The Midwife's Legacy

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  He looked up from writing to smile. “I’m not the one being interviewed.”

  She let out an irritated breath then chided herself. She already knew his answer; it matched what most men thought. She couldn’t fault him for a gender-shared attitude.

  “What interested you in the occupation?”

  “Oh, it’s much more than an ‘occupation.’ It’s my godly calling. My grandmother, who took the Oregon Trail, and her mother before her, and even before that, into several generations, all were midwives. My mother gave me their journal filled with advice to those who followed after them, along with their bits of inspiration. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes, but later. Why do you consider it your calling?”

  She struggled with how to explain. “It’s nested inside my heart. Every mother is special to me and every child born. Helping to bring life into the world is an exhilarating experience—sometimes frightening. But each time I look at a newborn’s face, I wonder how anyone can question the existence of God. Midwifery keeps me humble, and yet at the same time confident that God watches out for His own.” She made a mental note to jot that down in the journal also, for her own wisdom to share.

  He nodded slowly. “I can understand that, having just been through the experience—and never wanting to go through it again.”

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t called to be a midwife, then,” she teased.

  “Or a doctor.”

  He posed other questions, his responses polite, when asked, but also letting her know he didn’t agree, and in her frustration she spoke without thinking: “Since you’re clearly not in favor of women working outside the home, I suppose you’re also opposed to women gaining the vote?”

  “I never said that. As a matter of fact, I think women should be given that right.”

  She blinked at him like an owl. “You do?”

  “Certainly. Most men opposed are worried that if women are given the vote, the first thing they’ll do is revoke liquor, because of the existence of the women’s temperance groups.

  Since I don’t drink, it doesn’t affect me either way.” He grinned.

  She was still fighting disbelief. “You support women voting but are against them working?”

  “A vote generally takes place once a year. Women who work do so every day. Some women neglect their families to work.”

  “And what about those women—like my mother—who don’t? I agree with you, families should come first. Mother is adamant about that. They are the ones God gave to us, aren’t they? But some women have no choice. They must work in factories or secure whatever means available to be able to live and help support their families. It’s been that way throughout history.”

  He gave a short nod. “Poverty has been around since the days of Moses, long before that. There are always extenuating circumstances. But I speak of those who have no need to work and do so out of desire alone.”

  “Like my mother?” She couldn’t help the bitter edge to her tone.

  He sighed. “From all I’ve seen and heard, your mother isn’t one to neglect her family.”

  “She most certainly is not.”

  “I know. I was agreeing with you. Christiana, I don’t want to argue about this. Can we just get back to the interview?”

  She nodded, struggling to control her wretched temper. “Yet despite Mother’s good example, you are still opposed to the idea in general?”

  His silence provided her answer.

  “I imagine that once you marry, you won’t allow your wife to work?” Her face warmed. Where had that question popped from?

  “She won’t need to.”

  “But if she should wish to?”

  He stared at her a long time. Christiana held her breath, wishing she could retract the question, though her heart raced to hear his answer.

  “I was raised by my father and his father before him to believe that women shouldn’t work outside the home. So no, I wouldn’t wish my wife to work.”

  His answer given, Christiana felt worse. She gave a little nod and looked him in the eye. “As I said, I consider midwifery a godly calling, one that’s been in my family for generations, and especially necessary to those mothers who prefer a woman tending them. I don’t plan to quit anytime soon, if ever.”

  “And if your husband should disapprove?” he asked softly.

  She swallowed hard. “If he is of that opinion, then I would save us both a good deal of grief and never marry him in the first place.”

  The silence grew so thick she could hear the flies buzzing off the porch. They stared at each other a long time, Christiana’s heart beating fast.

  Noah flipped his pad closed. “Thank you for the interview. I think I have all I need.” He stood up.

  She bounced up from the glider, sending it into motion. “Do you wish to see the journal?” She didn’t want him to go, as foolish as it was to wish he would stay.

  He hesitated as if he might refuse but nodded. “Yes.”

  “I won’t be but a moment.”

  It would be more polite to invite him back inside, but she didn’t want her father’s beastly attitude to scare Noah away. She slipped into the house, located the journal, and hurried back outside, handing it to him.

  He eyed the plain worn cover and opened the book to the first yellowed page. He read for a moment then looked up. “Would you mind if I borrowed this? I’d like to read it in my own time. I’ll take good care of it.”

  “I know you will.” She hated letting it go, even for a few days. It was hers to do with as she pleased, since her mother had given it to her on the eve of her seventeenth birthday—wishing to share the wisdom of it with Christiana now, as she had then told her, rather than after her death. Christiana looked in the book every morning after her devotions. Both always helped her outlook for the day. Still, if reading it would help Noah to understand …

  “Yes, all right.”

  He closed the journal. “If you would rather I didn’t take it …”

  “No, that’s fine. I trust you, Noah.”

  Long after they said their farewells, the tender but sad look in Noah’s eyes lingered in her memory. Did that look mean he saw no hope for a future for them? Perhaps Christiana was rushing things—they had known each other a matter of weeks—but she couldn’t help how her heart felt. And it was immersed in Noah.

  Christiana approached her father where he sat in the parlor. Immediately he took off his reading glasses, slipped them into his pocket, and laid down his book.

  “Ah, Christiana, how are you, my girl?”

  “I could be better,” she said, taking a seat across from him.

  “What seems to be the problem?” His bushy brows slanted downward. “That Rafferty fellow isn’t giving you grief, is he?”

  “It’s Cafferty, Papa. Noah Cafferty. And he’s not the one causing me pain. You are,” she admitted softly.

  He glanced down at his lap, his face going stony.

  “What is it about him that you dislike so?”

  “He’s a reporter, isn’t he? And they’re not good news.”

  She didn’t smile at his wry pun. “You’re judging Noah based on a generalization of men in his career? Is that fair?”

  “Blast it, Christie, I don’t need this from you, too!”

  He reverted to his girlhood name for her, a sign that he was troubled.

  “Papa …” She moved off the chair and sat on the floor beside his, as she had done when she was little. She laid her hand over his large one. “You’re never going to lose me. I’ll always be your little girl at heart, even after I marry and make a life of my own.”

  Moisture made his eyes shine. He swallowed convulsively. “No man will ever be good enough for my little girl.”

  “One man has to be. You would like me to know the joys of marriage and, one day, childbirth, as I see women experience all the time, wouldn’t you? I want to know all of that, all of what Mama had. I don’t want to be an old maid.”

&nbs
p; He sighed. “You’re barely seventeen.”

  “No, Papa, I’m approaching eighteen. This Christmas.”

  He shook his head softly. “Time is a cursed villain that robs us of life so quickly.”

  Alarm made her eyes widen. “You’re not ill?”

  “No, I’m right as rain. Forgive an old man his reminiscences, Christiana. It seemed only yesterday I bounced you on my knee, and now you speak of bouncing your own children on your knee….”

  “Time doesn’t have to be the enemy, Papa. Grandmother Polly wrote that time is a gift to be treasured and used wisely. Only then will the treasure hold true value.”

  He patted her hand. “Your ancestors were wise.”

  “Just because I’m growing up doesn’t mean we won’t have other moments to hold dear. Different, but just as special. One day you’ll be bouncing your grandchild on your knee, creating a new and beautiful memory.”

  His gaze sharpened. “You’re not that interested in this boy, are you? You’ve only just met!”

  “I don’t necessarily mean Noah….” She avoided the question. “It’s much too early to consider that. Just please, won’t you lower the shotgun always aimed his way and give him a chance? For me?”

  He looked at her long and hard then let out a weary sigh.

  “For your sake, I’ll try, Christie. I ask one favor in return. Don’t grow up too quickly? Don’t throw out your dolls and tea set just yet?”

  At his hopeful response both knew to be impossible, for time had a way of rushing things along, she stood and kissed his cheek. “For you, Papa. I’ll try. I promise to keep my dolls.” She wanted to pass them on to her daughter. “As for the tea party … would you like to have one with me? For old time’s sake?”

  “You’re a sweet girl to humor a pathetic old fool,” he said gruffly.

  “Pathetic? No. Not a fool, either, and certainly not old. We had such fun with our parties, didn’t we? We talked of everything under the sun—well, what was then my sun. All those things important in my little-girl world. And this time I shall make real tea, since I’m now old enough to use the kettle.”

  “Yes, do that. I look forward to it.” He picked up his book again and glanced at the table then at his lap then at the floor. “Have you seen my glasses?”

  “Right here, Papa.” She plucked them out of his pocket and set them behind his ears with a grin then scurried to the kitchen. She hoped this revisit to a dear childhood memory would help ease her father’s heart and make her transition into womanhood a little easier for him to bear.

  Chapter 8

  Noah stared at the words of the journal’s final written page.

  The women of Christiana’s family were strong, courageous, full of hopes and dreams. None of them considered midwifery true work but instead their godly calling, as if they were doing a great mission for the Lord’s people.

  He looked at the last entry, the ink newer and bolder than the others. This entry bore a different handwriting than the previous ones, the letters graceful and flowing, and there was only one small notation from this last writer to add to the journal. Christiana, no doubt.

  I have learned that to fear a problem takes a greater toll on the heart and more effort than it does to trust for the best, even the miraculous. My first delivery was solo and frightening in that respect, as it was thrust upon me. I received help from an outside source, who proved invaluable, but I could not escape the reality that if anything went wrong, the consequences would be upon my shoulders to bear. As the poor woman, a dear friend to me, was in such travail, the revelation suddenly came: I was not the one in charge. I was merely God’s handmaiden, His chosen vessel, and it was through me that He would make His glory known. I only had to allow Him to do so, to trust in His power, and to submit to His greater authority. With that new understanding, everything fell into place and I was no longer afraid.

  Noah stared at the entry for some time. He’d been unable to get Christiana out of his thoughts all week, since he’d last seen her. It was foolish, he knew. To think of her in any capacity other than friendship would be disastrous; she had made clear her feelings on the subject of women and work. So had he. He was not one to form a dalliance with the ladies as some of his associates did. He wanted to find a woman to make a life with, to share his home and his name. It would be a mistake to continue to see her.

  But every time they met, he found something else about her he admired, and this journal entry was no exception. A godly woman, humble, but strong of spirit and willing to stand her ground—wasn’t that what he always hoped to find in a wife? Yet the very tenacity he admired in her worked in opposition to what he’d been taught by his father. His mother died when he was three, so he’d never gained her insight.

  Looking at the time, Noah grabbed his coat and hat and drove his buggy to Christiana’s home. His heart gave a little jump as she came through the door. The sunlight hit her face, giving it the luster of a pearl. Her eyes were glowing, her smile for him.

  He managed to peel his attention away from her and greet her mother as she came behind, her loveliness a mature version of her daughter’s beauty. He helped both women into his buggy.

  “Am I that late?” he asked, curious that they had not waited for him to ring the bell.

  “I was watching and thought I’d save you the effort and us some time,” Christiana said with a little smile.

  Clearly she was sparing his feelings. He knew he was at least five minutes late, the writings of the journal having captured his interest.

  Jillian Merriweather proved to be a colorful character to interview. After showing Noah an album of old photographs from when she’d taken the stage and telling of some of her more memorable endeavors as a singer, she moved right into the subject of women’s right to vote. As if she were the interviewer, she asked Noah’s opinion. She was as shocked as Christiana had been to learn he had no opposition to it—did they really view him as so hardnosed?—then his interviewee asked if he would be in favor of speaking at a women’s meeting. Remembering the last suffragist gathering and his feeling of being a trapped and despised beast with the women approaching for the kill, he adroitly evaded the topic and moved to the reason for his presence there.

  He asked various questions, also urging her to speak freely, jotting notes all the while. “To sum it all up,” he said at last, “why do you think the occupation of midwifery is so vital to maintain in this progressive era of our nation?”

  She laughed at that. “Oh, I can give you plenty of reasons, Mr. Cafferty, but the chief one for me is that most midwives have been through the ordeal. Men have not. Mrs. Leonard knows the pain involved, being a mother herself. I am more inclined to trust my body to a woman who knows what it feels like to experience all one does during pregnancy and childbirth than I am to a man who cannot begin to imagine all of what occurs.”

  Jillian Merriweather also had a flair for complete candor. Noah busily jotted, his face going a shade warmer at her expressive words.

  Once the interview ended, he thanked her and went outside on the porch to wait. Jillian had been so excited to be interviewed, she asked to do that before her checkup, though they had planned it the other way around.

  As Noah waited for the Leonard women to join him, he went through his notes, his mind weighing all he had learned against all he’d been taught.

  A week and a half after the first interview, Christiana again waited for Noah to arrive. He had been quiet after speaking with Jillian, when he took Christiana and her mother home. Polite. Kind. But quiet. At church the past Sunday, he had been the same.

  It frustrated Christiana that he’d not shared his feelings with her, and she hoped today would be different. She would make it different!

  She would be going alone. Her mother was needed at home to make Papa’s lunch, as she’d done every day since the term ended and the university closed. That should make Noah happy—to see firsthand that her mother put her family before work.

  Once he arri
ved, this time she waited until he came to the door. Her father came in from the parlor and gruffly shared a few words with him. But to Christiana’s relief he did not interfere with her going alone with Noah, though he did tell her mother he could see to lunch himself and she could go along, too.

  “Yes, dear, I’ve seen how well you cope in the kitchen,” she gently replied and looked at Christiana. “Be sure and tell Helen that I’ll visit her tomorrow. Her time is nigh, and she might wish to know information you cannot give.”

  Christiana reassured her mother, and Noah drove her to Mrs. Radcliffe’s.

  The woman’s time was not only nigh, but after her appointment and in the middle of the interview—she doubled over in sudden pain.

  Noah was out of the chair and by her side before Christiana could blink.

  “Mrs. Radcliffe, are you all right?” he asked.

  She looked up, horrified. “I think the baby’s coming. I had light pains this morning, but I thought it was indigestion. They weren’t like last time and went away after a few hours….”

  Christiana immediately took charge, helping Mrs. Radcliffe out of her chair, Noah on the other side of her. They walked with her to the bedroom, and Noah helped ease her to the bed.

  He turned to Christiana. “A phone?” he asked hopefully.

  Mrs. Radcliffe, still suffering through her pain, gritted out, “We have no phone. Neighbor does. Across the street.”

  “You’re going to call a doctor?” Christiana took him aside and whispered so the woman couldn’t hear.

  “I’m going to call your mother.”

  Christiana nodded in gratitude. She felt more assured as a midwife since Lanie’s delivery, but assistance was always better, and Noah had often made it clear he didn’t wish to repeat the role he once played.

  “The twins …,” Mrs. Radcliffe muttered.

  Noah sharply turned. “You’re having twins?”

  Christiana hoped she wouldn’t have to try to catch him since he looked about ready to fall.