Authors: Gloria Repp
“What about home births?”
“One of the midwives let me follow her around.”
“I’ve only seen a couple of midwives in action, but . . . wow!”
He nodded. “This one was astonishing. Since then, I’ve worked with other midwives, and I’ve nothing but respect for them.” He swung his Jeep onto a narrow road. “Tonight we may run into a problem. This couple has a strong aversion to doctors.”
He glanced at her. “You may stand up and cheer.”
“Not me.” She tried for a teasing voice. “I have to work with you tonight.”
“I’d hoped for something more positive,” he said. “Anyway, Charlotte thought it might make a difference if you were there.”
“She told me a little about the previous doctor.”
“I guess he had some personal problems, an addiction. And he made an inaccurate diagnosis when this couple’s daughter was sick. They almost lost her.”
“What else can you tell me about them?”
“Logan and Greta Moore. Greta’s other two births were relatively simple. The children will be with a neighbor. Charlotte’s an excellent midwife, so I’m sure they’ll have a birth kit.”
Lights shone from all the windows in the Moore’s home. Nathan parked in front, picked up his medical bag, and gave her an encouraging smile. “Here goes.”
A black-haired man stepped out onto the porch and stood with feet planted wide, hands on his hips. Stained jeans and a ragged T-shirt didn’t bother Madeleine as much as the enmity on his face.
Logan Moore scanned them with fierce black eyes, and held the door open without a word, Nathan put a protective hand on her arm, and they stepped past him.
The front room wasn’t deep, but it was wide. To her right was a straight-backed chair and a wood stove that radiated warmth. To her left, flanked by two overstuffed chairs, stood a daybed. It looked homemade, with a wooden base and built-in drawers under the mattress.
The woman, Greta, must have been in the middle of a contraction because she was leaning onto a chair with one hand, and holding her back with the other, moaning.
Her husband glanced at Nathan and kicked the straight-backed chair into the corner behind the stove. “That’s for you. Charlotte said you had to come, but you’d better stay put.”
Madeleine stared. He wasn’t going to let Nathan do anything? That meant she had to . . .
Nathan’s calm expression didn’t change. He sat in the chair and put his bag on the floor.
Logan stood unmoving in front of him. Did he think the doctor would try to escape?
She set her basket beside Nathan’s bag and gave him a sideways glance. His eyes held hers with a smile. “Looks like you’re on your own,” he said quietly.
Thanks a lot. How was she going to manage without a midwife?
First, wash hands.
Greta straightened up, a blonde, solid-looking woman in an over-sized T-shirt that might have been her husband’s.
She looked at Madeleine, sighed, and began to walk back and forth, keeping her hands on her back. “I need Charlotte,” she said. “My back hurts so bad.”
Madeleine went to her, put a hand on her shoulder and started rubbing her back. Where was the birth kit? How could she disarm this husband?
She glanced at him. Still standing over Nathan like a watchdog.
“Logan,” she said, “I really like that piece.” She nodded toward the daybed. “Did you build it?”
He turned, and she smiled at him.
“Yeah.”
Greta spoke in short little bursts. “Built it for me. Our couch. Charlotte likes it. Said it’s good for birthing. He set it up like she told us.”
Logan’s eyes softened as she spoke. He looked at his wife with love blazing across his face, and Madeleine had to turn away.
Greta was grabbing for the chair again. She let out a gasp and clutched at her back. Madeleine put both hands, one stacked on the other, at the base of Greta’s spine, and Greta leaned back against her. “Oh, that feels good.”
Madeleine braced her feet so that Greta could lean back as hard as she needed to, and when Greta began to breathe more easily, she shifted her hands.
“No!” Greta cried. Her face was flushed and sweating. “Not yet! Don’t move. It’s helping.”
Where was Logan? He’d stepped up beside them, looking anxious. Put him to work.
She kept her hands in place as she spoke to him. “Your wife needs a cool, wet cloth. Can you bring us one? And a glass of water?”
He threw a dark glance at Nathan, disappeared into the next room, and returned almost immediately. She thanked him with a smile and wiped Greta’s face.
Greta drank, but afterwards, she shook her head. “This baby. Thought it would be easy. Never . . . had . . . pain. Like this.”
She pressed back against Madeleine’s hands, moaning, and Madeleine braced herself again, marveling at the woman’s strength and feeling an echo of her pain. She held her hands steady, murmured to Greta, and tried to think what else she could do.
As the long contraction ended, she sent a questioning look to Nathan.
“I think the baby’s posterior,” he said in a low voice. “Why don’t we try—”
He rose to his feet, and Logan stepped in front of him. “You stay right there.”
Nathan shrugged. “Mollie,” he said, “see if they have an old sheet.”
She glanced at Logan. “Where’s your birth kit?”
“In here,” he said, opening one of the drawers under the bed. It held a tiny green knitted hat, small flannel blankets, towels, and several worn sheets.
She moved to reach for a sheet.
“Don’t!” Greta cried. “Don’t move your hand.”
Stay calm, as calm as Nathan, she told herself.
“Logan,” she said, “we need you.”
He was beside her in an instant.
“See how I’ve got my hands?” she said. “Put yours like that, and let her push against you when she has contractions. That’ll be a big help.”
And it would keep him busy for a while.
She picked up the sheet and took it to Nathan. “Are you permitted to advise?” she said in an undertone.
His smile gave her courage. “You’ll need a long strip,” he said, “about two feet wide.”
“Do you have any scissors?”
“In my bag.” He handed them to her and watched as she snipped the hem and tore the sheet.
“Now what?”
“Drape the strip over Greta’s back—right at hip level—nice and smooth. Bring the ends around to the front and cross them under her belly. You’ll stand in front of her.”
She tried to picture what he was describing, and nodded.
“Then,” he said, “we wait for the next contraction.”
Logan still had his hands in place, but he’d watched every move they made, she was sure of it.
Madeleine went back, saying, “We’re going to help that baby, Greta.”
As she put the sheet into place, she glanced at Nathan and he nodded. He leaned forward. “Next contraction, you pull the ends in opposite directions, out to the side.” He gestured, using both arms in a pulling motion. “You’ll have to brace your feet.”
Greta let out a gasp, and Madeleine began to pull. “Oh, yes,” Greta said.
She kept pulling, and Greta said, “Harder, oh, yes, good. Good. More. ”
At first, it seemed an easy thing to do, but her arms began to tire, and the contraction went on forever. At last it was over, and Greta clung to her in silence.
Logan began to rub his wife’s back, looking a trifle less agonized.
After a minute, Madeleine said, “Logan, we need you again. You’re a lot stronger than I am.” She handed him an end of the strip. “Here. At the next one, you pull this.”
They pulled through the next contraction, and Greta seemed more comfortable. As it eased, Madeleine smiled at Logan, and he gave her a small grin in return.
Another contraction came and went, and he said, “How long do we do this?”
“As long as it helps her.”
In just a few minutes Greta began to moan again, and Madeleine picked up her end of the sheet. “Here we go.”
But this time, at the end of the contraction, Greta said, “Oh!” She cradled her belly and leaned forward with a puzzled look on her face. “Oh . . . better.” She sat on the bed and reached for the water glass.
Madeleine glanced at Nathan. “Seems like the baby’s turned,” he said, smiling.
A wave of giddy relief swept through her, and she smiled back. “Another old Alaskan custom?”
He grinned. “Mexican. They use a rebozo.”
She shook her head at him and went back to wiping Greta’s face.
Greta let out a low groaning breath. She flung her arms around Madeleine’s waist and buried her head in her chest.
Something new. Madeleine bent her head over Greta’s and held onto her.
Logan had seen what happened. He stepped closer, looking worried again. “I thought it was almost over.”
“She’s doing great, but we’ve still got some work ahead of us. Could you warm up the hat and those little blankets?”
He took them from the drawer and paused beside her. “In the oven?”
“Yes, but wrap them in foil, okay? Don’t let them get hot.”
Greta was trembling now, perspiring heavily. She gripped Madeleine’s waist and began to rock, pulling Madeleine back and forth, and she crooned. “Come on, baby, I want to see you. Come on, I want to hold you. Come, my baby, my very own.”
Madeleine’s jaw clenched as she listened, and sorrow grated through her, so jarring that she almost let go. Never, never would she sing that song.
No babies for her. A woman who panicked at a mere kiss would not—could not—marry again. She strengthened her grip and swayed with Greta, crooning a nameless little dirge of her own.
Could she accept this from her forever-God? This too?
She closed her eyes and breathed with Greta, leaning into her embrace. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Yes, You are my Lord, my Rock
. This too.
They swayed and rocked and sang, and finally Greta let her head drop against Madeleine, smiling an inward-focused smile.
Madeleine brushed back the clinging strands of blonde hair, wiped Greta’s damp face, and whispered encouragement. She held out the glass for her to drink.
Another contraction. Logan was fidgeting beside them, but Madeleine closed her eyes, fastened her mind on Greta, sharing her pain.
The contractions came faster and faster, more and more intense. In between, Madeleine leaned away, trying to stretch out her back, but Greta clung to her.
Would this last all night?
Greta lurched to her feet. “Bathroom.”
Madeleine stayed near until they reached the bathroom door, and then she waited outside.
A minute later she heard a low grunt. Greta emerged from the bathroom, turned toward the bed and stopped, grabbing Madeleine’s shoulders with both hands. She dug in her fingers, pulled Madeleine’s head to her chest, and bellowed.
Madeleine recognized that sound—Greta was starting to push. She held onto her and tried to keep her balance.
As soon as the contraction was over, Greta dropped to her knees beside the bed and Logan moved close. Madeleine kept her hands on Greta while she looked up at him. “The baby’s coming,” she said quietly. “We need the doctor now.”
“I hate doctors.”
“So do I. But this is a good man.”
Greta lifted her head. “Logan.” She spoke between her teeth. “Let him come.” She gasped. “Let him come.”
Nathan was sitting forward, alert.
Logan gave him a narrow-eyed glance, nodded, and Nathan headed for the sink.
Greta crouched back onto her heels, and a low sound, a growl, rose from deep within her. She bent over the bed again, the damp T-shirt clinging to her thighs.
Madeleine wiped Greta’s face once more. Hurry up, Doc! How long does it take to wash your hands?
At last Nathan was there beside her, pulling on gloves, kneeling behind Greta.
Logan bent over his wife, murmuring to her. Madeleine rubbed Greta’s back with long steady strokes, and gave her another sip of water.
Greta began to push again, groaning, and Nathan soothed her in a low voice. “The baby’s coming fast, Greta. Don’t force it . . . don’t force it. Listen to your body.”
Greta took a deep breath and roared, a sound of intense effort and power and triumph.
“Mollie, would you look for the head?” Nathan’s voice was so calm, he might have been asking her to check the time.
She found a mirror in his bag and used it, bending down low. “Yes! It’s right there.”
He cupped his hand beneath the emerging head of sleek black hair and spread his fingers wide. A few minutes later, the baby was sliding into his hands, and he smiled.
“Reach down and take your baby, Greta,” he said.
Madeleine steadied her as Greta sat back on her heels and drew the baby close. Logan knelt beside her, his arms around them both, and Madeleine moved away.
After a minute Logan said, “What is it?”