you as I can.”
“But what will people think?”
“They will think I honor you and Puah for saving my son.”
“But Old Sar—”
“Will think whatever she wants to think. I will not allow her to speak of you dishonorably. Shiphrah, we are two adults who have known each other for years. Will you trust me in this?”
Shiphrah opened her mouth to argue but could think of nothing to say. Joseph was right, and she did trust him. She and Puah had trusted him for years. Besides, papyrus bulbs tasted terrible.
Jochebed knew she would work long after dark to complete the necessary baskets due tomorrow, but for now it was pleasant to sit with Shiphrah and watch the children playing.
They reminded her of ducklings, balancing with their outstretched arms as they ran, wobbling uncertainly from side to side, squealing and squawking until they tumbled into a pile of tangled arms and legs. Wanting to share a laugh, she turned to Shiphrah, but Shiphrah’s attention was focused on the one child who sat alone.
“Bedde, I wonder why Ella isn’t walking by now. She doesn’t even try.”
“Aaron and Miriam were walking long before her age,” Bedde admitted. “But Mother used to say some children take longer to learn.”
“I’m worried about her. Having never been a mother, I wasn’t sure, but something doesn’t seem right to me. Maybe Joseph knows when his other girls walked.”
Joseph frowned at Shiphrah and repeated her question as if trying to understand what she asked. “When they walked?”
“Ella’s left foot isn’t ticklish, and she isn’t trying to walk at all.”
“So?”
“I’m concerned about her. She sits alone and doesn’t play with the others.”
Joseph ran grimy fingers through his hair. “Shiphrah, my wife died recently; I haul bricks for Ramses’s gang masters from sunup to sundown and come home after dark to work my own field and care for my own flock. Each morning, I leave not knowing if I will survive the day. If one of Ella’s feet isn’t ticklish…”
“She may never walk.”
“God in heaven! She’s crippled!” Joseph swiped his hand across his mouth. “Like you?”
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 18