The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(2)
William did not return from Lexington until almost nightfall. The much needed rain had started that afternoon and on three different occasions he was forced to climb from the wagon and walk the skittish horse through a flooded gully in the road. He was wet and weary when he arrived home and it angered him that Livonia had not lit a lamp in the window. He did not see the still-saddled mare until he pulled close by the barn. As he guided both animals into the barn, he wondered if Livonia would have been foolish enough to go riding in this weather; and a sense of dread settled over him as he hurried to the house calling out for his wife.
When William heard nothing but the sound of his own voice echoing back from the mountains, he took a lantern in his hand, folded an extra blanket beneath the mare’s saddle, and started across the meadow in search of his wife. The rain had washed away any trail she might have left, so William had to rely solely upon his understanding of Livonia’s nature to figure out which way she had traveled. He rode for three hours, calling her name out as he went, “Livonia, Livonia.” He finally came upon her lying in the mud of the narrow pathway and nearly unconscious; a bloody baby was locked in her arms. The baby’s eyes were closed and its tiny fingers curled into fists. When William lifted the dead baby and saw it was a boy, he let out a wail so mournful that folks say it echoed up and down Massanutten Ridge for days afterward.
William Lannigan was a man who worked from sunup ‘till sundown. He plowed and planted, harvested the crops and whatever produce he didn’t use to feed his family, he carted off to market in the back of a horse drawn wagon. He single-handedly loaded his bushel baskets of apples onto the wagon and traveled twenty-three miles back and forth to the Lexington Market. Even in the drought years when many Shenandoah Valley farmers abandoned the fruitless land, he stayed, worked the farm, and eked out a living for his family. When the orchards failed, he planted corn and beans and tomatoes. His father before him had done the same, only his father had three stropping sons to help with the labor. William, being the eldest, had inherited the farm. A farm he would one day pass down to his own eldest son. But last November William turned fifty-six; he was feeling the weight of a man who had fathered seven girl babies and two boys, three if you include the dead child of his fourth wife Livonia. Not one of his boys had lived to see five years of age. William had already made his decision—if Livonia failed to produce a healthy baby boy this time, he would burn the crops and let the land lay fallow for all eternity.
In the last week of August, when the temperature in the valley was at an all time high, Livonia noticed a red stain on her panties and flew into a panic. Not again, she thought. It was too early. She had another three or four weeks before her time. It can’t happen to this baby, not this baby she repeated over and over in her mind; all the while reminding herself how everything in the valley got dusted over with the gritty red sand that rose from the earth in the heat of summer. This time, she had done nothing to cause a miscarriage; she had weeded the garden and gathered eggs early in the morning then stayed indoors when the sun was at high noon. Twice a day she had sat in the rocker and done nothing but rest. She knew this was a healthy baby; she had felt him moving. When he kicked and squirmed beneath her skin, she soothed his restlessness with the gentle stroke of her hand and a whispered lullaby. This time Livonia had done nothing wrong. Nothing. She went to the bedroom and checked her panties against the red discoloration on her white smock but it was not the same. The smock had splotches of a reddish brown color, the panties were the color of watered down pig’s blood. Livonia went to the front porch and rang the large copper bell with a firm hand. The clang echoed through the mountains, loud and clear for almost five minutes. As she waited, Livonia sat down in the rocker and prayed.
That afternoon William rode across the valley and deep into Bear Trap Hollow. “Ruby, you’ve got to come now,” he cried out as he pounded his fist against the cabin door.
A stoop shouldered woman with skin splotched and rutted by time and hardship pulled open the door. “Stop hollering,” she said, “babies come in their own sweet time.”
“This time it’s different. Livonia is swelled up to the size of a cow and she’s started to bleed. You’ve got to come and stay with her ‘till this baby is birthed.” The midwife refused to leave before she finished her chores, so William waited as she fed the chickens and two tiger-striped cats. She then sat at the table and penned a note for her brother, who was in the woods cutting timber. It seemed an eternity until the old woman tucked a package of herbs and potions inside the worn saddlebag and climbed astride an aging mule to follow him back down the mountainside.
It was almost dark when they reached the Lannigan farm but Livonia was still sitting in the rocker, kneading her stomach with circular strokes and singing a lullaby she remembered from childhood.
“Child, you need to come inside and lie down in the bed. Ruby’s here now, you’re gonna be just fine.” A bony hand took hold of Livonia’s arm and she rose from the rocker. “In no time at all, you’ll have yourself a fine new baby.”
The baby did not come that night, or the next day. Ruby brewed a tincture of loganberry tea and had Livonia drink three cups; then she sat her into a tub of warm water and rubbed juniper oil and mustard powder on the swollen stomach to ease the pain. On three separate occasions Ruby felt the rise and fall of movement within Livonia and said, “There’s more than one baby inside of you.” The old woman even put her ear to Livonia’s stomach and listened for the baby’s heartbeat. “Two,” she said. “Two heartbeats, two babies.” But for three days there was no baby, only pain.