A Simple Charity (34 page)

T
hat afternoon, just before dinnertime, an ice storm passed through the valley, tinkling the skylights and windows with beads of frozen rain. Meg was glad to be at the inn with no place to go. The kitchen was warm, suffused with mouthwatering smells of baking rolls and potato-leek soup, Mom’s New Year’s Eve tradition. By the time she and Zoey had a chance to step out of the kitchen, the outside world resembled an ice kingdom with trees, streets, and fences shining in silver.

“It’s a winter wonderland. Everything is an ice sculpture,” Zoey said as she and Meg stood at the big picture window staring out at the crystallized world of white and silver hedges, trees, and fences.

“Beautiful but slippery as all get-out,” Tate said from his favorite chair, where he was reading
The Wall Street Journal
.

“He’s right. Everything is glazed with ice. Not so good for New Year’s revelers.” Meg pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her kitchen apron. “Jack’s out there working. Let’s see how the roads are.”

Jack texted back that the roads were
Icy chaos. One fender bender after another
. When he added that he probably wouldn’t be coming over tonight as planned, Meg understood.

“Better safe than sorry,” Tate said as the three of them sat down to their dinner of soup, rolls, and salad.

Although Meg had been looking forward to ringing in the New Year with the man she loved, the knowledge that Jack was safe and thinking of her was enough to sustain her through the night. Champagne gave her a headache, and it was no novelty to stay up past midnight, since her job often required her to remain awake through the wee hours of the morning. The prospect of curling up in bed with a book was inviting.

By ten she had soared through the first three chapters of a novel when a call came from Jack.

“Looks like I’m going to be seeing you tonight, after all,” he said. “Kat’s in labor, and I need to bring her over to Fanny’s birthing center. Can you meet us there? Doc Trueherz is going to try to get there, but he’s all the way over in Paradise. That’s a treacherous route. I’m going to pick Kat up right now.”

“Pregnant women have the worst timing,” she murmured. “Are you okay driving over in this?”

“I got me a four-by-four with studded tires. This here’s an icy monkey.”

“So you want me to meet you at Fanny’s?” She was already out of bed and staring out the window at the sugar-glazed tree limbs. Her feet curled reflexively from the cold, and she whirled around to grab a thick pair of socks from a dresser drawer.

“I’m counting on you, girl.”

She got Kat’s cell number from him and was already pulling on jeans when Kat came on the line.

“How’s it going, Kat?”

“Slow and painful.” Kat’s voice lacked its usual confidence.

Meg went through a series of questions, trying to coach detailed responses from Kat, who had to stop to work through a contraction. “I can wait,” Meg told her. “Keep breathing.” Since Kat was Dr. Trueherz’s patient, Meg needed to get up to speed on her history and background, preferably before Kat arrived at the birthing center.

“Have you been able to time the pains?” Meg asked. From Kat’s response, she wasn’t that far along; the pain shouldn’t have been intense yet. But Meg knew that childbirth affected women in different ways.

As Meg pulled on her parka, the glimmering icescape beyond the window stopped her in her tracks. Just like the night that went so wrong, the night that was too icy for an ambulance to reach the mother, too cold and slick for Meg to transport the mother herself.

Wincing, she pressed her eyes closed. “Stop. Just stop it.” This was a different night. Every birth was different, and this time, she would have support. Fanny and Jack would be there, and the doctor was on his way. She needed to approach this birth with patience, openness, and all the knowledge she’d gained from helping other women in childbirth. With a glance at her polar-bearish reflection in the mirror, she gave herself a nod. “It’s go time.”

Although she was trying to slip out quietly, she found that Zoey and Tate were still up, watching the Times Square festivities on TV. Tate insisted on walking her over to Fanny’s, and she was grateful for his help carrying her two suitcases. Although Fanny had some supplies, Meg’s stock of medical instruments and drugs was more extensive.

“It’s sort of like ice-skating,” Tate said as he slid a few feet down the driveway. He caught his balance and hopped onto the frozen grass, where there was traction in the snow below. The night was
silent but for the whistle and jangling clash of ice-covered branches. In the stark beauty, Meg decided that this was the perfect way to start the New Year, jumping back into the vocation that suited her so well.

Fanny answered the door with a small LED flashlight in hand. In her nightgown, with a braid that fell down her back, she looked like a teenager at a pajama party. “Go on and get settled in the center,” she said, handing Meg the flashlight. “I’ll be right there to light the lamps and set up.”

As Jack’s Jeep pulled up, Meg opened the door and went outside to help Kat maneuver over the ice. “You made it,” she said in a calm, welcoming voice.

Jack looked over from the driver’s seat, his face strained. “I’m glad you’re here. She’s in a bad way.”

Kat’s face, puffy and streaked with tears, revealed her misery. “I can’t do this,” she sobbed as she shifted out of the backseat. “On a scale of one to ten, my pain is ninety-nine. Sheer agony.”

“Let’s get you inside and we’ll see what we can do for you.” Meg helped Kat to the door, where Fanny received her, guiding her over to a cot.

“As I was driving over here, I kept thanking God that you were you.” Jack slid one arm around Meg’s shoulders as they watched his sister kneel on the cot. “It kills me, seeing her in pain like that.”

“It’s part of the process,” Meg said quietly. “She’ll be fine.”

Fortunately, Kat seemed relieved to have arrived at the center, where the earthy smell of wood smoke from the stove mixed with a hint of kerosene from the lamps. Without thought Meg slipped into professional mode, taking Kat’s vitals, checking to make sure she was hydrated. Based on the contractions, Kat seemed to be in active first-stage labor. When Meg placed her hands on Kat’s belly,
she suspected posterior arrest: The baby was in the wrong position to descend.

“I’m going to need to do an exam,” she said, then looked up at Jack. “Kat? Do you want Jack to stay by your side? Or should he step into the kitchen and wait this part out?”

“Out. I want to be alone,” Kat said. “Just go, Jack.”

Hands up, Jack backed away with relief. “I don’t have to be told twice.”

Fanny stood by quietly, rubbing Kat’s back as Meg slipped on surgical gloves and did an internal exam. It was just as she had thought. “Well, no wonder you’re in so much pain,” she said. “You and your baby seem to be fine, but the baby’s turned the wrong way.”

“Back labor,” Fanny said with a nod.

“That’s right.” Meg kept her voice level as she explained. “Often a posterior baby can’t descend into the birth canal, and it puts tremendous pressure on the mother’s lower back. They say it’s ten times as painful when the baby is positioned this way.”

Kat let out a whimper. “What can I do to make it stop?”

“Sometimes you can turn the baby by moving around,” Fanny said.

“That’s right.” Meg helped Kat to her feet. “Walking is good—like the pacing you were doing before. You can try rocking your hips, rotating them. Or there’s a position we can try on the stairs, whenever you feel up to it.”

“Show me. Now.” Kat clung to a thin thread of focus amidst the pain.

“This will look sort of like a runner’s lunge,” Meg said, leading her to the stairs, where the old newel post anchored the railing. “You’re going to put your left foot on the second step and lean forward as far as you can. That’s it. Good.” She explained that this position opened the sacroiliac joint, giving the baby more room to turn.

“My grandmother had a treatment for back labor,” Fanny said. “She used to send the mother for a buggy ride on a bumpy road.”

“And did it work?” Kat asked.

“Sometimes.”

“It’s the same principle as rocking,” Meg explained. “Sometimes the movement coupled with gravity causes the baby to rotate.”

When it was time for a break, Fanny pressed a hot water bottle to Kat’s lower back for pain relief. They encouraged Kat to drink and eat, and Fanny brought her a cup of a hydrating tonic she had made from water, lemon juice, honey, salt, and baking soda. To calm Kat and reduce swelling, Meg found sepia and arnica in her bag of homeopathic herbs. Every half hour or so, Meg checked the baby’s heart rate.

About an hour after Kat’s arrival, Dr. Trueherz called to check in. Meg relayed Kat’s vitals and gave him her assessment.

“Back labor? That’s too bad. Are you schooled in the Hamlin technique to rotate the baby?”

“I am, but I know it’s painful for the mother and not always successful.”

“That’s true. Stick with the stair stretch and other exercises for now. I’m afraid to tell you this, but I don’t think I’m going to make it there through this storm. I just pulled into an empty parking lot, and I’m not sure if I should continue. The roads are so slippery I’ve had to inch along. I haven’t even made it out of Paradise yet, and there’s no telling what’s ahead. Do you think you can handle this one without me?”

Meg glanced over to the stairs, where Kat was in position again, whimpering, while Fanny applied counterpressure and coached her in a soothing voice. It was going to be a long night, and there would be no emergency crew if there was a problem.

But what was the point of making Doc Trueherz drive for hours,
in dangerous conditions, when he would most likely miss the birth, anyway?

And she could handle this. Meg’s instincts told her that she and Fanny could help Kat have her baby. This was labor—painful, messy, tiring, but rewarding. “I think we’ve got this one,” Meg told the doctor.

It was a long night of labor for Kat. Although Meg worried about the drain on the laboring mother’s stamina and energy, Kat managed to escape to that distant frame of mind during the worst moments. Meg thanked the Lord for the trance that fell over women when they transitioned in labor.

There were many times when Kat wanted her privacy, and Fanny and Meg respected that space, moving away to a wooden bench near the door. They watched and whispered like two friends in a dimly lit movie theater.

“Is Jack dozing off in the kitchen?” Meg asked.

“He’s playing a game on his cell phone.” Fanny smoothed her apron down, letting her fingers twirl one of the pins. “And what about the baby’s father?”

“He’s in the army, stationed overseas.”

Fanny nodded. “It’s hard to have a baby without the father there. But she’s lucky that he’ll be coming back.”

Meg let out a sigh of agreement as she realized that Fanny’s last child had been born shortly after her husband had died.

“I’ve noticed that most Amish women in Lancaster County wear beautifully colored dresses,” Meg said. “Deep gem tones like emerald green, sapphire, aqua, or purple. But you’re still wearing black. That’s to mourn your husband?”

“Ya. A widow wears black.”

“And do you dress that way for the rest of your life? Or until you meet someone?”

“A year.” Fanny’s voice was hushed, quiet as a whisper. “A wife mourns her husband for a year, but …”

When Fanny paused, Meg turned to her and noticed the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Oh, I am so sorry. I stepped over the line, didn’t I?”

Fanny swiped at her cheeks with the back of one hand. “It’s not anything you’ve said. It’s a mistake I made. I’ve disgraced my family. And my dear Tom … I’ve been disrespectful.”

“What did you do? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I … it’s not something to talk about.”

“I’m sorry.” Meg rubbed Fanny’s upper arm. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m tired and I’m sure you’re tired, too.”

“I am, but being a part of a baby’s birth, that’s worth losing some sleep.”

“You are so right about that, my friend.” Meg yawned. “It’s amazing to be part of a birth, but sometimes it’s the moments in between, the waiting periods, that bring us back to ourselves.”

“The waiting can be a wonderful thing. My dat used to say that sometimes we are too busy climbing mountains when we ought to be resting.”

“That is a good way to describe childbirth, don’t you think?”

Fanny nodded. “But we don’t talk of it. Sometimes a mother will talk with a daughter, but usually we keep it to ourselves. When you live in a farm community, birth and death are all around us, a fact of life. We see it, but don’t need to speak about it.”

“But you’re an exception, Fanny. You’re learning the language of birth. And you built this center to make it easier and safer for women.”

“Oh, I did none of the building. Zed and Caleb and some of the other men did that work, and we got so many donations from Plain folk. All of the kitchen appliances were hand-me-downs. It’s really a community center, not mine at all.”

Meg simply nodded, realizing it was a waste of breath to praise Fanny’s efforts. Taking credit would be a gesture of pride, which the Amish censured. Still, Meg was beginning to understand the ebb and flow of Amish conversation: the tug of humility that gave way to the expression of joy in the simple things. And then that joy was once again tempered by humility and acceptance of God’s will. Humble and Plain. Such was the enigmatic grace of Amish culture.