The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  To keep from thinking about it, I knit and knit until the scarf is four feet long. But that’s not long enough. Outside the world whirls in white, and when I go out on the porch for more wood, I see a large white owl sitting on a low branch of the cottonwood tree. It stares at me with round golden eyes. I stare back.

  I remember that even though snowy owls are Arctic birds, the last few years, people have seen them as far south as West Virginia. Richard said it has something to do with climate change and not enough food, or maybe it’s too much food, I forget.

  “You look kind of hungry, bud. I’d like to feed you, but I don’t know what snowy owls eat, probably mice and lemmings, but there are no lemmings here. I wonder if you’d like some salami? Worth a try!”

  Back in the cottage, I dump my load of wood near the fireplace, return through the kitchen and slip out on the porch silently with three pieces of lunchmeat. I brush the snow away and lay the circles of salami on the porch rail, an offering to one of Richard’s Arctic kin. “Let’s see if you like that!” I say to the owl. “If you don’t, I’m sure Tiger will.”

  Happy to have done a good deed, I retreat to the bathroom where I can watch through the window. At first nothing happens, but then the owl swivels his head and looks around.

  With two flaps of his huge white wings he floats to the rail. With three bites, the salami is gone. He sits for a minute, enjoying his meal, swivels his head again, looking right at me through the window glass and silently flaps away.

  Stunned, I sit down on the toilet. I was five feet from a snowy owl in broad daylight! A rare visitor from the north . . .

  SNOWY OWL

  One of the largest owls

  Almost all white, usually nocturnal

  Range: Rare in the US, lives mostly in northern Canada and the Arctic

  Diet: Small mammals

  Voice: A deep muffled hooooo

  Size: 23 inches

  Wingspan: 4 feet 4 inches!

  Keeper of Colors

  You coming to the Christmas party?” Molly asks on the phone without even saying hello.

  “Tonight? I forgot about it.”

  “You forgot it’s Christmas Eve?” she says with scorn. “How does that happen?”

  “Molly,” I say as gently as I can. “When a person has no family, holidays don’t mean that much.”

  “Sorry,” she says by way of apology. “Anyway, you have us. We’ll pick you up at six.”

  Five minutes later the phone rings again and I lay down my knitting . . . “Just wanted to apologize if I was insensitive about Christmas,” she starts out where we left off. “You’ll come over on Christmas Day tomorrow and eat with us, won’t you?”

  “Sure. I guess. Thanks a lot.” We hang up.

  Another five minutes and she’s on the line again. “The last ferry comes in with our winter supplies about seven tonight, Chris will be on the ferry and pick yours up along with ours. And wear something nice. People dress up for this party.”

  “Yes, Molly. Now I have to get back to work.”

  Work? I think. What work? I’m not a writer. I’m not a midwife. What am I? I stare out the window. Outside the water is blue, but all along the shore whitecaps slash the beach and all along the beach ice is piled up like a wall. Another storm is coming in, that’s for sure.

  “What am I?” I ask myself again.

  Keeper of the Colors, I think. Nita told me I would be the keeper of the green trees, the yellow sunflowers, the blue waters, the red fire, the white seagulls, the brown earth, the purple sky at sunset.

  AN HOUR LATER, the scarf is five feet long, but still not long enough. Peter must be six feet or taller. Tiger bats the ball of yarn on the floor below the rocking chair, and I know what he’s thinking. Oh, that looks fun! He’d like to pounce on the ball and tangle it up. “No you don’t!” I put the red yarn in the basket, before he gets his claws into it.

  The wool scarf is soft, and though the stitches are uneven, each one is made with love. Love, I think. This surprises me. Do I love Peter Dolman?

  Do I even know what love means? I love my daughter . . . in my secret mother heart, but the love and the pain are locked away together . . . I used to love Richard, but that’s gone with the wind.

  I remember how I felt when wrapped in the quilt with Peter, how our hearts beat together, and I press my cheek to the unfinished scarf.

  At five-thirty, I realize the scarf still isn’t quite finished, but unless things are really awkward with him at the party, I’ll at least show it to him . . . I put it back in the basket with the red bow on the handle and cover it with one of Mrs. Nelson’s clean white dish towels. Then I take my presents from under my Christmas bush, put them in a plastic garbage bag along with my flats and try to think what I can wear for the party. Something warm, for sure, but Molly Lou said to dress up! What do I have?

  Finally, I remember the long white skirt with the ruffle I bought at the yard sale months ago. It’s just homespun cotton, but I can wear it with the white silk thermal long johns underneath and the white silk thermal V-neck on top. When I’m dressed, I drop Lenny’s necklace back over my head, giving the seagull a kiss, and look in the mirror. Perfect, says a voice in my head. It’s Karen.

  Ten minutes later, Molly honks out front and I pull on my boots and my parka (completely ruining the effect of my elegant ensemble!). Then I grab my bag of gifts and head for the car. Stepping outside in the gale, my skirt lifts up like a parachute.

  “Hi, Santa,” Molly greets me, indicating my big sack of gifts.

  “Where’s Chris?” I ask.

  “I’m here!” says the little boy from the back.

  “I meant Big Chris.” I throw him a smile.

  “I’m big!”

  “Quiet, honey,” says Molly. “Remember? Chris went over on the ferry with most of the men to bring back the winter supplies. It’s kind of a tradition. Earl Prentiss at the Cider Mill provides the hard cider. It’s the only time the captain allows liquor onboard.”

  We both look at the waves splashing over Sunrise Road as we drive slowly over the frozen spray. It’s almost as rough as the night of the sailboat rescue.

  “The weather’s turning bad.” Molly passes the pub and goes down to the ferry dock. She peers at the slabs of white that are churning around in the water and states the obvious. “Ice.”

  “You think they’ll really come?” I ask. “The breakers look bad, almost ten feet again.”

  “Yeah, they’ll come. It’s Christmas and the captain of the ferry is an island man. They’ll come.” The surf and ice crash against the cement piers, sounding like drums. Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom.

  I squeeze Molly’s arm. I can see why she’s anxious. She lost both her dad and her brother to the dark inland sea.

  CHAPTER 56

  Big Waves and Wind

  A few minutes later when we enter the Black Sheep Pub, I see that they’ve set up an eight-foot lighted Christmas tree next to the piano and there are already presents on the red felt skirt below. Since I don’t know the customs, I leave my gifts against the wall in my St. Nicholas bag.

  Music’s playing on the stereo—Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king—and the room smells of roast lamb and biscuits, baked apples and pumpkin pie. Always the life of the party, Terry is reading the story How the Grinch Stole Christmas to the children and Little Chris runs right over to join them.

  Without hesitation, Molly Lou puts on an apron and hurries through the wide doors that lead to the kitchen. I stop to take off my coat and boots and slip into my flats. There are mostly just women present, with the exception of a few of the older men and kids. Lots of kids . . .

  Helen’s cell phone rings and she waves for everyone in the kitchen to be quiet. I watch her face. She’s biting her upper lip, not a good sign. When she gets off, she tries to sound cheerful, but fear shows in her eyes.

  All the good-natured joking stops and Helen says in a low voice, “That was Dolman. The men on the ferry wil
l be a little late. They’re hitting some weather.” Hitting some weather is clearly an island euphemism for big waves and wind . . .

  I picture the little white ferry loaded heavy with the island men and their winter supplies, tossed up and down by the huge dark water and battered by ice floes, and I remember what Molly Lou said about shipwrecks. Lake Erie is shallower than the other Great Lakes . . . There are more hidden reefs . . . And the waves get as big as those on the ocean.

  To busy myself, I take out my knitting. Terry rolls over in her electric chair, wearing a long black velvet dress. She brings me a glass of cold cider. “Nice outfit,” she says, indicating the white skirt, white V-neck tee and the white seagull pendant. “You look like a snowflake.” She moves closer and inspects my unfinished scarf.

  “Thanks for sending Big Chris over with his front-end loader to get rid of the ice behind my house. That was a welcome surprise.”

  “It was nothing.” I drop a stitch and have to go back. (It’s a lot harder to knit when someone’s talking to you.)

  “Yeah, but he said you insisted on paying him,” Terry says, and I finally put down my needles.

  “I was happy to do it. Consider it a Christmas present or you can give me free knitting lessons.” (This is said lightly, but how do I know I’ll even be living in Canada for another season? I may still be deported. Dolman can’t fix everything.)

  At that moment, there are footsteps on the porch and everyone looks toward the door, hoping it’s the men from the ferry, but it’s the women and the kids from the commune, carrying hot dishes and plates. Rainbow waves and sends me a flying kiss as she takes off her long woolen cloak and unwraps her baby, but when she hears from the women in the kitchen that the boat is in trouble her expression changes. Like the other women, she listens to the wind, imagines the huge waves battering the little white ferry and says a silent prayer.

  “Say, where’s Austin Aubrey?” one of the cottagers asks in a voice that bounces around the quiet pub like a ping-pong ball. He apparently doesn’t know about the little ferry out on the raging water. “Where’s the cop? Are they boycotting this shindig?”

  “No,” Nell Ambroy explains. “The island men went on the boat to bring back our winter supplies. They’ll be here.” I look at my watch. It’s already eight.

  Finally, I can stand it no longer. No one is eating. No one’s talking or opening presents. I put the unfinished scarf back in my basket and, before I lose my nerve, start tapping on my cider glass as if I have an important announcement.

  Next, I jump up and yell into the crowd. “Okay, everyone! Let’s get this party rolling! The island men are probably having a blast out on the lake, drinking hard cider and telling stories of worse storms than this. We don’t want them to come in and find us sitting around like we’re at a wake.

  “Come here, Little Chris.” I lift him up on a chair. “You can help me lead some songs. Let’s start with ‘This Little Light of Mine’ . . . I bet everyone knows it!”

  “This little light of mine!” the seven-year-old begins bravely in his high angelic voice. “I’m gonna let it shine . . .”

  At first the voices are tentative, but as Elsa and Rainbow join me everyone comes in. I walk around the room waving my arms like the director of a high school choir. (I’m a midwife for God’s sake, good at sitting on my hands, but also good at ordering people around when the going gets rough.)

  We follow “This Little Light of Mine” with “Jingle Bells.” (Anything to drive the worry away.)

  “How about ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear’?” Elsa suggests, but this is a mistake. When the voices get softer, we can hear the surf and chunks of ice pounding the breakwall.

  “Mother of God!” someone says, imagining the little ferry out on the water . . . and the singing stops.

  It’s then that we notice, under the wind, what sounds like someone crying. Molly Lou grabs her coat and runs outside, followed by everyone who can squeeze through the door.

  Standing on the porch, we can hear the wail clearly now, but it’s not someone sobbing. It’s the sound of a bagpipe as the bellows fill. A quarter mile away on the icy road, lanterns and flashlights are coming this way, and in the distance there’s the shadow of the ferry, already secured to the dock.

  As the parade of men get closer, they break out in a familiar Scottish marching song. “Hark when the night is falling. Hear! Hear! The pipes are calling!” Austin Aubrey is leading the group, playing his bagpipe, but there’s a second bagpipe too. With surprise, I recognize three of the musicians from Poor Angus. One plays the flute. One plays the other bagpipe. One carries a guitar case. Wade and John are beating the New Day drums. “Hear! Hear! The pipes are calling!”

  When the men get to the steps, we all back away to let them into the warmth. Molly throws her arms around Big Chris. Elsa helps Aubrey off with his coat. John and Wade and all the other fellows from the commune are loud and jolly.

  Peter Dolman enters last, his face serious and red from the cold, the flaps on his cop hat fastened under his chin. The shepherd bringing his flock home, I think, and I catch his eye, but there are a dozen people between us.

  Gift

  Having done my part to jolly things up, I retire to the corner as far away from the commotion as I can get and watch as the band sets up by the piano and everyone is served their hot food.

  The musicians tune their instruments and soon music floats over the crowd of happy faces. Quickly the women clear the plates and wash the dishes and then the men push back the tables.

  Before the dancing begins, I hurry around the room, handing out my few gifts. Jed and John put on their matching knit beanies from the Fibre Guild’s shop. Then they give each other a big smooch right in front of everyone.

  Big Chris unwraps his mittens, holds up his hands and makes them dance like puppets. Molly loves her new shawl. Little Chris laughs with joy when he sees his big bag of M&M’s and Rainbow, with a smile that illuminates the room, wraps up her baby in her soft handwoven blue wool baby blanket.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, looking into my eyes. “Thank you.” And I know she means more than thanks for the blanket.

  “Happy Christmas, Sara!” “Merry Christmas, Sara!” Everyone greets me with hugs as I move around the room.

  Then the music starts up. It’s a waltz with musicians from Poor Angus on the piano and fiddle, so sweet and pure that tears come to my eyes and no wonder! I’m on an emotional ledge. What a night! The storm, the worry about the men on the ferry . . .

  I stare across the room. Molly and Big Chris are waltzing like two dancing bears. Elsa and Austin are swooping around as gracefully as if they’ve taken ballroom dancing lessons and Kristie, the cute waitress, is with Santiago, the young nephew from Mexico. Then a hand touches my back.

  “Dance?” asks Dolman.

  When the tune ends, I tell Peter I have a present for him. “I have a gift for you too. Let’s go in the back.” He leads me into a dim pantry.

  First I give him his gift. “I’ve been working on it for a couple of days,” I say as I place the unfinished red scarf around his neck.

  “I didn’t know you could knit.”

  “Well, I just learned. But there’s probably a lot you don’t know about me!”

  “I know more than I did a week ago . . . I have a present for you too.” He pulls out a white envelope and a small carved wooden box that he must have made in his woodshop.

  “Which one first?”

  “The card, I guess.”

  When I open the Christmas card, it says only Happy Holidays, from Peter, but I also discover two official-looking Canadian immigration forms and a copy of Clara Perry’s birth certificate tucked inside. I look at the official certificate first. “How did you get this?”

  “Cops have their ways. You’ll need it to get a new passport and real ID.”

  Then I turn to the forms. One is an application for a visa if you’re employed in Canada. The other is about becoming a citizen by marrying a
Canadian.

  “Is this for the job with Jed at the clinic?” I ask, holding up the first form. “Does Jed know about everything?”

  “Not everything. Just that you’re here without a passport and you might want to stay. He got the funding for a nursing assistant before he even knew about your problem.”

  I go back to the second form, the one about marriage, not sure what it means, but afraid to ask.

  “Open the other present now,” Peter orders.

  “Okay.” I admire the delicate carving of a perfect snowflake on the lid of the little wooden box and smile. “You made this for me?”

  Peter nods. “Go ahead.”

  The box is sealed with Scotch tape and it takes me a minute to peel it off. “Go ahead,” he says again, impatiently.

  “Okay. Okay.” I remove the top of the box, which is perfectly fitted, and find Dolman’s silver-and-turquoise ring. When I look at him, the smile is gone. He takes my left hand and slips the ring onto my index finger, the only one it will stay on.

  “Two possible solutions to your remaining on Seagull Island,” Peter explains, kissing my palm and then my wrist. “You’re a free woman. Will you stay with me, Sara?” I let go and kiss his face and his mouth and his eyes.

  “Yes!” I laugh. (It’s been that kind of crazy night. Why not throw caution to the wind?)

  We stand in the dark pantry holding each other. Outside the snow is still blowing. There will be no incoming ferry for five months and no airplanes until the storm wears itself out and the runway is cleared. Seagull Island is cut off from everything.

  The musicians start a new song, one I’ve heard before. I put the little box and the envelope in the pocket of my long white skirt, precious gifts, but continue to wear the ring. Out on the dance floor with Peter again, I no longer think about my feet.

  RICHARD AND I never danced. He wasn’t much for social engagements unless they had something to do with the biology department or saving the planet, but Richard is gone. I don’t even need to make fun of him anymore or refer to him with bitterness. Someone has to save the polar bears! And that thought makes me laugh. Let him be.