by Janette Oke
“I see,” said Clark. “Yer thinkin’ thet yer mama just wouldn’t be able to let ya go, huh?”
Ellie nodded with her head up against him.
“Well, I’m admittin’ thet yer mama sure does prefer her young’uns close by. I also happen to know the thing thet Mama wants more’n anythin’ in the world is fer her children to be happy. Now, iffen ya think thet yer happiness lies with a certain young man by the name of Lane, then thet’s what Mama wants fer ya, even iffen it takes ya many miles away.”
Ellie’s eyes still showed doubt. “Oh, Pa,” she said, “do ya really think so?”
“I know so,” answered Clark. “Fact is, I just came from talkin’ with yer mama. She is worried ’bout ya. Has been fer days. We didn’t either one of us guess what was wrong, or we woulda straightened ya out long ago. It was Kate thet got suspectin’. Guess we had just thought of Lane as family fer so long thet we never even thought he might not seem like family to you.”
Ellie’s eyes began to glow again. “Oh, Pa,” she said, “I love both you an’ Mama so. I’d never want to hurt Mama. Never!”
“And yer mama would never want to stand in the way of yer happiness, either. Now wipe away those tears, and let’s go see yer mama.”
Ellie did so, the best she could, then bent to stroke the patient Rex once more before hurrying to the barn door. Clark lifted the lantern from its hook and followed her.
Suddenly Ellie stopped. “But, Pa,” she said in deep concern, “I already told Lane no.”
“I don’t think Lane will be givin’ up thet easy like,” he assured her. “Iffen he does, he’s not the man I thought ’im to be.”
Some of the fear left Ellie’s eyes, and she quickened her steps. Clark had all he could do to keep up with her. As he hung up his coat on the peg in the kitchen, he heard her say, “Oh, Mama,” and then what sounded like both laughing and crying.
Nineteen
Dark Shadows
Someone was knocking on the door, making far more noise than should be necessary. Marty fought for consciousness, at the same time wishing she could remain asleep. Something told her it was not time to get up yet, even though she could not see the clock in the darkness.
Clark had roused and was hurriedly dressing. Marty’s mind flashed her a message of “Ben.” This is what happened when Ben . . . But no, it couldn’t be that again. Then why would someone come pounding on their door now? Fear gripped Marty’s heart. It must be more bad news.
Clark left the room hurriedly without a word, and Marty heard his footstep on the wooden stairsteps. He had not stopped for boot or crutch and hopped down on one bare foot.
With an effort, Marty threw back the covers and stepped out onto the cold floor. She was glad for the rug nearby that offered some protection from the winter chill. She felt around with one foot for her bed socks and crossed to the closet hook to grab her robe. Voices drifted up to her. Excited voices. It sounded like Clare. Who had awakened Clare, and what might the trouble be?
Marty tried not to hurry down the steps. A fall in the dark certainly would be no aid to whatever the problem was. She held firmly to the rail and felt her way down carefully. Yes, it was Clare’s voice. Clare’s voice mingled with Clark’s, Clare’s muffled by horrible sobs. Marty hastened her steps.
When Marty entered the kitchen, she was more bewildered than ever. Clark had lit the kitchen lamp, and in its soft glow, she could see the outline of two men. Her men. Clark was supporting Clare, and Clare was weeping against him uncontrollably. Marty tried to voice a question, but it wouldn’t form on her lips.
“It’s Kate,” said Clark over Clare’s head. “She’s in terrible pain.”
“What’s happened?” Marty was able to gasp out the question.
“He doesn’t know. It just came on sudden like in the night. I’m gonna go git Doc. Ya think thet ya can—?”
But Clark didn’t finish his question before Marty moved to her grown son and turned him toward her.
Clare seemed to get hold of himself. “Oh, Ma,” he groaned, “I’m so scared. I’ve never seen anyone in such pain. We gotta git back there, Ma. We gotta—”
“We will,” said Marty. “I’ll just pull on some boots an’ grab a shawl.”
Clare took Marty’s hand, and they hurried toward the little log house. He had taken command again now. The rough sobbing had ceased, and he was thinking rationally.
“Maybe the baby is on the way,” Marty said as a means of assurance.
“It’s too early yet.”
“Some of ’em come early.”
“Not this early.”
“Maybe Kate figured wrong.”
Clare made no response, and Marty thought he strongly doubted it.
“Some women do have a great deal of pain when—”
But Clare didn’t want to listen. “We don’t want the baby comin’ now,” he said. “It’s still too early. It would be dang’rous fer ’im to come now.”
Marty turned at the sound of someone hurrying to the barn. Clark was on his way for the doctor. She prayed him Godspeed and continued along the icy path.
“Pa’s on his way,” she said to Clare. “Won’t be long an’ the doc’ll be here.”
They had not yet reached the house when Marty could hear Kate. She felt Clare stiffen beside her. Poor Kate—she had never been a crybaby about discomfort. Truly Clare was right. Something was terribly wrong with her. They hastened into the little house, and Marty kicked her boots into a corner by the door and shed her shawl as she passed by a chair. Already Clare had half run through to the bedroom. A lamp had not even been lit, and Marty fumbled around in the semidarkness to find it and the matches. Kate continued to toss and moan on the bed, and Clare dropped on his knees beside her and tried to soothe her with his words and hands.
“Pa’s gone for Doc, sweetheart. It won’t be long now. Just hang on. Hang on.”
Clare turned back to Marty and his eyes were pleading. Do somethin’, Ma, they seemed to say. Do somethin’ fer my Kate.
Marty moved to the bed and gently reached out to the girl, smoothing her matted hair back from her face. “Kate,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above Kate’s groans, “Kate, can ya hear me, dear?”
Kate responded with a nod of her head and another moan.
“When did this start?”
Kate managed to indicate that it had started about bedtime—a little—and then increased in intensity during the night.
“An’ where is the pain?” continued Marty.
Kate laid her hand on her lower abdomen.
Marty placed her hand there, too. She could feel the tightening of Kate’s muscles as another groan passed Kate’s lips.
As the contraction passed, Marty spoke to Kate, trying to keep her voice light to ease some of the tension in the room.
“Kate,” she said, “I do believe thet yer gonna be a mama.”
“No!” Kate gasped out. “No! It’s too early—too soon. I don’t want ’im to come now. He’s too little.”
“Listen,” Marty said sharply. “Listen, Kate. Don’t fight it, Kate. Don’t struggle against it. Try to relax. Maybe—maybe it will pass—but ya gotta calm yerself. Fer yer sake an’ the baby’s.”
Marty could see Kate’s big violet eyes in the dim light given off by the lamp on the dresser. Marty knew she was thinking of her baby. She wanted her baby. She would do anything that she could for his safety.
“I’ll try,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” Marty said, then knelt down beside Clare and began to stroke the girl’s cold hand. “Now, Clare, I know thet you’ve been prayin’, but let’s pray together.”
Clare led them in prayer. “Our God,” he said, a catch in his voice, “ya know our concern here. We don’t want to see Kate in such pain, an’ we don’t think it’s time fer the little one yet. Help us all to be calm with yer help, Lord. Help Kate at this time to feel yer love—an’ our love. God, ya know our desire. We want our son safel
y delivered. I want my Kate—” Clare’s voice truly broke here, and Marty wondered if he would be able to continue, but he quickly recovered. “But, God, in spite of our wants, we gotta say as we been told to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ An’ we mean it, Lord, ’cause we know thet ya love us and ya want our good. Amen.”
Kate had lain quietly the entire time Clare was praying. Clare leaned over and kissed her cheek as soon as he had said his “Amen.” Kate stirred again, and Marty knew she was fighting to try to relax in spite of her intense pain.
“Clare,” Marty said, “make us a good fire in the cook stove, will ya? And put on a couple kettles of water to heat.”
Clare went to comply, and Marty moved closer to minister to the girl on the bed. She smoothed back her hair, straightened the crumpled blankets, stroked her flushed cheeks. And all the time she fussed and comforted, she talked quietly to Kate, trying to distract her mind from the pain.
Kate heroically tried—with all her being she tried. Marty could see her brace herself against the pain and then fight with all of her might to relax in spite of it. Clare started a brisk fire and filled the kettles as Marty had told him. He even brought a pan of water so Marty might sponge Kate’s face. The hours dragged by. Marty felt the doctor was long overdue and feared lest he had already been called out on some other emergency. Just as she was about to give up, she heard hoofbeats in the yard. She turned to the window and breathed a prayer of thanks as she saw two riders dismount.
Clark was leading both horses toward the barn, and Doc was hurrying toward the little house with his black bag grasped firmly in his hand. Never had any man looked more welcome to Marty than did Doc.
Clare was already at the door, taking Doc’s coat and giving him a report. Marty remained in Kate’s room until the doctor appeared, and then she left him with the girl and went to the kitchen to wait for Clark.
She busied herself with the coffeepot. She didn’t know if there would be anyone who would be wanting coffee, but it gave her something to do. With Kate now in the doctor’s hands, Marty had time to think.
What if Kate’s baby was on the way? Would it be developed enough to be able to survive? What would happen to Clare and Kate if they lost their baby? What would happen to their faith?
Marty reached down and laid a hand on her own stomach. Her baby responded with a strong kick. Marty’s eyes filled with tears. “Please, God,” she prayed, “don’t let anythin’ happen to the baby. They could never stand it, Lord. They’ve been workin’ an’ dreamin’ an’ prayin’ fer thet little’un fer so long. It would break their hearts to lose it now. Iffen . . . iffen . . .” and Marty placed her hand over her unborn. “Iffen it has to be one of ’em, Lord, then . . . then take mine. I think I could bear it better’n Kate.” Even as Marty spoke the words silently, her mind was filled with the knowledge of the great pain that losing her baby—the little unseen someone she had learned to love—would bring her. If only there was some way she could protect Clare and Kate from the awful pain of losing the baby they loved.
Another thought quickly followed, almost taking Marty’s breath away. What if something happened to Kate? How would Clare ever be able to stand that? Again Marty prayed. “Not Kate. Please, God, protect Kate . . . fer Clare’s sake.”
Clark came into the kitchen, rubbing his cold hands together.
“Any word yet?” he asked, his face serious.
“No. Doc is with her now.”
“What do you think?” Clark dropped his heavy mittens onto a nearby chair.
“I think thet . . . thet the baby is on the way.”
“Can it make it?”
Marty shrugged wearily. “I don’t know. It’s early . . . too early. But some have. I don’t know. I’m afraid, Clark, really afraid.”
Clark crossed to her and drew her to him. Their baby protested, and a smile flickered across Clark’s face in spite of his anxiety.
“Feisty little rascal, ain’t he?” he commented and Marty eased away.
“She,” she said in a whisper with a smile and moved to the stove. “Ya want some coffee?”
“Would help to warm me up some, I reckon.”
Marty poured two cups. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to drink from hers. She had no desire for coffee. She suddenly noticed as she crossed to the table that things were very quiet in the bedroom. It was a relief not to hear Kate tossing and moaning, and Marty hoped that the quiet was a good sign.
Clare entered the room. His eyes looked heavy and his face drawn.
“It’s the baby, all right,” he said in a tired, resigned voice.
“How is Kate?”
“Doc has given her somethin’. Just to help with the pain. Doc can’t find a heartbeat on the little one. ’Fraid thet . . . thet somethin’ is wrong.”
He lowered himself onto a chair and put his head on his arms on the table. Marty was at a loss. What did one say to an aching son? This was not a childhood disappointment that they were dealing with. This was a life. Two lives. How did one give support at such a time?
Clark reached out and gripped Clare’s shoulder with a firm hand. Clare did not move or respond, but Marty knew that he felt the love and support of his father.
When Clare was able to speak, he continued slowly. “Doc says Kate is strong. Her pulse is good an’ she is fightin’ hard. She should be fine when this is all over.”
Marty breathed a thankful prayer.
“How long does Doc think it might be?” asked Clark quietly.
“Can’t say.”
Marty brought Clare some coffee. To her surprise he drank it, though she wasn’t sure he was aware of doing so.
The long night hours slid slowly by. From time to time, members of the family went to the bedroom to check with Doc. About the only assurance he could give them was that Kate seemed to be holding up well.
Dawn came, the air brisk and wind-chilled. Ellie arrived at the little house. Unbelievably, she had slept through the commotion of the night before, her bedroom being at the back of the house. Now she came fearfully, looking for her family and wondering what were the circumstances of an empty house. Her face paled as Clark explained the situation to her, and then she went to work preparing some breakfast in Kate’s little kitchen. Marty had not even thought of the need for food.
Clark left to do the chores. Clare moved as if to go with him, but Clark waved him back to his chair. Instead, Clare went to see how his Kate was. He came back to the kitchen with his face even more somber than before.
“Doc doesn’t think thet it’ll be long now,” and he lowered himself to the chair again. Marty wondered if he might be better off choring than sitting there with Kate heavy on his mind.
Ellie served breakfast. No one ate much, but a few of them went through the motions. Marty took a plate of pancakes and some bacon and coffee to the doctor. He eased himself onto a chair by Kate’s bed and ate. He knew from long experience that one must eat to maintain strength.
It was nearing eleven o’clock in the morning when the baby girl arrived, tiny and stillborn. There was nothing that anyone could do . . . or say. Clare held his infant daughter in his arms and shook with his sobs. Then he passed her to Marty, who, through her own tears, lovingly bathed the little bit of humanity who was to have brought such happiness into a home. Clare went to the baby’s room and found the tiny garments that Kate had requested for their little one to wear. They had been sewn with such love and pride and were to have been worn with such happiness. Now they would represent the love wrapped snugly around the tiny baby as it was committed to the small coffin which Clare and Clark sorrowfully fashioned together.
Kate continued to hold her own. Clare was so thankful that nothing had happened to his wife. With the help of the doctor’s medication, she slept through most of the first day and on through the night. The next morning, Clare spoke gently to Kate of their loss. She had been vaguely aware of the fact before she slipped off to sleep. After they had embraced each other and cried together, Clare car
ried the small casket that held their little daughter into Kate’s room, so she might see their child. Clark and Marty went on back to their house and left the two of them alone.
The burial was a quiet family affair. The preacher spoke the familiar words of strength and encouragement to the family members who gathered around the tiny grave.
In the days that followed, Kate regained her strength quickly after her ordeal, though a shadow lingered in her eyes. She clung to Clare in their sorrow. Clark and Marty prayed daily—sometimes hourly—for their children in their pain. Marty wished over and over that she could somehow bear it for them, but she could only be there, suffering with them. Somehow they got through the first difficult days. With time it would get easier, but, oh, it was going to take so much time, and the love-built nursery room was a constant reminder of just how much they had lost. It was hard for Marty to stand the strain of the sorrow, and without meaning to—or even realizing that she was doing so—she began to draw away from the intensity of the pain.
Twenty
Nandry
Lane came as soon as he heard the news, spending time with Clare and allowing him to talk out his feelings concerning the death of his infant daughter.
Ellie hardly knew how to respond to Lane, now that she’d had her talk with her ma and pa. If she was free to make her own future, as they assured her she was, then she hoped that her pa was right and Lane wouldn’t give up easily. But in her heart, Ellie feared—feared that Lane might have taken her previous word as the final answer. What if he did not wish to pursue it further? Ellie would be the loser indeed. Yet could she be bold enough to approach Lane herself? It wasn’t at all in keeping with how she had been brought up, and Ellie doubted very much if she could bring herself to do it.
So for now, at least, she kept her conversations with Lane courteous but brief.
Marty now had some very difficult days to live through. Each time her child moved, she remembered that she had fought against this baby. She had not wanted it. Indeed, had she gotten her way, it would not have been . . . at first. Now Marty loved this baby. Whoever it was within her had completely captured her mother love. Still . . . she felt guilty. It was true she hadn’t wanted it . . . and yet it was still safe, while the small body of the baby Kate and Clare had wanted so very much right from the beginning lay in the churchyard under a heap of winter snow. It didn’t seem just or fair.
