Sisters of the Quilt

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Between shooting pains and aching tightness, Hannah dozed. Suddenly she bolted upright. Her skirts were wet. She pulled herself out of bed, lit a kerosene lamp, and headed for the bathroom. A sharp pain stopped her cold. Trembling, she set the lamp on the table. Like lightning momentarily illuminating a dark sky, suddenly reality dawned on her. Her aches and pains weren’t from the difficulty of the past day. She was in labor. From the best she could remember, she had been for more than twenty-four hours.

  But the baby’s not due until the middle of May.

  As that realization settled over her, she wanted to cry out to God, but a sense of betrayal stole her words before they could form.

  It was the third week of February. If the baby came now, it might not survive.

  Sinking to her knees, she moaned as a long, hard contraction pulled downward on her stomach. Her mind whirled in a hundred directions. Feelings of utter stupidity flooded her. She should have realized hours ago that these weren’t normal aches and pains, even though she’d never been through so much turmoil in her life.

  When the tightness eased, she rose, using the bed for support.

  As she gained her footing and her breath, ideas popped into her head left and right. Mary kept the key to the phone shanty in her pocket. That meant Hannah would have to go to the barn, grab an ax, then make her way to the phone shanty and try to break into it. But did she have the strength to do all that? The answer had to be yes. But she could barely claw her way to her feet with the aid of the bed.

  The anatomy book.

  Holding her belly with one hand, she scoured the dresser drawers, searching for the book. It had a section on birthing babies. It was only a few pages, and she had read them several times, but … She tossed clean clothing from the drawers onto the floor. Where did she have it last?

  Under the mattress! That’s where she’d put it. She eased her way back to the bed and ran her hands between the mattress and the box springs. Her fingers touched the smooth, silky cover, and she pulled it out. Breathing with difficulty she flipped the book open to the section on home delivery and began reading. With each word she read, she shook harder. She couldn’t do this.

  A knock at the door made her jump. Hope sparked—someone had come. She shuffled across the floor to the back door. As she lifted the shade to look out, both relief and dread flooded her.

  Matthew.

  Fighting within herself, she opened the door. “Matthew,” she whispered, “why are you back here?” Placing her arm under her belly, she lifted some of the weight. She could feel her wet, cold skirts against her legs. Her breath came in short puffs as stabbing pains worked their way down her back.

  Matthew put his foot over the threshold, making her back up to allow him entrance. He angled his head, trying to read her face. “I had to return.” He frowned. “Hannah, are you holdin’ a secret?”

  She hesitated. If she told him, he’d stay, and nothing about his quiet life would remain intact. Self-hatred covered her, but it held no answer. Fear of being left alone squelched her concerns. “I need help. I think the baby’s coming.” A sob racked her body, causing her to stumble forward.

  Matthew tucked his hand under her forearm, steadying her. He helped her to the bedroom. “I knew somethin wasn’t right. I just had this feeling …” He eased her onto the bed. “I’ll call for help.”

  “The shanty is locked and boarded,” Hannah sputtered.

  Anger ran through Matthew’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll get in. You stay put.”

  As he ran for the door, a deep pressure grew in Hannah’s body. “Matthew, wait.” Her voice came out a mixture of a desperate whisper and a scream.

  In a second he was by her side. Hannah pointed to the book. “I need scissors and string from the sewing kit by the dresser. And I need some clean sheets, towels, and … and the nasal aspirator from the medicine cabinet. Hurry.”

  Almost throwing the stuff at her, Matthew fulfilled her requests, then darted out the door.

  Settling herself against the pillows piled at the headboard, the desire to push became so strong she almost couldn’t stop herself. She panted through the next few contractions, silently begging herself not to push.

  Outside she heard glass breaking and boards being beaten and ripped.

  The desire to push grew stronger than her will, more powerful than anything she’d ever experienced. She took a deep breath, and her body took over, ignoring her mental commands to stop. She pushed and moaned. Pushed and panted. Pushed. Pushed. Pushed. Her brow became drenched with sweat. She begged her body to stop pushing, to give Matthew time to get an ambulance. But it wouldn’t.

  The back door banged and clattered, sounding as if a herd of cows had come in out of the foul weather. A moment later Matthew stood at the door of the bedroom, his face taut with worry. “I got in, but the lines are down. I’m going to fetch Mamm.”

  Hannah raised her hand in the air, unable to speak. Matthew paused, rocking back and forth nervously on the balls of his feet. When the contraction eased, she relaxed against the pillow and drew a breath. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

  “Hannah, you need help. I’ll ride bareback across the fields and be back in less than ten minutes. My mother’s no midwife, but she’s helped deliver a few babies in her time. I … I can’t keep you or the babe from dying.”

  Matthew was as pale as the sheets under her body. His legs carried him like a newborn calf trying to stand. Another contraction slowly built force. “Go,” she whispered.

  Matthew sprinted across the room, tripping over the sewing basket he’d left out earlier. She heard the back door slam shut.

  Her body told her when to push, when to take deep breaths, when to rest. Hurry, Matthew. The minutes ticked by with only the sounds of the clock and the howling wind. Amid the pushing and resting, a small head appeared between her thighs.

  It wailed in loud protest. Relief ran through Hannah, giving her fresh strength to take on the newest phase of this ordeal. Stacking pillows behind her for support, she leaned forward, holding the clean towels. The little body that issued from hers was tiny. Too tiny. She’d had baby dolls that fit inside her hidden apron pocket that were as large as this baby.

  A closer look told her she had given birth to a girl. A daughter. Her child. She dried the infant, noticing even in the dim light of the kerosene lamp that the little one’s coloring appeared more like that of a salamander than a baby. The skin was translucent, making the mapping of the veins evident.

  Hannah drew the flailing girl into her arms. The book said warmth was paramount. Hannah wiped her off more and wrapped her in the soft sheet and then in the “Past and Future” quilt. The infant screamed, but her eyes didn’t open.

  Snuggling with her newborn, Hannah smiled down at her. Basking in the maternal feelings that were coursing through her, she cooed. “Rachel is a good name, no?” Her daughter opened her eyelids and seemed to focus on Hannah’s face. Tears burned Hannah’s eyes. “Hi,” she whispered.

  The infant blinked, then closed her eyes. Before Hannah drew her next breath, a catlike sound came from Rachel. A moment later a pitiful moan escaped her miniature body. Hannah pulled the wrappings away from the infant’s chest, watching … for what, she wasn’t sure.

  Her daughter’s chest caved inward. Hannah’s heart thudded hard. Her baby was struggling for air.

  The back door banged open, and Naomi rushed to Hannah’s side, carrying a folded towel full of items. She laid the bundle on the bed and opened it.

  Hannah broke into sobs. “She can’t catch a breath. God, please, she’s not breathing.”

  Naomi eased the quilt away from the infant’s head and gasped. She met Hannah’s stare and shook her head. Hannah didn’t need words to know what Naomi was thinking. Rachel was too young, too premature to survive.

  Naomi tied off the umbilical cord and cut it with the scissors she’d brought with her.

  Sobbing, Hannah drew her convulsing daughter closer to her chest. “Forgive me.�
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  Pitiful moans escaped the newborn as she fought for air. “Be stubborn, Rachel,” Hannah cried. “Fight.” Hannah hugged her close, willing her to live. She whispered to her in English, refusing the Pennsylvania Dutch of her forefathers.

  Hannah sensed Naomi’s movements about the bedside as she took care of her midwife tasks. But Hannah never once removed her focus from Rachel, even as the little girl’s skin became deeper and deeper blue. After several minutes, her daughter stopped squirming, stopping moaning, stopped everything. Feeling the little girl’s life slip away, Hannah wished she knew what those nurses at the hospital knew Then she might be able to save her.

  Rachel’s body jerked and then stilled so completely that Hannah knew beyond a doubt her daughter had drifted into another world, one that Hannah probably wouldn’t see for many decades. Guilt bore down on Hannah’s soul, ripping her heart. She rocked her infant until she knew there was no way to revive her even if medics showed up in the next second.

  Regret twisted her heart like a steel vise. If only she’d been up front with everyone about the rape from the start, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. She studied the lifeless being in her arms as one word forced its way out of its hidden spot deep inside her. Rape. Chills ran up and down her body. “I was raped!” The words poured forth with strength she didn’t possess. “If only I’d told … if I’d confessed that to begin with …” The words died in her throat.

  What was so horrible about owning up to the rape? Hannah closed her eyes, tuning out Naomi’s movements and everything around her.

  Resentment at the injustice of the attack rose, demanding to be heard. But as she allowed that thought, a thousand others flooded her: reflections of the bishop’s harshness, Luke’s bitterness against her, Sarah’s backstabbing, the district’s thirst for gossip, her father’s constant wavering on every subject except his dislike of Mennonites and the unquestioning obedience of his children to his strict ways.

  Resentment took hold of her, and she nurtured it as strongly as she would have nurtured her child if she’d been given the chance.

  Her body still aching from giving birth less than eight hours earlier, Hannah stood by her infant’s half-dug grave. The sickening hole in the ground that would hold her infant was under the large beech tree on Matthew’s property. The air was unbearably cold, even with the sun shining brightly at eight o’clock in the morning. The fields were covered in a thick layer of snow.

  The lines and creases of Matthew’s face hinted at a multitude of emotions. He jammed the blade of the shovel into the frozen ground and dumped icy dirt next to the undersized hole. The frozen flecks of the broken sod glittered like shards of glass under the morning rays.

  Matthew drove the shovel into the earth again. Digging deep in frozen turf was an arduous task. But his act of kindness had relieved Hannah’s father of the need to decide whether he would allow an illegitimate infant of an unbaptized mother to be buried on his land.

  Matthew had proven again what Hannah had known about him since they were young: that he was stalwart in his decisions and able to bear the weight of the Ordnung while carrying out its truths in his heart. Hannah knew Elle hadn’t left his thoughts for a moment. Her name seemed to be etched across his worried brow. But he hadn’t once mentioned her or shirked from helping Hannah in any way he could throughout this ordeal.

  He’d missed being there for Elle last night during what was probably the most difficult event the yet-to-be-Amish girl had endured. Elle had been forced to face her father, the man who had turned to alcohol and then abandoned his daughter not long after her mother died. And poor Elle had to do it without Matthew by her side. That had to be eating at Matthew. Keeping him from Elle was another rock in the burlap bag that was tied around Hannah’s neck and another incident she could do nothing about.

  When the hole was dug, Matthew leaned the shovel against the nearby tree. The sounds of a horse and buggy made him turn and peer in that direction. Hannah didn’t bother to look. She was too tired, too numb to care who’d come. But even through the haze of trauma and exhaustion, she understood that anyone’s arrival at this secluded spot meant all of Owl’s Perch knew of last night’s events. She could only assume that Naomi Esh had gone home before sunrise and had spread news of the scandalous events to people desperate for Hannah’s correction from God.

  Hannah felt a gentle hand come under her forearm, steadying her.

  “I’m so sorry, Hannah.” Mary’s voice cracked.

  Mary’s embrace was warm. But Hannah didn’t speak. She didn’t even weep. No amount of crying could change what had happened.

  Mamm, Daed, and Luke filled in beside Mary. There they all stood, about to bury a child no one but Hannah knew the name of. Matthew stretched two long pieces of rope across the open hole. Luke stepped forward and grasped the two ropes on one end while Matthew trod to the buggy and easily lifted out the foot-long pine box that carried Rachel. He had done everything he could to help Hannah while possibly laying an ax to his own life in the process. Grabbing the ropes on the end opposite Luke, Matthew pinned them under his boots on his side of the grave and then leaned over to place the wooden box on top of the ropes. He stood.

  Six grief-stricken faces stared at the handmade coffin and freshly dug grave. The chestnut horses stomped the cold, hard ground, causing the black buggies attached to them to rattle and creak. Luke and Matthew, positioned opposite each other, held the ropes that looped under the casket. They carefully lowered the wooden box into the ground.

  Mamm wept quietly. Hannah’s father spoke words of forgiveness. But Hannah couldn’t accept his words. Her heart was being consumed with a brutal rage. How could her daughter be dead, without ever getting the chance to live? The tiny thing had never even felt her mother’s love, because Hannah had never had any, not until it was too late. A sob broke from her throat, piercing the frigid air that surrounded the group.

  Hannah thought of how much the Amish had given to support Luke and Mary in the wake of their accident. Yet those same people had devoured the rumors about her. The bishop and preachers had treated her worse than a leper. Her own father had wavered under the bishop’s questioning and had abandoned his daughter in the process.

  Matthew prayed aloud, but Hannah heard little of what he said.

  A cold wind flapped against their bodies as Luke shoveled frozen soil over the wooden box. His face was as rigid as stone, his movements those of a detached gravedigger.

  Mary tugged at Hannah’s arm, trying to lead her to a buggy. Hannah’s feet seemed rooted in place.

  Her mother started walking toward her, but Hannah’s father stepped forward and wrapped his hand around his wife’s arm. He stared at the ground, mumbling, “Your daughter grieves severely for an infant conceived by rape, no?” His eyes lifted to meet Hannah’s, accusing her of things she couldn’t disprove. Her mother lowered her head and took her place beside her husband as they walked away from Hannah and back to their buggy.

  Hannah’s heart froze a little harder. Would this be her lot forever—to live among a people who condemned her for things she hadn’t done?

  She studied the white fields with barren trees lining the horizon and scattered in small patches around cleared pastures. Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t see anything but gray light. Finally she turned to follow Mary’s gentle nudging toward the buggy.

  “Hannah.”

  She stopped. It was a whisper from somewhere. Scanning the fields, she looked for signs of mockers, but there were none.

  Mary squeezed her arm. “What is it?”

  “Did you hear that?”

  Worry creased Mary’s face. She shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Hannah stared at the faces of those who surrounded her. Obviously, no one else had heard the voice. She trudged toward the buggy, snow crunching beneath her feet.

  “Hannah.” This time the two syllables of her name were drawn out, like the echoes inside an empty barn.

  She st
opped and turned. “I’m listening.” She said it aloud, not caring what anyone thought.

  “Kumm raus.”

  “Come out to where?” She made a complete circle, listening for an answer, but she heard none. When her gaze landed upon Mary, she saw that the girl had gone pale.

  Matthew came beside Hannah and led her into the buggy. “You need sleep. It’s over now. It’s time to rest.”

  That was it. She needed sleep. With the aid of the portable wooden steps that Matthew placed on the ground, Hannah climbed into the buggy.

  “Hannah.” The familiar voice returned. Afraid of what responding to the voice would do to Mary, Hannah didn’t dare answer.

  As the buggy plodded across the field to the Yoders’ Daadi Haus, the wind whispered her name over and over, begging her to kumm raus.

  Hannah would be glad to go, if she only knew where.

  Through the murky sleep of grief-filled nightmares, Paul’s own groaning woke him. “Hannah, kumm raus!” The cry resonated in his head.

  He sighed and sat upright, placing his feet on the floor and his head in his hands. Streams of sunlight poured in around the white shades hanging over the windows. He glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock. Just two and a half days ago he’d discovered Hannah’s pregnancy. How would he ever get over that?

  The door to his shared bedroom popped open. Paul leaned back, determined to act as if he were fine.

  Marcus strode in with a towel tied around his hips and water covering his upper body. “Man, Waddell, you look like death warmed over. It’s no wonder. You must’ve called for that Hannah girl a hundred times, whoever she is.”

  Paul grabbed his pants from the foot of the bed and jerked them on. Yeah, whoever she is.

  Sifting through dirty clothes, Marcus picked out a pair of pants and a shirt. “The snowplows have cleaned up the mess from the storm night before last. But last night’s winds knocked out the electricity to most of the campus. All classes are canceled.”