“You look like you’ve been runnin’ through fire,” the wild one mutters. Then, “First?”
I nod once. Can’t speak around the knot in my throat.
“Big thing,” he says.
The first man steps in, calm as ever, hands up like he’s trying to reassure me. “Lula’s delivered near every baby in this valley. If there’s anyone who knows what to do, it’s her.”
The other one nods, arms folded now. “Ain’t no one better.”
“Can we go?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “Please.”
They don’t flinch. Mrs. Clay lifts her shawl and heads for the door without another word. I’m right behind her. I scoop her up onto the wagon myself, climb up, and snap the reins like my life depends on it. Every tick of the clock stretching my nerves tighter.
I keep hearing my ma’s name in my head, seeing the ghost I never knew. Not again. Not this time.
By the time we reach the house, I can hear Alice from the porch—those pained sounds she’s making twisting my insides. I follow them up the stairs, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
Mrs. Clay don’t waste a second, shoves me toward the hall. “Out,” she orders. “I’ll call when she’s through.”
“I ain’t leavin’ her.”
“You’ll do her no good fainting at my feet,” she snaps. “Go fetch water, boil it, and keep your hands busy if you can’t keep your head.”
I want to argue, but another scream rips through the door, and my knees damn near buckle. So I run—anything to keep from losing my mind.
At the stove, I fill the kettle, my hands shaking so bad I spill half of it, the water scalding my hands. Steam hisses, metal clatters, and I whisper to myself.
“She’s strong. She’s stronger’n anyone I ever knew. She’ll be fine. She’s gotta be fine.”
Evening falls and she’s crying out, but now I can hear Mrs. Clay’s voice, calm and firm, coaching her through the birthing pains. It guts me hearing my woman suffering, fighting hard, and me stuck down here useless as boots in a flood.
Finally, sometime past midnight, there’s a lull.
No crying. No shouting. Just silence.
And that’s worse than anything.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear it—a low moan, then her voice, wrecked and breathless, saying, “I can’t…I can’t…”
My whole soul flinches.
But Mrs. Clay, cool as ever, replies, “You can, Alice. You are. Baby’s almost here. You just breathe through it.”
I sit on the step. Head in my hands. Sweat dripping down my back. I don’t even realize I’m crying till my shirt’s damp at the collar.
The screen door creaks.
I turn, thinking maybe Fred again, but it ain’t.
It’s Gideon.
He’s barefoot, dressed in his nightshirt, hair mussed like he rolled outta bed in a hurry. He don’t say nothing at first—just stands there. “How’s Miss Alice?”
I blink at him. For a second, I can’t even talk. That lump in my throat swells damn near choking me. “She’s still goin’ up there.”
He nods once and climbs the steps quiet as a whisper. Sits down next to me, shoulder to mine.
We don’t speak.
