With it an hour shy of noon, the dinner bell is poised to be rung as soon as the beans finish softening. Beef-and-barley stew simmers on the back of the stove in the largest pot the cookhouse has to offer. Edie slides the last of the biscuits into the oven, and I turn my attention to opening a dozen jars of stewed apples, tucking the sweet contents into a pan so as to layer on a sweet, crumble topping. A treat for the men.
The song Edie has been humming is a hymn.
Wind stirs across the land, stealing two hats along the way, as well as an oilcloth tarp. Men scramble to gather up the chaos even as the others climb down from the roofline, beckoned by hunger. In short time, I ring the bell, and it chimes like a church song, twining in melody with Edie’s voice. There is peace here as I lay plates and watch as some of the men say grace to themselves. Dirt-creased brows bow over hot meals. Eyes close in silent reverence.
John is among their numbers, his own head bowed, scuffed hands loose in his lap.
Edie arches her back in the corner of the room, looking uncomfortable. She should rest, and it’s a relief when she tucks into a corner bench while I serve up more stew into tin bowls. It’s a dance here in the cookhouse, my skirts swaying from table to table as I make sure no bowl goes empty until its owner leans back, insisting. For some of the men, it takes three ladlesful. Others, four. The cookpot is about to echo empty. Seeing it, John stops me after his second serving. I offer him another hot biscuit and then heft the empty pot outside to the pump for rinsing.
The cookhouse is vacant again when I return. Edie still rests in the corner with her eyes closed, and I take care to work with quiet. Wind drifts in through the window, lifting the strands of whiskey-red hair that have come loose from her braid. A pale hand rests atop her belly.
Tables sit askew—laden with crumbs and drippings of broth. It will take some time to clean, but I enjoy this purpose.
From her spot, Edie speaks softly. “June.” Her voice is weighted.
“I can finish. You sit and rest.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to rest.” A tear has slid down the side of her face.
At the hush in her voice, I come around to where she is slouching now. Her grip on the windowsill is tight.
I have never seen Edie Manchester so still in these five years, and now two more tears streak down. She wipes them away and dries them on the side of her skirt. “I haven’t felt the baby in a while, June.”
“How long has it been?” I force calm into my voice.
“Days. Maybe three or four.” She breathes out slowly through her nose that is freckled now that skies have been brighter. Her slender hand circles her belly protectively. My hand follows her. Eyes closed, I try to feel, to sense.
“Wiggled like an octopus on Saturday. Or was it Friday?” Her eyes are still closed as she slowly shakes her head. “Then just went still.”
“Does Santiago know?”
Another shake of her head. “I haven’t had the courage to speak of it.”
“Edie.” I say it with as much steadiness as I can. This young bird. This sweet girl. “I am going to go fetch your husband because we need some help. Do you understand?”
She nods, eyes still pinched tight.
“Will you lie down and rest?”
Edie shakes her head.
“I’m gonna have to insist that you lie down.”
Another shake. This one more urgent. “I can’t. When I do . . . When I lie there at night. I can feel that she’s gone.”
She.
The splintering is shattering into me.
“She’s gone, June. The baby’s gone. There’s no other explanation.”
“Edie.” I grip her hand tight, turning her so that she faces me some. “Let’s get you home, and we’re going to summon help.” I can send John for the Cahuilla housekeeper who helped Edie these months past. We will need her wisdom.
Finally, Edie nods, and with my arm around her, I slowly usher mama and baby toward the mercantile, where I settle Edie down on her bed, pull a quilt up snug around them, and pray like I have never prayed before.
Chapter 34
Johnny
April
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory flashes across my laptop screen that’s balanced between the kids on the couch, snuggled under a shared blanket. I pass over bowls of sliced strawberries and whipped cream. The kids are entranced as they accept them. I don’t usually park them in front of a movie like this, not when my time with them is so precious, but we’ve all been restless as we await word that Emily is safe through surgery and that the baby is born and healthy.
I’m just not in the mood for puzzles and laughter tonight, so I cued up a movie and loaded up a third bowl of strawberries for myself. I hate heartbreak. I don’t mean to sound like a wimp, but there’s a reason that most of the songs on the radio talk about love and loss. It’s what we as humans must endure in this life. To love . . . and, at times, to lose. The last time I felt the weight of it, I was about five minutes shy of that icy curve on the highway. The one where I rolled my truck and found myself strapped to a gurney. I want tonight to be different.
So a movie and treat are a better trade. God’s teaching me, I guess. Hopefully even growing me to endure the pain and to step into it with courage, instead of running from it. The thing is that the hurting doesn’t change. It’s just as present one way or another. But to no longer be thrashing against it?
There’s something freeing about it.
My watch beeps half past six. Is Emily done? Is everyone safe and well?
The text comes in three minutes later from Austin’s number again. It’s a picture of a small infant wearing a pink cap, all round cheeked and sleepy.
8 pounds 13 ounces. 21 inches long. Mom and baby are doing great.
I reach for the remote. Tap Pause. “Hey, guys. The baby’s here.”
You say it because you have to.
I lower the phone so that they can see their new sister.
You do it because you must.
Like walking through a desert. One foot in front of the other even though the challenge seems endless. You just do it.
The kids gasp and ogle their new sibling, and I give them all the time they need with the image. I do my best to answer their questions about when their mom and the baby will be able to come home.
Dang it, this desert’s dry. Keep walking, Johnny.
It’s healthier to think of what we do have instead of what we don’t. I have two beautiful, incredible children. I’ve had a good life. I have friends and family that mean the world to me. I live in a place where the scent of pine and the sun on mountains greets me in the mornings. I have air in my lungs and hope in my soul, and so I swipe at the tears forming in my eyes before the kids can notice.
Micaela is clutching my phone still, admiring the little girl.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper and kiss her cheek.
Grinning, Micaela curls up on the couch, still holding the lit-up screen. I don’t slip it from her hands until the credits are rolling and she’s fast asleep. Cameron’s out too. I turn off the movie, gather up bowls, and dim the kitchen light. Not wanting the kids to sleep down here alone, I grab a blanket from upstairs then stretch out on the floor.
It seems like forever until I’m asleep, and the few hours of unconsciousness are hardly enough when I feel a little hand shaking my arm again. Cameron’s wide awake and asking if we can have cereal. After swiping at my eyes, I sit up. “Yeah, bud. Just give me a second, and we’ll eat.” I tousle his blond hair. Last week I taught Micaela how to switch on the coffeepot, so she runs to do it for me. Next, she grabs cream from the fridge and sets it on the counter.
I touch the side of her head as I reach for a mug. “Thank you, sweetie.”
The machine trickles to life, and soon the scent of coffee is as inviting as the glow of morning through the window. It’s a good day to keep busy. It’s a good day to enjoy. The kids and I do just that as I wait for further word. It c
omes in spurts. An update from Emily. One more picture for the kids from Austin. Just like the climb up one of the boulders around here, I take each message in stride, each grip and reach with patience that I’m learning can only come from experience and grace.
* * *
The kids spend several more nights with me, giving Emily more time to rest and acclimate with the baby after her surgery. I get them to and from school, and life goes on like clockwork, even though it’s changed now. By Monday afternoon she and Austin are home and asking for the kids.
It’s time.
So goes the routine of refolding clothes, packing up two backpacks, and watching the kids say goodbye to the few stuffed animals that have accumulated on their beds. I guide them down the stairs, glancing back just to notice that the colorful beanbags still have Micaela- and Cameron-sized dents. This heart desert feels dry beneath my boots, but we descend the stairs. The sun on my soul is parching, but there is a quenching that rises up from an even deeper place, one of hope, as I buckle the kids into the back seat of my truck.
It’s twenty minutes from here to where Emily and I used to live together. The porch light is on, and Austin opens the door the moment we pull up. The kids hesitate when they see him, their eagerness perhaps more for the baby than him, and I’m secretly relieved. But that will probably change as they get more accustomed to him.
Not wanting the guy to come closer, I climb out and unfasten both car seats. I lift my daughter down, and then my son. They start for the house timidly now.
Austin kneels and asks if they are ready to meet their new sister. There’s not a reason in the world that has me wanting to follow them up the lighted stone path, but the kids both need their backpacks still, so I slide them from the floorboard and carry the bags toward the house. Emily’s voice filters softly from the doorway. It’s impossible not to imagine the new life lying in her arms. A life that is now being introduced to the very lives that I value more than my own.
I don’t look Austin in the face as I hand over the backpacks. Barely nod to his appreciation for me watching the kids the last three days. I want to tell him that they’re mine . . . and that I don’t need his thanks, and I try to ignore the way blood is hot in my veins again. So I just turn away. The warmth of the porch light is soft on the path as I reach my truck, climb inside, and pull away slowly.
As I do, I glimpse the second-story window where Emily has gone upstairs to rest with the baby and the kids. I’ve learned since the delivery that the baby was in grave danger and that the C-section had been performed just in time. Despite everything, I have to acknowledge that Emily and Austin have a lot to be thankful for. It’s a bitter reality that had she tried to deliver this baby a century ago, either baby, mother, or both might have been lost.
With the house now behind me, I don’t have to look back to remember the glow from the upstairs window, or to know that Emily would probably have been humming. She always sang to her babies.
This time, I just won’t be there to hear it.
Despite everything, she’s always been a loving mother.
It’s funny the way the scar in my arm seems to burn as I aim for the highway. A reminder of all that has been lost, of all that has been done, and of all that remains. I still have my life. And because of that, I take deep breaths, drive more slowly, and use the quiet drive home to focus on all that I have to be thankful for.
Chapter 35
Juniper
April 1903
It takes three more days for Edie’s labor to begin. The tightening on her still, firm belly brought her to in the middle of the night, sending Santiago to wake me from where I was sleeping on a pallet on the mercantile floor. Now the brightness of Edie’s smile—a memory in the dark—is all I can think of as I set water to boil on the shop stove. The memory of that smile is a vision that I have seen thousands of times. One ingrained in my mind with every breath this dark night. An unassuming beauty that God granted to this earth to brighten the world around her. I must keep her alive.
She is in the back bedroom now, huddled on the bed, moaning. Her pain is my pain as I cram more wood into the fire. It is just her and me. Mrs. Parson is back home with Bethany, and John rode to fetch the Cahuilla housekeeper from the nearby cattle ranch. Santiago has hurried into the haze of what will soon be coming dawn to fill two more buckets with fresh water. His absence stretches out, and though Edie cries for him, I can only assure her he will return quickly.
When Edie rests between pains, I move clean towels into place and check that the water is at a steady roll. The mercantile door opens, and Santiago braces it with a strong arm. John hangs back as three women enter like starlight—silent, able, and so very welcome. They slip inside, one woman after the other, until I see the one who has cared for Edie these months past. Each of them bears a small basket, and they each pass behind the counter to where Edie’s moans draw them nearer. I follow, unsurprised as Santiago hangs back, as it is the custom of this land regardless of what tribe or town a man hails from.
In the bedroom, one woman lowers a shallow basket that holds bound herbs while another one holds a filled carrying net woven from agave. Their dark hair glimmers in the lantern light, and their brown, plump faces shine with wisdom. These are women who will know so much more about birthing than I. Their wisdom is rooted into the earth around us for more than a hundred miles, and as many decades. I breathe lighter, but it’s short-lived when Edie cries out in pain. Will they know if the child is alive?
“What can I do?” I ask.
I realize that Santiago has moved to the doorway when he repeats what I’ve said in the Cahuilla language.
One of the women I have not yet met replies in the same dialect. Their exchange is sure and swift.
“She asks that you bring the water,” he says to me.
I hasten to the stove and fill a pitcher, nearly sloshing the scalding water over the side as I balance it into the bedroom. There, two of the women are trying to coax Edie from the tangle of sheets she’s perched atop. They wait patiently until this round of seizing has passed, then together they ease her to a stand. Edie moans but doesn’t resist. The third woman motions for me to help her with the bed. She nudges against the frame. They mean to move it? Brooking no argument, I step that way and offer my strength. It is not until the bed collides into the wall that she nods her satisfaction.
Next, the woman pulls a blanket from the bed, fanning it out onto the floor. I move to help her settle it into place even as the other two lead Edie to the center of it.
Edie’s slender legs bow as she is swept up in another birth pain. The cries that follow are as raw as the earth and old as time. The ache claws through me that I can do nothing to aid her pain. This is her path to becoming a mother, and yet hers is not lit with the lamplight of joy. She walks now in darkness, hoping to hold Santiago’s child in her arms, alive and well. A child that is as much of Edie as it will be of the man waiting in the shop front. Their child does not hide beneath coats and scarves this night. Instead, it bows out from beneath Edie’s sweat-drenched nightshirt, protruding and proud. A brave little soul who must be as stunning and wild as its mother. Gentle and proud like its father.
Will its first breaths bring a blessing to this family that has hungered for it? Or is it a child who in this moment is already dancing with the angels?
The Cahuilla women guide Edie to kneel on the center of the blanket. One of them sings softly in her native tongue. A gentle, rhythmic melody that Edie pants to, adding her own melancholy that is a primal, desperate need for release and a knowing-of that ushers in life.
Hours crawl by as Edie labors, her pain and her agony as vivid as her need for this child. With a rush of waters onto the floor, her baby is born after the moon makes its arc in the sky, bending low to kiss the sun. And when it slides into this world, it is a Cahuilla woman who cradles it. The babe glimmers in the glow of dawn, and the room goes quiet. I am on my knees, bracing Edie’s trembling waist with both of my hands, and
the other women are gathered around—Edie and the babe their full focus of skill and strength.
The baby doesn’t cry.
She is plump and still, her skin ashen gray. It is not the warm, golden brown from the dreams of those who have awaited her.
No . . . no . . . no . . .
My soul cries it.
Edie is moaning it.
Death has come to this room. It has been here as long as Edie first sensed it. Her cries that follow are not the pain of birth but of a mother who has lost her very heart.
Chapter 36
Johnny
April
Three days after the kids go home, I meet Sonoma at a coffee shop. We sit across from one another at a table painted with a checkerboard, her holding a steaming frappe, me balancing a tall iced tea on my knee. It’s just a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of thing, but I can’t help noticing that the sleeves of her black top are trimmed in white lace and the earrings dangling against her cheeks are a soft green. She’s smiling, but not the big, bright one from a week ago when we were laughing in the sunlight of Kenworthy. Today it’s a nervous kind of smile.
I’m nervous too. There’s a herd of butterflies in my gut, and my palms are sweating. I’d be lying if I didn’t recognize the why and the what for of these long-forgotten sensations. The truth is there’s someone quite lovely—inside and out—sitting across from me, and a man notices that kind of thing. Even a guy with a bruised and battered heart.
Tracy Chapman is singing “Change” alongside drums and a guitar through overhead speakers. Sonoma unloads a cloth bag with books and a series of plastic folders, including the binder of letters I lent her. Yesterday I reached out by text to see how things were going with the research, and she announced that a few discoveries had been made. I stood in the kitchen, holding my cell, debating for about ten whole minutes on what I should say, while wrestling with what I wanted to say. The want and the what became an offer to meet up for coffee to talk through it all. She said yes.
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