The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  What the hell? I open the door and am surprised to see two men in bright yellow vests working on the machines that have been parked on the side of my road for weeks.

  I used to imagine that I would tie myself to the front porch of Seagull Haven if they tried to bulldoze the cottage down. I would put my life on the line, like those people who chain themselves to redwood trees, but I knew I wouldn’t really do it. I’m not that brave.

  What if the Nelson siblings forgot to tell the workers that the plans for the casino were scrapped and the men are here to tear down the cottage? Or what if Jake and his siblings are just destroying it out of spite?

  I should call Peter Dolman or the Nature Conservancy people. The big demolition machines are moving. I can tell by the sound they’re getting closer, ready to attack. I hang up the phone without dialing and run out on the porch in my nightgown. “Wait! Wait! There’s been a mistake.”

  The crane, with its wrecking ball dangling, turns like a brontosaurus and the bulldozer, a triceratops, lumbers forward. The bulldozer coughs, stalls and roars up again.

  Shit! What else can I do? I run in bare feet out across the snow-covered lawn, waving my arms to stop them before they crash through the picket fence. “Wait! Stop!” I trip, fall and get snow in my mouth, but I push myself up and keep going . . . “Wait. Stop!” I race clear out to the mailbox, where I find . . . that . . .

  The men are turning their machines around in Grays Road. They’re leaving! The gears of the crane grind, the bulldozer picks up speed; the drivers wave and move off . . . to catch the next ferry to Kingsville.

  The Letter

  The last few days have been so tumultuous and my anxiety so great about what Dolman will do that I haven’t bothered to look in the mailbox, and it’s only the honk of the letter carrier as he turns around in the road that reminds me.

  Frowning, I trudge out to the drive where Eugene Burke holds something for me. “Do you ever check your mail?” he asks. “I can’t get any more in the box and this is a big envelope. Something from Portugal or France. It’s got a foreign stamp on it. Might be important.” I take what he hands me, thinking it’s probably just junk like the rest of it.

  “Thanks.”

  Helen is with him. “Did you hear? A body was found on the beach on the east side! All decomposed and naked. Gruesome! No one knows who it was. Dolman discovered it while walking the other morning.”

  “Really . . . Oh my gosh!” I make the right noises even though I know much more about the corpse than she does (and the man wasn’t naked!). Back in the house, I dump the pile of mail on the kitchen table and pull out the big envelope that Eugene mentioned. The stamp is from Spain and the address, written in cursive, says only, Sara, Seagull Haven, Seagull Island, Ontario, Canada.

  At first I’m excited and think it’s from Lenny, but there’s something about the writing that looks distinctly feminine. With foreboding, I put it aside and go through the rest of the pile.

  As I predicted, it’s mostly fire starters. Only a few items need to be saved. One is a handmade watercolor invitation from New Day Farm to their “Welcome Winter Party.” The second is a postcard from Molly Lou’s church, announcing a Christmas service. And the last is a phone bill, overdue tomorrow.

  Finally, I get up my courage. You wouldn’t think a woman who was fearless enough to charge a bulldozer would be so nervous about opening an envelope, but that’s how I am. What I fear is that some stranger is writing to tell me that Lenny was tracked down by whoever he ran from and is dead. With shaking hands I tear back the flap. Inside is a cardboard folder with a note taped to it.

  Dear Miss Sara,

  Your boyfriend, Mark, say do not worry. He took your letter to Australia and he will now climb the Alps, sail around the Horn of Africa and walk the Great Wall of China. “You should let yourself fly.” He tell me to write that. (I think he breaking up with you in a nice way.) He also ask that I post this small card and gift.

  Yours Truly,

  Señora Campo

  Walking to the front window with the note and the cardboard folder held close to my chest, I look out at the drift-covered breakwall. The sky today is as white as the snow. White. White.

  Mark is really Lenny; I have no doubt. The man is as clever as a fox and probably enjoys his crazy life. Running from danger. Rescuing distressed maidens who can’t get into Canada and hand-carrying mothers’ messages to Australia. But where is he now? And will I ever see him again?

  Maybe he’s working with the British Secret Intelligence Service. Maybe he’s a tourist guide in Bulgaria. Maybe he really will climb the Alps. I should be sadder and yet I’m so glad that Lenny’s alive that I laugh.

  Quickly, I peel back the tape that holds the cardboard folder together but when I see what’s inside I drop onto the sofa. It’s another note; this one in Jessie’s familiar round print and there’s a small gift wrapped in white tissue paper. I read the note first.

  Mom, I met your friend Lenny. Thank you for reaching out. I know you’ve been so unhappy since Karen died and since Daddy started screwing around. (Yes, don’t look so surprised. How dumb do you think I am? ☺)

  Dad told me about the home-birth death. I know how much you love your patients. Don’t be scared. It will all be okay.

  I also know that you love me and I love you too. Next spring, I’ll be back at the university. You can find me there. Meanwhile, be good to yourself and wear my love close to your heart. Jessie xoxoxooooxoxoxoxo!!

  I wipe my tears and read both letters again and then unfold the tissue paper. Inside is a silver chain with a seagull pendant carved out of white shell, the work so delicate you can see each feather and feel the love in the carver’s hands.

  This is Jonathan Livingston Seagull, I decide, with his wings wide, soaring in and out of the clouds. I don’t know if the gift is from Jessie or Lenny but I touch the gull to my lips, kissing them both, first my daughter and then Lenny. Carved on the back of the seagull is one word. Fly.

  CHAPTER 52

  Christmas Bush

  I open my eyes to the same white ceiling I’ve looked at for nearly a year and peek out the window. It’s been five days since my confession and there’s still no word from Peter Dolman. He’s a kind man and he’ll do the best he can for me, but he can’t control the Ontario Provincial Police or the Canadian Mounties, let alone the FBI. To work off my worries, I get dressed, go outside and saw up the wood that Jed brought me in the fall. If I’m sent back to the US, I can get Chris to haul it to his house.

  Back inside, I stare at the invitation to the Welcome Winter Party that still lies on the kitchen table and I don’t know what to do about. Ordinarily, I would enjoy going to New Day to see Rainbow and the baby, but I just feel so anxious.

  “I’m Queen Anne Boleyn looking down from the Tower of London at the gallows below as she waits to be beheaded,” I say to Tiger, referring to the second wife of King Henry the Eighth, but he doesn’t get the reference.

  Looking out the new kitchen window that Jed generously installed, I stare at the pines covered in light snow. “I know. I’ll put up a Christmas tree. That should cheer us up!”

  I don’t really want to chop down an actual evergreen, but I go out in the yard and cut a few low branches from the big pines with my crosscut saw. When I’m done, I carry them into the living room and stick them in a bucket of water in front of the picture window.

  “Not bad,” I say to my cat, who’s watching me from the top of the sofa. “We used to pay seventy dollars for a spruce off the Christmas tree lot in Torrington.”

  Soon the branches are decorated with paper chains and the smallest of Wanda and Lowell’s seagulls from the mantel. My few packages are wrapped in the only thing I could come up with, the colorful Sunday funny papers from a pile I found in the shed. “That looks quite cheery,” I say to my cat. He licks his paws. Just as I’m placing my wrapped gifts under the tree, the phone rings. It’s Rainbow.

  “Wade’s on the way to pick you up fo
r our Welcome Winter Party,” she announces as if this has all been arranged. “Dress warm.”

  There’s no way to say no.

  Winter Solstice

  The bonfire at New Day is not on the beach this time, but in the sheltered farmyard between the main house and outbuildings where there’s less wind. Rainbow, dressed in jeans, heavy boots and a long brown wool cloak, hands me her spirit drum and pulls me down on a homemade bench. In a circle, all around the fire pit, are similar benches and there’s a view of the lake where the sun will go down.

  My friend gives me a one-armed hug and opens her cloak to show me her sleeping baby, wrapped in a sling and held against her body. He’s beautiful, with long dark hair and a mouth like cupid.

  “He’s really growing,” she tells me, then stares at me like a cop or a social worker. “You doing okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, not meaning it. “I’m good as gold.”

  I’m saved from more questions by the bass drum John holds between his legs. He lets his stick come down hard. BOOM. Jed is there too, sitting next to him and he throws me a kiss and I throw it back. BOOM, the big drum says again.

  Boom. Boom. Boomity, boom boom, answer the smaller percussion instruments. Louder and louder the drums sing . . . louder and faster, until there’s a crescendo; then as the sun finally drops into the lake and the last rays turn the clouds red, the drums get quieter and then slower . . . then we stop as if someone with a baton was directing us.

  When we enter the kitchen, I see a stack of pottery bowls and a big pot on the stove that smells of garlic and onions, but people aren’t sitting down to eat, they’re taking off their winter gear and heading for a room at the end of a hall, a carpeted space of about twenty by thirty feet, furnished only with big pillows, no decorations on the walls, no TV or sofa or chairs. There’s a fire in the fireplace and votive candles flickering on the mantel. There’s also a metal washtub in the center, tipped over to make a table and covered with a red cloth. On it are more candles, the homemade tapered kind, and it occurs to me that the room is more like a temple than a living room.

  At last, someone turns off the electric lights and Dian holds up a little brass bell and rings it once. No one says a word, except a three-year-old sitting in his father’s lap. “Pretty!” He points to the gleaming multicolored votives on the mantel. When the twenty or so of us are seated, Wade speaks.

  “On this winter night, the earth is sleeping under the snow. Our work in the fields is done and we take this time to reflect on our blessings and our hopes for the coming year.

  “When the bell comes to you, please ring it once and say your prayer. Then pass it on. If you have nothing to say, just ring the bell and hand it to the next person. We’ll continue until there is only ringing, no words.” Dian takes her turn first. “Thank you for these friends and the love that surrounds us.”

  I calculate that there are eight people before me and wonder what I’ll say. What do I have to be thankful for? I’m about to be deported from Canada or jailed for being an illegal immigrant. Alternatively, I might be extradited to West Virginia and arrested for stealing my husband’s money and most likely for manslaughter . . . then there’s the identity-theft issue, I wonder how many years I could get for that . . .

  “I’m grateful for the trees,” says a man wearing coveralls. Ting goes the bell.

  “I’m grateful for the earth that gives us life,” says Wade. Ting goes the bell.

  “I’m grateful for our new baby,” says Rainbow. Ting.

  “I pray for soldiers everywhere, to heal their broken bodies and souls,” says John. Ting goes the bell.

  “My turn. My turn,” says the three-year-old as he grabs the bell from John and rings it over and over, grinning gleefully. Ting, Ting, Ting. Ting . . . Finally his father gets it out of his hand. He whispers something in his son’s ear and the child wipes the grin off his face. “I’m tankful for my toys,” he says in his little-boy voice and no one laughs.

  I still haven’t a clue what I’m going to say and there’s only one more person before me, a woman with dyed bright red hair and a nose ring “I am grateful for the sun that gives us life and warmth,” she says in a low voice. Ting.

  She hands me the bell, which is now warm from the many hands that have held it and words come out of me that I had not planned. “I pray for a young woman who lives far away. Bring her peace. Help her be strong.” Silence. Then I shake the bell. Ting.

  Four times the brass bell goes around as both adults and children say thanks for everything from cows to having a bed to sleep in at night and we send blessings to the homeless, to those in jail, to the lonely and forgotten. I pray out loud on my turns for Nita, that she found Lowell in the other world, and for Karen, that whatever wounds she endured have healed. On the final round, I ask for peace for Robyn Layton’s family . . .

  At last, the bell makes the circle with no prayers, just Ting—Ting—Ting . . . Dian stands like a priestess and we all hold hands.

  “For the beauty of the earth, for the beauty of the sky.” We sing a song that I learned from the nuns at the Little Sisters of the Cross Convent. “For the love that from our birth, over and around us lies. Spirit of all . . . to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.”

  After the service we eat our simple meal of bean soup and corn bread, then bundle up and go back outside to the bonfire. Jed comes over and gives me a hug. “Glad you came, Sara,” he says, and warmth floods through my body.

  Wade and John throw more logs on the blaze and the sparks rise into the dark. Boom, the drums start again. Boom. Boomity. Boom. This time I’m not embarrassed to dance. I dance in the snow in my funny snowmobile suit until I’m out of breath and the spirit of the fire dances with me.

  CHAPTER 53

  Offering

  Every day I think of calling Peter Dolman. (Officer Dolman, I remind myself. I’ve put him between a rock and a hard place and we’re probably not friends anymore . . .)

  How can he proceed with the investigation and leave out the information that the victim has been dead since last April, maybe longer? Once it’s revealed that I discovered the body and didn’t report it, everything will come out . . . I picture myself in an orange jumpsuit. Maybe I’d better get a tattoo.

  When Molly Lou calls to tell me she’s going up to the country store to pick up a few things for Christmas and wants to know if I’d like to come, I jump at the chance to get away from my worries.

  A few hours later, standing at the checkout, Helen reminds us that there are only two more days until the last ferry of the winter comes in. “Here’s a special order form from Foodland in Leamington. Put down anything you’d like for winter and I’ll fax it over. You know, stuff you can freeze or keep in your pantry. We’ll still be open three days a week and we’ll have fresh milk, produce and eggs, but when the ferry stops running we can’t afford to fly in canned goods and such from Windsor.”

  Molly Lou knows the ropes and she’s got her list ready. I glance toward the coffee bar, half expecting to see Dolman there and afraid of what he’ll say . . . but he’s not in the store, so I sit down to make out my list. What should I get? Where will I be this winter? I haven’t a clue.

  I decide to order canned fruit, canned vegetables, dried beans, oatmeal, oil, flour, sugar and cereal. Nothing frozen. If I’m arrested, I can give the food to Molly Lou.

  “Hey,” Jed says, strolling through the bread aisle to give me a hug.

  “How you doing? Got a minute?”

  I look over and see that Molly is still gossiping with Helen. No need to hurry, she doesn’t need to get home for an hour.

  “Sure.”

  Jed holds out a flat packet that he’s wrapped with red Christmas paper and his blue eyes are as shiny and round as a kid’s.

  “What is it? A book?”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “Can I open it now?”

  “Hmmmmm . . .” He looks at me sideways as if he’s going to say no, but I can tell h
e’s excited. “Okay! Sure. I want to see your reaction.”

  I rip the tissue paper back and discover a book of poetry. “Light,” it says on the pale blue cover, “by Jed Williams.”

  “I only had a hundred copies made for the first run. They’ll sell online in Canada, the US and Great Britain. An outfit out of Toronto published it. I wanted you to have one of the first editions. It’s signed, in case I ever get famous.” He grins.

  “Oh, Jed! I’m so happy for you and I can’t wait to get home to read it.”

  “There’s more. Look in the back.”

  Here I find a plain white envelope, no stamp. No address. “What’s this?”

  “Open it!”

  I pull out a copy of an official-looking letter from the Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care and read the first paragraph. “Request for supplemental staff at the Seagull Island Medical Clinic APPROVED. Starting March 1, you are funded for a part-time nursing assistant budgeted at $25,000 per year.”

  “I don’t get it. This letter is addressed to you.” I look up at him.

  “It’s a job offer! I’m offering you a job as an office assistant! I know the money isn’t what you’re used to as a traveling RN, but you could be my nursing assistant and help me with the women patients. We could be partners. I need you. I really need you, especially for the ladies!”

  “Oh, Jed!” I say, trying to look enthusiastic. “I’d be delighted!”

  He picks me up, laughing, and swings me around as if it’s all been decided.

  And I would be delighted if I wasn’t pretty sure I’ll be behind bars by then.

  All Ye Faithful

  At one in the afternoon, just as I’m getting my knitting book out, Molly Lou calls. “Hi, Sara. I just wanted to remind you . . . tonight is the Christmas service at the church. We’ll be down to get you at six. Little Chris is playing one of the wise men in the pageant and he really wants you to see him.”

  THE SEAGULL ISLAND Chapel, on the north end of the island between the country store and the cemetery, is an old white wooden building with a little steeple, probably built in the 1920s. There are four stained-glass windows on each side, two rows of gleaming oak pews and a simple oak cross at the front. On the dais is a manger scene complete with straw, a bed for Baby Jesus and farm animals the children have constructed out of cardboard boxes. I sit with Molly and Chris who are all dressed up in church clothes, but I’m just wearing my black knit pants and the red sweater I got at the fall yard sale.