Revival Season - Monica West (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📗

I whispered. I took the few moments of quiet to wipe some of the accumulated beads of sweat from her forehead, avoiding the tender space near her eye, and moved my hand down to the thick white glue that had gathered in the corners of her mouth. Everything around her—the pillow, the couch—was soaked with her sweat.

“I see a head, Joanne! One more good push.”

Ma looked like she didn’t have an additional push to give, but she nodded, or shook her head: the movement so slight that it was hard to classify. The baby crowned, and Mrs. Cade invited me to peek between Ma’s legs to witness the miracle of life. In the dark cove between Ma’s thighs, a damp thatch of hair surrounded the wide opening that was giving way for a baby to come into the world; then I looked back up into Ma’s tired eyes and squeezed her hand tighter.

“Don’t push,” Mrs. Cade counseled. She bent down and I heard a tiny snip of scissors, then a sharp drawn breath from Ma as her eyes pleaded with the ceiling for release.

“Okay, Joanne. Push now.”

“One more push.” I tried to be encouraging, but it was obvious that Ma didn’t have much left. Her eyes fluttered under pale lids as I counted to ten slowly, trying to place a bit more distance between when all of our lives would change once again. Before I got to ten, a rush of thick liquid and blood poured onto the towel followed by a long pause, but no cry.

“Mrs. Cade?” Ma and I both said in unison. This couldn’t be another Isaiah. Please God, let this baby live.

Before Mrs. Cade could respond, a cry filled the room, more like the bleating of a lamb than a baby’s screech, but it was the sweetest sound.

“It’s a boy!” Mrs. Cade announced the words that Ma had been waiting to hear. Papa’s footsteps upstairs stopped as Ma’s head collapsed against the sodden, canary-yellow pillowcase. Mrs. Cade placed the baby on Ma’s chest; Ma stared at his tiny, wide nose that was a replica of Papa’s and touched the cleft in his chin that was identical to hers. I waited for singing and cooing as she met her newest son, but each time she opened her mouth, nothing really came out.

“Do you want to cut the cord?” The glint of Mrs. Cade’s silver scissors pulled my gaze away from the mournful look in Ma’s hooded eyes. This should have been a joyful time—God had seen fit to bring a new baby to this house after so much suffering. But looking at Ma, who was holding the baby to her chest with mechanical arms, made it feel like less of a blessing.

A coiled spring like a slick, stretched phone cord connected Ma to the baby. Mrs. Cade directed me to cut between the two places where she had clamped the cord. She handed me her scissors, and I pressed down hard before the sharp blades finally cut through the thickness.

“What do you think his name should be?” Ma finally asked. Even though her voice sounded stronger than it had a few minutes ago, it was tinged with sadness.

“I get to name him?”

“Well, you helped me, didn’t you?”

Papa was normally the one to name babies, not me. But Mrs. Cade and Ma were both looking at me expectantly. The baby pursed his perfect set of pink lips as I grazed the silky layer of black fuzz that covered his pale brown scalp.

“So what is it?”

“Isaac.” The only son of Abraham and Sarah. Their miracle and the reward for their belief.

“Isaac,” Ma repeated. “Isaac it is.”

It felt strange to name him without Papa—but Ma’s mind was made up; even Mrs. Cade nodded from between Ma’s legs as she delivered the placenta. She lifted an armful of dirty towels and marched toward the laundry room. Ma eased her legs back to the couch—just like that, all the evidence of the birth was swept away into trash bags and the washing machine. Then there were erratic footsteps on the stairs—Papa’s presence took some of the air out of the room as he entered.

“Do you need me to cut the cord?” he asked. But then he must have seen the baby, already swaddled and wrapped on Ma’s chest. He stopped suddenly, his torso jutting forward with inertia before he pulled himself back. Caleb came down with Hannah; they rushed past Papa and went to Ma’s side.

“I see you have it covered.” Papa seethed from the periphery where he stood, his foot not crossing the dividing line between tile and carpet, his eyes raging at Ma beneath half-open lids. Mrs. Cade stood by Ma’s side like a guard.

“This is your new son. Isaac.” Mrs. Cade’s voice—daring with its defiance—emphasized the last word, the pact that the three of us had agreed on without consulting him. No one talked to Papa like that in here.

“Isaac, huh?” Papa rolled the name around in his mouth. He pursed his lips and lowered his eyes—the same face that he used when he consulted his sermon notes—at that moment, however, crinkles of defeat settled beneath his eyebrows. Then he looked back up at me and Mrs. Cade flanking Ma. Mrs. Cade’s gaze was steely on him, even as my legs wobbled. I took a step closer to Mrs. Cade, hoping that proximity would give me some of her boldness.

“Isaac it is,” he relented.

As Papa took a few steps forward to get a better look at Isaac, Isaac started to wail. Ma, ashen, nestled him under her shirt, letting a swollen breast flop out of her nightgown rather than covering herself the way she normally did when Papa and Caleb were nearby. My cheeks burned at them seeing her like that, and I concealed her with the corner of a blanket as she negotiated a large brown nipple into his mouth.

“Thank you, Gladys.” Papa walked over to Mrs. Cade and stood by her side. He bent down and started