They Called Her Mrs. Doc.

by Janette Oke

Cassandra waited until she was sure the pains were actual contractions, then walked the short distance to the neighbor’s house.

  “I think the time has come,” she said simply when the woman answered her knock. The lady nodded and turned to call, “Jake. Jake, ya there?”

  A boy answered.

  “Run on down to the drugstore and let Mr. Foigt know it’s time.”

  Cassandra heard the back door slam before she even turned from the front door.

  “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder, but Mrs. Hardy was right at her elbow.

  “How far apart?’ she asked Cassandra.

  Cassandra frowned. She wasn’t sure what the woman was talking about.

  “How far apart are the contractions?” asked the woman again.

  “Well, they are about from here to here,” replied Cassandra, indicating the area on her broad abdomen.

  Mrs. Hardy began to laugh.

  “I meant, how many minutes apart,” she corrected.

  Cassandra flushed. “I—I don’t know. I haven’t paid any heed,” she admitted.

  “Well, we’ll time ’em,” said the woman as she purposefully took Cassandra’s arm to assist her in climbing the steps to her home.

  They were barely settled in Cassandra’s bedroom when the next contraction came. Mrs. Hardy laid a hand on Cassandra’s tightened stomach. “Nice and strong,” she said, seeming pleased.

  Cassandra laid back against the pillow when the contraction ended. She wasn’t sure that she shared the pleasure. The pain had been quite sharp.

  She relaxed again and was content to allow Mrs. Hardy help her slip out of her dress and into a comfortable nightgown. Then the woman busied herself about the room, making Cassandra feel strangely comforted and uncomfortable at the same time.

  The comfort came because the woman was company and also because she seemed so relaxed, so knowledgeable about what should be done. The uneasiness came because she seemed to be preparing for a delivery—and Samuel was to be present for that. Cassandra began to fret that Samuel might not make it home after all.

  But he did. He arrived breathless and flushed. She knew by his face that this was a bit different for the young professional. This was his wife. His baby.

  “How are you?” he asked Cassandra, brushing her red hair back from her face, but before Cassandra had answered he turned to Mrs. Hardy. “How is she?”

  “About ten minutes apart. Nice and firm, though. It’s labor all right.”

  Then Samuel turned back to Cassandra and gave her his full and undivided attention, while Mrs. Hardy went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

  Joseph Henry arrived at one-thirty in the morning, after what seemed to Cassandra a very long time. But Samuel appeared well pleased with the progression of events. And as soon as baby Joey was placed in her arms, Cassandra was willing to admit that the whole experience was worth it. She loved him instantly, from the tip of his perfect ten toes to the top of his reddish fuzzy head. As he nestled up against her and seemed to snuggle himself in against her breast, she would not have traded him for all the treasures of the world. She was sure her father would be pleased to hear that he had a grandson bearing his name. She did wish she could have the privilege of sharing her joy in person with her faraway parents.

  The two young mothers now had even more to share. Though their babies kept them busy, they made time for visits back and forth. Cassandra dreaded winter anyway, but now she was afraid that the cold would keep her homebound with young Joseph.

  “He’ll be fine if you bundle him up,” Samuel assured her. “Fresh air is healthy. He should have outings.”

  Following the doctor’s advice, Cassandra took full advantage of the milder days and brought Joseph with her to visit Virginia and Anthony and even over to the church while she practiced the Sunday hymns. He seemed to love the music of the complaining, rasping old instrument, and Cassandra would smile as she played and her baby cooed.

  Cassandra couldn’t help but be disappointed when she discovered she was pregnant again.

  “I wanted Joey to be my baby for a longer time,” she fretted. “He’s only a year old. He will need to grow up before he should.”

  Samuel looked at his growing son, trying to pull himself up by the chair rungs. “Maybe God knows that he will be ready for a brother, Red,” he replied.

  But it wasn’t a brother. It was Vivian Ann. And if Cassandra had felt busy before, she was doubly so now.

  Joseph seemed to go from being a baby to a young boy before Cassandra had time to make the mental adjustment. One day he was cooing in her arms and the next, it seemed, he was insisting on playing outside where he could have freedom to run and explore.

  Cassandra had to constantly watch him, chase him, bring him home from a venture, rescue him from climbs, warn him about dangers. It was a constant demand on her time and attention.

  Samuel noticed her difficulties and hired a man to build a swing so the toddler would have something to do close to home. He also provided a sandbox and small pails and shovels. But the special play things drew the neighborhood youngsters. Cassandra was happy to have playmates for her son, but it meant a constant vigil on the gate leading to the yard. Children were always forgetting to close it. Cassandra feared that they might one day leave it open and Joseph would wander at will. Dozens of times daily she checked the gate. And dozens of times daily she closed it herself, then reminded the neighborhood children to please close it as they entered or left. They always nodded their agreement and promised faithfully to fulfill her request, but again and again Cassandra found the gate swinging in the summer wind.

  One day when Cassandra went to shut the gate, she found an empty sandbox, a lifeless swing—and no Joseph.

  Panic seized her. She rushed to the street and looked first one way and then the other. Only a team of plodding horses moved before her eyes. The old gentleman driving lifted a hand and called a cheery greeting. Cassandra tried to respond, but her frantic thoughts were on her missing son.

  She was about to dash off down the street looking for him when she remembered little Vivian. She hurried back to the bedroom, picked up the sleeping baby from her cradle, and rushed back out into the street.

  “Perhaps the Hardys’,” she said, and ran to the house next door. But no one was home, and as Cassandra looked around the yard, she saw no trace of Joseph.

  On she went from one neighbor to another, from one yard to another, but she found no Joseph, nor anyone who had seen the small boy. People soon joined her in the search. Children dashed on ahead to see if they could be the first one to find the missing child. Women walked along beside her, trying to give words of encouragement, assuring her that he couldn’t have gone far. Men left their work and fanned out in another direction so more ground could be covered faster.

  Someone brought word to Samuel, and he met Cassandra on the street and relieved her of the baby, who was now feeling that she should be fed.

  “I just left him a few moments,” sobbed Cassandra. “I had checked the gate only a few minutes before.”

  “We’ll find him,” Samuel tried to assure her and then repeated the words that had become so familiar to her, “He couldn’t have gone far.”

  Cassandra wanted to scream.

  Baby Vivian began to fuss more insistently. “It’s time for her to eat,” admitted Cassandra as Samuel handed her back to her mother.

  “Why don’t you go home and feed her? We’ll all keep looking. I’ll bring him on home just as soon as we find him,” Samuel urged. With tears on her own face, Cassandra took the crying baby and headed for home.

  The day was hot and she felt exhausted from the heat and the worry and terribly angry with herself for not having kept a better eye on her son.

  Vivian cried harder and Cassandra felt like sitting down right on the sidewalk and nursing her baby girl. She couldn’t stand the crying. Couldn’t stand her anguish. Couldn’t stand the thought that her young son might be in real danger. She wanted to draw
her baby girl close and get at least a measure of comfort from her soft little body.

  But Cassandra plodded on home—through the heat, through the dust, her heart heavy and her back aching.

  “Oh, God!” she cried. “I admit that it was my fault. I should have watched more closely. But please—please—let him be okay. Help us to find him. Help us, please, God. Please!”

  Cassandra followed their wooden sidewalk through the offending gate, which still swung open, and headed for her back door. She would be so thankful to get in out of the heat. She would be so thankful to sit after walking for what seemed forever. She would be so thankful to be able to hold her baby close and give her the comfort of nursing. But oh, how she ached and longed for her lost son. The nearer she drew to her own door, the more the tears flowed.

  She was about to open the door and step through to the kitchen when she heard a noise. It came from the corner of the yard where the sandbox was located. She turned, thinking it to be one of the neighborhood children, but there sat Joseph. He was busy with a small shovel, scooping up sand to fill a little box he had found somewhere. He was totally absorbed in his play, not even noticing his mother until she cried his name and ran toward him. When he did lift his head, he grinned a happy grin and went back to filling his box.

  “Joseph!” cried Cassandra again. “You’re home. You’re home! Where have you been?”

  The little red head lifted again and he held out his shovel toward his mother. “Yook” was his only comment.

  Cassandra saw his torn shirt, his dirt-smeared face, a shoeless foot. But she concentrated only on his sparkling hazel eyes. He was home! He was whole! She hugged him to her as she thanked God, and baby Vivian protested loudly.

  They never did learn where Joseph had been. The missing shoe was never found.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Experiences

  Cassandra stood at the kitchen cupboard peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Joseph played in the yard with neighborhood children. At four, he now understood that he was not to leave his yard without his mother’s permission.

  When Cassandra heard him cry out she turned from the potato pan, wiping her hands on her apron as she rushed toward the back door. In the process she nearly tripped over young Vivian, who was playing with her doll baby on the floor.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed. She didn’t know whether to take Vivian with her or leave her and run to Joseph. She was slow enough now in her movements with a third child soon to join the family.

  “You stay put, sweetie,” she said to Vivian and rushed out.

  When Cassandra reached the play yard she was totally unprepared for what greeted her. Joseph sat screaming on the ground, his hands holding his head, and between his fingers oozed blood that dripped on his shirt front. Cassandra was sure he must be about to breathe his last.

  “What happened?” she screamed at the neighborhood children who gathered around, speechlessly observing the flow of blood.

  It seemed to bring Robert, one of the children, back to coherence. “The swing hit him,” he cried, and then the others began to respond with excited yells and even wilder swinging of their arms to show what had happened.

  Cassandra reached for Joseph who was still screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Someone run for the doctor!” shouted Cassandra, but everyone stared at her wildly.

  “Run for the doctor,” she repeated, lifting the bleeding boy into her arms and running for the house.

  Vivian had followed her mother out the door and was standing on the steps. As soon as she saw her brother with his face covered in his own blood, she too began to cry. Cassandra didn’t know what she would do with another frantic child. Nor did she know where or how badly her son was hurt. From the amount of blood all over his shirt and now on the front of her as well, she thought he must be seriously injured. She hoped and prayed that one of the children had obeyed her cry and gone for help.

  “Come with Mama,” Cassandra urged Vivian, opening the door and following the child in.

  She stood holding the boy, looking out the window for someone to come to her aid. She didn’t know how to care for him. Samuel was the doctor. Cassandra had never been able to stand the sight of blood. All she could do was to rock him gently in her arms, to comfort him. It didn’t work and soon Cassandra was crying right along with her two offspring.

  A heavy step pounded across the back porch and Samuel burst into the house. “What happened?” he asked as he reached for Joseph.

  “The swing!” cried Cassandra. “He got hit with the swing. He’s hurt badly, Samuel. He’s bleeding—”

  “Head cuts always bleed a lot,” Samuel interrupted her; then seeing her pale face, he nodded toward a kitchen chair. “You’d better sit down.”

  Cassandra managed to get the chair under her and leaned down to scoop Vivian into her arms. “Sh-h,” she whispered, trying to soothe her. “Sh-h. Papa’s here now. Joey will be all right.”

  Samuel grabbed a clean towel from a kitchen drawer and began to wash the boy to determine the location and extent of injury. Joseph screamed even louder and Vivian joined in. Cassandra felt as if she were going to smother from the tension.

  “Hush,” she heard Samuel say rather sternly to young Joseph. “Let me look at your cut. Don’t fuss so.”

  For some strange reason, Joseph seemed to listen to his father and the wild screams changed to whimpers. Vivian, too, quieted her crying, though she still clung to Cassandra.

  “It’s not too bad,” Samuel the doctor was saying. “It’s not deep—but it will need some stitches or it will scar.”

  Then he turned to Cassandra. “I might need your help. Do you feel up to it?”

  Cassandra looked at him with large, startled eyes.

  “Me?”

  “I need someone to hold his hands while I stitch. One wild sweep of a hand could do more damage than the swing did,” he explained calmly.

  Cassandra eased Vivian away from her and stood to shaky feet. She took one tentative step and then another and soon she was beside Samuel, looking down at her son. He did look much better now that Samuel had washed away much of the blood, but the open wound on his forehead still seeped bright red liquid. Cassandra felt her knees giving way and she bowed in prayer and asked God for His strength for the task ahead.

  Joseph lifted his eyes to study her face. She managed a wobbly smile. She even managed to speak. “Papa has to sew up the cut,” she said evenly, firmly, “and it is very important that you hold still and not bump his hand. Do you understand? Mama is going to help you keep your hands perfectly still. We’ll put them both here—on your chest—and Mama will put her hands here.” She took the hands of the child firmly in her own. “Now, you watch me—not Papa.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Cassandra could see the needle with its trailing thread in Samuel’s fingers. Again she thought her knees would surely buckle under her, and she prayed and willed the dizziness from her whirling head.

  “What do you want to do after Papa is all done?” she asked Joseph, wanting to keep his full attention.

  “I want to play with Anthony again,” the boy said without hesitation.

  “Well, it’s almost suppertime,” said Cassandra, attempting a matter-of-fact tone in her voice. When she had first arrived in the little prairie town, she had vowed she would never, never change the evening meal from dinner to supper. But she had. In fact, over the months that she had lived in the West, many things had been slowly changing in the life and thinking of Cassandra.

  “Anthony’s mother might want him home,” she went on to explain.

  Joseph looked about to cry again and Cassandra quickly amended her statement. “But we’ll see. There might be time to play for a while yet.”

  Samuel made another stitch. The boy seemed to pay little attention.

  “What will you and Anthony play?” asked Cassandra, trying hard to buy some time. She prayed that Samuel was almost done.

  “In the sandbox—with
my little wagon,” answered the boy.

  Then his eyes shifted from Cassandra to his father, and he noticed for the first time the hand that held the needle, with its thread now red from his blood.

  At first his eyes grew wide as though he couldn’t understand the implication, but he quickly sorted it out and just as quickly began to shriek. Now Cassandra’s strength was pitted against her son’s. He tried to free his entrapped hands so that he might fight to protect himself, and it was all that Cassandra could do to hold him. With a few more quick stitches Samuel finished the job and Joseph was wiped off, bandaged, and freed to stand on his own.

  Tears still ran down his cheeks, and he looked at both his “Well, it’s almost suppertime,” said Cassandra, attempting a matter-of-fact tone in her voice. When she had first arrived in the little prairie town, she had vowed she would never, never change the evening meal from dinner to supper. But she had. In fact, over the months that she had lived in the West, many things had been slowly changing in the life and thinking of Cassandra. parents for as much sympathy as they could possibly muster. It was then that Cassandra noticed Vivian. She stood on a kitchen chair, her head craned so she could see better, her eyes wide with the wonder of it all. She was not crying; she was not even pale. She looked as though she had been wonderfully captivated by the whole procedure.

  When Samuel snapped shut his medical bag, she looked at him pleadingly. “Fix him some more, Papa,” and waved a chubby hand in Joseph’s direction.

  Samuel and Cassandra exchanged glances, then began to chuckle as Samuel reached for his small daughter and hugged her.

  “So you will be Papa’s nurse, will you?” he said, giving her a few sound pats on her solid bottom. “I guess I should have had you holding brother’s hands instead of your poor mama.”

  Joseph had stopped crying and reached up a hand to feel his bandage.

  “You bleed, Joseph,” Vivian informed him, and her voice held a note of excitement as though bleeding was something quite special.