The Midwife Page 3

  “Where is your boy?” Leah asked. She’d heard the soft murmuring of their voices, then the muted crying of a child in the kitchen only minutes past. “Is he all right?”

  Gar cast her a scornful look. “His mother is dead. He will never be ‘all right’ again.” Turning abruptly, he left the bedroom. Leah followed slowly, unwilling to embarrass the grieving child by coming upon him without warning.

  She waited in the doorway as Gar led the boy from the house and firmly closed the door behind them. On weary legs, she made her way to the window, watching as father and son walked through the snow to the barn, where Gar must have already harnessed the team to the sleigh.

  Within moments he led the rig through the wide double doors, the young boy ensconced in the front seat with the fur lap robe warm about his small body. Gar joined his son on the carved seat and picked up the reins. With barely a glance back at the house, he set his team into motion and turned his sleigh toward town.

  The milk warmed quickly on the stove. She poured a small amount into a saltshaker and tied a double layer of tightly woven flannel over the top. Holding the baby in her left arm, she allowed the milk to drip slowly into the child’s mouth.

  “A nipple would work much better,” she whispered aloud, her little finger rubbing the babe’s lips, coaxing her to open them enough for the milk to enter. “Maybe the doctor will think to send one back for you, little girl.”

  The baby twisted her head toward Leah’s breast, opening her lips in a timeless gesture. “I cannot help you, sweetheart,” Leah crooned, coaxing the tiny lips with a slow drip, drip, drip of skimmed milk. “This is the best I can offer for now.”

  It was a frustrating task, but Leah knew it well and she worked patiently with the baby for almost an hour, until both infant and woman were well nigh exhausted from their efforts. At least an ounce or so of the milk had gone down the baby’s throat, Leah guessed, the rest of it dampening the blanket she was wrapped in.

  “I must bathe you, little girl,” she sang in a tuneless fashion. “But not until you’ve had time to sleep a bit and gain some strength from your nourishment.” A pillow provided a sleeping place for the baby, and Leah anchored it on two chairs, near the stove.

  A ham bone with large bits of meat still attached sat on the kitchen bureau, covered by a dish towel, as if Hulda had planned for its use today, probably for soup. Making soup was the least she could do for the small family, Leah decided, transferring it to a kettle.

  She cut up an onion, which she plucked from a string of them hanging from a ceiling beam, and added it to the kettle of water. A visit to the pantry, just off the kitchen, produced a quart of tomatoes, and she added that too, along with a measure of dry beans.

  From the looks of it, Hulda had planned well for the winter. Her pantry shelves were filled with the harvest from her garden. Leah’s fingers rested on the jar she had just emptied, as if she might sense some lingering trace of the woman who had spent hours in this kitchen, providing for her family.

  Her heart was heavy with a guilt she knew she didn’t deserve yet must bear. Gar Lundstrom had been more at fault than she, with his need for more sons to work his farm. And for his efforts, he had gained a puny girl child. There seemed a sense of rightness about that, she thought.

  The boy…she wrinkled her forehead as she considered him—Kristofer, Hulda had called him, who was now in the midst of plans for his mother’s funeral. How would he survive such a loss? It was almost easier for the babe. She would never have known a mother’s love, and so could not miss it.

  As for herself, her own life must be put to rights after the events of the past night. The laundry she’d left in a basket would need to be hung, for there would be at least two gentlemen banging on her door, looking for their clean clothes. And here she was, ten miles out in the country, tending a newborn baby.

  For now, she would do what she could to help while she waited for Gar Lundstrom to come home. Sweeping the floors and dusting the furniture took but thirty minutes. And all during her efforts, she stayed far from the bedroom on the second floor, where Hulda Lundstrom lay beneath a white sheet.

  Leah warmed a fresh bit of milk and spent another half hour feeding the baby, then washed the infant with tender care before rocking her in the big oak chair in the parlor.

  The ham was falling off the bone by the time the sleigh traveled past the kitchen window. Close behind it came the black, covered vehicle that Joseph Landers drove when the occasion called for it. Leah went to the door, shivering from the cold draft of air as the menfolk came in.

  “Kristofer, stand near the stove and warm yourself,” Gar said abruptly to his son, and Leah watched as the boy obeyed. His thin hands were red from the cold, and his nose and ears were the same rosy hue. His eyelids barely lifted as he passed Leah, the skin swollen around each eye as if he had spent the whole time aboard the sleigh crying.

  And so he probably had, she thought, shaking her head as she watched the boy. He rubbed his hands together, then wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. Leah pulled the square of cotton from her own pocket and pressed it into his hand.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” His child’s voice was rough with the tears he had shed, and Leah felt a pang as her heart ached for his loss. This was a house of sorrow, and it weighed heavily on her.

  She watched the men proceed to the second floor, heard their footsteps as they entered the bedroom over her head, and listened to the soft murmur of voices through the vent in the kitchen ceiling.

  “Kristofer?” Leah tasted his name upon her tongue, liking the sound of it. Had his mother chosen it? Likely so. Gar would probably have preferred Lars or Igor or some such harsh-sounding name. Kristofer was a name a mother would choose for her tow-haired son.

  “Ma’am?” The boy looked up, his vivid blue eyes bloodshot with the hours of weeping he had done.

  “Are you hungry, Kristofer?” she asked kindly. “I made you some beans and ham. You should try to eat something.”

  His gaze flickered toward the kettle on the stove and he licked his lips. “Yes, ma’am. I didn’t have any breakfast.”

  Leah snatched the opportunity to perform a task, bustling about the kitchen, her movements masking the sounds from overhead. “Come to the sink and wash,” she said, her keen hearing aware of the men on the stairway.

  She stood behind the boy, her body a shield as the wrapped, frail body of his mother was carried through the kitchen. Then, as the back door closed behind the two men and their burden, she placed her hand on the boy’s slender shoulder.

  “Come, eat now. I’ll slice you some bread to go with it,” she offered, steering him to the table and pulling out the chair for him. He obeyed listlessly, only his trembling fingers revealing his hunger as he picked up the spoon she provided.

  Leah busied herself on his behalf, slicing bread, searching out the butter and jam. Each trip past the window revealed to her the progress outdoors. She noticed a man opening the boxy black undertaker’s wagon back door, where a rough, wooden coffin was slid from within as Gar held his wife’s body in his arms. Gar closed the black door and the two men stood talking, Gar’s head bent low as he watched the toe of his boot kicking at the wheel of the wagon.

  Before long, Leah heard the sound of a harness jingling in the yard, and moments later Gar came in the door. “You need to eat something, Mr. Lundstrom,” Leah said. “I’ve made some soup with beans. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His shrug spoke an answer. What does it matter? he seemed to say in silence. Then on a sigh, he admitted his frailty. “Yes, please, if you would. I’m hungry.”

  While she dished up a generous helping, he washed at the sink, then paused beside his son as he stepped back to the table. “Kristofer.” As if he had only needed the comfort of the boy’s name on his tongue, he closed his eyes.

  “I’m here, Pa.” Mumbled through a mouthful of food, the answer seemed to satisfy the man, and he sat down next to the boy.

  “What will you do with t
he baby? Did you see the doctor in town?” Leah asked quietly, pouring fresh coffee for the man who gazed into the bowl of meat and beans. As if he had no notion of what to do next, he lifted his head and focused on her.

  She fished a spoon from the glass container and placed it next to his bowl. “Go on. Eat,” she said briskly, aware that his mind was not on the food before him.

  “Yes.” He spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it, then lifted the cup to his mouth, glaring down at it after a moment. “There is no cream in it,” he said accusingly.

  “I’ll get you some,” she offered, snatching the small pitcher from the dresser. The cream was rich, yellow and thick, and she poured the china container full to brimming.

  “Thank you,” Gar said, his voice more subdued, watching her intently through narrowed eyes as she added a dollop to the black coffee, where it swirled and changed color.

  He picked up the soupspoon she had provided and ate with automatic movements, chewing and swallowing in silence. Leah watched from across the room, nursing her own cup of coffee.

  And then the baby stirred, snuffling softly. In seconds the faint sounds became a wail, and Leah put her coffee cup down to hasten to the makeshift bed beside the stove. She bent to pick up the small bundle and held it against her shoulder, murmuring soft words of comfort.

  “Give her to me.” Gar’s face was a mask, a forbidding frown furrowing his brow, his mouth taut. His arms outstretched for his daughter, he repeated his demand. “Give her to me.”

  Kristofer gaped at his father, his glance sliding to Leah and then back.

  “Go to the barn, son, and help Benny feed the stock,” Gar told him. “I did not do it well this morning.”

  The boy nodded, donning his coat and leaving the house quickly.

  “I will take my child now, Mrs. Gunderson.” Before she could voice any words of agreement, he lifted the baby from Leah’s arms and stepped back. “I watched my wife bleed to death, right before my eyes. I cannot find it in myself to excuse what you did.”

  Leah’s legs trembled as she heard his accusation and she sat down in the chair across the table from where he stood.

  “I told you when I came here that I was not a doctor. I did the best I could, sir. The doctor had told you and your wife that she should not have any more babies. Her organs were damaged so badly that the child could not have been born had I not drawn her out forcibly.”

  The vision of gushing blood and mucus flowing onto Hulda’s bed was still vivid in Leah’s mind, and she closed her eyes against the horror. “Hulda could not have lived through the birth, no matter who attended her.”

  She looked up, her mouth trembling, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “You are the one who must take the blame for this, Gar Lundstrom. You got her with child, after the doctor told you she should not bear another baby. Don’t lay your guilt at my feet.”

  His skin changed from the ruddy complexion of an outdoorsman to the ashen gray of a man with a grave illness. “I know what guilt I must bear,” he said harshly.

  “Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” Gar told her. Then, snatching up a quilt to bundle around the tiny infant, he left the house.

  Where he took the child, she did not know. His steps were purposeful as he went toward the barn, then on to a small house at the edge of the meadow. When she could bear to watch no longer, she turned from the window.

  He took her home, both riding atop the wagon in silence, as if they could not abide each other’s company. He drove his team to the front of her house, and waited only long enough for her to slide from the seat before heading on his way.

  “My bag! You have my bag, Mr. Lundstrom!” she cried, running behind the wagon.

  He bent to lift it from the floor near his feet and tossed it in her direction, his eyes filled with an anger and a depth of despair she knew only too well. It had been her companion for many a long night.

  The wet clothing was hung, draped over lines that crisscrossed the kitchen. Her task finally completed, Leah ducked beneath Orville Hunsicker’s second-best white shirt as she escaped from the sea of laundry. The house closed up for the night, she left the kitchen for her bedroom.

  She was bone weary and though she had thought sleep would not come, the pillow was barely beneath her head when she sank deeply into oblivion.

  The woman suffered without sound, her dark eyes holding only hatred for the child she bore. Then, in a twinkling, that sweet, healthy infant, suddenly unmoving, lay beside his mother, his neck at an awkward, unnatural angle.

  Shrieking, the mother pointed at Leah, her accusation resounding in the eerie light. “Murderer! Murderer!” Waving angry fists, the vengeful father roared his fury and Leah backed from the room, then turned to run; fleeing, always fleeing.

  She breathed harshly, running blindly through a maze, only to enter another room, where Hulda Lundstrom rose up in the midst of a bloody bed to point her finger accusingly, her voice hoarse. “Murderer! Murderer!”

  Leah awoke to a dark room, gasping for breath, as if she had been running for a very long time and her accusers were fast on her heels. The window held a full moon within its grasp, and it was there she focused her sight.

  Beyond the white curtains she caught a glimpse of the hotel on the town’s main street. Next to it the grocery store and the bank lined up neatly, their rooftops visible from her viewpoint. No longer was she running through the streets of Chicago, escaping the vengeance of a distraught father.

  Leah bowed her head into her hands. How long? For how many years would she be haunted by the memory of that tiny baby boy, by the cold eyes of the mother who wanted nothing of the man she had married, least of all his child?

  And now, as if that were not enough, she was to be tormented by the death of Hulda, who had sought only to please the man she had married.

  The week passed more slowly than any she could remember, each day longer than the last. She walked to the store once, but the gossip was rife, with word of Hulda Lundstrom’s death on every tongue. Leah was relieved to receive sympathetic glances and words of encouragement from the ladies who knew her best.

  Yet even that was not salve enough for the wounds she bore within her soul. The thought that she must do something for the tragic little family struggling alone without a wife and mother in their midst filled her mind.

  And yet at the end of that long, dreary week, when Gar Lundstrom appeared on her doorstep with a tiny bundle in his arms, her kind thoughts disappeared as he glared at her through her screen door.

  “I have brought you my child,” he said bluntly, his fingers gripping the door handle, forcing her to step aside as he entered her small parlor.

  “Whatever for, Mr. Lundstrom?” she said, her gaze intent on the wiggling form of the child he carried.

  “I have found that it is not possible for me to care for the baby at the farm. I left her with Ruth Warshem, my Benny’s wife, but she had to bring her back to me at night. I cannot do my work when I am up with a crying baby for all hours.”

  “And you want me to take care of her?” Leah was flabbergasted. The very nerve of the man, to intrude in such a way, with his demands.

  “I can do it no more. I have stock to tend to and chores to keep me from the house all day, and I am weary at night. It is all I can do to keep Kristofer with me and care for him.”

  “What makes you think I’m the one to take on the job?” Leah asked, anger vying with astonishment at his edict.

  His head tilted at an imperious angle. “There is no one else.”

  Leah laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “Well, you can forget it, Mr. Lundstrom. I am not available.”

  His mouth tightened and his eyes snapped with an icy flame, the pale blue depths piercing her. “I will pay you well,” he growled, a penitent without a scrap of humility in his bones.

  Leah’s mouth opened and words of denial begged to be spoken, yet in her mind fluttered a small flag of caution. She could salvage her pride while lending a helping hand
to this family if she accepted a token amount and gave the man a respite from his overwhelming responsibility.

  “Perhaps, for a short while, I could do it,” she said slowly, her eyes drawn again to the bundle he carried, which was emitting small cries of distress.

  “Here, let me take her,” she said, her hands itching to touch the infant form.

  He handed over his burden, his hands reluctantly releasing the baby, as if it were not his choice but a dire necessity that had brought him to this.

  Leah opened the blanket, where round blue eyes blinked at her and a small mouth opened in an O of surprise. Then those rosy lips yawned widely, squeezing the blue eyes into tiny slits. Leah touched the soft cheek with her fingertips.

  “What have you been feeding her?” she asked, turning away as she felt unwelcome tears mist her vision.

  “Milk from the cows, but it must be heated to almost boiling first. Then Ruth said to cool it. I got nipples at the store and bottles to use.”

  “Ruth cannot do this twenty-four hours a day?” Leah asked, wondering privately how the woman could have given up this precious package so easily.

  “No.” Gar shook his head. “She has a sister who needs her, and she never knows when she must go there. There has been sickness in the family, and now the sister is going to have a child.”

  “It would mean being available night and day. Babies require a lot of care, Mr. Lundstrom. I would need fresh milk daily for her.”

  “I will bring you a cow.” His words fell like stones against her wall of objections.

  “I don’t know how to milk a cow,” Leah snapped, moving the baby to her shoulder and bouncing her lightly.

  His look of exasperation touched her face and moved to the child she held. “Then I will teach you.”

  “For how long?” she asked, unwilling to look away although uneasy beneath the burning scrutiny of his gaze, fearing the return of the tears she had fought to subdue.