“Disappearing People, Shad flies, and A Homebirth”
Excerpt from Ch. 5 Like A Redwood Seed — Stronger Than the Flames
Later that week, on a warm spring night, my first sister Sara joined us. Mom was resting in her room. “Fia, come here right now!”
I arrived in moments.
“I need you to help me. You’re going to have to be a big girl and help me time the contractions so we know when to call the midwife. Can you do that?”
“Ummm…. I think so?” My heart pounded.
“So here’s what you need to do … When I tell you, go to the payphone down the street and call the midwife, so she can get here before the baby arrives. She lives a long way away and we have to give her enough time. Can you do that?”
“I think so.” Familiar vibrations of internal tremors rippled through my blood, warning of full-blown limb quaking to come.
It was nearly midnight when the contractions started getting closer together. Mom writhed on the bed, breathing heavily and changing positions constantly. I trembled from head to foot with the pressure of responsibility for something so important.
Finally, sweating through her nightgown, between gritted teeth, she ground out, “Ok, Fia, it’s time! Go call the midwife! Now!”
I didn’t stop for shoes. I ran the five city blocks to the pay phone with my heart in my throat. At the booth, chock full of shadflies, I dithered a few moments, because they still terrified me. I bit my lip and pulled myself together, gathering my fear tight in both fists and stepped in, heart banging crazily in my chest. I grabbed the phone and lifted the scrap of paper to the dim glow of streetlights, struggling to read the number in the darkness of the phone booth. It took my shaking hands several tries before I could aim and punch the right buttons for the midwife.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice came across the line, nearly drowned out by loud music and voices in the background.
“Yes, this is … Isabella, I’m calling to tell you my mom … Etta, is in labor and she needs you now,” I stammered out, stumbling over the fake names.
“Ok, I’m several hours away, but I will leave now.”
The line clicked off. I sprinted back to our apartment and gave Mom the message. Covered in sweat, she tossed, restless, and making weird sounds, barely acknowledging my return. Feeling somewhat panicked, I made her tea and sat with her, waiting for the midwife. She eventually arrived, just in time to catch baby Sara. I remember my mother saying awful things about Willie and my dad and men, not quite screaming, but loud and fast in a stream of fury, while Sara slid out into the world. I cut the cord and brought Mom water and towels. Mom handed me the placenta in a basin.
“Here Fia, stick this in the fridge so it won’t stink until I can bury it.” I obeyed, stomach heaving at the nasty smelling, bloody lump in the bowl.
The midwife stayed for a while to tend to Mom and I crawled into bed, feeling limp and wrung out like a wet washcloth.
A few weeks after Sara’s birth, our visa ran out, and we had to leave Canada. Mom had tried to apply for citizenship but either was denied or the process too lengthy to accomplish in our brief stay, so we retrieved our car from hiding and left Montreal.
