Caroline: Little House, Revisited

The laughter stirred Charles, who roused long enough to down his bitters and roll over. Presently a thin complaint rose from the washtub.

With the prick of the child’s cry came a gentle bursting behind Caroline’s breasts, and two warm, wet spots bloomed on her nightdress. She craned her neck, and there was Carrie, curled on Mrs. Scott’s bosom like a little pink snail. Caroline’s whole body seemed to smile as her eyes fell across the baby.

Mrs. Scott laid Carrie in her arms and helped her with the buttons. Caroline touched Carrie’s wan little cheek with a fingertip. Carrie reached toward it, her lips poised in a taut pink oval. She briefly mouthed Caroline’s finger, then found her proper place and sucked so hard and fast, Caroline hardly recognized her.

In the time it took for their shared astonishment to register, Carrie’s face buckled. Her tongue darted in and out as she spluttered. Caroline wiped the milk from Carrie’s chin and tickled the child’s lips with her nipple. Carrie took another great gulp, then arched backward and squalled.

“That’ll be the quinine,” Mrs. Scott clucked. “I imagine she’ll taste every dose of bitters same as you do, Mrs. Ingalls.”

Caroline pressed her cheek to Carrie’s forehead, stroking her back as she shrieked. Carrie’s skin felt loose, a garment too big for her spindly frame. At the touch of those tender wrinkles, a tremor rose up out of Caroline’s chest. A feeble sob, or a last rattle of fever, she could not tell. The baby’s cries were so penetrating, Caroline felt as though she were dissolving into them. “Poor thing,” she said.

“You’ll be squalling yourself unless you drain some of your milk,” Mrs. Scott remarked. “It’s a wonder you haven’t already come down with a case of bad breast on top of everything else. My sister-in-law uses cabbage leaves to take the swelling down, but there won’t be a cabbage in these parts for another month at least.”

Anger crackled between Caroline’s ribs so abruptly, she gasped at its sudden sharp heat. To lack something so simple as a cabbage! The baby would never have suffered so if they’d been struck with fever and ague in Wisconsin. None of them would, not with Henry and Polly so near.

“Why, Mrs. Ingalls!” Mrs. Scott exclaimed. “You look feverish all over again.”

“It’s only—” Caroline stopped and shook her head. She could not lie, any more than she could tell the truth. “It’s too much,” she managed. “Everything.” She looked helplessly down at Carrie, then at Mrs. Scott, ashamed to ask aloud for her to take the baby back again. But there was not one thing Caroline could do for her daughter.

Mrs. Scott understood what she wanted, if not why she wanted it, and scooped Carrie up. “I’m not surprised,” she said over Carrie’s screams. She gave Caroline’s elbow a knowing squeeze. “I saved back some of the cream for her, just in case. Don’t you waste your strength worrying.” Caroline nodded dumbly, aware only that her milk had become unspeakably bitter.



“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” Caroline said to Mrs. Scott. It could not be done. Both of them knew that. Caroline refused to so much as contemplate what sort of misfortune would have to befall the Scotts before she could repay her debts to them. Two more days Mrs. Scott had stayed. Even after Charles staggered up from the bed, she insisted on getting the meals and spoon feeding the baby in the wee hours so they both might rest through the night.

“Pshaw!” Mrs. Scott scoffed. “What are neighbors for but to help each other out?”

Caroline nodded. It was so. She had not fully known it, living alongside family most of her life. Caroline thought of embracing her, as she would have embraced Polly or Eliza, but did not know how to do it. Instead she contented herself with imagining the momentary feel of her heart pressing its thanks against the big woman’s chest.

Caroline leaned against the doorway, thankful for its support as she watched Mrs. Scott go. She raised an arm to bid a final goodbye, and her pulse guttered like a candle flame. She had made too much of a show that morning, making up the bed and laying the table and wiping the dishes to convince Mrs. Scott it was all right to go. The bed ought to have waited, Caroline silently admitted. She was not fully well, none of them were, but she was well enough to do the things that must be done. That much and no more, she reminded herself.

Caroline sat down on one of the crates beside the table and surveyed the cabin. The wash was ironed and folded, the milk strained and the pan scalded. Mrs. Scott had given the floor one final sweep before leaving. Carrie lay freshly diapered in the center of the big bed. Caroline pondered a moment over what day it was. Wednesday. Carrie was five weeks old, and it was mending day. Both thoughts overwhelmed her. She smiled weakly at the scrap bag as if in apology, dazed at the realization that even so much as threading a needle required a precise sort of energy and focus she had not yet regained.

“Will you set one of the crates by the fireplace, please, Charles?” she asked. Charles did and walked her to it. Then he tucked a pillow into the washtub and laid Carrie in it, so that Caroline need not move from the crate to reach her. And there Caroline sat all morning, tending the soup Mrs. Scott had put on the fire to simmer for their dinner and supper.



Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, Caroline felt the slats of those crates pressing against her thighs whether she was sitting, standing, or lying down to sleep. Standing for any length of time brought on a queer fizzling sensation in her limbs, as though she could feel her strength being eaten away, so she sat to help the girls dress and undress, to mix the cornbread, to lay the table and wipe the dishes, to feed the baby and change her.

As Caroline’s daily doses of bitters decreased, Carrie conceded to nurse again. Each time Caroline put her to the breast, Carrie’s small black eyebrows furrowed with concentration, tasting before settling in to feed. Caroline could not begrudge Carrie her wariness. She had tasted her milk herself, and while it was not so bitter as she’d feared, there was an odd, metallic cast to the flavor. But the way the child shrieked and writhed when her feedings came too close upon the quinine, Caroline’s breasts might as well have been filled with kerosene. Try though she might to down the bitters when Carrie was least likely to notice them—as soon as the baby finished a feeding or laid down to nap—Carrie’s fickle appetite seemed to thwart Caroline’s efforts.

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