The Midwife of Hope River: A Novel of an American Midwife by Harman Patricia

Author:Harman, Patricia [Harman, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

25

Bolt from the Blue

On the way back across the meadow, with my sweet-smelling Mother’s Day bouquet of white serviceberry blossoms and pink phlox, I’m startled to see a vehicle sputtering up Wild Rose Road. It can’t be the vet; he left on the train yesterday. Not likely Katherine MacIntosh either, unless Bitsy’s with her and she’s on the run again. The sheriff?

I trot into the house, lock my diary, and shove it under a sofa cushion. I plunk my flowers into a quart mason jar and then hang my red kimono on its nail behind the kitchen door. Maybe it’s Becky Myers, come to check on me after her excessive worries about the Klan, or perhaps a father, looking for the midwife.

I’m surprised when Mildred Miller and Mrs. Potts get out of the battered black open hack. The two are dressed in their church clothes, dark dresses with bright white lace collars and white hats that frame their faces. The old lady is using a cane, and her companion helps her up the steps.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Mrs. Potts starts out once she settles on the sofa.

“I love your house,” Mrs. Miller interjects. “It’s so nice and clean. Smells so good. It must be your flowers. Is Bitsy here?”

“Her room’s upstairs, but she’s gone into town to spend the day with her mother, Mary Proudfoot.”

Mrs. Potts tries again. “My heart’s been skipping around and causing me dizzy spells. The doc says it’s weak. Thinks I ought to stop running around after babies.”

“She had a fall last week, out in the garden, and lay there for two hours until one of the Bowlin boys passed!” That’s Mrs. Miller.

“I tripped on an old tomato stake! Could happen to anyone. The point is, Patience, I need your help. You’re young and strong, and I could turn my mothers over to you. I’ll still come to the births in the daytime, just to be companionable, if I’m feeling well and the roads aren’t bad. The doctor says I have a few more years if I’m careful.” She declares this last part so offhandedly: a few more years. I’m taken aback, shocked at the sound of it. Mildred stares at the floor.

“Would there be many?” I ask in an attempt to get practical. “Usually I do two births a month; since the hard times came, maybe three. People who used to think a home delivery too old-timey are now calling on me because they can’t afford the hospital or they’ve heard bad stories from other new mothers.”

“I do ’bout the same. Two or three a month, but more of my patients are black mothers and they aren’t as much trouble as white girls. Got more grit.” I smile at her comment. She’s possibly right, with the exception of fourteen-year-old Twyla, who screamed her way through labor.

“Mrs. Potts, I’m honored, but I don’t know how to say this . . . Bitsy and I have to make a living. We can’t always do deliveries for free.

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