I touched my baby’s back again, this time more firmly.
My instinct, more than my intellect, knew something was wrong. No stirring at my touch? I pressed the flat of my hand against her back. Her back wasn’t hardly wider than my stretched-out hand. There was no rise and fall.
Roughly, I rolled her over, hoping the infant-size assault would offend her, scare her, or startle her into wakefulness. I called out her name. The house shook. Or I did. Maybe both.
I grabbed her up and held her small body close to my chest and neck. Her hair still had that precious baby smell, but her eyelids were tinged with purple. Her body was too cool. I wrapped her in her pink blanket. I swaddled her tighter and tighter as if to prevent her escape and to warm her up again.
Gran called out from the next room, “What’s going on, Hannah? Was that a scream? Did I hear someone call out? Are you hurt?”
Gran’s voice was thick and slurry sounding, and it made less of an impression on me than the rain and wind and the thudding of my heart. I rushed past Gran as I ran through the living room to the kitchen with Ellen in my arms. I grabbed the wall phone and dialed. Nothing. No dial tone. I flipped the wall switch. No light. The lines were down.
The car keys were in the dish by the door. I didn’t pause for shoes or an umbrella but dashed straight out, the screen door swinging wide behind me and slamming into the outside wall. Beyond the steps, it was mostly mud. The rain, lighter now, continued to fall, hitting the thick leaves. Greedy leaves. The greenery seemed to have multiplied, and it brushed my face wetly. I pushed the leaves and branches aside, got in the car, and laid my bundle on the passenger seat.
“We’ll get help, baby. Sweet baby, sweet Ellen, don’t leave your mama.” The words came from my mouth and were formed by my lips, but that desperate voice didn’t sound like mine.
Grand’s car was old, but the engine turned over and came alive. The driveway was red clay and mostly graveled. Up around the curve where the road sloped down, the low spot in the S curve might be flooded a bit but shouldn’t be a problem if I had enough speed and didn’t stop. I’d take the last hill fast and be up to the level spot where it joined the paved road before the tires could give a thought to getting mired. I hit the accelerator hard. And instantly slammed to a jolting stop.
My neck. My head. Pain, bright and blinding, hit me. I raised my arm to shield my face, and in the same instant, with my other hand, I grabbed at the precious bundle on the seat.
The downed tree. I’d heard it fall, hadn’t I? Back in the house when nothing had mattered but my Ellen not waking? Yes, and in my haste to get help, I’d been fooled by the mass of thickly leaved branches. I should’ve realized why so many leaves were draped around my car and blocking the view.
Time was precious—each second—and it continued to tick. In that same moment, I understood time didn’t matter. Its continued passing would only carve grief more deeply into my heart and brain.
My hand rested on the still form beside me. The leaves from the fallen tree covered my windshield like a green grave, and told me there was nothing more to be done here.
But hope dies hard. Taking my Ellen in my arms and holding tight to her, I opened the car door. I stepped out into the mud and sticks and other storm debris and stumbled my way under the now-slanted tree trunk and through the hanging boughs. On the other side of it, clear of the tree, I slipped and fought through the mud until I reached the driveway. The drive was muddy, too, but the surface still had enough gravel in it that it provided better footing. I tried to quicken my pace, not feeling the sharp rocks underfoot and ignoring the pain that shot up my back to the base of my skull with every movement. Clutching my bundle, I ran along the driveway.
If I could make it to the main road and flag down a passing car . . . Stranger or not, they’d help.
Where the drive curved away into the woods to begin its long slope down and nearly out of view of the house, I missed my step and went down. I never lost hold, though. I held tight. But when I tried to rise, I made it only as far as my knees.
There was nothing to be done. I rocked back and forth, holding to my heart my dearest little girl, who, through all this turmoil, had never cried, never stirred. She was gone, her spirit flown away.
I looked skyward at the dark clouds clearing overhead, almost as if I might see her . . . what? Ascending? No, all I got was a searing pain wrenching the back of my neck and down my spine.
Distantly, I heard Gran’s voice. She must’ve come out onto the front porch.
Some rational spark in my brain cried out, Get up and go back, Hannah. Heaven help us if Gran tries to walk down here. How will we ever get her back to the house? And then the spark died, and I was fully back, enveloped in misery and pain.
I struggled to my feet and limped home, my face buried in the folds of Ellen’s blanket.
Gran was standing in the doorway braced against the lintel. I ignored her and sat for a while in the porch rocker in my own hazy bubble. I was dizzy. My head and neck hurt, but the only thing that mattered was my loss. Gran was talking. I didn’t answer her, and finally she stopped. My baby and I kept rocking.
It was summer. July. The afternoon was passing. No matter how tightly I’d wrapped her, no matter how hard I held her, I couldn’t warm her small body back to life, nor keep out the damaging heat.
I knew she wasn’t coming back.
I wished I could lay her back in the crib. As if I’d never disturbed her nap. All would be as it had been.
But it was too late.
Gone, as they say. Passed. Lost.
Our nearest neighbor was Mr. Bridger. I could hike up and over the hill. It was quite a walk, but once I was over the ridge, if he was home . . . He had an old truck, and it wasn’t likely blocked in. His phone might be working, too. But to what purpose?
If he took me into town, would I be able to say to whomever one reported such events . . . say my baby was . . . I bit my lip, tasted blood, and bit down harder.
There was no way I could utter those words.
I held her more tightly and rocked harder back and forth. The jerking motions made the pains in my head worse.
No point in seeking help, anyway. No one could help. Not in any way that mattered. Time had passed, taking hope with it. One hour? Two? More than that. It was done. Over.
If no one could help bring her back, then I wouldn’t give her up to the hands of strangers. People who’d never seen her laugh, had never experienced her temper when she was hungry.