Yellow Crocus: A Novel (31 page)

He brought the half-filled spoon to her lips again. The warm liquid he poured into her mouth made it down her throat. Spoonful after spoonful he fed her, alternating the sugar water with the black cohosh tincture, until, at last, signs of labor returned.

“She is still unconscious. How will she ever manage to get the infant from her body?” inquired Mrs. Williams.

“I seen it done before—animal nature takes over. But we gonna have to work hard to help her get this baby born.”

The contractions started slowly, but quickly built in intensity. Lisbeth moaned in pain with each one but never opened her eyes. Her mind was in a different world while her body worked in this one. Matthew sat close, whispering encouragement in her ear, giving her spoonfuls of liquid between the pains. Hours passed before Mattie saw the top of the head between Lisbeth’s legs.

“This baby ready to come on out. You two gonna have to help with the squeezin’ out. When the pains come big you pull up her legs. I gonna push around the head, see if we can get it out without her rousin’.”

A large contraction grasped Lisbeth’s body, the assistants pulled Lisbeth’s bent legs toward her chest, and Mattie stretched Lisbeth’s perineum as the baby’s head crowned.

“It comin’. It comin’. Keep goin’, keep goin’. Here it come, here it come,” Mattie cheered along the incremental movement of the infant until the contraction ended. “It over. Rest her legs now till the next one come.”

The next contraction came, and the next, and the next, but still the baby did not emerge. With each one, the baby’s head would come down, but then retreat up the canal when it ended.

“She gonna have to help. This baby need pushin’.”

Mattie left her position to come close to Lisbeth’s head. She bent to Lisbeth’s ear and spoke quietly, firmly, “Lisbeth, listen to me. You gotta help here. Your baby ready to come out. You gotta push. I know you so tired, but you can do this. Jus’ two big pushes and you gonna see your baby. Find your strength, Lisbeth. You got it in you.” Mattie rubbed Lisbeth’s clammy forehead and stroked her damp hair. Though Lisbeth never once opened her eyes, Mattie hoped the words penetrated through her fog. “You got it in you, girl. I know you do.”

When the next contraction came, Mattie commanded from the catching position, “Push, Lisbeth, push! Right here where my hand is. Push!”

Lisbeth stirred, made a feeble effort to push, then quickly collapsed back.

“That a good girl, that a girl. Do it jus’ like that,” Mattie shouted words of encouragement. “With the next one, you two push her head forward while you pull up on her legs. Talk her through this, Mr. Johnson. Encourage her.”

Along with the next contraction came quiet words from Matthew, “Push, Lisbeth, push.”

Lisbeth’s eyes blinked open. She looked directly into Matthew’s scared eyes. He leaned in, so close there was nothing else in her world. “You can do it, Lisbeth. We will do this together. Here comes another one. Push, please, push,” he begged.

Lisbeth weakly squeezed Matthew’s hand, gazed at him with glassy eyes, curled up her body, and pushed with the next contraction. Harder, harder, harder, steady, steady, steady, pushing, pushing, pushing until, at last, Mattie cried out, “You did it! The head out. You did it, baby, you did it!”

Lisbeth collapsed onto the bed entirely spent, but a small smile passed across her lips before she lost consciousness again.

Matthew whispered, “Lisbeth, you have done it.” He covered her face with kisses, and his tears left trails of moisture on her cheeks. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

With the next contraction Mattie pulled the baby out. “A boy!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Johnson, you got a son.”

Matthew’s gaze broke from Lisbeth’s face to look at his child in Mattie’s hands. Tears of joy and relief streamed down Matthew’s cheeks. It was all right. Everything was all right.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved them. You saved them both!”

Later, when the afterbirth was out, the infant was clean and wrapped, and Lisbeth was sleeping soundly in her bed, Mattie asked, “Mister Johnson, do you have a name for him?”

“Samuel, after my grandfather,” Matthew replied.

Mattie’s breath caught. “A lovely name. I knowed a baby Samuel once.”

“Do you have any children?”

She nodded. “Yes, James, he just twenty-two and eleven-year-old Jennie.”

“They must be a great joy to you.”

“It sure is somethin’ how much you love your children. It took me by surprise with the first one. Thought I knew what I was getting’ into for the next, but I gave my heart to each one I brung to my breast.”

“I know I have said thank you many times already, but truly, I am so grateful to you for what you have done here today. I cannot possibly thank you enough. You are an angel, sent from heaven to save my wife.”

“You done a mighty fine job yourself at her laborin’. Most men woulda run the other way,” she said.

Matthew shrugged shyly. “I have been at many births with livestock. When I was scared I reminded myself it was not so different.”

“She one lucky girl to have a man like you. You a good man.”

“Thank you,” he replied and smiled at her. “Thank you for everything.”

A few days later, Lisbeth, still in bed recovering from her ordeal, was beaming at the sleeping child nestled in her arms.

“He is so wonderful, Matthew,” Lisbeth declared. “He is a gift from heaven.”

Lisbeth studied Samuel. She took in the curve of his ear, the pink of his tiny fingernails, his nearly translucent eyelashes. “Do you suppose he is growing enough?” she wondered. “He still looks so small.”

“He is only three days out of your womb. Give him time to adjust. However,” Matthew suggested, “if you are terribly concerned, we can hire a wet nurse. I suppose your body is spent after your ordeal.”

“Absolutely not!” Lisbeth snapped back, upset. “No wet nurse for Samuel. If I cannot provide him with what he needs we shall use cow’s milk.”

Matthew came close. Stroking Lisbeth’s arm, he spoke tenderly and cautiously, “I apologize. I meant no offense. My only consideration is that you might be tired after such a difficult labor. Cow’s milk, of course, though I do not think we have anything to be concerned about.” After a long pause he went on, “I thought you remember your wet nurse fondly.”

“I loved her dearly, more than my own mother. I cannot bear the thought of Samuel having his own wet nurse—I will not have him loving another woman more than he loves me. I cared for Mattie so much, she is who I always wanted when I was frightened. In fact, I dreamed of her the very night of Samuel’s birth.”

“The midwife must have reminded you of her. She was gentle with you.”

“I would very much like to meet her, to thank her in person. Have you sent the payment yet?” asked Lisbeth.

“No,” responded Matthew. “Mrs. Williams indicated that two chickens was sufficient payment for a standard birth.”

“Then we shall give her four because this was anything but standard. I am certain she saved my life as well as Samuel’s.” Lisbeth went on, “Matthew, I will bring the payment to her myself, as soon as I am recovered.”

“Lisbeth, are you certain that is prudent?” Matthew expressed his concern.

“Matthew, I am perfectly capable of driving chickens across town. It is the only proper way for me to meet this negro midwife in person to express my gratitude. If you wish, we can go together.”

Chapter 27

W
eeks later, Lisbeth was sufficiently recovered to travel. Perched atop the wagon, she sat next to Matthew as he steered a pair of deep black horses through the fresh spring morning. The warm sun shone down upon them and a gentle breeze swept across their faces. Clucking sounds from three hens and a rooster, payment for the midwife, accompanied their journey past their neighbor’s fields into town. Samuel, filled with his mother’s milk, was wrapped tight in a flannel blanket, asleep in a box at Lisbeth’s feet. On his head sat a pink cap, a gift from the former Mary Ford, now Mary Bartley.

Driving on the dusty roads past eager fields waiting to be planted, Lisbeth spotted a bright yellow flower in front of a white wooden farmhouse.

“Matthew, look…a crocus! It is the sign that spring is surely here. Next year I wish to have crocus blooming in our yard.”

“That would be lovely,” Matthew replied, smiling at his wife.

“Though the bulbs are quite expensive…”

“It is a luxury we can afford,” he assured her.

“Thank you, Matthew,” Lisbeth smiled back. “Can you believe we have lived here for nearly a year?”

“It has passed quickly.”

They drove on in silence, past the fallow fields, each following the trail of their own thoughts.

“Lisbeth,” Matthew broke the silence, “are you very sorry to be in Ohio?”

Lisbeth was surprised to be asked such a forthright question. She shook her head and replied, “Not at all. You need not wonder for a moment, Matthew. I do not regret my decision in the slightest. Quite the contrary, I thank God each night for you and for Samuel. I love our home, Matthew.”

Lisbeth slid across the wooden bench until she sat right next to him. She looped her arm through his, leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and squeezed his arm. Matthew nodded his head in satisfaction.

After a stopover to get supplies—ground flour, sugar, and cloth—and any letters brought west on the train, they set out to the other side of town to the midwife’s house. Lisbeth slowly tore open an envelope addressed in her mother’s precise hand. Reading silently as they drove along the dirt road, she sat back with a sigh when she finished the letter.