That snowy night, Mother screamed out. I think she had been expecting it; I remember how she winced and paced and worried the day before. It was twenty past one in the morning on February 21, 1887. The thin layers of plaster, lathe, paper, and paint couldn’t keep out the sounds and commotion. How I do remember that scream!
Father was still driving a wagon train back from St. Louis
When Grandmother first arrived at our house for this visit, it was a week before Mother’s labor started. I heard Mother tell her that this time would be different. “The Lord doesn’t want to take this one,” she explained. “I feel it in my heart.” Mother looked at me with a crazy smile.
After all the deaths, I did not think that this new baby would live for very long. I smiled back nervously because the losses were clouding her mind. Looking back, I would call it hysteria of some sort.
Grandmother wasn’t smiling. “The Lord does not want any babies, Elizabeth,” she said. “Babies live full lives when they are born to a strong mother.” Mother sobbed at the insult and retreated to her room, where she stayed for several days.
Now I listened to Mother groaning and panting and pleading. I began to worry that Grandmother didn’t hear these horrible cries. Grandmother always helped Mother when it was time for the babies to come, just like she helped Aunt Rebecca. My three sisters didn’t make it more than an hour after their births, but Aunt Rebecca never lost a baby.
I slid out of the warmth of my bed, and my feet touched the cold, bare floorboards. I was standing next to the low window in my bedroom. The cold flowed through the thin, slightly rippled panes of glass, and, to add to my discomfort, the window sash never seated properly on the twisted sill, leaving a sizable gap. I felt the freezing wind on my knees, and quickly tiptoed away from the window. I crept to the door, turned the round metal knob, and pushed the door open. The door creaked loudly.
I saw that Grandmother was climbing the narrow staircase at the end of the hall. The flickering light from Mother’s lamp poured out into the small landing area. Grandmother was already wearing her blue dress and an old, stained apron. In one hand, she carried a steaming kettle, and her other arm was wrapped around a stack of towels. I was relieved to see her stern, pale face. She was like an old priestess, preparing to conduct a familiar ritual. Mother still trusted her skills as a midwife, still unfamiliar with the impersonal, sterile treatment of a modern physician.
“Is the baby going to be alright?” I asked. I knew it was not my place to ask such a thing.
She stared at me coldly. “The baby needs your mother to work hard.”
Mother needed to work hard, I thought, Grandmother’s words echoing in my mind. Mother needs to work hard. Work hard? I considered the notion that my Mother had to work to make the baby become born. And for the first time, it occurred to me that I did not know how the babies came out. I wanted to ask, but it was difficult to get the words out.
“How does the baby—”
“Not appropriate, young man,” she said. “Let’s not be obscene with a brand new baby almost in earshot.” Mother screamed and panted rapidly. Grandmother pushed her way around me and slipped into my parent’s bedroom. She shut the door behind her, and the house was entirely dark. Standing alone in the small upstairs landing, I sensed something awkward, something dirty. I was embarrassed. Perhaps Grandmother saved me from something horrible, I thought.
Mother screamed again, and I heard Grandmother saying, “Hush now. Hush.” It felt wrong that Mother wasn’t allowed to scream if she needed to. If Mother was working hard, I wanted to help her.
I thought about Mother. I remembered how she would warm milk on the stove for me when I was younger. I remembered the time I had a raging fever, and she lie next to me in bed for the entire night. So many memories flooded my mind. Mother’s cries and screams began to tear my heart. I just wanted to help her, but Grandmother would never allow it. It was not my place.
All I could do was to try to escape the sounds of Mother’s hard work. I wandered downstairs, sliding my hand down the railing. The paint was worn off, and the wood was literally polished from contact with human hands over the decades. I sat on the bottom step, staring at the front door. The snow whipped against the windows. It was too cold to wait outside, like Father and I did last time. We sat on the porch, and Father was happy and proud. It was the best evening I ever had, until we went back inside. Father held the limp, bluish body so gently that I thought that the baby might be alive. Mother and Father were sad for months and months.
Grandmother yelled from upstairs.
I bolted to the top of the narrow staircase, stopping just outside of Mother’s bedroom. Grandmother was standing in the doorway, and I could see Mother lying in bed. The sheets were bloody, and blood was smeared up her bare legs, which I had never seen before. Blood-soaked towels were wadded in a bedpan. Grandmother’s hands were bloody past her wrists, and she was mopping them dry with another towel. “A foot. One foot. The baby can’t come like that,” Grandmother stammered. “I tried to turn the baby, but there is no room.” She threw the towel onto the small woven rug at the top of the stairs. “I was afraid of this,” she said.
Burning tears welled up in my eyes. “What are you going to do?” I pleaded.
“Fetch the doctor immediately,” She looked at me, and I sensed her urgency. “You know where Dr. Jackson lives. Run there right now and tell him that the baby and your mother are in trouble. And I pray your father returns home.” She turned quickly, closing the door as she entered the room.
I dashed down the hall and pulled on my pants and a sweater. Downstairs, I shoved my feet into my heavy boots, and pulled on Father’s huge wool coat. Upstairs, Mother was groaning.
I opened the door and rushed out into the beautiful, bright silence of a heavy snowfall. A wonderful numbness set in almost immediately; it was too cold to feel the sharp sting of the wind. The white slopes and hills reflected a soft light, and the never-ending frosty blanket deadened the sound.
My heart raced. I slammed the door and hurried down the porch steps. As I ran for the front gate, my legs sunk up to my knees with each step. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Despite my best effort, my pace slowed with each heavy step. It took a great deal of effort to reach the gate, where snow was piled in a high drift. I scrambled over a miniature mountain of snow, touching the crest with my bare hands.
I hurried down the street, walking in carriage tracks wherever possible. My legs felt heavy and cold, but I hurried as fast as I could, laboring through the snow with little progress. The cold air burned my throat, and my bare hands throbbed in the wind. Through all of this, Mother’s screams echoed through my head, and images of her bloody legs flashed in my mind. I sensed that both Mother and the baby were in peril.
At last, Dr. Jackson’s house was in sight. I climbed the steps to the porch, hoping that Dr. Jackson has already seen me approaching. I peered through the sidelights at the front door. The house was dark.
“Dr. Jackson?” I called quietly. No answer. No answer. Mother was bleeding at home, and no one answered. “Dr. Jackson!” I called. Still no answer. I pounded on the door with both fists. As if I were dreaming, I could see a light appear at the top of the stairs. Dr. Jackson was coming down, tying his robe around his waist.
He opened the door. “What is it? Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” I said, “John Montgomery.”
“What is it, son?”
“My mother,” I panted, “The baby. One foot.”
Dr. Jackson turned for the staircase. “Come in, John. I’m going to help her.”
I stood near the door, and the doctor was dressed and back downstairs within moments. He grabbed his black leather bag from the parlor and beckoned me to follow him. He ran down from his porch and across his snow-covered lawn. His long legs carried him over the deep snow bank near the walkway. I chased him down the street, but he didn’t wait for me. I couldn’t keep up. The doctor ran ahead and out of sight. Mother needed him.
I bent over and placed my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Again, it was quiet and cold. All at once, the painful cold burned my ears, my hands, my nose, and my feet. It felt like the wind blew through my coat. I hoped that the doctor was already at my house. Stiffened by the cold, I walked slowly toward home.
When I opened the front door, I heard Dr. Jackson upstairs. Mother was still panting, and her screams were sounding tired.
Grandmother paced to and fro in the parlor, just like Father did. Her apron was bloody. She came to me. “Thank you, John,” she said. “The baby just wouldn’t cooperate. You helped me do all we could. Now it’s the doctor’s turn.”
I lowered my head, quietly praying that this time would be different. That they wouldn’t have to return to the darkness of grief and mourning. That Mother and Father would have a reason to celebrate.
And I knew God would hear me.
