The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [98]
Jump back, honey, jump back.
“Course I do,” I said to Isaac. “Course I do.”
From somewhere far off, there were kitchen sounds and children’s voices.
I woke up with a jerk. I was still alive, still slumped in the rocker. I held my breath, waiting for the next tearing pain. It came; black spots floated before my eyes. “Isaac,” I called out. He didn’t answer.
The pain passed. I let my head rest on the back of the rocker. The house was quiet. Wind whistled around the corners and the stovepipes’ metal lids rattled as they flapped up and down, but inside, the house was quiet.
“Mary?” I called.
She didn’t answer.
More pain gripped my belly.
“Isaac,” I heard myself say. Then all at once I knew. Everybody was at the water well. Isaac was putting Liz in it; I had to stop him. I scooted forward on the rocker. Gripping the arms, I stood up. My birthing gown, wet, stuck to me. I staggered forward, reaching a bedpost. A hot liquid ran down my legs. A pain grabbed my belly and as I held onto the post, I knew the baby was coming.
My breathing ragged, I inched my hands down the bedpost. I was tangled in my gown—it tore as I lowered myself down. When at last I was squatting, I gripped the post even tighter.
I pushed, bearing down hard, harder, wanting Isaac, wanting my mother.
“Mama!” somebody called.
“Help me get her in the bed,” another voice said.
Through a haze of tears, I saw my mother. My mother with her bent back and loose strands of gray hair around her face. I could hardly believe it. “Mama,” I said, but my mouth was full of dust. “Mama,” I tried again.
She put both hands under my arms and pulled up. “Let go,” my mother said, and I wanted to but couldn’t. My fingers were locked up around the bedpost.
“I’ve got you,” she said. Fingers pried at mine. A cramp bucked me, and I fell back. Strong arms caught me.
Then I was on the bed sinking into its softness. “Mama!” somebody said. Through a mist of stinging sweat in my eyes, I saw Mary and I saw my mother and she didn’t look right to me, but before I could worry about that, I heard splashing sounds.
“Isaac,” I called, trying to sit up. “Don’t you go putting her in the well.”
Hands pushed me back down. My mother said, “I’m getting your legs up. Have to see what this baby is doing.”
Hands lifted my legs and bent them at the knees. My feet were placed flat on the bed. My legs were pulled apart.
“What’s wrong?” Mary said.
“It can’t push through,” my mother said. “Get a knife, a small sharp one. And a needle and thread. Thick thread. And a bedsheet.”
“A knife?” Mary said.
“Get it.” There was a rustling sound. “And whiskey. Is there any?”
“Whiskey? I’m not allowed—”
“Get it.”
“Mrs. DuPree,” my mother said. Why didn’t she call me Rachel? “I’m going to cut you some. Then you have to push.”
I felt my hips being held up as something soft was put under me. Sweat burned my eyes. Hands lifted my head.
“Open your mouth,” my mother said. “Drink this.” Liquid burned my throat; I gagged some. A rag was put between my teeth.
“Hold her knees apart,” my mother said. “Hold her good.” From far away, someone cried.
Then the knife, held by a firm hand, cut me.
18
WANAGI CANKU
When I woke up for good, I knew the baby was dead. Nobody had to tell me. I had known it since I had fallen during the rainstorm and the baby stopped kicking.
“Can you get up?” Mrs. Fills the Pipe said.
She was the one what gave me the whiskey and cut me wider so the baby could be born. I had wanted Isaac, and when I couldn’t have him, I called for my mother. Mrs. Fills the Pipe was all I had.
“Yes,” I said to her.
She propped me up. Pain shot through me. She got my legs over the edge of the bed; I hunched over. The wood cradle in the corner of the room was covered with a square of cheesecloth. I turned my head away, my arms wrapped over my belly. “My husband?” I said.
“He isn’t here.”
“John?” I said. “My son?”
Mrs. Fills the Pipe shook her head.
“My girls?”
“With Mary.”
Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know if I was crying for the baby or if I was crying because I wanted