The Mountain Midwife

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “I’m glad I am here with you.” She disentangled her fingers from his and put the Tahoe in gear again. An ancient SUV pulling a trailer passed, and she pulled onto the road, flipped on her blinker, and made the turn onto a well-maintained gravel road.

  That road turned into one less well maintained and of a tar-and-chip paving. A third road was little more than a track climbing up a hill, then dropping into a hollow.

  And at the bottom of the hollow sat a building that looked like a trailer had sprouted a couple of rooms on its sides like growths. Propane tanks huddled against the side of one extension, and a chimney grew from the other. The entire building looked as though a high wind would bring it tumbling down into a yard that was mostly dirt, maybe a vegetable garden in the spring, but mostly barren earth scratched by half a dozen hens. Beyond, trees rose with majestic beauty, guardians over such ugliness.

  Hunter’s fingers curled around the door handle, unable to move one way or another. He was paralyzed in his seat, staring, feeling sick to think people related to him—or anyone—lived like this.

  Ashley unlocked the doors, but she didn’t move either. “They’ve got dogs. Let’s make sure they’re chained up.” She tapped her horn.

  No dogs came charging around the house. No sign of life stirred inside the house.

  “I should have checked one more time for messages from this woman.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing he was simply delaying. “Or not. No signal.” He returned the phone to his pocket and opened the car door. “I don’t see any dogs coming, so we may as well get this over with—if anyone is home.”

  But of course someone was home. Who left home with a fire burning high enough for smoke to issue from the chimney? The minute he stepped from the Tahoe, he saw a blind twitch at one of the windows.

  “We’re being inspected,” Ashley said.

  She leaped to the ground. “I’m ready anytime you are.”

  She had left her pocketbook in the car. Hunter hesitated a moment, then pulled out his wallet under cover of the door and slipped it into the console. “I’m ready.” Ashely locked the doors.

  SUV closed up tight, they met at the front of the vehicle and walked side by side to the front door. Hunter knocked. They waited. In the distance, beyond the tree line, at least two dogs barked. From beyond the door panel, the murmur of the TV with a commercial jingle diminished in sound.

  Hunter knocked again. “Are we being ignored?”

  “I think we’re being checked out.”

  The TV volume increased, spilling canned laughter into the afternoon. Then the theme song of an old sitcom filled the air for a few seconds before dying altogether.

  Hunter took advantage of the silence to knock again.

  “Hold your horses. I know you’re there.” Even through the door Hunter recognized the voice from the phone—whiskey over gravel well smoked. He expected a woman in her sixties to answer the door, now that he knew his relatively young mother was dead and had been for over thirty years.

  The woman who answered the door looked old all right, except for her eyes. Her body was shrunken, the skin hanging from her bones in folds like that of someone who had lost too much weight too quickly. Her hair, what she had of it, was a whitish gray, and her skin could have served as a road map of the twisting mountain trails they’d been driving on that week. But her eyes were a startlingly bright blue—a familiar bright blue. The same bright blue that faced him in the mirror when he shaved each day.

  If she wasn’t his mother, she certainly could be a relative.

  “It’s past time you came home.” Those blue eyes accused him.

  Hunter glanced toward Ashley for some kind of guidance, but she had stepped back, giving him and this woman a moment of semiprivacy.

  “I’m not sure I am home, ma’am. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Of course you do. I told you on the phone.”

  Hunter set his hands on his hips and scowled at the woman. “On the phone, you said you are my mother, but that can’t be true. My mother died over thirty years ago.”

  “Honey, I might have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but I can assure you I didn’t die thirty years ago.”

  CHAPTER 22

  HIS MOTHER WASN’T dead. Staring at the frail woman in the doorway, the dark room behind her, Hunter felt as weak as she looked, barely strong enough to stay upright. He was sure the concrete slab that served as a stoop was rocking beneath him. He put out a hand, whether to steady himself or grasp the delicate hand of the woman before him he didn’t know.

  Beside him, Ashley moved closer and closed her fingers around his. She was strong for all her slenderness. Or perhaps simply having her touch lent him strength. Whatever the cause, her nearness, her support, helped him find his voice, his reason.

  “Mrs. Tolliver’s records said you died.” He modulated his tone so he didn’t sound accusatory. “Yet you say you’re my mother. What’s the truth?”

  “Ah, Deborah Tolliver. She was a good woman, God rest her soul.” Sheila Brooks—if that was indeed who she was—shifted her gaze to Ashley. “She was a good woman and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “But—” Ashley’s fingers tightened on his.

  “How do you know who she is?” Hunter asked.

  The woman gave him a look that said, I thought you were bright, but she said, “She looks like her kin.”

  Ashley made a strangled sound in her throat.

  Hunter’s conscience pricked him. He was thinking of his own shock, when Ashley’s learning her grandmother must have falsified records was probably a devastating revelation.

  “May we come inside?” He peered into the room behind Sheila Brooks. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Not too warm in here. I’m low on propane and firewood.” She released her hold on the doorframe and stepped aside so they could pass.

  The room was cold. The wood-burning stove in the corner held only a few embers and small chunks of wood. Propane, he guessed, ran the furnace. She might even cook with it. A warm room or hot food? What a choice to have to make when one was so obviously ill.

  Or was this indeed a scam to get his attention and financial support? Only one way to find out—stay and talk. Get every answer he could so he would know where to go from there in an independent investigation. Meanwhile, perhaps he could help in an immediate way.

  “Do you have firewood I can bring in, or is it gone altogether?” He glanced out the window in search of a woodpile.

  “Under the carport.” Sheila—he couldn’t think of her as his mother—sank onto a worn armchair across from the rather new-looking television. “Can’t carry it and nobody’s been here long enough to help since Racey Jean left.”

  Not having any idea who Racey Jean was—really, a girl named Racey?—Hunter released his grip on Ashley, immediately feeling as though he had released hold of a lifeline in a storm, and turned back to the door. “I’ll fetch some.”

  “I-I can make us some tea or coffee or something, maybe?” Ashley glanced around as though seeking a teakettle.

  His heart eased a little with warmth toward her. No matter what personal crisis she might be facing, Ashley would probably always think of a food, or a drink at the least, to make others comfortable.

  “Kitchen’s in the trailer.” Sheila waved toward a corner where steps led up to a screen door.

  This living room was nothing more than an attachment directly onto the trailer. They seemed to have created walls from dry wall, but had merely cut a hole to match the trailer door to the room wall. No wonder the house felt like an icebox.

  Able to remedy that at least, Hunter escaped outside to find the carport. He hadn’t noticed it when they pulled up. Guessing it was around back, he skirted the trailer, catching a glimpse of Ashley through a small window, opening cabinet doors in search of something. She raised a hand to him, then turned away.

  He found the carport. Somewhere in the woods, the dogs howled with a frenzy. He
hoped they were attached to strong chains. They didn’t sound friendly.

  Piles of wood rested beneath the roof of the carport, keeping them dry from the elements. Nowhere was a vehicle in sight. No vehicle. No cell service. Surely she must have a landline, though he didn’t see any telephone lines. A power line ran toward the road, vulnerable to ice- or snow-laden branches.

  Surely this couldn’t be his mother, living like this for over thirty years while he had grown up in luxury. How could the McDermotts leave her like this, take him away and simply abandon their new baby’s mother to such poverty and squalor?

  A fresh wave of anger toward them, suppressed for the past four weeks, washed over him. He wished he saw an ax. He could have used some backbreaking work at that moment.

  The wood, however, was neatly cut into logs fit for the wood-burning stove and neatly stacked. Someone had been taking care of Sheila Brooks. Not taking close care, but had made sure she had a supply of firewood for a while at any rate. She needed more propane, if it was indeed nearly out. She wouldn’t be able to cook without it unless she used the woodstove. And if a storm came . . .

  He could only do so much at a time. One step at a time. Get her room warm and then find out how she could be alive when Ashley’s grandmother’s records said Sheila Brooks had died shortly after childbirth. Surely Ashley’s grandmother hadn’t lied. She would have no reason to do so. This woman claiming to be his mother had many reasons to deceive. She had television. A satellite dish attested to how. If she had figured out who he was, she knew he was from a wealthy family and not doing too badly on his own.

  One step at a time.

  He gathered up armfuls of wood and lugged it to the house. Before he left, he would pile more by the door. Maybe she had a tarp of some kind he could spread over it to keep the wood dry.

  Regardless of who she was, he wondered how he and Ashley could drive away from a sick woman knowing she was alone.

  One step at a time.

  He carried the wood into the house and stacked it beside the stove.

  “A city boy like you know how to build a fire?” Sheila laughed, then coughed.

  “Yes ma’am, I do.” He squatted before the stove and laid four logs on the firebox floor. She had plenty of kindling. From the look of things, she was trying to keep warm with those sticks alone.

  He laid several pieces of the kindling across the logs, then broke several smaller pieces of kindling to rest atop those. With each step, he felt Sheila’s eyes upon him, watching, assessing, perhaps judging.

  Once he had the wood set the way he wanted it, he glanced around for newspaper.

  “Under the television.” Sheila knew exactly what he needed next.

  He found a pile of paper there, recent copies of the Washington Post and Roanoke Times. The latter didn’t surprise him. The former did enough that he sat gazing at the newspaper for several moments.

  “Always looking for something about you or your family. Jeremiah brings them to me.”

  Later he would ask who Jeremiah was, but with his own birth name of Zachariah ringing in his head, he had an odd suspicion. Zachariah. Jeremiah. Old Testament names. Not uncommon with today’s babies being born, judging from what his married friends were naming their kids, but thirty years ago, names like Ian and Ryan were far more common.

  “I try to stay out of the papers.” Such a lame thing to say, but he didn’t know how else to respond.

  “That’s why I was so surprised to see you on the television. Thought my eyes were going with everything else.” She laughed and coughed again as though she had made a joke.

  With care, Hunter took one sheet of newspaper, rolled it from corner to corner, then knotted it in the middle. He selected a second sheet for the same treatment before he asked the question uppermost in his head. “How did you know it was me? I mean, how did you know I’m your—the person you claim is your son?”

  “That’s easy.” A lighter flicked behind Hunter and the smell of tobacco filled the room, not cigarette smoke, but pipe smoke, more fragrant, but still smoke. Surely not good for a woman who looked so unhealthy.

  Perhaps the reason why she was so unhealthy?

  He didn’t look at her but concentrated on his newspaper rolling.

  “You got Brooks eyes.” Sheila exhaled audibly, wheezing a little. “But the rest of you is pure McDermott.”

  The sheet of newspaper in Hunter’s hands tore in half with a ripping sound that seemed twice as loud as normal. He crumpled the halves in his fists and swung around fast enough to lose his balance. Landing hard on his knees, he stared up at Sheila Brooks, hardly able to breathe sufficient oxygen into his lungs to pose a wholly unnecessary question. “What did you say?”

  He knew what she had said. He needed to hear it again to have it sink into his ears, his brain, his heart with all its implications. “How can I look like a McDermott?”

  “It’s in your DNA.” She pronounced the initials individually like a cheerleading chant, then grinned, the stem of her pipe a mere inch from her cracked lips. “You didn’t think I’d know about DNA, but I watch television. I know lots of things.”

  “Apparently I don’t know enough.” His chest so tight he could hardly draw any air into his lungs, his head spinning as though he were riding on an atomically powered merry-go-round, Hunter resumed his paper rolling. If he didn’t do something with his hands, he feared he would leap up and race from the house, shout something unacceptable into the wind until the words bounced off the mountains and returned to batter his ears loudly enough to blot out what this woman claiming to be Sheila Brooks was claiming.

  One. Two. Three. Four twists of newspaper atop the fine kindling, Hunter selected a long match from a container atop the woodbox and struck it on the rough steel side of the stove. The head flared to life and he touched the flame to the newspaper. The print caught. He shook out the match and closed the doors to the stove. The room should be warm shortly. He wasn’t sure he would ever be warm.

  Across the room, Sheila huddled in an afghan, smoking, watching him, breaking off to cough against the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Beyond the screen door into the trailer section, he heard crockery rattle and found his escape.

  “I’ll go help Ashley.” He rose and ascended the steps into the trailer.

  To his left was a room set up like a dining room with a hallway beyond it. To his right lay a kitchen so old the appliances were avocado green. Ashley stood at the Formica counter, cups and saucers laid out atop the scarred and chipped surface, her hands curled around the metal rim.

  “She’s got to be lying.” Ashley’s voice was hoarse. “My grandmother would never write false records like that.”

  “She also says I look like a McDermott and that’s in my DNA.”

  “What is she talking about there?”

  “I don’t know.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his cheek on the top of her head, drawing comfort from her, and giving some to her, he hoped. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “I think . . . I think she can’t be making all this up. But—” She leaned back against him. “Whatever game she’s playing, we need to stay and help her. She’s dying, you know.”

  “I thought she might be. Lung cancer? She’s smoking a pipe and coughing.”

  “I think breast cancer. She’s had a double mastectomy.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  The tightness in his chest grew into a leaden weight crushing his entire torso. Grief for a woman he didn’t know. Loss for something he had never had.

  “I don’t think she has a phone, and I haven’t seen a car.” Talking practical issues was easier.

  “She hardly has any food in here.” The teakettle began to whistle, and Ashley poured the steaming water over desiccated tea bags in the bottoms of the cups. “Will you carry one of these and get the door?”

  Hunter picked up a mug and crossed the room to open the door. Ashley preceded him down the steps into the living room. Inside the stove
, the fire had taken hold and heat fought with the chill. Sheila no longer smoked her pipe. She sat in her chair, the afghan wrapped around her like an oversize shawl, her hands gripping a notebook with frayed corners.

  When Ashley set a mug of tea on the TV table beside her, Sheila held the notebook out to her. “It’s all in here. I want to sleep now.” She took a swallow of her tea, then leaned back into the corner of the chair and closed her eyes.

  For the first time, Hunter noticed the bottle of pills on the table. Pain medication? He cut his gaze to Ashley, who nodded, then settled on a sagging sofa covered with what looked like a tablecloth.

  He joined her, wanting and not wanting to see what was in the notebook.

  It was a diary of sorts, handwritten notes of a young woman ready to run away to the city now that she had her high school diploma. She was seventeen, so she had to sneak off when her daddy wouldn’t notice her gone long enough for her to get away, or he would haul her back by her hair.

  That man has hit me one last time.

  The writing was legible and literate. Even the spelling was mostly correct, demonstrating, despite the abuse and poverty she talked about, she had been a decent student. And a hard worker. She seemed to have obtained several part-time jobs doing farmwork and knitting things to sell at local craft shows. She worked at the predecessor to the current diner, and she saved every penny she could hide from her father.

  I got me a good nest egg.

  While the fire crackled, heating the room, and the wind rose outside, Sheila Brooks slept in her chair, wheezing and coughing, and as their own tea grew cold, Ashley and Hunter sat side by side and read her story that was too familiar.

  A picture of her pasted inside the pages showed a stunning young woman with a lush figure, white-blond hair, and startlingly blue eyes. Her smile was open and warm and her skin flawless. She worked three jobs in Raleigh, as far as her money would get her, to afford a room and meals. A year of that and she was happy to accept the offer of an older man to take care of her.