Volume Five
Chautona Havig
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Copyright 2012 Chautona Havig
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
Contents
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 14 1
Babies slept in each arm as Willow rested in the corner of the couch. “Six days,” she thought to herself as she watched her sons sleeping. Little milky mouths moved rhythmically in their sleep, while Willow catnapped between feedings. She had felt great when William and Lucas were first born—well, after the first thirty-six hours or so—but the past twenty-four hours had been rough. She was exhausted, achy, and Marianne insisted she get as much rest as possible to avoid mastitis.
“Want me to take one of them?” Marianne’s voice near her ear nearly made her jump out of her skin.
“If you like. They’re just sleeping, though.”
“True, but you’d sleep better if you passed them to me and went upstairs to your bed.”
“Is it really possible to get mastitis if they’re draining me every time I feed them?” Willow looked at her chest curiously. She had been warned that when her milk came in and they were just a little larger, her chest would expand dramatically between feedings—nearly an entire cup size sometimes. She didn’t believe it.
“It is, and you don’t want it. I remember the worst heaves ever with mastitis.”
Without further discussion, Willow stood, handed William to his doting grandmother, and carried Lucas to the stairs. Marianne’s voice stopped her. “Willow, I’m really not trying to take over, interfere, or all of those other ugly mother-in-law things, but don’t you think you’ll sleep better if you just go up by yourself? I can keep them content for a while and then bring them to you when they get hungry.”
“It just feels so—so—well, like I’m using you.”
“That’s what I’m here for, though. I won’t always be able to do it, but I can now.” As she spoke, Marianne laid William down in the little Moses basket she’d purchased and reached for Lucas. “I’ll bring them the minute they demand their lunch.”
Willow’s yawn betrayed her. She gave Marianne a sheepish look, hugged her, kissed her son, and climbed the stairs slowly. If rest was essential to recovery, she’d rest. Never, not even those last weeks of pregnancy or the early weeks of her leg injury, had Willow ever tired as easily as she did now. A trip up the stairs to the bathroom made her hungry and sleepy both.
However, much to Marianne’s amazement and Chad’s amusement, she’d already managed to embroider initials on sleeper feet to help differentiate between her boys. She had an unreasonable fear of mixing up who was who, until she’d finally taken a permanent marker to each boy’s right foot. Carol and Marianne both were certain that they’d be permanently tattooed if she continued to mark them that way, but Willow didn’t care. She wanted to know which child was which. Chad, David, and Christopher all thought the initials were a great joke, but none of them sympathized with her. In their opinion, it didn’t matter if the boys got switched a time or two. No one would be the wiser.
Upstairs, Willow grabbed her journal and started an entry before she fell asleep.
March-
The babies are already on a slight schedule thanks to Mom’s excellent diversionary tactics. She managed to convince them to eat every two and a half hours and she staggered their sleep times by half an hour giving me a chance to feed one thoroughly before the second woke up and opened the floodgates with his little cries.
I already can tell Lucas’s cry. He has more volume. If both are crying, I know who is who just by the cry alone. Chad says I’m crazy, but so far, I’ve been right every time. William is quieter but much more persistent. He’ll fuss and cry until he gets what he wants, but Lucas just lets out a huge fuss and then goes back to sleep in disgust if we don’t meet his needs quickly enough. Fortunately, (or is it unfortunately?) he wakes up again quickly and repeats the performance.
I’ve never eaten so much food in my life. It is unreal how much I eat and how often. I am eating almost as frequently as I was those last weeks of pregnancy, but instead of a quarter of a sandwich, I eat the whole thing. Chad mocks me, but Mom hits him with a pillow and tells him I need nourishment to feed the babies. I think she’s afraid I’ll feel bad about how much I’m eating or that I’ll worry about gaining more weight. Maybe she’s worried that Chad is worried about me gaining more weight. I don’t know. I think it’s all very funny. It seems the more I eat, the more the babies eat, and the thinner my face, ankles, and hands get. My stomach isn’t anywhere near flat again… I think I still look like I’m several months pregnant, but I can tell that I’m already smaller than I was when I left the hospital. I should remember to get on the scale. I wonder how long it’ll take me to get rid of those extra thirty pounds. I gained six pounds that last week alone!
After much prayer and a bit of last minute panic, we finally chose names for the boys two days after we brought them home. Chad drove us back to the hospital to fill out the birth certificate the next day. Christopher Lucas and David William were named after four very special people in our lives. However, since we have a Christopher and a Chris, and now Granddad David is in our lives, we decided to call them by their middle names. I never imagined it’d be so hard to name children. With all of the amazing and wonderful names out there, who would expect choosing two (I can’t imagine how parents narrow it even further to just one!) names would be so difficult.
Chad loved the disposable diapers we had for the first few days. It was comical how he’d try to sell me on forgetting the washable ones I’d made and sticking to the little paper thingies they gave us at the hospital. I admit; I did like them those first few days when that tar-like mess was coming. I can’t imagine trying to wash that sticky stuff out, but once it was gone, I put the dozen or so paper ones we had left in the van for trips and pulled out my super soft flannel ones.
Chad thought we were out and bought another package. He was sure I’d prefer them after using mine for a few changes, but I just didn’t understand why I’d want those smelly things laying around for weeks until he had time to run them to the dump. We can’t burn them, but I think he’d forgotten that. I finally just used up the paper ones—I think he thought I conceded his superior wisdom, but I made sure that I asked him to take them to the garbage. After four days, he didn’t really like the smell in there. We ran out yesterday, and he’s been to town twice. No new paper diaper packages came home with him, and he took out the last load of cloth to be washed just before he went to work. I think he’s decided that washing isn’t as bad as composting non-compostable diapers.
I should be sleeping instead of writing. I do feel weak… very tired. I almost feel chilled. Maybe we’re going to get that storm after all. I wonder if I should close the window.
Willow closed the journal, pulled the covers over her, curled onto her side, and was asleep almost instantaneously. Downstairs, Marianne rocked babies, changed diapers, and did everything in her power to keep the boys happy as long as possible before carrying Lucas upstairs for his noon snack.
“Chad. I think you should come home. I also think you should call Dr. Kline.”
“What’s wrong?” Chad pointed to a couple of teenagers loitering near the Farmer’s Market and motioned for them to move away.
“Willow is burning up. I don’t know if it’s normal or not, but I can’t help but worry about infection.”
“She seemed fine this morning. Are you sure she’s not just over tired?” Chad shifted his phone and took a bag of groceries from Mrs. Hayfield, carrying it the three blocks to her house as he listened to his mother’s concerns. “Well Mom, if you think so, I can see if the chief’ll let me come home but—”
“This is your wife Chad! We’re talking about postpartum infection—or the probability of it.”
“I’m calling the chief now, Mom. Take a deep breath. We’ll bring her in to see Dr. Weisenberg. Actually, can you bring her in? I could meet you there—”
“I couldn’t get her in the car. I know I couldn’t. She needs help getting dressed…”
“Ok. I’m coming.”
Chad snapped his phone shut with more force than necessary. “Sorry, Mrs. Hayfield. My mother is a little over concerned about my wife.”
“Mastitis?” The elderly woman nodded knowingly. “That can wear a woman down faster than anything.”
“Mom didn’t say. She just said infection.”
“Probably mastitis. Better get her into the doctor. I’ve seen it turn ugly and fast.”
Chad nodded, put the groceries on her counter, and waved goodbye. “Have a good day Mrs. Hayfield.”
“I’ll light a candle for her at Mass tonight, Chad.”
“Thank you.” Chad didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed like a thoughtful gesture.
A call to the Chief gave him permission to take his wife to the clinic. Chad drove home more than a little irritated at being interrupted on his first day back at work for something so nebulous. His mom knew what mastitis was. If that was the problem, why didn’t she just say so? It seemed ridiculous.
One look at Willow changed his mind completely. Her forehead and hairline were damp with perspiration, her pajama top clung to her body, and she whimpered at his touch. “Oh, Mom! What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know! She says she’s not tender and I looked—no read streaks or anything to indicate mastitis. That’s how mine looked anyway. Angry red streaks.”
He struggled to carry her downstairs and laid her on the back seat of the van. For a moment, he debated between bringing his mother and the babies and leaving them at home. “Those places are full of germs. I’ll call you if she needs to feed them. If they get hungry before that, just warm up some of the goat’s milk. The doctor seems to think it’s fine, or I think maybe they sent home formula samples. Use that. Either one. I don’t care.”
He drove as fast as he safely could to town, and then nearly climbed the van walls as he crawled through the streets to the clinic. Sarah Malia met him at the van with a wheelchair. “Your mother called. She said maybe mastitis? This is a bad fever for mastitis. Did you take her temp?”
“No. I don’t think so. Well, I didn’t. Mom might have—” Chad’s voice rambled nonsensically as he followed alongside Willow watching her with concern.
Dr. Weisenberg, busy with a broken arm, stitches for a toddler’s split lip, and a possible appendicitis case, ordered an antibiotic. He had the nurse check for signs of mastitis and an hour later, walked into the room to examine her himself. “Sarah doesn’t think it’s mastitis—no tenderness of the breasts, no streaks, but her temperature was over one hundred three so we’re looking at something infectious. I’ve got a call into Dr. Kline.”
For the next hour he examined, consulted, and finally wheeled her to the lab for an ultrasound where they found the culprit. “She’s retained a blood clot that won’t pass. It’s too big.”
“Is that dangerous?”
“Well, it’s not good of course, but we’ll get it out and she’ll be just fine.” At the look on Chad’s face, Dr. Wiesenberg smiled reassuringly. “Son, this isn’t uncommon with twins—can happen with any birth, but you have twice the chance of little complications when you have twice the babies. It’s ok. We’re going to take good care of her.”
“Should I have Mom bring in the babies to eat?”
“That’d be about perfect. By the time we get everything ready for the D&C, they’d be about done and we don’t want her missing any more feedings than absolutely necessary.”
“Does she have to stay overnight?” Chad knew Willow wasn’t going to like that.
“It’d probably be best, considering the infection.”
He sighed. “Ok. I’ll call Mom. Thanks.”
The next afternoon, Chad brought his wife and children home from the hospital. Again. Already, she looked a hundred percent better than she had the previous afternoon. To save her the stress of walking up the stairs, Chad arranged her porch swing exactly how she liked it, brought the Moses basket out there to keep the babies close, and tucked her in for another nap.
“I’ve got to get in and relieve Joe. He’s been covering for me all day, and he’s got the late shift. Mom’s taking a nap on the couch so just yell if you need anything.”
Exhausted, Willow murmured something unintelligible and drifted into semi-consciousness. Portia sat next to the swing as though awaiting orders. Chad pointed to his wife and children and then took the dog’s face in his hands. Staring into the animal’s eyes, he entreated her to be on guard. “Watch them, girl. Watch them for me. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
He hurried down the steps and to his truck. One last glance at the porch showed Portia, head lying on her outstretched paws, body alert and watchful. The coloring was all wrong, the location as opposite as the farm offered, but something about her guard over his wife and children reminded Chad of how faithfully Othello had kept watch over Kari’s grave. Nothing else could be more different and so similar simultaneously.
“Lord, I am blessed. Did you know that? Of course You do. How stupid of me,” Chad muttered as he drove toward town.
Chapter 14 2
Willow stared at the twins as they slept in the crib, weeping. So small—so helpless. Her mother’s panicked journal entries hung heavy over her heart. The moments of terror with a shotgun in her hand, ordering strangers from her land, praying that her baby wouldn’t cry and give them reason to come back with police—they made sense now. The overwhelming desire to protect and provide she had never expected.
For the third time, she checked the window. Wide open, there should be no reason she couldn’t hear them if they wailed. Lucas would ensure she heard them. That thought made her smile through the tears. It would be all right.
The stairs should have produced a broken neck. Willow made it down the first three steps without mishap
, but blurred, watery vision made her miss half a dozen more steps, almost twisting her ankle twice. “Stupid, stupid. Going to get myself killed, and then what?”
Before going outside to work in the garden, she grabbed a mason jar and filled it with water. She didn’t make it to the back door before half was gone. As if the most tragic thing she’d ever seen, she stared at the jar, uncomprehending, and returned to fill it.
The garden stretched out before her—likely ten times larger than the one her mother had tried to grow that year. Had she screamed every time Mother put her down? How had Mother managed? Dread overcame her as the memory of those journals rubbed her heart raw. She hadn’t managed. If Mother couldn’t manage with just one baby, how did she think she could with two and ten times the work? Why had she purchased the lambs—the chickens? The chopping stump mocked her. Firewood. They had nearly frozen that winter because Mother couldn’t keep up with the wood.
Chad found her there when he came home for lunch, surrounded by half-split logs, covered in chips, her sobs nearly drowning out their son’s wails—make it their sons’ wails now. “Lass?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Ok, then don’t.”
“No, I can’t do it. We’re going to go hungry but be warm, or we’re going to be fat and freeze. I can’t do both.”
He wrapped his arms around her, kneeling in the dirt and woodchips. “You don’t have to do either. If I can’t do it, we’ll hire someone else to. You can do nothing but sit in that rocker and sing songs to those boys for all I care. We won’t starve and we won’t freeze.”
Willow stared up at him, a sniffle adding to the pathetic expression on her face. “I’m ridiculous, aren’t I?”
“I think you’re an overwhelmed mommy.”
She shook her head. “That I’m even a mommy astounds me. I distinctly remember telling you I wasn’t going to risk that.”
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