Mama has always helped other women with their babies. A midwife, that’s what she calls herself—a woman who helps mamas bring their babies into the world. But I think she needs the help today. “How can you do it alone?” I ask. “Don’t you need a midwife like you?”
She smiles, just a bit. “I don’t need anyone’s help but yours,” she gasps.
“I’m only eight,” I argue.
“That’s old enough, my sweetheart,” she says with a quiet huff. “Could you bring me some clean linens and my medical kit? It’s sitting by the front door.”
“I’m—I’m scared, Mama.”
She takes my hand before I turn away. Hers is damp; mine, just hot. “Rosy,” she says, her voice tired, but also strong. “When we’re scared, we listen to our hearts to guide the way.”
Another sudden scream pushes me to move quicker. I pull a wooden crate from the low shelf in the kitchen and scoop up a pile of linens that smell like the autumn air. Then I hurry to the front door for her medical kit and rush back to her side. My heart gallops into my throat at the sight of blood all over the white sheet. I place the items down beside her, staring so hard at the red that it seems to darken in front of my eyes.
When the screaming stops once more, she reaches out for my hand and brings it to her lips. “Rosy, babies can make some mothers tired and weak. If that happens to me, could you hold the baby until Papa comes home?”
I’ve never held a baby. “Mama, you’re bleeding a lot.”
“That’s all right. It’s—it’s normal. If you have to hold the baby for me, you’ll need to clamp the umbilical cord. It’s the baby’s belly button, connected to me, and it might look a little funny, but it’s important that you do this part.”
Her hands shake as she unclasps her medical kit and yanks out a crooked pair of scissors. My tummy aches and I wrap my arms around myself, afraid I might get sick.
Mama’s eyes move to the clock on the wall, and she watches the tick, tick, tick, tick sound.
“Rosy, I need you—I—I need your help,” Mama screams through broken words. “Go shout for Mrs. Polwicz next—” She gasps for air and shouts more. “Go, darling.” Now she sounds like an angry dog.
With another look at the red-soaked sheet, the color spreading, her scream growing louder, her grip tighter on the bed, like claws. The heavy blood-soaked sheet falls to the side.
My legs won’t move. My mouth won’t open wide enough to shout. It’s like all my words are stuck in my throat. My face is cold and my hands—I can’t feel my fingers or my toes. “Mama…”
Something bloody slips between her legs. I blink. Is that…the baby?
No. Babies cry when they’re born.
My feet won’t move at all. Not toward her. Not anywhere. My back hits the corner of the room, and I slide down to the ground, cold, shaking, with a pain in my stomach. “Mama?” My voice is so quiet, I’m not sure she can hear me. I can’t make it any louder. Darkness floats in front of my eyes as I rest against the cool wall. My head is heavy, so I close my eyes tightly.
The front door opens with a hard swing and shakes the house. I gasp for breath, my eyes opening wide after what felt like a long nap.Papa’s home.“Papa. The—the baby! Mama!” I croak out, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“The baby?” He rushes past me, still sitting on the floor in the corner. Then he stops as if walking into an invisible wall, bouncing backward a step or two. He presses his hand to his chest and then lifts it to his mouth.
“Mama must have been tired,” I tell him. “She—she told me I might need to hold the baby until you got home, but—my tummy hurt…”
Papa turns to face me, his face as white as Mama’s, his eyes larger than I’ve ever seen them before. He falls to his knees and pulls me into his wide chest, squeezing me. His heart bangs inside his body, so hard I can feel it. He shakes and shivers.
“Can we wake her up now that you’re home?”
He squeezes me even tighter and rests his hand on the back of my head. “Rosy,” he says, his voice different, like he’s speaking into a hollow log. The way he says my name—he’s never said it this way before.
With a deep breath, he scoops me up into his arms and runs to the front door, rushing outside into the cold and shouting for Mrs. Polwicz.
I didn’t call for her like Mama said to.
I was very scared.
I unclench my fist over Papa’s shoulder, staring at the oddly shaped scissors Mama handed me.
He shouts again and again until the old woman rushes out of her home and up to us. “What is it?”
Papa’s words break into pieces. “My wife and baby—” he says with a shaking breath. “They didn’t—” He gasps for air as I try to understand what he’s saying. “They didn’t make it.”
