The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [97]
I closed my eyes. My headache was searing hot. I wanted my mother. She’d hold my hand and tell me that I was doing all right. I rubbed my forehead, recalling what Mrs. Fills the Pipe said about aspirin curing headaches. “Mary,” I called out. “Get me an aspirin, would you?” Then I remembered that Mary was outside and couldn’t hear me.
All at once, I heard Isaac say my name. He was sitting on the unmade bed; he had his pocket watch. “You can do it,” he said, his eyes shining. “You’re that kind of woman.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
And then Isaac quoted Paul Laurence Dunbar, the famous Negro poet that we both thought so much of.
Seen my lady home last night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Held her hand and squeezed it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Heard her sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam from her eye,
And a smile go flitting by—
Jump back, honey, jump back.
I smiled at him. Isaac hadn’t quoted this poem in years. He called this particular one a teasing poem. He took to reciting it after we’d danced in the street to the mandolin music. “Jump back, honey, jump back,” he’d say, and the gleam in his eye made me reach for his hand and put it to my heart so he could feel that it beat fast just for him.
Heard the wind blow through the pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
I breathed in the sour smell of Isaac’s sweat. I felt his hand on my arm, shaking me a little. “Mama?” somebody said. “You all right?”
Startled, I roused myself. It was Mary. “Where’s Isaac?” I said.
She shook her head.
“Where’d he go? He was right here. On the bed.”
“No, Mama, you’ve been dreaming.”
I moaned.
“What’s wrong?” Mary said, her voice high. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should be in the bed.”
“No.”
She leaned closer like she couldn’t hear me.
I said, “Sitting up is best, that’s what Isaac says. It’s how the Indians do.”
“But you’re not an Indian.”
I sucked in my breath, put the rag in my mouth, and bit down. “Mama!” Mary said. She patted my back, her fingers nervous as they skimmed the surface of the birthing gown like she was afraid she would hurt me even worse.
When the pain eased, I took the rag from my mouth. I tried to smile for Mary. She was scared, tears running down her cheeks, her lips pressed so tight that they had disappeared.
I licked my lips, tasting blood. My mouth was so dry. I said, “The girls?”
“Don’t die, Mama.” Mary was on her knees beside me trying to put her arms around me.
“The girls?”
“They’re in their room; they’re all right.”
“Isaac?”
“He’s coming, Mama. I know he is.”
A stab of pain shot through my head. I heard Mary crying. “Get a pillowcase,” I whispered through clenched teeth.
“What?”
“Hang it on the clothesline.”
She wiped her eyes, brightening some. “I will, Mama. I’ll do it right now,” and then she was gone. Flying something white by itself was a call for help. All homesteaders knew that, but I had forgotten until that moment.
Mary had just left the room when the next pain came. When it passed, my head felt clearer. Gripping the rocker’s armrests, I got to my feet somehow and made my way over to the dresser. I leaned against it. I worked the birthing gown up and tucked it under one of my arms. I straddled my legs as far apart as I could and with my free hand, I went looking for the baby.
I couldn’t feel the head or a foot but instead felt a wet stickiness on my fingers. I let the gown drop. My hand was bright red with blood.
My heart twisted up with fear and sorrow. It was Baby Henry all over again—a long labor, bleeding, and a baby gasping for air. The room swayed. I wanted to give up right then, I wanted to cry, I wanted someone to put an end to this.
I got a rag and stuffed it between my legs to soak up the blood. I shuffled back to the rocker, wanting Isaac, wanting my mother, wanting to die.
A pain took me.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well as I love you?
And she answered,