Piecing It All Together

by Leslie Gould

  “Come on, come on,” I said into the dark night, trying the key one more time. “Please,” I added, as if using good manners might make the difference.

  What if I didn’t make it to the birth? Arleta’s house was still three miles away. I couldn’t walk, not in this weather.

  I grabbed my phone, wondering if the ride-sharing app I used in Oakland would have any drivers out here. I entered Arleta’s address, dropped the pin for my location, and then scanned the available vehicles. There was only one, all the way back in Nappanee, five miles away.

  Hopefully the driver wasn’t asleep.

  I checked the weather app. Thirteen degrees. I’d never been in such cold conditions, not even when I used to go cross-country skiing with Mom and Dad in the Sierras. I opened the pickup door, trying to imagine walking three miles in the cold as a gust of icy wind blasted through me.

  Good God. Was that a prayer? I quickly pulled the door shut. It wasn’t a curse, so I went with the prayer. “Please,” I said out loud again.

  My phone dinged.

  Thank God. The driver was on the way. Kenny M. He was driving a Toyota Camry with an Indiana license plate. I hoped he had chains. And that I’d actually make it to the birth before the baby arrived.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I clapped my hands together in the frigid cab. When I used to visit in the summer, I loved the thunderstorms, the fireflies, the calves, and kittens. The propane lamp Mammi lit in the early mornings and then again at dusk. The breeze that came through my open window, cooling my room.

  Never once had I come here for Christmas. Or anytime in the winter, for that matter.

  “That’s why I left,” Dad had said wryly. “Well, that and about a thousand other reasons.” The truth was, he avoided Indiana. He phoned home once a month, but he’d never returned. Not even for his father’s funeral.

  I checked my app again. It said the driver was close, so I looked in the rearview mirror.

  Headlights approached. Slipping my phone into the pocket of my coat, I grabbed Delores’s midwifery bags, popped open the pickup door, and jumped down. Then I slammed the door and locked it, tucking the key into my pocket. But when I turned toward the car behind me, it wasn’t a Camry.

  It was an older model Jeep Cherokee. In fact, I was sure it was too old to qualify as a ride-sharing vehicle.

  And I didn’t see a sign on it either.

  The driver rolled the window down a crack. A man, who I thought was on the youngish side—although it was hard to tell, wore a black stocking cap, a black scarf, and a black parka. And black gloves. “Savannah?”

  I nodded. “Are you Kenny M.?”

  “I know I’m not in the Camry that’s listed on the app,” he said quickly. “I thought this would get around in the blizzard a little better.”

  Well, he knew my name and the vehicle the app told me he’d be driving. And he was making sure I knew that he did. It was either this or possibly wait a long time for a tow. And miss the birth.

  I yanked on the back door of the Jeep. It didn’t budge.

  He opened his door and jumped down. “Hold on.” He yanked on it, but nothing happened. “Frozen,” he muttered.

  He walked around to the other back door. Thankfully, it opened. Tromping around to the other side, I tossed my bags on the seat and then climbed in. Kenny slammed the door after me as I searched for the seat belt.

  I finally found it, just as the Jeep lurched forward and into a skid.

  After a slide toward the opposite side of the road and then back, barely missing the pickup, Kenny gained control, and I let out an audible sigh of relief. Surely he could get me three miles up the road.

  When his GPS told him to turn left, I told him what Uncle Seth said.

  He kept going, turning onto the lane.

  It appeared Vernon had plowed the lane, but not for a few hours. The Jeep slid again, but Kenny managed to pull out of it a second time.

  He was quiet, but I wasn’t saying anything either.

  The snow had drifted and the going became even slower.

  I remembered that Delores had said this new baby was the husband’s first. I wondered how old Arleta’s other children were.

  Kenny slowed even more. “What brings you out this way?”

  I answered, “There’s a woman in labor.”

  “Oh. Are you a midwife?”

  “No,” I squeaked. “But I’m going to help.”

  We passed the phone shack where Vernon probably called Delores. The Jeep came to a slow stop in front of the barn.

  I pointed out the window, to what looked like a shadow in the dark. “The house is that way.”

  “I can’t get over there.” Kenny gripped the steering wheel with his black-gloved hands. “You’ll have to walk from here.”

  I gripped the door handle and pushed, probably with more force than needed. But nothing happened.

  Kenny met my eyes in the rearview mirror. His stocking cap had slipped down on his forehead. Had he locked the back doors on purpose?

  A wave of fear washed over me. “What’s going on?”

  He met my eyes in the mirror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The door won’t open.”

  “Oh.” He fumbled for a moment and then said, “The safety locks are on.” I heard a click. Maybe he had children.

  I swung the door open and jumped down into the snow, tempted to march to the house without saying anything more. But then, realizing I was going to need a ride back to the pickup, I thanked him. “Will you be driving tomorrow, say midmorning or so? Maybe around noon?”

  “Depends on the storm.” He met my eyes again. “You can call me directly, if you want.” He rattled off his number, and I quickly entered it into my contacts under Kenny M.

  I called out, “Thanks!” and then slammed the door. I was pretty sure he yelled, “Good luck.”

  With the birth? Or getting a ride? I wasn’t sure.

  As I trudged through the snow, the back door opened, showing a crack of light. “Tell the driver to wait,” someone yelled.

  I was halfway to the house. I wasn’t going back to the Jeep, even though it was still parked by the barn.

  “Wait!” A young woman slammed the door and came running down the back steps, zipping her coat as she did. She wore a black bonnet and snow boots and appeared to be in her late teens. It obviously wasn’t Arleta.

  “I have to find my brother,” she said as she rushed past, just loud enough so I could hear.

  The back door opened again. A huge man with a wild beard and hair filled the frame. “Get back in here!” he bellowed. I assumed he was Vernon.

  The girl continued running.

  “Miriam! Now!” Vernon yelled.

  A woman wearing a flannel nightgown stepped behind him. She poked her head to the side, just enough so I could see her round face. Her dark hair, with a single streak of gray, was uncovered. “Delores, is that you?”

  “No,” I answered. “I’m her cousin, Savannah Mast. Delores really does have the flu.”

  She sighed. “Well, come along.”

  I had made it to the steps and started up them as the man came lumbering past me, wearing boots but no jacket. I looked over my shoulder as I reached the door. The dome light of the Jeep was on, and Miriam was climbing into the front seat. Kenny took off with as much speed as he could in the snow. Didn’t he see Vernon stomping toward him?

  I turned back to the door, eager to get into the house before Vernon came storming back.

  I TOOK A deep breath and held it as I stood alone in the dim lamplight of Arleta’s kitchen. Things had definitely gotten off to a bad start. I needed to regroup. That’s what Mom would have done.

  A baby was going to be born.

  Once I exhaled, I called out, “Arleta?” She had completely disappeared.

  After a long pause, a quavering voice came from down the hall. “Back here.”

  I left my coat on. The house was cold, even worse than Mammi’s. I head
ed down the hall, stopping at the only open door. Arleta held on to a bedpost, panting. The cold might be all right for the time being, but it wouldn’t do for the baby, or for Arleta, once the delivery was over.

  I stepped to the woman’s side and waited quietly. By the time the contraction had passed, Vernon was thundering down the hallway, yelling in Pennsylvania Dutch, “The driver didn’t stop. He just kept on going, taking Miriam with him.” He turned toward me and spoke in English. “Who was in the Jeep?”

  “A ride-share driver,” I answered. Vernon most likely didn’t realize I could understand Pennsylvania Dutch. “His name is Kenny M.”

  Vernon shook his head. “That wasn’t Kenny.” His wild blue eyes drilled into me. I recognized that look. It’s how I felt the morning I’d gone searching for Ryan.

  Vernon took a step toward me. “I’d recognize Kenny Miller—he’s come out here before, looking for Joshua. I didn’t recognize that man.”

  I winced, feeling responsible that Miriam had escaped with my driver. Miller. The surname was familiar from childhood. I’d known a Tommy Miller. He used to live adjacent to Mammi’s farm, but his family had sold their land years ago. Of course, Kenny Miller might or might not be related to Tommy. Miller was a common Amish surname.

  Vernon turned toward Arleta. “I’m going after her.”

  “No.” I turned toward him. “You need to stay here in case we need someone to go to the phone shack to call for help.”

  “Joshua can do that.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Joshua?” I’d thought Delores said Arleta had two older children, but she must have had three: Miriam, the brother whom Miriam left to find, and Joshua.

  “He’s asleep. In the room next door.”

  “Let Vernon go.” Arleta didn’t look at her husband. “Joshua will wake up if needed.”

  “All right.” I had no idea how to read the dynamics between the two of them, but I would follow Arleta’s lead. If she was fine having Vernon out of the house during the birth, then I was too.

  “I need the driver’s number,” Vernon said. “The one who dropped you off. I’ll call him from the shed.”

  “Do you have something to write it down on?” I took my phone from my pocket.

  He shook his head. “I’ll remember it.”

  I read the number from my contacts and then said, “I’ll call him.” I pressed the button to connect, but it rang and rang. Finally, his voicemail picked up, and I left a quick message that Miriam’s parents needed to know where she was going.

  Once I ended the call, Vernon said, “I know a driver who’ll pick me up. I’ll call him from the phone shack.” Then he nodded, as if he might be thanking me, and left the room without telling Arleta good-bye. She was already in the middle of another contraction. Perhaps he didn’t realize the baby could be born before he returned. Or maybe he didn’t care.

  “We need to get you into the living room,” I said. “It’s too cold in here.”

  “But everything is set up.” She gestured toward the bureau where an old shower curtain, towels, a few cloth diapers, rubber pants, and some blankets were stacked.

  “Where’s the birthing kit?” I asked. Expectant mothers purchased a kit by mail order that contained underpads, a plastic-lined sheet, sponges, and all the other items needed for a sanitary birth.

  “I put one together as best I could.”

  “Why didn’t you buy one?”

  “Vernon didn’t think it was necessary—” Another contraction gripped Arleta, and this time she gasped.

  I stepped to the bureau, wishing Delores had sent a kit along with her midwifery bag. It appeared the shower curtain had been scrubbed, but it certainly wasn’t sterile. At least there were clean towels and washcloths, but there were no gloves, no syringe, no cord clamp, and no iodine. I guessed Delores had gloves and clamps in the bag, and hopefully a syringe, but I’d have to do my best as far as the rest.

  Gathering up the supplies on the bureau, I slipped them under my arm and grabbed my bags with one hand. I put my other hand on the small of Arleta’s back. “Let’s get to the living room before another contraction hits.”

  The woman hesitated but then shuffled along.

  Once we reached the sparsely furnished living room, the first thing I did was stoke the fire. Next, I checked Arleta, who seemed to be a textbook multigravida. She was already at eight centimeters. She’d be transitioning shortly, which meant the baby could be born soon.

  The woman’s blood pressure and pulse were normal. I recorded both and then timed the next two contractions, all the while pushing memories of assisting Mom on births out of my mind. The contractions lasted around sixty seconds and were two minutes apart. It wouldn’t be long now.

  I spread the shower curtain over the sofa, draping it down to the floor and double-checked my watch. It was now 12:26 a.m., New Year’s Day. A new life for the new year.

  Arleta breathed through another contraction and then began pacing.

  “How old is Miriam?” I asked.

  Arleta shook her head and continued to walk. Obviously she didn’t want to talk about her daughter. It had been foolish of me to ask. I looked outside at the snow swirling past the window.

  I thought about the birth ten years ago that I didn’t go on. Mom had asked me to, but I was tired from the one the night before. The family lived in a cabin on Blue Canyon Road and already had five kids. Per usual, I’d probably spend all my time entertaining the children, something the older kids in the family could do as easily as I could, instead of assisting with the birth and getting more experience toward my credentials as a midwife.

  Three hours later, the husband called our house phone to say Mom hadn’t arrived. It was only a forty-five minute drive. Dad called the county sheriff and then pulled on his boots. Overcome with guilt, I’d grabbed my coat. Mom had a four-wheel-drive Subaru. She knew the roads as well as anyone. But there was a full-blown blizzard raging outside, something I hadn’t realized when I declined to go with her.

  I shook my head and looked away from the window. Too often, grief snuck up on me, even though the accident had been nearly a decade ago, and shut me down. I couldn’t risk it now, not when I needed to be at my best.

  Arleta stopped for another contraction, leaning against a hardback chair.

  I fed the fire again and then stepped into the kitchen. I could sense that Arleta was one of those women who definitely did better on her own. A kettle simmered on the back of the propane stove. “Would you like something to drink?” I called out.

  “No,” Arleta said, followed by a gasp.

  I turned.

  She stood in a puddle of water in the middle of the living room. Arleta glanced up at me, and I nodded. Her water had broken. Her contractions were bound to grow even closer together now.

  One came on fast, and I started to time it, but immediately Arleta shuffled over to the sofa and kneeled. “I need to push.”

  I barely had a chance to pull on gloves and lift her nightgown before the baby came flying out, wide-eyed with a furrowed brow. The little girl gulped and then began to wail. I checked my watch. 1:27.

  Arleta managed to crawl up on the couch, on the shower curtain. I put the baby on Arleta’s chest and then covered her with receiving blankets and then both of them with the quilt.

  I had never been to a birth without several people in the room. The father. The grandmother, sisters, friends, neighbors. I reminded myself that we weren’t completely alone. Joshua was sleeping down the hall, but there was no reason to wake him.

  God had answered my prayer. The ride-share had arrived. The birth had been as simple as possible. And I’d mostly managed to avoid painful memories of my mother last night. At least so far.

  I waited until the cord stopped pulsing. Once it did, I cut it and then wrapped the baby in her own blanket and tucked her next to Arleta. Then I covered them both with another quilt and fed the fire another piece of wood. After that, I cleaned up the living room floor.

&n
bsp; Then I checked on the mother and child. “We should get her nursing.”

  “Give me a minute.” Arleta’s eyes were closed.

  Finally, the baby began rooting around, and Arleta opened the front of her nightgown.

  The placenta still hadn’t delivered, and I hoped the nursing would help. A couple of times I tugged on the cord, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Wondering if stress could have slowed the separation and expulsion of the placenta, I asked, “Are you worried about anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “The baby? Miriam? Your husband?”

  “Nee,” she answered. “I know God is in charge.”

  A half hour after the baby had delivered, I pulled out my phone, knowing they were forbidden in the house. “Sorry, but it’s necessary,” I said.

  Arleta pulled the baby from her breast.

  “Have her keep nursing,” I said. “It will help your uterus contract and push out the placenta.”

  She did what I asked without commenting. Thankfully, the baby latched on again.

  I scrolled through my recent call log, found Delores’s number, and put the phone on speaker.

  She answered after several rings and sounded groggy.

  I gave her a quick update about the birth.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “But it’s been a half hour and the placenta hasn’t delivered.” Delayed separation and expulsion of the placenta could lead to hemorrhaging. In that case, I would need to call 9-1-1. But with the storm raging, what if the EMTs couldn’t get to Arleta in time?

  Delores’s scratchy voice cut through my worry. “That’s not all that unusual for a third baby.”

  “When should I be concerned?”

  “Well, if it goes much longer . . .” Delores coughed. “Have you tugged on the cord?”

  “A little,” I answered.

  “Tug harder while I stay on the phone.”

  Arleta closed her eyes as I put on another pair of gloves and explained what I was going to do. “Push if you can,” I said.