“Mama?” I whispered.
“Did ya find Dr. Heusman, baby?” She asked without opening her eyes.
“No, ma’am, but I brought Mrs. Kirk instead. Dr. Heusman’s in Oklahoma City.”
Mama opened her eyes. “Elizabeth—thank you for coming.”
“Now, Anna. Ya know better than to thank me for comin’.” Mrs. Kirk smiled then turned her attention to me. “Victoria, see if you can find me a big pot like your mama uses to make turkey soup. Fill it with water and put it on the stove to boil; then bring me some clean sheets and towels. I’m just gonna sit here and talk to your mama for a bit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded, relieved to have another adult in the house.
Leaving the women to converse, I set off to do as I’d been asked. Mrs. Kirk would make everything alright. I just knew it!
The water was boiling steadily when Mrs. Kirk joined me in the kitchen. “Thank you, Victoria,” she said, removing the pot from the fire. “I’ll take care of things from here. Now you be a big girl and play quietly in your bedroom, okay? Your mama and I are gonna be busy, and I need ya to stay outta the way unless I call you. Can ya do that for me?”
I nodded and headed obediently toward my bedroom.
THE NEXT SEVERAL hours were the longest I’d ever lived through. I’d tried reading, but the words ran together, and I couldn’t remember a single word.
The grandfather clock chimed from the living room, reminding me I’d missed lunch. It was now dinnertime, but I was too scared to bother Mama and Mrs. Kirk; so instead, I listened to the indistinct chatter of the two women in the master bedroom. Not loud enough to hear their words, their voices were calm and left me reassured everything would be okay. With nothing left to entertain myself, I crawled into bed and pulled my blankets high over the top of my head. My stomach growled, but I soon drifted off to sleep.
SOME HOURS LATER, Mama’s high-pitched scream startled me from a deep sleep. Rubbing my eyes, I adjusted my vision in the darkened bedroom. Confused, I pulled back my curtains and discovered night had fallen. My stomach grumbled, but my hunger was forgotten as another scream pierced the silence. Without thought, I stumbled out of my room and raced to Mama’s bedroom.
“Mama!” I threw open the door. “Mama? Are ya okay?”
Near the head of Mama’s bed, Mrs. Kirk turned to me with flushed cheeks and eyes narrowed in concern. “Victoria, I’m gonna need some help. Will ya help me?”
I nodded, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor.
“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. C’mon over here next to me and hold your mama’s hand. I just want ya to talk to her, okay? Use a soft voice.”
“What do I say?” I asked, moving to her side.
“It doesn’t matter. I just need ya to distract her with the sound of your voice. Tell her a story, maybe. What would she do to soothe you if you were sick?”
I thought for only a second. “She’d sing.”
“Then sing to her. Don’t be afraid—she’ll be okay.”
Taking Mama’s hand, I hummed the strains of the Christmas song she’d sung to me the night before. At the sound of my voice, her eyes opened and she lifted her lips in a smile. “Victoria, darlin’, you ought not be in here right now. Go on back to your room, please.”
“No, ma’am. Mrs. Kirk needs me. I wanna help.”
“Sweet girl.” Her hand tightened in mine, and I waited while she breathed through another strong pain. “This isn’t something you should see. Now be my big girl, and go back to your bedroom.”
“No, ma’am.” I shook my head. “I’m stayin’—I can help.”
“Don’t argue, Anna,” Mrs. Kirk interrupted. “Ya don’t have the strength, and I could use some help.”
Mama stared between Mrs. Kirk and me for only a moment before nodding and closing her eyes again. “Fine.”
For what seemed like hours, I sat next to Mama alternating between singing, retelling the stories we’d read in my books, and reminding her of my love. I talked until my mouth was parched and each word scratched like sandpaper on my throat; and I bit my lip in my own pain as she squeezed my hand each time a contraction gripped her in agony. She gave no indication she heard anything I said; instead she lay with her eyes closed, dozing in and out of consciousness, until the next pain overtook her.
Some time later, Mrs. Kirk turned to me, her eyes kind and almost apologetic. “Here we go, Victoria. Ready?”
I nodded, but I had no idea what I was ready for.
“Anna?” Mrs. Kirk turned back to Mama. “On your next contraction, I need ya to push, okay?”
“Yes,” she replied. One word: a simple “yes.”
In the next moment, Mama’s stomach tightened and her body heaved as she pushed toward her goal.
“That’s good, Anna,” Mrs. Kirk encouraged. “Now, on the next one, I need ya to push harder and don’t stop ’til I tell ya. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mama replied. Again, just one word.
Mama’s hand squeezed mine as another contraction seized her, this one sharper and more painful for both of us.
“Keep goin’, Anna. It’s almost here.” Mrs. Kirk’s voice was pitched high with excitement. “I can see its head. Keep pushin’!”
Mama pushed until it looked like there was nothing left in her, but she didn’t give up.
“You’re doin’ real good, Mama!” I whispered.
When her belly relaxed, Mama fell back onto the bed. I prepared myself for her next contraction, but a chill went through me at Mrs. Kirk’s next words.
“Oh, God.” Her words were a frantic prayer. “Oh, God. Anna, ya gotta keep pushin’. Don’t stop now—keep pushin’!”
“I can’t,” Mama cried.
“Ya have to! Sit up, Anna! Push! The cord’s slipped out, and the baby’s head’s pressin’ on it. I need your help—he’ll die if we don’t get him out right now. Push!”
Mama lifted her shoulders and let out a long, low groan as she pushed with everything she had in her. She pushed and heaved long past the point when she should’ve been out of strength; and, through it all, Mrs. Kirk issued orders in her strong, steady voice. Just when I thought it couldn’t go on another second, my baby brother slipped into Mrs. Kirk’s waiting hands.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Please let him be okay—please let him be okay.”
Moving efficiently, Mrs. Kirk cleaned the mucus from his mouth and nose, then tapped his feet and spanked his little bottom. I waited in the near silence, confused.
Why isn’t he crying?
Aren’t babies supposed to cry?
“Elizabeth?” Mama whispered.
Mrs. Kirk continued her ministrations without pause. Beside me, Mama let out a keening moan filled with so much grief the hairs on my arms stood straight up—but not a single sound came from my baby brother. He was gone—died before he’d ever entered this world; before taking his first breath; and likely while I was still lending Mama encouragement through those last contractions.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” Mrs. Kirk whispered, but I don’t think Mama heard her through her own cries.
Mrs. Kirk wrapped the baby in a soft cloth and handed him to Mama where, for the next hour, she refused to let him go. She lay there with my brother, singing him a lullaby tinged with so much sadness it hurt my heart to hear.
Mrs. Kirk approached Mama. “Anna, I need to take him and get him cleaned up.”
Mama refused to let go. Screaming at Mrs. Kirk to leave her be, she thrashed in her bed until most of her blankets fell to the floor. Still she clutched the body of my baby brother tightly to her bosom.
With no other solution, Mrs. Kirk left the baby in Mama’s arms, took my hand, and led me out of the bedroom. As the door clicked shut behind us, I once again heard the soft sounds of Mama’s sad lullaby. For the last time, she sang to what remained of my baby brother.
“Victoria,” Mrs. Kirk said. “I can’t leave ya here by yourself with your Mama. She’s not herself right now. I’m gon
na need to stay the night to keep an eye on the both of you, then we’ll figure out what to do in the morning. Is that okay?”
I nodded, secretly relieved. I’d never seen Mama the way she was that night, and I was scared. I gave Mrs. Kirk my bed then curled up on the floor with a pallet of quilts.
Neither of us slept that night, though we both did a good job of pretending for each other. Several times I was awakened as Mrs. Kirk sneaked from the room to check on Mama, each time returning only moments later with her head bowed and the weight of the world upon her shoulders.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT MORNING CAME EARLY. AFTER crawling out of my pallet, I padded down the hall toward Mama’s bedroom, hoping the previous night had been a dream. I opened Mama’s door to find her exactly as we’d left her the night before, my baby brother still in her arms. Seated beside her in a rocking chair was Mrs. Kirk.
I studied Mama, praying for signs of improvement, but little had changed. She uttered nothing more than a low keening. I stood statue-still, terrified of the woman in the bed. She looked like my mama; but the light in her eyes had dimmed, and the song in her voice had been silenced. She simply lay there, moaning the same dry note, over and over again.
“Anna,” Mrs. Kirk approached Mama’s bedside. “It’s time to say g’bye. I’m so sorry, but I need ya to let me take the baby.”
Mama didn’t move, nor acknowledge she’d heard Mrs. Kirk.
“I’m gonna take him now, okay?” Mrs. Kirk whispered.
Still Mama didn’t respond. Indeed, she seemed to not even realize Mrs. Kirk was in the room, much less talking to her.
Mrs. Kirk leaned over and gently pried the baby out of Mama’s tight grip. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t let go; but then her arms dropped weightlessly to the bed, and Mrs. Kirk stood upright with the baby cradled in her arms.
“See now, Anna?” she whispered. “That wasn’t so hard. Now, I’m gonna take good care of him while you rest, okay?”
Again, Mama didn’t respond. She just stared blindly at some distant point on the wall.
Mrs. Kirk’s lips tipped downward, and she let out a worried sigh. Then, with one end of the baby’s small blanket, she covered his face and walked on quiet feet toward the door. Reaching my side, she took my hand and guided me out of the bedroom, closing the door behind us with a quiet click.
“Victoria,” she whispered. “I need to prepare the baby for burial. D’ya think you could go find Reverend Patterson. I think we’re gonna need his help with your mama. With Dr. Heusman gone, I’m not sure what else to do.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is Mama gonna be okay?”
“I think so. She’s had a terrible shock, and it’s gonna take her some time to recover; but I’m hoping Reverend Patterson can help with that. And your daddy oughta be home soon, so that will help. For right now, she just needs some time to grieve.”
I nodded my thanks, and headed toward my room to change my clothes.
How could our world could change so quickly? I wondered. One minute we were decorating for Christmas and excited about the pending birth of a baby, and the next minute, everything was taken away—stripped from us without warning. They had all said it would be okay—Mama, Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Kirk—all of them!
She’ll be okay, they’d said.
Women have babies all the time, they’d told me.
If that were true, why didn’t my mama have a baby?
Changing into my dress and warm stockings, I was consumed by these thoughts. I didn’t have any answers, and I didn’t even understand enough to ask the right questions.
“Mrs. Kirk?” I said softly, closing my bedroom door behind me. “I’m leavin’ now.”
“Thank you, darlin’,” she said.
Her back turned to me, Mrs. Kirk stood in our kitchen. My brother was nowhere in sight but, beside her on the table, was Mama’s wicker laundry basket with a yellow crocheted blanket peeking over the side. Mama had completed the pattern only a few days earlier in anticipation of the baby’s birth. Now, with no baby, we wouldn’t need the blanket anymore. We would bury it with him, I guessed.
Tears misted my vision, and I swiped at my eyes. Without another word, I donned Mama’s wool cloak and too-large boots, then stepped out into the cold winter morning.
ST. JOHN’S METHODIST Episcopal Church stood at the corner of Barker and Russell Streets, about seven or eight blocks from our home. While not the only church in town, it was the largest. It was also the best-attended among Mama’s friends, and it boasted the most busybodies of any in our small town. The moment Reverend Patterson was summoned, every female member of the congregation would swoop in offering words of kindness and support. But I knew what each one really wanted was firsthand information they’d quickly pass along to others. I knew this because I’d seen it last summer when Jimmy Howard drowned in the North Canadian River. He and his brother had gone riding on the riverbanks when his horse got spooked, throwing Jimmy some distance. His neck broke when he landed, and the swiftly-moving water carried him away. A search team found his body two days later, several miles downriver in the next town over.
Sure as anything, the Howard home became a beehive of visitors. Curious church-goers descended in droves. Most came bearing food in exchange for information, and each departed with heavy hearts at the sad tale they would no doubt share. The same would happen with our family, I knew, but there was no help for it. Still, I walked slowly toward the Reverend Patterson’s home, delaying the inevitable as long as possible.
Reverend and Mrs. Patterson lived in a tiny, white, one-story house on a small plot of land adjacent to the church. I hoped to find Reverend Patterson alone—the last thing I wanted was the prying ears of Mrs. Patterson or the congregation. Rounding the corner, I spotted the church ahead and realized my mistake. In all the turmoil, I’d forgotten it was Sunday. My stomach sank with dread. It would be impossible to speak privately with the reverend on a Sunday. I wavered. Should I leave and return later? No, I would sit through the service. At least if I stayed, I knew where I’d find Reverend Patterson.
I eased open the church door and slipped inside. A few heads turned to discover the identity of the latecomer but, having little interest in a child, they quickly returned their attentions to the sermon.
“So it was that Joseph and Mary, unable to find shelter at an inn, continued their journey until they came upon the only shelter available to them: a stable. A home for animals. Sheep and cattle.” Reverend Patterson’s baritone voice echoed throughout the room.
Breathing in a deep breath, I squeezed my hands into tight fists and waited impatiently for the sermon’s end. To my dismay, Reverend Patterson enjoyed the sound of his own voice and he droned on for the longest time. I tuned him out, allowing my thoughts to wander. I thought about Mama and the day’s service. Normally, we would’ve attended together. Mama loved Reverend Patterson’s sermons, and looked forward to them all week. I closed my eyes, wishing I could turn back time. I wondered what the future would hold.
When would Daddy get home?
What would he say about the baby?
Was Mama gonna be okay?
Time ticked by slowly until Reverend Patterson called upon attendees to sing one last hymn. Standing with the congregation, I bowed my head; but, while Reverend Patterson asked God for peace, harmony, and the remembrance of the true meaning of Christmas, I prayed for Mama.
“Amen,” said Reverend Patterson.
“Amen,” repeated the congregation.
“Now shall we go forth with peace and joy in our hearts as we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ our Savior. May God bless you, and keep you in good health and good cheer, this Christmas season.” With those words, Reverend Patterson left the pulpit and walked to the back of the church where he greeted parishioners as they exited. Too scared to move, I waited on that bench until the last person left the church, and even then I sat, waiting.
“Victoria Hastings,” Reverend Patterson said. “What a pleasure
to see your face this mornin’. I must admit, I’m surprised to see ya alone. Where’s your mama? Is she feelin’ well?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head. “Mama’s not feelin’ good, and I need ya to come with me to see her.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Please, sir,” I whispered. “I need ya to come with me right away.”
A line formed between his bushy, gray eyebrows. “Ya can’t tell me what the problem is?”
“Yes, sir, but please don’t make me explain here. Mrs. Kirk sent me to fetch you since Dr. Heusman is outta town. She thought ya might be able to help.”
“Well then, that sounds urgent. One moment while I let Mrs. Patterson know I’ll be gone.”
He stepped outside into the cold winter air and, within the minute, came jogging back in. Retrieving his heavy overcoat, he followed me out the door. Neither of us spoke. I was too upset, and Reverend Patterson finally understood I couldn’t be tempted to talk.
The walk home was miserable. At every corner and every intersection, we were waylaid by neighbors and friends offering greetings to Reverend Patterson. To his credit, he didn’t dally. He just smiled, tipped his hat, offered brief greetings, and continued on his way.
Approaching my front door, Reverend Patterson reached for my arm and stilled my progress. “Victoria, I need ya to tell me what’s wrong before I walk into that house. I don’t need details, but I need some idea what I should expect. Can ya do that for me, please?”
I stared into Reverend Patterson’s eyes for a long moment. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell him; it’s that I wanted so badly to be brave. If I told him, I’d cry. Brave girls didn’t cry. But I was only eight, and the battle was lost by the kindness shining from his brown eyes. Squaring my shoulders, I wiped away the first of my tears.
“My mama …” I inhaled a breath. “My mama had the baby last night. Mrs. Kirk—she came to help ’cause Dr. Heusman’s gone.”
I swallowed hard, but the tears continued heedlessly down my cheeks.
The Edge of Nowhere Page 2