Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  “Go on back inside, Roy,” I tell him. “Nothing you can do here.”

  “Now, Retta,” he shouts over the wind, “I told Odell I’d look after you. You got to let me get the wagon.”

  “Ain’t no wagon can get through where we need to go.”

  The white man is back in his saddle. He moves easy while Roy talks. He guides his animal alongside to where I stand on the porch.

  “Roy, come get me in this saddle.”

  Oh, his face. If I weren’t so worried, I’d laugh. Roy will tell Odell what a sight I am, this white man pulling me onto the horse and Roy pushin’ me up from behind. I must look a sight. They get me up in three hefts with what used to take only one. I don’t have a breath in me before the boy turns the reins to go back from where he came.

  “Don’t trot, son. Take her to a gallop. I can’t bounce like I used to.”

  He and Nelly’s daddy go past the path off Battle Creek and up straight through the woods beyond. Their ancestors are buried here. I feel them before my eye can see. They lay along this hillside. Though the graves ain’t marked, the weight of the lives that once was cling to me. These people was laid to rest the same way my own slave kin was, in unmarked graves covered in periwinkle, their bold blossoms clear even in the night like they’re being fed from the bodies beneath—a sacred plant for a sacred place.

  There’s the rush of a creek nearby. I can’t see in the dark, but it’s here. Even with the wind I hear the gurgle of a stream I do not know. We come through the trees to an opening in the woods marked by a magnolia, old and twisted. In the middle of the open meadow sits a big vegetable patch, past its time but well tended. Up along the far side by one section of woods sits the cabin, a neat little place made of logs. Even in the dark I can see the prize that is here. It don’t have a porch, and that’s a shame with such a view out the front. But they are young and got time to build.

  Nelly’s cries from inside the house pierce me. Why does birth feel impossible when it is upon you? You forget in the throes of all that pain the reward that’s coming. There is a long night ahead of us. The men lead the horses to the stable to wait.

  Inside, I take off my shoes and take stock of the room. Her mother, Ado, is here beside Nelly. Her Indian name, Adoette means big tree, which is strange ’cause she ain’t nothing but a little bitty thing, but she is strong. I taught her everything I know about birthing babies, and she’s done good for herself. In the hearth is an iron kettle of boiling water they prepared for the night ahead. Ado knows how this goes. Nelly’s house is just one room but it’s clean and orderly, though the floor is dirt. Two glass windows sit on either side of the front door to let in daylight and see the beauty of the land beyond. The bed’s wooden headboard is handmade and polished. A husband’s gift to a wife? It’s pushed to the far side wall that leaves just enough room for a table, two old chairs and a sofa. Nelly keeps her kitchen the same way I keep mine. Flour and sugar canisters sit on the counter, and the percolator sits on a small cookstove. Everything is ready before it’s needed.

  “I’m here, child. Retta’s here.”

  She is so swollen. In this dim and yellow light, I cannot see her eyes. She thrashes on the bed. Ado is by her head, singing a song I do not recognize in a tongue I do not know, that sounds like a lullaby. Ado looks up, and though her voice don’t let on, I see the worry in her eyes. I speak with force to pierce through the pain while I lay my hands on her body to see what is happening.

  “Nelly, this is a mighty nice house you got here. Look how clean and neat this place is.”

  She’s cold to the touch but wet from strain. Her belly is a ball of stiff.

  “You listening to me, Nelly?”

  She nods her head yes, panting.

  “You got your canning done and laid up nice on that shelf. Where’d you learn how to do all that, huh?”

  She tries to answer, but another pain tears through her. She bends backward trying to get away from it.

  “We’re going to get this baby out of you so it can meet its mama. I know you’re ready for that, ain’t ya, girl?”

  “Yes’m.” She can barely say the words without shrieking them.

  I lift back the sheet and hold her knees apart so I can see what’s happening. Now I understand the hurry. I understand the power of Nelly’s pain. In the dim light of the lantern a small foot dangles from Nelly, and it ain’t moving.

  * * *

  The first birth I ever did by myself with Mama looking on was when Buck slid out of Miss Annie so fast I had to catch him. Oh, I thought Mama was going to die of fright. But I caught him. I wasn’t going to let nothing bad happen. When I placed him at Miss Annie’s breast, Mama said, look at what a hurry he’s in, ready for the world! Miss Annie thanked me, and before I knew my mouth ought not to run free in a white man’s house, I said, “Next child will come so fast you best be ready to reach down and catch it yourself.”

  I was thirteen.

  The next birth was harder than I ever saw, and Mama had to take over. I watched her lay Miss Annie up on her left side. She stuck one arm all the way up to her elbow to turn the baby, but it was too late. The baby was born blue.

  * * *

  “Nelly, the baby is breech.”

  I got to holler for her to hear. She’s mad with pain. If the child and mother is to survive, this baby’s got to come out now. If Mama said that once, she said it a hundred times.

  “I got to reach inside and feel what is happening. Help me best you can by staying still.”

  She understands though she is desperate.

  I slip my fingers inside and find the other foot. I am able to get it out, but the skin is cold and blue. Dear Lord, dear Lord.

  My own Esther come after eighteen hours of labor. I did it myself, with just Odell for help. All my people were dead and gone by then, and I knew more than anybody about what to do. I didn’t want nobody but my husband, but Odell was afraid. I told him how it would be and he helped me. Mama used to say to all the womenfolk, “Call out to your child, what is his name?” and the woman would call his name.

  “Call to your daughter now,” she would say, and the mother would call her daughter.

  Mama believed whichever soul was at the gate would come through as it was called. I called out to my girl.

  “Esther Marie Bootles!” I remember how I called and called filled with so much pain, laying all bunched up in the washtub, ready to push her out into the warm water Odell made for me.

  I yelled, “Come to us, come here, come now,” so loud it sounded like I was punishing my girl instead of loving her. Esther finally came, like every child does, easy or not. Like this baby will come tonight.

  “Ado, I need you to get up on her belly. You got to push when Nelly does. We got to get this done right now.”

  She helps me pull Nelly down to the end of the bed so I can prop her legs up. Nelly bucks and screams. Ado climbs up on the bed behind her daughter’s head. She knows if she means to save her girl, this baby has to come out.

  “Open your eyes, Nelly, and look at me!”

  She does.

  “Women give birth every day, and so will you!”

  On the next push, Ado bears down easy on her daughter’s belly and I’m able to guide the baby out almost to the waist.

  “A girl,” I tell them.

  I reach in and up the baby’s back, but I can’t get ahold of the cord before she slips back inside her mother.

  “What is her name? What is her name, Nelly?”

  I see their confusion and remember. These people believe it’s bad luck to name the child before it’s born. They want to see who they are naming.

  “Call out to your daughter. Call her home.”

  “Nemusa’h,” Nelly cries in her native tongue. I love you.

  “No! Command her home. Make her mind! You are the mother!”

 
Nelly yells over and over between breaths, “Daughter, home.”

  Ado strokes Nelly’s head and whispers, “Nemusa’h, nemusa’h.”

  I love you. I love you.

  In the next push, the baby slips further out, and I am able to cut the cord to loosen the stranglehold.

  “You’re doing real good, Nelly. Real good!”

  I slide my hand and arm into our girl, up her daughter’s belly and stretch my fingers to her neck where I feel the cord fat around her neck, twice tied there. It will not loosen. I come back to the child’s waist and guide her right shoulder out. When the left shoulder follows, Nelly screams. I reach back inside and lift the first strand of cord off with my fingers. It slides over her face, mouth, nose and head. The cord gives and I’m able to do it again. I look at Ado and nod. She is relieved.

  “One more push, Nelly. One more and we will see her face.”

  In the next spasm, Ado pushes down so I can release the head. When I do blood gushes from Nelly, and she falls faint against the bed.

  “Daughter,” I say to the limp child who has no life.

  She has a full head of black hair. I ain’t never seen a baby with this much hair that weren’t Negro. I am surprised by my own emotion. It comes upon me with a force I cannot control. I push words from my mouth for there is no time to give in to what has come to consume me.

  “Your mother is here for you, Daughter,” I say to the child as I rub her. “Your grandmother has made bread for your arrival. Come home to us. Come home, girl.”

  I hear my own mother’s voice like she is in the room alongside me. “Retta, put your mouth over the baby’s nose and mouth, and suck out what is there.”

  I do this three times before handing the child to Ado. I mean to turn her belly onto my arm and push her back, I want to do this, but there is no time. Nelly is bleeding.

  “Take care of the mother, the child will follow,” Mama told me.

  Ado gathers her granddaughter into a blanket they likely made for this very moment. She goes near the fire to warm and rub her to life. I put my fist inside Nelly’s womb and press her stomach so the afterbirth will come. Nelly has gone quiet, exhausted from her work. The body does for her what she cannot do, and the afterbirth is born into the bowl that sits upon my lap.

  I must stop the bleeding. Nelly sits up, as if awakened from a bad dream. She is confused, looking for her child.

  “Lay down,” I say. I reach to push her back on the bed but my hand, bloodied from the womb, goes through her to the other side where there is only air. It is not the physical body that rises, but the spirit.

  “Nelly,” I call. “Stay with me, stay here with me.”

  She don’t listen. Her spirit is looking for her girl.

  I command her again and again, “Nelly, Nuwá, stay here with me. Stay with Retta,” but Nelly goes to her mother and baby while I stay with her body to stop the life from draining out.

  “Ado,” I holler, but she does not listen. She is working on the baby, rubbing her back, then turning to push her belly. The child lies lifeless over her grandmother’s arm. Nelly sidles up beside her mother and daughter and knits herself between them. Ado stops what she is doing and takes a sharp breath in. Then she looks at me and closes her eyes, her hope gone. She is caught between the spirit of her daughter and granddaughter. She cannot be reached.

  “Adoette!” I shout. “Come away from the fire. Bring the child to her mother’s breast.”

  Ado opens her eyes and finds me in the light.

  “Bring the child, Ado,” I shout. “Your daughter wants her baby.”

  Ado places the girl, naked against her mother’s breast. Nelly comes, too, and settles herself into the body she left. I reach for more cloth and hold it firm against our girl, my Nelly, until the blood lessens and finally stops.

  The child lies limp across her mother’s breast. Ado squeezes Nelly’s breast for milk and places it on the baby’s eyes and lips, then opens her mouth to force her to the breast.

  “Sing to her, Ado, sing to your daughter and granddaughter.”

  With the wind howling around us, Ado keens a song, the same song she sang when I came through the door.

  Nelly’s breast rises and falls.

  I slap the baby along the back, and her color begins to change.

  “Here is your daughter, Nelly, she is here. Open your eyes and see your girl.”

  Nelly’s breast rises and falls.

  Ado gathers strength in her song. She sings with such sweet heart that I am moved to join, only I don’t know her words. The baby’s hand rests on Nelly’s breast. A finger moves, then two. The baby takes a breath, and her whole hand reaches out, grasping as if to stop from falling. She finds only air and then the hand of her grandmother, the big tree who has come to guide her.

  “Name the child, Ado.”

  “Yi-memburi yié,” she says. “It means remember.”

  Daughter, remember. “Nuwá, Yi-memburi yié,” we call.

  Nelly’s breast rises and falls.

  “Remember your daughter, Nelly, she needs her mother.”

  The baby’s eyes open.

  “She is looking for you, Nelly. Memburi has opened her eyes to find you.”

  Nelly’s breast rises and falls.

  It does not rise again.

  Yi-memburi yié opens her mouth and wails.

  22

  Gertrude

  Berns has been sick for three days now, and even after a doctor and medicine he ain’t no better. Marie took Friday and today off work to tend to him. She won’t let me come near for fear I’ll get whatever he’s got and give it to my girls. I walked the mile out to their place to give her three dollars for medicine since they used what money they had to feed my girls. She took it but wouldn’t let me see my brother. Said it ain’t safe. She’s tired, that much I could see. My problems took their toll on Berns. Now Marie is suffering, too. There ain’t no good reason for Berns to catch sick living so far out and away from the swamp, but now he has and I fear for him. I hung some bottles in their trees two days ago and left some food on the porch, but nothing’s changed. Whatever’s got ahold a Berns ain’t letting go.

  On Monday we was down six women at the Circle. One woman on the shirt line was out missing so Marie went to the office and told the Missus that I knew the new machines and could do shirt collars. Mrs. Coles gave Marie the okay, so I moved next to the sick woman’s twin sister who was so worried her hands shook while she worked. She spent the better part of the day ripping out seams and starting over.

  By Thursday we was down four more and today we got word from the woman who sits next to me her sister is dead. She’s so busted up the Missus sends her home. Soon as the sister goes, Mrs. Coles comes out of her office to shut down the line. I set aside the collar I am finishing and go to her.

  She’s folding starched shirts to send to Charleston. Our aim was one hundred shirts in three weeks’ time, but we’re behind. I stand in the doorway until she notices me. She’s got a mouthful of straight pins she’s using to hold the shirts in place after they’re folded.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Missus,” I tell her, “but I can do collars and yokes both if you want to keep that line going.”

  She takes the pins out of her mouth and says, “You know yokes, Gertrude?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I can sew anything, and I know the machine.”

  “Your face is healing quite nicely.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, ’cause I don’t know what else to say.

  “Your mother was a very good seamstress, one of my first, you know.”

  “I did know that.”

  “Did your father care for you while she worked?”

  I ain’t sure I heard right, so I ask, “Ma’am?”

  “Your father. Did he help care for you?”

  “Yes,
ma’am, he did, but he couldn’t sew none.”

  “I don’t expect he could. Thank you for your offer, Gertrude. By all means, keep the line moving. Thank you.”

  It’s Friday now, and I’ve done upward of nine shirts today, which still puts us shy of one hundred. I likely could do more, but the women in front of the line got fear deep down in their bones and it’s slowed them. I’m the opposite. I run in front of my fear. All that needs to be done gets done, and then some. Everybody’s walking around like they ain’t slept, and likely that’s true. If one woman coughs, they all lean away. All of today the friends of the sick and perished have cried at their machines while they worked. Many a seed bag’s been dusted with tears and that’s a fact. On toward the end of the day the doctor comes through with his black bag and walks to the back office where the Missus is waiting for him. She shuts the door behind them. He ain’t there but a few minutes when Mrs. Coles comes to the front and stands by the windows. She looks over the lot of us before she speaks.

  “After speaking with Dr. Southard, I’ve decided to close the Circle until what has taken hold loosens its grip. The doctor feels, and I agree, that’s what is best to stop the contagion, which appears to be diphtheria.”

  A moan goes across the room, like everybody here just got the wind knocked from them.

  “There is hope,” she says. “The government is distributing vaccines.”

  The Missus turns to look at the doctor, who steps up beside her and says, “I’ll begin vaccinating tomorrow, free to the public, at the elementary school and every day thereafter from ten to one.”

  “With any luck we’ll be back to work by next Wednesday,” says the Missus. “We will pay half wages until then. Better to live to work than work to death. I will see you all again next week. Stay well.”

  The doctor tips his hat and leaves us with our worry. I got more than a body can carry. Before all this there was whispers from the Reevesville women at the Circle who say there’s talk about Alvin and why he’s gone missing. They say Otto is on the warpath. Up until the past few days they all been looking at me side-eyed and whispering behind closed hands. Marie said it’s just gossip, but I know better. When Otto wants something, he don’t let go, even if it means finding the son he hates to get it. He’s promised his wife a servant and aims to give her one that won’t cost.