A History of Wild Places(34)

The sky through the windows grows brighter as the sun washes over the valley. Netta opens more windows to let in the morning breeze and Colette’s moans turn into hisses and then a puffing sound she makes with full cheeks. Morning becomes midday, hours of pain and moments of strange calm.

In the heat of afternoon, I settle my hands on her stomach and feel the baby’s stammering heart rate, the slowing pulse, the struggle to be free of the womb. “She needs to be born now,” I say aloud, a little too urgent. I feel Colette’s heart rate quicken.

There is no response, but I know Faye understands. The heart isn’t as strong as it should be. Too small, too weak.

Faye urges Colette to drink a warm mixture of crushed herbs—raspberry leaf, black cohosh, and primrose—most of which were grown in my sister’s garden. The tonic will speed the delivery, urge the baby into the world, and Colette chokes it down with eyes pinched closed, drops slipping down her chin that Netta wipes away.

The minutes move swiftly now, the contractions coming in bursts. Netta scurries around the bed, making adjustments, bringing water, always water, to soothe and quench and clean away sweat mixed with tears. Colette holds in her breath, a tightened sound as she bears down—the strength of countless women before her who gave birth in this same way shivering through her—her body knows the rhythm, the task to be performed. And finally, as the sunlight begins to dip to the west, the air growing cooler against my skin, she pushes the baby forth.

A little girl wails into the soft dusk light, startling an owl who had been roosting near the birthing hut. I listen to its wings thumping out into the dark.

The air smells of salt, and a strange silence sinks over the room.

“Is she okay?” Colette asks, her voice fevered, out of breath. But the baby has fallen silent; no more cries.

Faye swaddles her in a clean cloth, then places her onto Colette’s chest. But I feel the air change, the fear rising in all our throats. I rest a hand on the baby’s small back—the size of a large potato, not yet ripe but plucked from the soil all the same—feeling its warmth, its smooth waxen skin and soft center. Babies always remind me of something forged up from the garden, the mothers like the tender soil, bodies weak and worn out after delivery, in need of a long cold winter to rest.

It’s too soon, I think again. There is a hitch and flutter beneath its birdlike rib cage. Heart wobbling, something amiss.

I feel Faye at my side, and Netta wipes again at Colette’s forehead, cooing over the baby, trying to distract Colette. “She’s beautiful,” Netta says, her voice filled with warmth, a smile on her lips, the reassuring tone of a midwife’s assistant.

Faye and I walk to the door of the birthing hut and step out into the twilight.

I feel exhausted suddenly, eyelids heavy, all the scents of the forest hitting me at once. Pine and dew on moss. “What did you feel?” Faye asks.

“Her heart isn’t beating right,” I answer. “She came too soon.”

“It might be PDA,” Faye mutters. “A heart vessel not closing properly. It happens in premature births, but I’ve never seen it, only read about it.” Faye crosses her arms. “If it is, the baby will need a hospital, real doctors. More than just us.”

She blows out a shallow breath, her feet shifting in the dirt, knowing the fate of the baby as well as me. Because there are no hospitals, no doctors, and no way to reach them.

Faye touches my shoulder, lingering a moment, and I nod. A shared understanding: We know how this will likely end. She steps back into the birthing hut, but I don’t follow. I can’t. Instead, I find the path through the forest.

The woods are silent, the night animals not yet awake, and as I walk, I touch my own belly.

I whisper names that have no meaning yet, that might never exist.

But there is weight and substance beneath my palm. A thing growing inside. And it will change everything.





CALLA


I stand at the back of the garden, a hand over my eyes, and look out at the meadow for any sign of Bee returning from the birthing hut. She’s been gone a full day and night—but sometimes she likes to walk alone after a birth, her mind a tight coil needing unwinding. Still, I’m anxious for any word about the baby.

My mind feels anxious, unquiet, so I move through the garden, pulling up weeds that will sap moisture from the ground—the rhythm of it like a familiar friend, the garden a place where I feel safe. I pluck a sage leaf and rub it between my thumb and forefinger until it releases its earthy scent. I pull away a few dead leaves from the St. John’s wort—used for bruises and inflammation—the yellow flowers nearly ready to be gathered and ground into a paste. This is how I contribute to the community: the herbs I grow, the calendula tinctures, poppy essence, and wild arnica tonic, are used as medicine. Faye, our midwife, visits my garden every two weeks, and together we fill our aprons with green, fragrant herbs, then boil them down and steep them in sunflower oil to preserve them for future use.

I didn’t always know my way around a garden; my knowledge came from books, and from seasons spent out here in the soil.

On hands and knees, I move down the row of rosebushes, their buds growing heavy on the stalks, morning dew shimmering along the peach-hued petals. The rain that fell two nights ago has made everything green and sodden. The same rain we fear also keeps the garden blooming. A strange dichotomy.