The Midwife of Hope River
Page 42

“Molly, I think your bladder is full. That could keep the baby from coming. When did you last go pee?” Molly looks at her mother, waiting for her mother to answer.
“We just put a cloth between her legs so she won’t have to get up. It’s been a few hours, but there hasn’t been much.”
I wince. This isn’t good. “Okay, bring me the chamber pot. We have to have her get up. The bladder isn’t disposed to empty when a person is lying down.”
The five crows gape at me in disbelief.
“The potty? The chamber pot!” I repeat.
The crows fold their arms across their black chests like Supreme Court judges who’ve come to a verdict—and not a good one. Finally, the younger woman, Ruth, rises slowly, leaves the room and returns with a white enamel pot on a wire handle, the kind they sell at Mullin’s Hardware for two bits. She sets it down next to the bed and without a word goes back to her chair.
“Okay, ladies.” I lay it out. “I’m going to need your help to get Molly up, then we need to get some broth in her. Chicken soup would be good or ginger tea with raspberry leaf, ginseng, and honey to give her strength. Do you have any?” Mrs. Klopfenstein nods.
“Molly, give me a hand with your sister. The rest of you go whistle up some grub.” As soon I say it, I regret my choice of words. I sound like a foreman at a lumber camp. Nevertheless, the women rise and head for the kitchen.
Alone with Molly, Ruth and I struggle her up, sit her on the pot, and change the linens.
“Were you able to go?” I ask the patient as I fluff up her pillows.
“A little.” They’re her first words. “I’m having a pain, though. Not like last night but a small one.” I reach over and touch her belly. She’s right; her uterus is trying to contract. After she’s back in bed, Grandma feeds her the broth and ginger tea with sugar while I try to figure out what to do next. I consider getting out my black cohosh tincture, but Mrs. Kelly always warned that it could cause dangerously strong contractions and should be used only as a last resort.
Male Energy
An idea comes to me. “Okay, I know you are so tired, Molly, but it’s time to walk.” Molly doesn’t budge, and the five ladies-in-waiting, who’ve drifted back to their chairs, stare at one another, probably wondering why they ever called in this crazy midwife. I try the positive approach, though I’m making this up as I go along.
“Molly, your baby’s head is deep in the pelvis, but it’s not flexed, so there’s no way it can come out.” The girl turns toward me slowly. “If we get you moving, the baby will shift and the contractions may come back. If you just lie here, you’ll be pregnant forever.” I don’t say what I really mean: And you’ll eventually get a fever and the baby will die . . . and you will die with it.
“Come on, Ruth, you can help. Come on, Mrs. Klopfenstein! Each of you stand on a side.” The older woman shakes her head but does what I tell her. “Now, up you go, Molly. Where’s Molly’s husband?”
“Next door with the menfolk. This ain’t their place,” declares Grandma.
“Well, I know men aren’t usually included, but I think in situations like this the baby’s father needs to come see his wife and give her some encouragement.” No one moves. “Which house is he in, anyway? I’ll get him.” That does the trick. The stiff crow in the middle, who I now notice is pregnant and has one withered leg, limps out the door.
“Hairbrush?” I ask Mrs. Klopfenstein, adjusting my glasses, which are half falling off. “Hair ribbon? Warm facecloth.” All the ladies, in similar eyewear, now bustle around, getting my meaning: we must make Molly presentable.
Mrs. Kelly once told me that brushing a laboring woman’s hair brings her mind and spirit back to her body and I do this part myself, combing the tangles out of the golden strands and braiding them in two plaits. When we’re done, we put on her spectacles so she can see, and her blue eyes seem to focus.
The front door swings open, and a reluctant young man wearing the regulation family gold specs, black pants, a white shirt, and black suspenders follows the woman into the bedroom. He looks so much like Molly and Ruth, it crosses my mind that he could be their cousin.
“This is Levi,” the sister announces.
I take his arm and lead him forward. “Molly,” he says. “You all right, wife?”
“Here, Levi,” I order. “You must walk with her. Things are slow, but she’s doing fine. These ladies are tired. We need to rest. Call us if anything happens.” Before anyone can protest, I hustle the shocked crows out of the room.
“What’s this about?” Grandma challenges. “Birth is a female thing.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, as if I know what I’m talking about. “Sometimes when a woman is very tired, the male vigor can energize the womb.” Bitsy would laugh. “Male vigor!” “Energize the womb!” Where is Bitsy, when I need her, anyway?
“Can you make us some tea?” I ask the aunt as I consult Mrs. Kelly’s pocket watch hanging around my neck. My plan is, I’ll give them ten minutes and then I’ll peek in.
The ladies begin to bustle around again. Not only tea but also biscuits and homemade blackberry jam appear on the table. In the bedroom there are voices, and I think I hear singing. Could there be singing? We all look up, and I raise my hand to indicate that everyone else should stay seated while I creep back down the hall. In the bedroom, in the lamplight, Levi holds Molly in his arms and sways back and forth . . . back and forth.
“Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you. Away, you rolling river,” he sings into Molly’s ear. Her face has such peace as she rests on his shoulder . . . then her eyes come wide open.
“Mmmmmm,” she moans, somewhere between pleasure and pain.
“Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you. Away, I’m bound away, ’cross the wide Missouri,” Levi continues. Molly stops her moan and returns to her trance again, but two minutes later she moans again and then again . . . it’s as though they are singing a duet, him the words and melody, her the bass.
“Help, something’s coming!” It’s Molly.
Levi leaps back as if he’s just stepped into a nest full of rattlers. “Midwife!” he yells.
“I’m right here.”