Chapter Eighteen #2
As summer gave way to autumn, our waists thickened, and we abandoned our corsets. Addie craved hard cheese and peaches; I
longed for pickled okra and carrots. I also developed a taste for wild game—pheasant and venison, which Dr. Albright assured
me would fortify the blood.
Songbirds departed, leaving empty nests.
Laurels drooped and ivy dried; carts piled with hay rumbled through the fields.
In the orchard, apples hung heavy on the branches, tumbling to the ground.
We ate them stewed and fried, baked into cakes and pies.
What we couldn’t eat, we pressed into juice or mashed into sauce, feeding the rest to the hogs to sweeten ham and bacon.
In October we celebrated Addie’s birthday with apple cake.
A fierce wind stripped bare the trees in mid-November, scattering leaves across the fields. Nights lengthened and the air
grew cold. Moving slowly now, our stomachs taut beneath our dresses, we helped each other up the stairs and tucked blankets
around aching legs, sharing the peaceful intimacy of lives turned inward.
My December birthday came and went, marked with pound cake and a small celebration. I was twenty-two.
Winter arrived, pale and spectral, draping the land in frost. Addie and I took long walks down the drive in the relative warmth
of afternoon, our breath clouding the air. Snow drifted in the fields, bare trees glittered with ice, and the brook at the
bottom of the property gleamed like mercury, its edges crusted white.
As the months passed, our husbands receded into the background, absorbed in the cycles of the farm and their own routines.
They spent long hours mending equipment, tending animals, playing cards by the fire, while Addie and I stitched tiny garments,
knitted baby blankets, and shared small indulgences—a slice of pie, a cup of tea, the steady companionship of waiting.
That first shared pregnancy may have been the easiest time in our relationship. Something softened between us. Our conversations
were less guarded. For the first time, we saw ourselves reflected in each other—not in rivalry, but in kinship. With fathers
who were brothers and mothers who were sisters, our babies would be more than cousins—Phoebe called them “quarter twins,”
though the phrase barely captured the strangeness of it. The closeness Addie and I shared mirrored that of our husbands. It
was as if we, too, were twinning.
It was a bond neither of us had expected. These children would tie us together in ways we were only beginning to understand. Under the surface our differences lay dormant, like the roots of perennials biding their time beneath winter soil.
A jolt of pain.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding. Outside the window, icicles clung to the eaves, their edges catching the moonlight. Stone
Mountain loomed in the distance, pale and still.
An hour later, Addie found me in the living room. Early light stretched across the floor, casting a chilly glow. Cold crept
along the walls.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s freezing. What are you doing down here?” With one look at my face, she knew. “Oh! I’ll get Cato to
fetch Dr. Albright.”
But Dr. Albright was out of town, visiting his sister.
Phoebe waved a hand when we told her. “Don’t you worry, Miss Sarah,” she said. “I know what I’m doing. Doctors like to cut
when cutting isn’t needed. They reckon a knife fixes everything.”
I swallowed, my throat tight. “Have you delivered many babies?”
“Twenty-three,” she said. “Every mama and baby healthy, praise God. There was one that gave me a fright—a breech—but we got
her turned around.” She paused, studying my face. “You’re still worried.”
I nodded.
Phoebe squeezed my hand. “I’ll be there to guide you.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a twisted root. “Devil’s claw,
for labor pains. Gnaw on it till it’s pulpy.”
“Does it really work?”
“Since long before you were around to doubt it.”
With Phoebe and Addie by my side, I climbed the stairs. Phoebe took charge with a fierce and steady energy. She and Grace stripped the bed and layered it with clean quilts and linens, brought water and rags from the kitchen building, and stoked the fire until the room became a warm cocoon.
Time blurred. The hours passed in fits and starts, marked by shifting shadows as the sun rose and hovered and sank. I got
up. Paced the hall. Lay down again. Listened to the clink of water being poured into a tin basin, the rustle of cloth, the
murmur of women’s voices at the foot of the bed.
Labor dragged through the afternoon into night. I gripped the sheets through each crushing wave of pain, teeth clenched, cursing.
Phoebe didn’t flinch; she gripped my hand, wiped my forehead with a cotton cloth, pressed warm compresses to my back. She
helped me shift positions, massaged my shoulders, brought broth and chamomile tea. Whispered encouragement and held dried
lavender to my nose.
I pictured Eng in the parlor below, pacing, rattling peanuts in his pocket. Forcing his brother to pace with him.
By now the only light in the room came from a flickering lamp. Wind clacked the shutters. Riding the waves of labor, I focused
on the hymns Phoebe and Grace were singing to pass the time. All night, all day, angels watching over me, my Lord. All night, all day, angels watching over me . . .
“Breathe when I tell you,” Phoebe said.
The contractions came fast now. A searing cramp, a swell of pain. Breathe, crest, push.
And then—a cry.
I held my breath, afraid to look.
Phoebe took the child, handing Grace the knife to cut the cord, and turned to wash the baby in the basin.
At last, she turned back to me with a broad smile. “A girl,” she said, placing her gently in my arms, wrapped in flannel.
“Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A girl.
Ten, not twenty. With a flush of relief, I held her close.
Her weight in my arms, the surprising strength of her grip as her fingers curled around my thumb, the warmth of her breath
against my skin—it was almost too much to take in. Her face was pale as milk; her black hair stood straight up like the bristles
of a brush. When her brown eyes fluttered open, unfocused and searching, my heart ached in a way I’d never known. I touched
her cheek, impossibly smooth, marveling at her fragility. This tiny creature, so dependent, so vulnerable, was mine. Whatever
fears I’d harbored melted away.
I was propped on pillows, still aching from the labor, when Eng and Chang stepped into the bedroom. They hovered near the
foot of the bed, as if unsure whether they were allowed closer. Eng held a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
He edged forward, eyes fixed on the baby nestled in my arms. For a long moment, he simply watched her breathe. Then he reached
out and touched her hand. “She’s so small.”
“Strong, though,” I said, guiding her fingers to grip his. “Feel this.”
A look crossed his face—unguarded, awestruck.
He placed the bundle in my hand.
I unfolded the cloth to reveal a silver rattle, its surface engraved with tiny flowers.
“It’s from Wilson’s in Charlotte,” he said. “The finest silversmith in the state.”
I turned it in my hand, admiring the workmanship. When I gave it a shake, it chimed faintly. “How beautiful, Eng.”
“I wanted to get something lasting,” he said. “Something to pass from one child to the next.”
I understood then that this wasn’t just a gift, it was a statement. We were no longer just two people yoked by wedding vows;
we were a family, building something meant to endure.
“I was thinking, Sallie. What if we name her Katherine?” he said.
“Katherine?” I gave him a look. “Not for Catherine Bunker, surely?”
He shrugged. “I just like the name. Does there have to be a reason?”
“All right,” I said, softening. “We’ll call her Katie, then.”
“A fine choice,” Chang said.
Eng reached over and brushed a fingertip along her cheek. She gazed up at him. “Katherine has got our brown eyes, Chang.”
Chang leaned over. “She does,” he said with a broad smile. “And our beautiful black hair.”