fire, not in some wild mountain town with a naked woman on the verge of giving birth.
E IGHT
F ollowing the surgery on Mr. Goeke’s leg, Morgan returned to the burn ward. He craved fresh air, but he couldn’t leave the side of the man with the charred arm. Sister Coleman had been called away from the hospital, so he was tending to the last burn victim on his own. He finished treating the scorched skin and dropped his instruments into an enamel pan. After he scrubbed his hands over the sink, he pulled a sterile petroleum jelly dressing out of the container. Once he’d finished wrapping the arm, he returned to the water bowl.
“We need a doctor. Now!” The woman’s shout had come from down the hallway, and the fear in her voice zinged Morgan’s spine.
He darted out of the room and followed guttural cries to an open doorway where a small Mexican girl waved him inside. Rushing past the child, Morgan stopped at the foot of the bed where a young woman hunched over the knees of a loud, writhing patient in the midst of labor. The midwife glanced toward the girl, who now sat in a chair near the door, then at him, her eyes wide.
“I’m Dr. Cutshaw, ma’am. Is this her first baby?”
The woman in the bed kicked the air. “Only baby! And if I ever see—”
“First babies can take a day and night or more to deliver.” He shifted his attention to the midwife, who looked as if she was about to cry. “I’ll send someone to look in on you in a while.”
The patient reared up, muttering curses.
“That won’t do.” The midwife clenched his shirt sleeve, pulling him toward the woman. “See for yourself.”
Morgan opened his mouth to rebuke her, but then he saw the tiny blue foot that dangled out of the patient. The sight stole his breath.
He sighed, whispered a soul-deep prayer, and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Ignoring the mother’s curses and screams, he reached inside her. When he felt the baby’s other foot, he grabbed and pulled until he had both legs out.
But the baby’s head remained inside his mother. He needed to get the child out.
Haunting memories surfaced and threatened to undo Morgan as he reached back inside the mother and secured one hand on the infant’s spine. He wouldn’t let another baby die.
“Why won’t the baby come out?”
Morgan fought his growing frustration with the midwife. She should have known what’s wrong.
“Breech.” And its breathing may already be cut off.
Morgan’s heart pounded. He couldn’t let this happen.
He placed his other hand on the woman’s pelvis and twisted, flipping the baby face down. Then he slipped two fingers inside the baby’s mouth and pulled. It was still stuck, and time was running out. Strugglingfor a better grip, he rocked the baby back and forth and then pulled harder until the head began to emerge. The mother’s shrieks only got louder as he slowly eased the child out. He pulled the baby clear of the mother, and for a moment, the only sounds were the mother’s shuddering breaths and the midwife’s shaky announcement that it was a boy. The mother wasn’t screaming anymore. Neither was her infant son.
He wasn’t breathing. The baby had to breathe.
Lord, he has to breathe .
Holding the baby’s feet secure, Morgan dangled the newborn and gave him a quick whack on the back. “Cry. Come on, boy, you have to cry.”
The slightest of whimpers tickled Morgan’s ears. He slapped the baby’s back again. “Come on, fella. I know you have more to say than that.”
Miniature arms flailed and legs kicked. A hearty wail followed, and then a steady tirade. The boy’s chest heaved and his body quaked. His ears pinked up. And Morgan thought his own legs would collapse beneath him. Sighs of relief filled the room, instead of the groans of sorrow that still echoed in his dreams.
Thank You, God . He had done a new thing.
Morgan handed the baby off to the midwife, who awkwardly enfolded him in the dry towel. She handled the newborn
E IGHT
F ollowing the surgery on Mr. Goeke’s leg, Morgan returned to the burn ward. He craved fresh air, but he couldn’t leave the side of the man with the charred arm. Sister Coleman had been called away from the hospital, so he was tending to the last burn victim on his own. He finished treating the scorched skin and dropped his instruments into an enamel pan. After he scrubbed his hands over the sink, he pulled a sterile petroleum jelly dressing out of the container. Once he’d finished wrapping the arm, he returned to the water bowl.
“We need a doctor. Now!” The woman’s shout had come from down the hallway, and the fear in her voice zinged Morgan’s spine.
He darted out of the room and followed guttural cries to an open doorway where a small Mexican girl waved him inside. Rushing past the child, Morgan stopped at the foot of the bed where a young woman hunched over the knees of a loud, writhing patient in the midst of labor. The midwife glanced toward the girl, who now sat in a chair near the door, then at him, her eyes wide.
“I’m Dr. Cutshaw, ma’am. Is this her first baby?”
The woman in the bed kicked the air. “Only baby! And if I ever see—”
“First babies can take a day and night or more to deliver.” He shifted his attention to the midwife, who looked as if she was about to cry. “I’ll send someone to look in on you in a while.”
The patient reared up, muttering curses.
“That won’t do.” The midwife clenched his shirt sleeve, pulling him toward the woman. “See for yourself.”
Morgan opened his mouth to rebuke her, but then he saw the tiny blue foot that dangled out of the patient. The sight stole his breath.
He sighed, whispered a soul-deep prayer, and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Ignoring the mother’s curses and screams, he reached inside her. When he felt the baby’s other foot, he grabbed and pulled until he had both legs out.
But the baby’s head remained inside his mother. He needed to get the child out.
Haunting memories surfaced and threatened to undo Morgan as he reached back inside the mother and secured one hand on the infant’s spine. He wouldn’t let another baby die.
“Why won’t the baby come out?”
Morgan fought his growing frustration with the midwife. She should have known what’s wrong.
“Breech.” And its breathing may already be cut off.
Morgan’s heart pounded. He couldn’t let this happen.
He placed his other hand on the woman’s pelvis and twisted, flipping the baby face down. Then he slipped two fingers inside the baby’s mouth and pulled. It was still stuck, and time was running out. Strugglingfor a better grip, he rocked the baby back and forth and then pulled harder until the head began to emerge. The mother’s shrieks only got louder as he slowly eased the child out. He pulled the baby clear of the mother, and for a moment, the only sounds were the mother’s shuddering breaths and the midwife’s shaky announcement that it was a boy. The mother wasn’t screaming anymore. Neither was her infant son.
He wasn’t breathing. The baby had to breathe.
Lord, he has to breathe .
Holding the baby’s feet secure, Morgan dangled the newborn and gave him a quick whack on the back. “Cry. Come on, boy, you have to cry.”
The slightest of whimpers tickled Morgan’s ears. He slapped the baby’s back again. “Come on, fella. I know you have more to say than that.”
Miniature arms flailed and legs kicked. A hearty wail followed, and then a steady tirade. The boy’s chest heaved and his body quaked. His ears pinked up. And Morgan thought his own legs would collapse beneath him. Sighs of relief filled the room, instead of the groans of sorrow that still echoed in his dreams.
Thank You, God . He had done a new thing.
Morgan handed the baby off to the midwife, who awkwardly enfolded him in the dry towel. She handled the newborn
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