The Midwife

The summer she turned eleven, her parents moved her bed from the loft to the back porch where she could catch any breeze. One morning the wind chime was silent, and the great heavy water urn was motionless on its chain. She slipped her bare feet to the worn boards of the porch and pushed her mosquito net aside to see the rain barrel at the corner of the porch, and beyond, in the backyard, the laundry lines and chicken coop.

A pullet had laid her first egg two days before, and Mara was curious to see if she'd laid another. Lifting her blue nightgown to keep the hem from skimming the grass, she felt the coolness of dew brush her ankles. She had almost reached the coop before she saw that the door was unlatched and ajar.

With a sinking feeling, Mara looked inside the coop. The pullet and another layer were both missing, though the six others were contentedly on their roosts. Seeing Mara, the chickens let up a noise and started out past her toes, ready to feed on the bugs in the uncut grass.

Mara flew back across the yard and jumped loudly onto the porch. "Mom!" she yelled. "Dad! I think someone stole two of our chickens."

She hurried through the kitchen, crossed the living area and peeked behind the curtain to her parents' bed. Two lumps were sprawled among the blankets, and her dad's hand was curved upon her mother's shoulder. "Mom," she said again.

Fanny lay closest to the window, hunched away from her father, and it struck Mara that it was odd for her parents to be in bed later than she was. Uncertain, she clutched the curtain and drew one foot on top of the other.

"I think someone stole two of our chickens," Mara said again, more quietly.

Then, her mother did a peculiar thing. She lifted an arm over her eyes so her face was lost behind her elbow and she murmured one soft word: "Liam."

In answer, Mara's father put a kiss on her mother's shoulder and rolled to put his feet on the floor.

"Hey, sunshine," Liam said to Mara. "Let's let your mother get a little sleep, shall we? She came in late last night." He was already reaching for a shirt, and Mara stepped back, letting the curtain fall. She felt odd, as if she'd witnessed some small, silent, previously invisible language between her parents that excluded her, and then he came around the curtain, fully dressed. He smiled at her and rubbed his unshaven jaw.

"Get your shoes," he said softly, and she shoved her bare feet into her loafers.

Her father preceded her, his broad shoulders and easy gait conveying no sense of alarm, and with his calmness she felt her own uneasiness receding. He handled the latch for a quick inspection, then opened wide the door so she could see under his arm to the dim interior and the empty roosts.

"Definitely gone," he said. "And you’re sure you locked the coop last night?"

She nodded up at him. "They were all there then. I'm positive."

His eyebrows lifted and he pushed out his lips, then took another look at the latch. "Well, whoever took them did it quietly. You didn't hear anything in the night?"

She said she didn't. While he collected the eggs, she looked back at the porch, to the bed net falling like a pale gray veil from the hook above. She realized then that some stranger must have been this close to her in the night. She took a step nearer her father.

"Don 't you worry," he said, his voice warm and reassuring. He cradled five eggs along one arm. His free hand came to her shoulder, and she linked her arm around his waist. "Let's go pick some blueberries for your mom. We'll be back before she even knows we're gone."

"Like this?" she asked, plucking at her nightgown.

He smiled at her attire. "Definitely. Though we should take the hats. And buckets. I'll get them. Meet me around front."

By the time Mara walked around the house, he was coming out the front door, minus the eggs, and carrying their hats and a couple of one-liter buckets. He held out his hand to clasp hers warmly, and then he began to whistle a low, complicated tune. Mara felt a little shy in her nightgown as they passed the waking houses, but as they descended a narrow dirt path into the wilderness, she liked the light, airy way the blue fabric floated around her knees. The brim of her hat created a familiar shadow above her eyelashes, and she could smell the sweet scents of the wildflowers that grew in sweeping patches between the rocks.

Once they passed below the bay of boulders, they were soon among the blueberries, and Liam handed her a bucket. The first berry dropped with a metallic ping into the bottom.

"Who do you suppose stole our chickens?" Mara asked. "Can’t we do anything about them?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Go look for them?" It sounded unlikely as soon as she said it.

Her father adjusted his hat back on his head so she could see his face. "Think about it, Mara," he said gently. "Whoever took those chickens must have needed them a lot more than we did."

She was surprised. "But does that mean anyone could take anything from us and you wouldn't care?" she asked.

He returned to picking berries. "No. Of course not."

There were many things about her parents that she'd begun to wonder about lately. A few weeks earlier, Mara had gone to her friend Lissa's birthday party. Lissa and Derek and Mara had been the only three at the party, and Mara had enjoyed herself hugely. Then, only yesterday, Mara had discovered that Susan and two other girls had been invited to Lissa's party, too, but they’d all refused to go if Mara would be there. Mara's mother had been completely unconcerned by the news. "Yes, I heard about those catty girls," she'd said when Mara told her. "Lissa’s a real friend."

Now her father, too, was undisturbed by events that troubled Mara. It should matter that people were mean to Mara and stealing her family's chickens, so why didn't her parents get upset? Maybe, as her mother had once said, it had something to do with depth.

"Do we have to worry about running out of food?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "Not really. We'll hatch a couple more chickens."

Her father leaned over and tugged her braid. "You’re quite the worrier today, aren't you? All because we lost a couple chickens."

When she looked up at her father again, he’d moved farther away, and beyond him the ground sloped steadily downward. Clumps of trees flickered their leaves, but mostly the view encompassed brush, grasses, and wildflowers.

"Dad," she called. "Is Mom okay?”

He looked up from under the brim of his hat and waved her over. "Your mother's fine," he said. "She just had a tough night."

"Did she deliver another baby?" She came nearer and picked a few more berries.

“She did.”

"Have there always been midwives?"

"No," he said slowly. She loved how he always answered her questions, no matter how involved they might be. "Back when your mother and I were young, the people on the outside went inside the community to deliver their babies. Mothers would pay them to check-up on their baby’s and their health and the doctors would help them give birth safely with medicines and machines.”

He passed a big berry to her. She held it on her open palm while he talked, watching the pale blue slowly warm to a deeper, shiny purple in contact with her skin. "That sounds okay" she said.

"It helped. A lot," he agreed. "But then, some people, especially families who couldn’t afford to pay the doctors, started wondering why they could not also have help giving birth. It didn't seem fair to them that the richer families could give birth without dangers as if their lives were more important.”

Mara understood that. It seemed that the girls inside the community had everything she wanted, like books and pretty clothes and friends. "What happened?"

"Well, the community decided it was better for the people outside to have their own way to deliver babies. And so, midwives were gradually established. They cost much less because they weren’t using fancy machinery or expensive medicines.”

Mara wrinkled her nose. She scrambled up on a nearby boulder and swung her legs to dangle over the edge. "Didn't some of the richer parents mind?"

"Some did, of course. But others saw it as a great opportunity." he said. He picked steadily as he talked. “You know, Mara, in a way, each baby belongs to the community that supports its mother, whether that's a poor mother with a bad temper, or a loving mother with patience to spare, or an ambitious mother who wants the best opportunities for her child."

"If we no longer needed to pay the community doctors, couldn’t everyone on the outside afford to live richer."

He shook his bucket, looking inside. "Not really," he said slowly. “It relieved some payments of course, but we still needed to afford other things like food and water. We have many expenses besides medical treatment. That’s why it’s only the outside families that sometimes give their babies up for adoption. Because we struggle to afford paying for the things our children need. But we don’t complain. We do it for the babies own good. They live better lives in the community then they ever could outside. Our babies are genuinely happier with their adoptive families there. "

"Just like Wyatt and Peter.” Mara glanced up at her father. "Do you miss them?"

He gave a lopsided smile. "Every day. But I have you."

Mara gazed out at the horizon. "Why didn’t you give me up?"

Her father smiled slowly. “You were born many years after your brothers, and by that time your mother and I had saved enough to be able to raise a child.”

"So why didn't Mom have anymore babies?"

"She's tried to, actually. But it looks like you're it for us."

Mara pulled up a stalk of grass and broke off the bits of seed at the end. "Is that why she had a tough time last night? Does she not like delivering babies when she can't have any more herself?"

He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair before putting it on again. "I don't know how to answer that, Mara. Your mother’s a very strong woman. I know that much. Last night, your mother delivered twins."

"Twins!" Mara said.

"Yes. Twins. Two boys.”

Mara's smile fell. "And she had to give them up for adoption?"

Her father inhaled deeply, and then sighed. "That's the thing. The woman could afford to keep only one child and had to give up the other."

"So, what happened?"

Her father’s lips compressed in a thoughtful line. "This must be confidential," he said. "Do you understand that? I don't want you to talk to your mother about it, not unless she brings it up first. Don't nag her with questions."

"I won’t. I promise." With a mix of pride and curiosity, she clutched her bucket tightly in both hands.

"The woman chose which baby to keep," he said. "Both babies were small, but the first one born weighed a little more and looked a little stronger. The second was a tiny little frail fellow. Guess which one the woman decided to give up."

Mara closed her eyes against the sunlight and pictured two small newborn baby boys wrapped in identical gray blankets. Their eyes were closed, and they were waiting peacefully for a decision. The only difference was that one was slightly bigger and rounder. She opened her eyes.

"She kept the littler one," Mara said.

Her father’s lips curved in a sad smile. "You’re right. Why?"

"She thought-- " Mara struggled for the right words. "She figured the bigger boy would do all right in the community, but the little one, even if he doesn't make it, she can care for herself, with all her love."

Mara's father lowered his face and drew his hand over his forehead so that she couldn't see him well. For a moment he stayed there, unmoving, until Mara worried that she'd said something wrong. "Dad?" she said.

He lowered his hand, and his smile was even more lonely than before. With his thumb, he gently brushed the tender skin of her left cheek. He had a way of making her feel precious to him that always twisted her up inside.

"You’re a wise little girl, Mara Orsper," he said gently. "I wonder what will become of you when you grow up."

She relaxed her hands on the bucket. "Do you think the woman’s baby in the community will ever know he has a twin brother outside?"

Mara's father leaned back on one hand. "I doubt it. They'll tell him he was adopted from the outside, that's no secret, but they won't know anything about his family out here."

"Why is Mom still a midwife it hurts her so much?" Mara asked.

Her father turned his face in profile, up the hill toward our house. "It makes her feel better, I suppose. The same reason we light the two candles at dinnertime. To honor your brothers."

"Do I have a twin inside the wall?"

He laughed. "No. Sorry. Just Wyatt and Peter."

Mara liked making her father laugh. "Do they know about me?"

"I don't see how they could. I'm sure they'd like you if they knew you, even though you ask a lot of questions."

He flicked the brim of her hat. "Let's head back. Your mother should be up."

The winding path through the boulders and shrubs of the wilderness was steep in places, and rarely wide enough for two. Mara scampered ahead, thinking deeply. She liked that he thought she was wise, that she was trustworthy with secrets. She was pulling the threads of their conversation together into one, weighty question. When they reached the edge of the wilderness, she turned to her father. "Did last night make Mom question whether it was right to give up Wyatt and Peter?" she asked. "As if she had a choice?"

For the first time in her life, her father turned his back to her. He took a step toward the horizon and stayed there, silent.

His fingers twisted in the seam of his pants and twitched there, as if he might absently fray a hole into the cloth. Mara faltered, wishing she could take back her question.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she said quietly.

As he turned slowly to face her again, his eyes retained a lost, ashy glow. "You always have a choice, Mara. You can always say no." His voice was strangely hollow. "You might suffer and sacrifice much, but you can always say no."

She didn't understand his intensity, and he was frightening her. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

He took a long, slow breath and seemed to remember where he was. "It's all right, Mara," he said. "There are some things, once they’re done, that we can never question, because if we did, we wouldn't be able to go on. And we must go on, every single day." He smiled, more like his old self. He lifted his bucket to click it against hers. "Your brothers are better off in the community. We can still miss them sometimes, even though it was the right thing to let them go."

She watched him warily. Then he flicked the brim of her hat and fell into step beside her. "Come on," he said, his voice warm and coaxing again. "Those big green eyes of yours are making me hungry."

"Dad," she drawled. His nonsense made her smile. "They're not green. They're brown."

"Right," he said. "Brown. I get them mixed up. I beg your pardon."

By the time they arrived home, Mara's mother was frying peppered mycelium patties. Mara looped the strap around her mosquito netting to clear it away while her father rinsed the blueberries. With biscuits, honey, and blueberries crowding the patties on their plates, they went to eat on the back porch.

The wind chime let out a faint, tinkling noise, and Mara's gaze fell on one of the chickens under the laundry lines. It seemed like ages ago that she'd discovered the theft, and compared to other losses, it hardly mattered at all.

"Who do you think stole our chickens, Mom?" she asked idly.

"Somebody hungry," her mother said.

It was practically the same thing her father had said.

Mara's mother looked untroubled and rested, and Mara realized that her father must have taken Mara away from the house on purpose to give her mother some time to herself. Normally, such an idea would’ve hurt her feelings, but now it didn't. Wonder brought a new stillness to her, as if the whole earth had paused for a moment. How wise my parents are, she thought. How kind they are to each other.

Her mother glanced over and smiled. "Not hungry?"

"No, I am," she said.

Her mother’s eyes grew more perceptive. "Your father told you about the twins, didn't he?"

Surprised, Mara shot her gaze to his. He nodded.

“Being a midwife is sad,” Mara said.

"You know,” her mother said slowly. “You don't have to be a midwife when you grow up. That's all right with me."

Mara looked at the solid weight of the water urn suspended from the rafter. A quiet certainty settled inside Mara, beautiful, cool, and smooth, like her own invisible urn.

"No," she said. "That's what I want to be. Like you."

So, her training began.