Page 86 of The Frozen River

I look up sharply, pen hovering over the paper. “Why?”

“A preacher by the name of Cobb has been offered my position. I am told he will start sometime in May. And he requires a permanent home as part of his salary. We have until the end of April to find new accommodations.”

“But Rebecca is due to deliver at the end of April,” I argue.

There is a note in Isaac’s voice that I cannot identify. “A fact not taken into consideration.”

“Where will you go?”

Seth Parker leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Nowhere yet. I am filing an appeal citing conflict of interest given that Joseph North is the head of the church committee.”

“And failing that?” I ask.

Rebecca pushes against her stomach, wincing. “To Fort Western most likely. To rented rooms.”

“There has to be another option,” I say.

“I can assure you that I am exploring every option on their behalf, Mistress Ballard. But if you truly want to help, the best thing you can do is finish your deposition.”

Conversation predictably drifts to the weather as my gentle scratchings continue. The storms. The snow. The ice that rises higher along the banks of the Kennebec. The terrible state of every road leading in and out of the Hook. Why are men so obsessed with roads? I will never understand. It is inane background noise to each deliberate word that I etch onto the paper.

Several minutes later, I set the quill down and flex my hand. “And how is your wife, Mr. Parker? Is she well?”

“Ellen? Aye. Right as rain I’d say. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Do pass along my greetings.” Whatever ailment caused Ellen to seek out Doctor has either resolved itself or remained hidden from her husband’s knowledge.

I hand the paper to Mr. Parker and watch as he considers my neat, concise handwriting. After a moment he gives me an approving nod. “Thank you again for coming, Mistress Ballard.”

“Of course. But since I’m here, I’d like to examine Rebecca. Make sure all is well with her and the child.”

Child.

That’s the point when Rebecca flinches, her mouth tightening at the corners. She turns away from her husband and heaves out of the chair, passing him on the way to their bedroom without a word.

Rebecca lies on her bed, in a cotton shift, as I move my fingers over her swollen belly, prodding here and there.

“I am sorry about the letter,” I tell her.

“As am I.”

“But the trial—”

“Will do no good.” Rebecca looks at me, those brown eyes certain. “You saw what happened at the last hearing. Even if they find him guilty it will be for attempting a crime, not committing one. There is nothing left for us in the Hook. Isaac is the one fighting to stay. I’d rather start over. Somewhere new. Where no one knows what happened to me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she interrupts.

“You know I’m right. You just like me too much to admit it.”

Oh, the burning that tears induce. Sometimes worse than fire. “You are right,” I whisper. “I hate that you are right.”

One of the greatest skills that I have as a midwife is to sit in silence. I cannot count the number of times that I have wordlessly held a hand as grief explodes in a room. The only antidote to this kind of despair is to create a bulwark of immovable calm. To sit and be. To pray and offer comfort. To watch the shadows cut tracks along the wall as the sun slowly moves across the sky. To say nothing when there are no words that can console. And it is in this laden silence that I feel the child in Rebecca’s womb move. A thumping, strong and steady. I remain where I am, fingers spread wide across her belly, concentrating on the rhythmic taps that rise from her body—that shifting, squirming proof of life.

I wait a full six heartbeats before whispering, “How long since it quickened?”

“Not long. A month or so.”

“You didn’t tell me.”