Yellow Crocus: A Novel

by Laila Ibrahim

  When the next contraction came, Mattie commanded from the catching position, “Push, Lisbeth, push! Right here where my hand is. Push!”

  Lisbeth stirred, made a feeble effort to push, then quickly collapsed back.

  “That a good girl, that a girl. Do it jus’ like that,” Mattie shouted words of encouragement. “With the next one, you two push her head forward while you pull up on her legs. Talk her through this, Mr. Johnson. Encourage her.”

  Along with the next contraction came quiet words from Matthew, “Push, Lisbeth, push.”

  Lisbeth’s eyes blinked open. She looked directly into Matthew’s scared eyes. He leaned in, so close there was nothing else in her world. “You can do it, Lisbeth. We will do this together. Here comes another one. Push, please, push,” he begged.

  Lisbeth weakly squeezed Matthew’s hand, gazed at him with glassy eyes, curled up her body, and pushed with the next contraction. Harder, harder, harder, steady, steady, steady, pushing, pushing, pushing until, at last, Mattie cried out, “You did it! The head out. You did it, baby, you did it!”

  Lisbeth collapsed onto the bed entirely spent, but a small smile passed across her lips before she lost consciousness again.

  Matthew whispered, “Lisbeth, you have done it.” He covered her face with kisses, and his tears left trails of moisture on her cheeks. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  With the next contraction Mattie pulled the baby out. “A boy!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Johnson, you got a son.”

  Matthew’s gaze broke from Lisbeth’s face to look at his child in Mattie’s hands. Tears of joy and relief streamed down Matthew’s cheeks. It was all right. Everything was all right.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved them. You saved them both!”

  Later, when the afterbirth was out, the infant was clean and wrapped, and Lisbeth was sleeping soundly in her bed, Mattie asked, “Mister Johnson, do you have a name for him?”

  “Samuel, after my grandfather,” Matthew replied.

  Mattie’s breath caught. “A lovely name. I knowed a baby Samuel once.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  She nodded. “Yes, James, he just twenty-two and eleven-year-old Jennie.”

  “They must be a great joy to you.”

  “It sure is somethin’ how much you love your children. It took me by surprise with the first one. Thought I knew what I was getting’ into for the next, but I gave my heart to each one I brung to my breast.”

  “I know I have said thank you many times already, but truly, I am so grateful to you for what you have done here today. I cannot possibly thank you enough. You are an angel, sent from heaven to save my wife.”

  “You done a mighty fine job yourself at her laborin’. Most men woulda run the other way,” she said.

  Matthew shrugged shyly. “I have been at many births with livestock. When I was scared I reminded myself it was not so different.”

  “She one lucky girl to have a man like you. You a good man.”

  “Thank you,” he replied and smiled at her. “Thank you for everything.”

  A few days later, Lisbeth, still in bed recovering from her ordeal, was beaming at the sleeping child nestled in her arms.

  “He is so wonderful, Matthew,” Lisbeth declared. “He is a gift from heaven.”

  Lisbeth studied Samuel. She took in the curve of his ear, the pink of his tiny fingernails, his nearly translucent eyelashes. “Do you suppose he is growing enough?” she wondered. “He still looks so small.”

  “He is only three days out of your womb. Give him time to adjust. However,” Matthew suggested, “if you are terribly concerned, we can hire a wet nurse. I suppose your body is spent after your ordeal.”

  “Absolutely not!” Lisbeth snapped back, upset. “No wet nurse for Samuel. If I cannot provide him with what he needs we shall use cow’s milk.”

  Matthew came close. Stroking Lisbeth’s arm, he spoke tenderly and cautiously, “I apologize. I meant no offense. My only consideration is that you might be tired after such a difficult labor. Cow’s milk, of course, though I do not think we have anything to be concerned about.” After a long pause he went on, “I thought you remember your wet nurse fondly.”

  “I loved her dearly, more than my own mother. I cannot bear the thought of Samuel having his own wet nurse—I will not have him loving another woman more than he loves me. I cared for Mattie so much, she is who I always wanted when I was frightened. In fact, I dreamed of her the very night of Samuel’s birth.”

  “The midwife must have reminded you of her. She was gentle with you.”

  “I would very much like to meet her, to thank her in person. Have you sent the payment yet?” asked Lisbeth.

  “No,” responded Matthew. “Mrs. Williams indicated that two chickens was sufficient payment for a standard birth.”

  “Then we shall give her four because this was anything but standard. I am certain she saved my life as well as Samuel’s.” Lisbeth went on, “Matthew, I will bring the payment to her myself, as soon as I am recovered.”

  “Lisbeth, are you certain that is prudent?” Matthew expressed his concern.

  “Matthew, I am perfectly capable of driving chickens across town. It is the only proper way for me to meet this negro midwife in person to express my gratitude. If you wish, we can go together.”

  Chapter 27

  Weeks later, Lisbeth was sufficiently recovered to travel. Perched atop the wagon, she sat next to Matthew as he steered a pair of deep black horses through the fresh spring morning. The warm sun shone down upon them and a gentle breeze swept across their faces. Clucking sounds from three hens and a rooster, payment for the midwife, accompanied their journey past their neighbor’s fields into town. Samuel, filled with his mother’s milk, was wrapped tight in a flannel blanket, asleep in a box at Lisbeth’s feet. On his head sat a pink cap, a gift from the former Mary Ford, now Mary Bartley.

  Driving on the dusty roads past eager fields waiting to be planted, Lisbeth spotted a bright yellow flower in front of a white wooden farmhouse.

  “Matthew, look…a crocus! It is the sign that spring is surely here. Next year I wish to have crocus blooming in our yard.”

  “That would be lovely,” Matthew replied, smiling at his wife.

  “Though the bulbs are quite expensive…”

  “It is a luxury we can afford,” he assured her.

  “Thank you, Matthew,” Lisbeth smiled back. “Can you believe we have lived here for nearly a year?”

  “It has passed quickly.”

  They drove on in silence, past the fallow fields, each following the trail of their own thoughts.

  “Lisbeth,” Matthew broke the silence, “are you very sorry to be in Ohio?”

  Lisbeth was surprised to be asked such a forthright question. She shook her head and replied, “Not at all. You need not wonder for a moment, Matthew. I do not regret my decision in the slightest. Quite the contrary, I thank God each night for you and for Samuel. I love our home, Matthew.”

  Lisbeth slid across the wooden bench until she sat right next to him. She looped her arm through his, leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and squeezed his arm. Matthew nodded his head in satisfaction.

  After a stopover to get supplies—ground flour, sugar, and cloth—and any letters brought west on the train, they set out to the other side of town to the midwife’s house. Lisbeth slowly tore open an envelope addressed in her mother’s precise hand. Reading silently as they drove along the dirt road, she sat back with a sigh when she finished the letter.

  “What does she say?” wondered Matthew.

  Lisbeth read out loud to Matthew:

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Thank you for the news of Samuel. Congratulations to you and your husband. I imagine you are proud to have a son. Thank you for the invitation to visit your home, but I am unable to travel at this time. Perhaps you and the baby can come to Virginia in the summer. Your father se
nds his best wishes.

  Sincerely,

  Your Mother

  “I cannot say I am surprised,” Lisbeth said. “But I held a small hope that Samuel’s birth would be enticing enough for her to visit Ohio.”

  “Perhaps my mother will convince her it is not as wild as she imagines. I am certain your mother will visit us one day.”

  “I suppose,” Lisbeth agreed. She shook her head and went on, “But nevertheless, I shall not let her ruin my happiness.”

  Past the town, small homes were surrounded by fallow fields waiting to be planted. Lisbeth noticed laundry hung out to dry and chickens milling around yards. Occasionally a dark-skinned person with a wide-rimmed hat broke from labor to stare up at the passing wagon.

  Carefully reading Mrs. Williams’ directions, Lisbeth directed Matthew, “This is the turn. It is the third parcel on the left. Below the road, in the gully.”

  Driving past the first and second farms, Lisbeth told Matthew to slow as they came to the third farm. The house was set back a hundred feet or so down a driveway.

  “Here it is,” Lisbeth said.

  Matthew was turning the horses at the top of the driveway when something caught Lisbeth’s eye.

  “Matthew, stop!” Lisbeth whispered urgently.

  Matthew stopped the wagon and looked over at his wife.

  A gasp escaped from Lisbeth, and she went white. “Oh, dear God,” Lisbeth whispered. “It cannot be.”

  “Lisbeth, you look as if you have seen a ghost!” Matthew exclaimed. “What is the matter?”

  Lisbeth scrutinized the scene before her. Two figures were hanging out laundry. A child with a head of bouncy braids handed pieces of wet clothing to a woman. The woman, her head wrapped in a dark cloth with bits of gray hair showing through, efficiently hung the clothes upon the line.

  “Lisbeth, what is the matter?” Matthew pressed again.

  Without taking her eyes off the scene, Lisbeth replied, “That looks like Mattie.”

  “Who?”

  “My nurse, Mattie.”

  “In Ohio? That is hard to believe.” Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “When did you see her last?”

  “It will be ten years on June fourteenth.”

  “Are you certain that is her?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Lisbeth stared as the twosome went about their chore. The daughter, teasing her mother, snatched away a piece of offered cloth at the last minute. The mother caught the end. A tug-of-war ensued, ending when the mother tickled her daughter to gain possession of the shirt. Laughter echoed up to Lisbeth.

  “Her laugh…that is Mattie. I am certain.” Lisbeth was stunned. “The girl must be Jordan. She is so big. So very big. They look good…so happy.”

  Lisbeth looked over at Matthew, tears pouring down her face. “I know I am foolish, but I have wondered for so many years…if they were even alive. To finally see them, and see that they are so well.”

  Gazing at the pair in the distance, Lisbeth was transfixed. She took in their clothes, their hands, their faces. As hard as it was to believe, Mattie and Jordan were alive and well in front of her, only one hundred feet away.

  “Should I leave them in peace?” Lisbeth wondered out loud. “Mattie must have known me at Samuel’s birth. She did not tell you she knew me?”

  “No, but it is extremely dangerous for fugitive slaves right now. She does not know if she can trust me.”

  “But she can,” Lisbeth said.

  “Yes, she can, though she does not know that.”

  “Do you believe she wishes to see me?” wondered Lisbeth.

  “She was tender toward you at Samuel’s birth. It was very apparent. I believe she cares deeply for you.”

  The tears streamed faster down Lisbeth’s face.

  Eventually Mattie noticed the white folks hovering in her driveway. Recognizing Lisbeth at once, she rushed to pick up the basket of wet clothes.

  “Come on. We goin’ in now,” Mattie commanded.

  “But Momma, we got more to hang out,” Jordan insisted.

  “See that white lady…?” Mattie gestured with her head.

  “Uh huh,” Jordan nodded.

  “I got to tell you somethin’ about her.”

  Rushing into their cabin, Mattie explained to her daughter, “’Member how I told you ’bout the little white girl I used to care for? The one that made your baby quilt? Well, she up there on the road. Look like they came to bring me somethin’ for helpin’ her get her baby out. You got to call her Miss Elizabeth if’n she comes round. They may just drive off. I think she must have known it was me. It was her family we runned from.”

  “She gonna tell on us?”

  “No,” Mattie replied with certainty. “Help me get ready in case she comes down.”

  “No white lady ever come in before,” Jordan said with wonder in her voice.

  Finally Lisbeth decided. “Matthew, I will do what I set out to do this morning. Please bring me to Mattie’s home.”

  A flick of the reins brought the horses to the house below.

  Drying her cheeks, Lisbeth told Matthew, “You wait here with Samuel. I will come get you if I need you.”

  Lisbeth cautiously climbed to the ground, mindful of every movement of her shaky legs as she went. Crossing to the door, she was acutely aware of the sounds around her: the clucks of the chickens in the wagon and the crunch of gravel under her shoes. She counted her steps from the wagon to the front door of Mattie’s cabin, 1..2..3…up to twelve.

  Standing in the bright sunlight, Lisbeth stopped. Her heart beat furiously in her chest. This was foolishness. What was she thinking? Perhaps Mattie did not care to see her, to have her past dredged up, to risk the danger.

  Then Lisbeth heard a voice cut through the wooden door: Mattie’s deep, warm woman voice, the voice that had soothed her when she was little, the voice that sang in her dreams. That was her Mattie inside. She raised her hand and knocked.

  Mattie opened the door. She had planned to invite Lisbeth in immediately, but instead she stood in the doorway, taking in the woman before her. Tall and strong, so transformed from the little girl that Mattie loved, and yet, those eyes, they were the same. Mattie’s breath caught, her throat closed tight, and tears rushed to her eyes. Motioning with her hands, beckoning Lisbeth in silently, Mattie closed the door tight before she pulled Lisbeth into her strong, warm arms.

  Epilogue

  I wish I could tell you that Mattie and I were like family to one another from that day on, but I cannot. As I told you, this is a true story. The only proper way for me to have Mattie in my home is for me to hire her, and I am not willing to order her about, and I do not suppose that she would agree to take directions from me.

  The only proper reason for me to visit her home is to provide assistance, charity to a family in need. Which I would provide, without hesitation, if she ever needed me to, but she does not need me. She has Samuel and Jordan, her real children, to care for her.

  Every Christmas I bring a package to Mattie’s family, a small token that does not begin to repay her for all that she gave to me. I pray that she feels the love and appreciation I pour into every muffin or quilt or jar of jam.

  Occasionally we see one another in town. The last time was in the spring when my Samuel was seven. He ran from me, down the side of the general store, as we were going to make a purchase of flour and sugar for a cake. I followed, ready to chastise him, when she came around from the back. Too stunned to speak or move, I froze and stared at Mattie. She stared right back, looking at me like she knew my soul.

  Then Samuel shouted, “Look,” breaking our attention from one another. “The first crocus of spring!”

  Mattie and I gazed in the direction he pointed.

  “Why looky at that. Yellow too, how lovely,” Mattie responded.

  Samuel announced proudly, “Yellow crocuses are my momma’s favorites. My momma and I will have a picnic with black-eye peas today to celebrate.”

  “T
hat right?” Mattie said with a shake of her head. “In my family we do just the same thing. Imagine that.”

  Our eyes met. I gazed intently at Mattie hoping she understood all that was in my heart. More than anything I wanted to rush to her and be embraced in her loving, familiar arms; to laugh and hug, to introduce Samuel to her, and have him know that this was the very person who taught me to hunt for crocuses. I wanted my Samuel to meet her, to know her, to love her. But I did not rush or introduce or laugh or hug; I simply smiled, a tender, moist-eyed smile across the vast distance between us.

  Mattie smiled back at me before we went our separate ways.

  Appreciations

  Writing this novel was a sheer act of strength for me. I needed much encouragement just to keep going. I am deeply indebted to all those who read the many drafts along the way, giving me the feedback that gave me the courage to keep going. Thank you to readers Sheri Prud’homme, Mo Morris, Rinda Bartley, Kathy Post, Catherine Fisher, Kyle Fisher, Julie Scholz, Carolyn Hand, Bonnie Richman, Susan Pence, Cathy Cade, Heather MacCleod, Michelle Berlin, Darlanne Hoctor, Anne-Lise Breuning, Niall O’Regan, Kate Hand, Pat St. Onge, Jody Savage, Melanie Curry, Mary Bartley, RuAjna Kai, Hannah Eller-Isaacs, Fran Bartley, Charlotte Dickson, Carmen Bartley, Laura Prickett, Alisa Peres, Janne Eller-Isaacs, Rob Eller-Isaacs, Skot Davis, Cambron Williamson, Ann Hecht, Jill Miller, Jean Weiss, Mona Ibrahim, Jamie Ibrahim, Sarah Moldenhauer-Salazaar, Mike Jung, Cathy Rion, and Kalin Ibrahim-Bartley. I am grateful to these editors who greatly improved the story: Janis Newman, Jane Cavolina and Renee Johnson. And thank you to Gogi Hodder for being the biggest cheer leader of all by readily making copies, reading nearly all of the numerous drafts, and being absolutely certain that this story needs to be in the world.