Carolyn Davidson - The Midwife

She felt a moment’s guilt that she should reap the reward of pleasure in the tending of this infant, that, from another’s pain, she should find such comfort in the middle of the night. Yet, she knew a sense of satisfaction that her arms held this precious being and provided it nourishment.

And almost, she felt like a mother.

Kirby Falls, MinnesotaMay 1892

“Miss Leah!” Against her screen door, a nose pushed the wire as eager eyes gazed into the parlor. On the porch, Kristofer Lundstrom waited impatiently for Leah’s response, his hand on the spool handle, only good manners keeping him from stepping inside.

“Come in, Kristofer,” she called, her feet moving quickly across the kitchen floor. He was late today. School had been dismissed for almost a half hour already and Leah had been listening for his voice for nearly twenty minutes.

She could set her clock by the boy. His feet clattered up her steps and across the small porch every afternoon, his intentions clear. Always there was the traditional greeting, a nod of his head as he spoke Leah’s name. And then his eyes searched for the small form of his sister, seeking her out as if she drew him like a lodestone.

Even at six years of age, he was the picture of his father, his hair golden in the sunlight, his eyes a pale blue beneath dark brows. He was tall for six, straight and sturdy, somehow seeming stronger now that he must stand alone, without the hovering presence of his mother.

Leah touched his head with her fingertips, ruffling the hair just a bit. “Did you stay after school, Kris?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I saw Pa at the store and he had me to wait for a few minutes while he bought something for Karen.”

Leah looked down at the package the boy carried. “For the baby? What is it?” She reached for the paper-wrapped parcel and Kris placed it in her hands.

“He thought you might need to make her something for summer. You know, not such heavy stuff like she wears now.”

Leah’s fingers were quick as she untied the string and sought the contents of the package. A piece of lightweight cotton, batiste, she suspected, met her gaze. It was covered in a delicate print of pink flowers, with pale green leaves forming a vine upon which the blooms and buds trailed.

“Oh, so pretty,” she whispered, already envisioning the dress she would create from it. Tiny puffed sleeves and a high bodice, with a long skirt that would cover bare baby toes in the warm summer days.

“Tell your father I’ll make it up before Sunday, so he can see it,” she said with a smile.

From the kitchen, the baby squealed her opinion of being neglected even for so short a time, and Kristofer headed toward her door, intent on seeing his sister. Leah heard his murmurs of welcome, her smile widening as the baby greeted her visitor with cooing sounds signifying her pleasure.

“She gets bigger every day, don’t she, Miss Leah?” the boy asked, bending low to place a kiss on the infant’s downy head. He hastened to the sink, with backward glances as he went. “I’ll wash up quick, so I can hold her, all right?”

Leah nodded. “She’s been waiting for you, Kris. It’s almost time for her to have a bottle. Would you like to feed her?”

Kristofer smiled, showing a gap where two front teeth were missing. “Yes, ma’am, I surely would.”

That his hands were still damp was a small matter, Leah decided as he held out eager arms, and she nodded at the rocking chair, gathering up the four-month-old infant from the clothes basket where she spent most of her daytime hours.

With a pillow beneath his elbow, Kristofer held the baby tightly, offering the bottle to her eager mouth. Tiny hands groped for a hold on the glass, and the boy chuckled as he shared his grip with his sister’s slender fingers.

“Look, Miss Leah! She’s holding it, too. Before long, she won’t need me to help her. She’ll be eating all by herself.”

Leah shook her head. “We’ll still hold her, Kris. It’s important that we cuddle her while she eats. It’s what happens when a mama nurses her baby and holds her tight. Just because Karen has to drink from a bottle doesn’t mean she has to do without the cuddling.”

His small face was stricken. “I didn’t think about that. She’s sure lucky she has you, isn’t she?” He bent his head to look with longing eyes at the babe he held. “I wish we could have her at home where I could see her all the time. I’ll bet my pa wishes he could see her, too.”

“He comes on Sunday afternoons,” Leah reminded him. And those visits were the highlight of Leah’s week, she admitted to herself. The sight of Garlan Lundstrom on her porch after church on Sunday was welcome—and not only for the eggs he brought to her, emptying his small blue-speckled enamel bucket into her egg bowl on the dresser with care.

His next task was to transfer two dollars into her keeping, placing it on her kitchen table. Then he inquired about the health of his daughter, watching as Leah brought the baby from her basket to the rocking chair where he settled himself. He managed to look at home there, his big body filling it, his feet flat on the floor, his arms surrounding the bundle that was his daughter.

Leah had found it easier to leave him there alone with the child rather than watch as he spoke in halting words and sentences, his voice soft and almost too tender to bear. Gar Lundstrom was a good father, a kind man. And yet, he wore a harshness about him that spoke of long, lonely days and nights.

Only when he held the baby or spoke to his son did that veil of austerity part. His eyes, when he looked into Leah’s, were icy. His hands, when he took the babe from her arms, were hard and callused. His mouth, when he said his greetings and farewells, was firm and thin lipped.

He did not allow her to share the warmth of the spirit he spent so generously upon his children, and that was a pain Leah bore in silence. Gar Lundstrom looked at her with eyes that still held chill accusation. Even as he spoke words of thanks for her care of the babe, he was reticent. His only generosity was in the money he provided for that care.

She picked up the dainty fabric Kris had brought, her fingers smoothing it as she folded it neatly. “I’ll make up Karen’s dress tomorrow,” she told the boy.

He nodded absently, caught in the wonder of the baby’s blue eyes and the plump body that filled his arms. “I’ll be glad when summer comes and we take her home with us, Miss Leah.”

“Did your father find someone to keep house, Kris?” she asked quietly, holding her breath lest his answer shatter her heart. The presence of a baby had filled this small house to overflowing with warmth, and she had played the game for four months already, with herself as not only nursemaid but mother to the child.

Kris shook his head. “Naw. Mrs. Andersen said she has to keep house for Lester. My pa said Lester was old enough to be on his own, but his ma doesn’t think so.”

Leah smothered a laugh. Lester Andersen was a big strapping man of twenty-two, working at the lumber mill at the north end of town. If his mother didn’t spoil him so thoroughly, he might make a good husband for some woman, or so the ladies at the store said beneath their breaths.

Where Gar Lundstrom would find his housekeeper and child minder was a problem he would have to solve on his own, Leah decided with a sigh. And if he didn’t come up with an answer when the six months’ time was up, she would continue to accept his two dollars every week and bank half of it gladly. Her dresser drawer held a tidy sum besides, hidden in a wooden box beneath her extra nightgown. Her laundry service was prospering, with seven clients every week.