by Amy Sorrells
I still don’t see anything, but then there’s movement. The twitch of a round black nose. The glimmer of a round black eye. “Oh, it’s a fawn!”
“It’s not moving. Is it hurt?”
At the sound of his whisper, the fawn ducks its head, pressing itself as close to the ground as it can.
“I don’t think so. . . . Oh, Gabe, I’ve never seen one before. At least not like this.”
He steps toward it.
“Don’t . . .” I tug on his T-shirt.
“How will we know if it’s okay?”
“It’s okay. I’m sure it is.”
“Then where’s the mother?”
“The mother leaves it alone during the day. The babies, they don’t have a scent, so they’re safer apart from the mother. People find them and bring them to rehabbers all the time thinking they’re orphaned, but most of the time they’re not. Same thing with baby rabbits.”
“God sure thought of everything, didn’t he?”
I smile. That’s what Sudie always says. Dappled sunlight filters through the tree branches above the fawn, creating spots of light on the ground all around it. A perfect match to the spots of white across its back.
“I do believe he did.”
24
* * *
Knowing about Sudie losing her mama when she was little and later losing her three babies, thinking about the change in Mama in her letters, and most of all, carrying this baby inside me, makes Mother’s Day feel completely different than it’s ever felt before. We navigate around the larger-than-usual crowd headed into Riverton Community Church. Little girls run circles around their mamas in matching dresses, little boys in bow ties ride in the crook of their daddies’ arms, Sue and Athena Gilbert grip the arms of their shaky mama, white-haired and back bent halfway over her walker.
“Sudie . . .” I nod toward the church entrance. Elizabeth Blair is there with Bryan and his father and sister. I quick look away to avoid her glare. My belly feels heavier than ever when I see Reverend Payne standing at the doors and greeting everyone as Veda and Trina hand all the mothers pink roses on their way inside. Everyone has known about my pregnancy for weeks. But maybe because it’s Mother’s Day, I don’t know, I feel ashamed all over again. Reverend Payne and the church have done so much for me over the years. I should have known better. There’s a limit to mercy, after all.
“It’s all right, child.” Sudie seems to sense what I’m thinking. She hooks her hand around my arm, and the spring sun catches on her pearls.
The Blairs file in well ahead of us. Surely Bryan hasn’t told his parents about me and this baby. But what if he has? My face burns as we move up the steps, the proper mothers taking their roses, husbands kissing them on the cheek, children clinging to their legs.
One by one, folks wade into the river ahead of me, my stomach clenching at the thought of coming up wet in front of everybody or my nose plugging up or choking on the water . . . I half walk, half swim out to Reverend Payne . . . hands strong but gentle to steady me . . . Mama and Sudie . . . tears of pride running down their faces.
“Jaycee,” Reverend Payne says. “Sudie. You ladies are looking lovely today.”
Sudie squeezes my arm.
I look for a dove to come down like it did for Jesus and John the Baptist, but none does . . .
Veda holds out a rose and I hesitate to take it. “For you,” she says, extending it closer to my hands.
“Jaycee,” Reverend Payne says, taking the rose from Veda. “The rose is for you.” His eyes are focused, knowing. Kind.
I feel the old go and the new come as Reverend Payne and the deacons float me back and under and bring me up out of the water . . .
I love you, the voice says.
But I’m a mess, Lord.
I’m your strength.
But I don’t know what to do, Lord.
Be still and know.
But I’m scared, Lord.
I am with you always.
Help me, Lord.
Trust me.
I look down the church steps and see folks watching me, folks like Hersch and his wife. Jim Thompson from the town funeral home, who helped me with Jayden’s arrangements. Carla and her husband. And at the base of the steps, Gabe. He winks and gives me his biggest smile.
The crowd along the riverbank claps and cheers . . . we all hold hands in a big circle and sing . . .
My baby moves inside me, and I turn to Reverend Payne. “Thank you,” I say, and take the rose, the stem smooth, the thorns trimmed away.
“See?” Sudie whispers in my ear as we head into the sanctuary.
The chancel and steps to the pulpit are filled with vases overflowing with fresh-cut lilacs and daisies, lilies and tulips. Ida Lambert powers through an upbeat version of “Day by Day,” followed by an emotional performance of “You Raise Me Up” by one of the high school girls. The children’s choir sings, their cherubic faces pink with pride as they scamper into the congregation afterward to present their mothers with pink carnations.
“Thank you, Ida,” Reverend Payne says, then turns to the congregation. “Mother’s Day is a day to be celebrated for certain. All over America we’re celebrating the ones who raised us, the ones who bandaged skinned knees, the ones who tucked us in at night, the ones whose love is unconditional and whose work is interminable, whose lives exemplify all the standards of Proverbs 31. But there’s something in Proverbs chapter 31 that isn’t often talked about. That’s verses 8 and 9:
“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;
ensure justice for those being crushed.
Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless,
and see that they get justice.
“I find it intriguing that these two verses that talk about the voiceless and those being crushed, the poor and the helpless, that these two verses show up right before the exposition of what we hold up as a standard for women. Don’t you?”
The congregation responds with a few nods and the sound of folks rustling their bulletins.
“So I’d like to change Mother’s Day up a bit this year. I’d like to talk about the mothers we won’t see at our Sunday brunch, the ones who were reluctant to take a rose today, the ones who refused to take one at all, though Veda and Trina and I did our best to assure every woman in this room they do indeed deserve a rose.”
That was almost me.
“There are those in this room whose wombs ache for a child, or for a child they’ve lost. Those who felt crushed by broken mothers, single mothers from decades ago and among us now who are ostracized and feel alone. Those who sit among us who dread this day every year, because for them, Mother’s Day feels like a scab peeled from a wound that never heals. Or those who feel that because they are not mothers, they are somehow less or incomplete, unchosen, unseen.”
Gabe gives my hand a quick squeeze and lets go again. Reverend Payne goes on with his sermon, and I scan the audience and think on so many of the stories I know. I wonder if Sue and Athena Gilbert, unmarried and childless, feel incomplete. I wonder about Carla, with her children spread all over the country and none of them here to celebrate her. I wonder about the mothers of the children buried out at the cemetery, the ones who buried child after child after child during the cholera outbreaks, or like Sudie, for reasons she’ll never know. I think about my own broken mama sitting in prison this morning with one baby in the ground, and me . . .
She still has me.
“In past years, we’ve had mothers stand,” Reverend Payne’s words draw me back. “There’s nothing essentially wrong with that practice. But today, I want all of us to stand. Because we all came from a mother. We all have lost or will lose a mother. Some of us have been loved by mothers, and others of us have been hurt by them. And while some of us may not be mothers in the traditional sense of the word, we are all made in the image of God, who, while most often portrayed as a father, is also described as having a love for us like that of a mother . . . one who cannot forget us any mo
re than a mother can forget the child who has nursed at her breast, one who covers us with his feathers and shelters us with his wings, who protects us when earthly mothers do not. One who hears us when we are voiceless, one who ensures eternal justice for those who are crushed, one who fulfills our deepest needs.
“I want all of us to stand this morning to acknowledge that the origin and the fulfillment of love—of who we are—is not through our mother or father, not through genes or ancestry or human legacy, but through the grace and perfect love of Jesus Christ. We’re all lost, but found in him. We’re all poor and helpless, but he is the Great Rescuer. Whether you are grieving or celebrating today, he redeems and restores it all.”
The familiar chords of “Amazing Grace” fill the room as we all stand and Ida leads us in singing the hymn. I glance at Sudie, whose face is wet with tears, same today as I imagine it was when she buried her children. I think about how the Lord blessed me with Sudie long before I ever realized the injustices of Mama, how he must’ve been watching over me . . . how we’re all adopted . . .
What is the Lord asking you to give up?
Help me, Lord.
Trust me.
We’re halfway back to the car when I feel a bony hand close tight around my arm.
Elizabeth Blair. Coach Blair stands behind her. They’re both scowling, her dark eyes steeled with their usual disdain for me. And behind them, Bryan, his face red and trying his best not to look at me, with his sister. The cocky anger he showed that night at the gas station seems to have been replaced by something else—something that looks almost like regret.
He must have told them about the baby.
My legs feel like noodles under me and I grab on to Sudie’s hand so hard I’m surprised her fingers don’t turn purple.
Help me, Lord. Please. Help me.
Trust me.
Mrs. Blair steps so close to me I’d fall down without Gabe and Sudie next to me. I try not to inhale the venom she spews. “I know that’s my grandchild you’re carrying,” she says.
“Elizabeth,” Sudie says.
Mrs. Blair waves her off. “Bryan told us everything. I told him a long time ago to stay away from girls like you, but he didn’t listen. Well, you’re going to listen. If you think I’m going to allow a junkie’s daughter—”
“Elizabeth.” Sudie’s voice rises.
Mrs. Blair doesn’t flinch. “—to raise my grandchild, you are sorely mistaken. I am not going to lose the one good thing to come from your relationship.” Elizabeth takes a deep breath as if bracing herself for the next statement. But to my surprise, the harsh lines of anger on her face sag into grief. “There’s been others, you know. Girls who took care of the situation before it came to this. Grandchildren I’ll never see.”
“I’ve lost babies too,” Sudie offers. “Can’t make things right by doing something that’s wrong.”
A breeze flips back the chiffon sleeves of Elizabeth’s dress, and there are the bruises. Bruises in the same place where Bryan used to grab hold of me. Bruises his daddy must’ve taught him how to make. Evil don’t stop until someone makes it, until someone speaks up for the ones who can’t speak for themselves, does it, Lord?
I can hear Gabe next to me breathing slow and sure. Sudie tightens her grip on my hand.
Elizabeth pauses, as if she might actually be considering what Sudie said. “The baby is my only chance at redeeming this mess. You can expect papers—paternal custody papers—from Walter Crawford.”
I can’t stand looking at Elizabeth’s pinched-up face another minute. Gabe and Sudie look nearly as blindsided as I feel. Knowing Elizabeth has always been capable of such nastiness does not soften the blow of it. Beyond her, along the horizon, are trees thick with leaves, except for the ash among them. The center branches of the towering old ash are showing their fate, completely stripped as the insects bore away deep inside. My heart steels against Elizabeth’s anger, and I let go of Sudie’s hand, my own curling into a fist.
“Ensure justice for those being crushed. Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless . . .”
“This baby is not your only chance,” I say, surprised at the strength of my own voice. “This baby isn’t my chance, either. The only chance that matters here is that the baby gets one of its own. Away from you and Bryan. Away from Riverton. And away from me.”
Elizabeth crosses her arms, a smug smirk on her face. “You’re wrong about that. Expect those papers, Jaycee. There isn’t a thing you can do to stop us.” She turns and stomps away. Coach Blair follows her after giving me a bone-chilling glare.
“You’re shaking, Jaycee,” Gabe says, and puts his arm around me.
Whatever strength I had to stand up to her is gone, and I bury my face in his chest. “She can’t do this. She can’t. I have rights too.”
I feel Sudie’s arms around me. “Don’t you worry about her, child. The Lord will fight for you and this baby. You only need to be still.”
“Be still?” I turn and wipe my eyes. “How am I supposed to be still? She’s got Walter Crawford and everything. The only thing worse than giving this baby to strangers would be for it to be raised by them.”
“C’mon,” Gabe says gently. “We need to get going to make visiting hours. We can talk this over in the car.”
25
* * *
“This baby’s going crazy inside me.” I press my hands against my belly and feel the bumps and pushing. I’m worried about the pain coming back, so I try to focus on breathing slow. Calming down. “I think he’s doing somersaults.”
“Can’t blame him for that,” Gabe says, one eye on the road and the other looking at me sidelong with concern. “You’re not having pains, are you?”
“No.”
“You sure you’re up to seeing your mom after all this?”
“No. I’m not sure. But I can’t see how I can put it off, either. Might not be another chance before this baby comes, and if I give him up . . . or if Elizabeth manages to take him . . .”
“She’s not going to be able to take him.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a case in my hometown a few years back. Real nasty. Grandmother was trying to sue for custody, and the judge dismissed the case. It can’t happen, especially if Bryan isn’t interested in the baby. He’s the only one who could try to get custody.”
“What if his mama makes him? You saw the look on her face.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “It’s Bryan. I don’t get the impression he’s the kind of guy who’s gonna fight for anything that’ll get in the way of his life. Besides, even if he did, he’d probably have to prove you’re unfit, which means he’d have to get through me and Sudie and a whole lot of other people who can prove just the opposite about you.”
“I hope you’re right.” I rest my head back on the seat and focus on an old, soft country song on the radio, one I know the words to without thinking about them. We are miles out of Riverton now. The roads open up into straight, flat country and a patchwork of fresh turned and sprouting fields, and my eyes feel heavier with the rhythmic passing of fence posts and tree lines, and my thoughts drift back to Mama, how she’d sit on the couch with a ratty afghan around her shoulders and watch entertainment programs on the TV about Whitney Houston or Anna Nicole Smith, Michael Jackson or Tammy Faye, and she’d weep. She’d cry over the folks fighting on Jerry Springer, or at the Kardashians when they started going round with each other, or the housewives of Orange County when they got too catty. Mama had a curious ability to cry along with famous people and people she never met, but never once did I see her shed a tear for me. Not for Jayden, either. Not when I cried myself to sleep when we had nothing to eat for dinner. Not when kids wouldn’t play with me on account of where we live. But then I think about Sudie and all she’s lost. She doesn’t have much either. I’ve been giving Mama such a hard time for so long, I wonder if I’ve been missing how much she’s hurting too. Maybe there isn’t time for tears when it takes all you got to get throu
gh the days. And I wonder what she’s going to say about this baby.
I roll down the window of the car a crack and breathe in the fresh air, praying it relieves the nausea creeping up in my throat. We’re about halfway to the prison located in the next county over, and visitors are allowed for thirty minutes. White lines of the road sweep past the car with an awkward cadence, each pulling me closer to Mama.
“You all right?” Gabe asks, turn signal ticking as he pulls off onto the prison exit.
I nod and swallow another gulp of air like I’m coming up for breath in a swimming pool. “Stomach’s just a little upset.”
“Not much farther.”
Five more miles of country road to the east and the high fencing edged in two feet of razor wire begins. The boxy shape of the prison looms in the distance. At the entrance, we stop at the guard booth. They write down our names and who we’re visiting, then wave us through. Gabe steers the car down the gravel drive and parks behind ten or fifteen other cars, and we follow a smattering of other droopy-shouldered visitors to the front doors, where a grim-faced correction officer lets us all in. Inside the lobby we wait for another officer, dressed in the same uniform with the same gun, Taser, baton, and bottle of pepper spray holstered on his hip, to call our names. He pats down several of the male visitors, but nods me on through the metal detector.
When I’m led into the community visitation room, I pick a table in the back corner. The fumes from Pine-Sol and other cleaning chemicals are thick, and I have to swallow hard to keep from gagging. A young prisoner kisses and tickles twin toddler boys in overalls while her visitor, a young man who looks like he might be their father, watches with a scowl on his face. Another woman, skin so dark and so smooth she couldn’t have been much older than a teenager, sits across from an older woman in her Sunday dress and hat who dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Another, her arms sleeved with tattoos, argues pretty loud with the man who sits across from her, the back of his neck dark, dark red—from anger or the sun or both.