Obstetrix(10)
Another chorus of amen rang through the room, more enthusiastic this time.
“And you know, sometimes it might feel tight, being held by God’s messengers. Being protected like that. Sometimes it feels a little constrictive, doesn’t it? You might look around and think, I’d really like to stretch my arms today. I’d really like TV again, or Internet. I’d really like some of what I gave up to be here. But remember—always remember—that angel is protecting you. Protecting all of us. Keeping us safe from the demons that would tear us to pieces and devour our insides given half a chance. That’s the vision I have to share with you today.”
He nodded at two women, who stood up with guitars and led a couple of enthusiastic songs that sounded like music from a Christian contemporary radio station, not like the hymns I sang at the Lutheran church services my parents occasionally took me to when I was a kid.
The sermon done, Pastor John brought up Grace Lynn’s husband and their new baby, who was introduced to everyone as John. You’ll always be Ozzy to me, kid, I thought. Then Grace Lynn’s husband was given a Bible, which he opened to a marked passage. “Therefore, behold,” he read. “The days come, saith the Lord, that they shall no more say, The Lord liveth, which brought up the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt. But, the Lord liveth, which brought up and which led the seed of the house of Israel out of the north country, and from all countries whither I had driven them; and they shall dwell in their own land. Jeremiah, chapter 23, verses 7 and 8.” Everyone around me was listening with their eyes closed, I realized. They started opening their eyes as they heard “Jeremiah.” After that came one more hymn, which was sung without the guitars and had a refrain that went “God is good!” with a bunch of rhythmic hand clapping.
“Go ye and do the work of the Lord!” Pastor John said, by way of benediction, and everyone started to make their way out.
I wondered if maybe I could go get another cup of coffee now, but Sarah had seized my arm. “It’s time to go to the clinic,” she said. “Our patients will be coming shortly.”
I let her tow me to the entry where all the coats were hanging up; I had a brief moment of worry that someone else would have taken my coat, with the pen hidden inside. But my coat was on the hook where I’d left it, the pen still in my pocket.
That Bible, the one Ozzy’s father had read from—that was the only book I’d seen here.
* * *
OUTSIDE THE GATHERING HALL, the wind had died down, leaving a damp, overcast sky. The hall was at the top of a little rise, offering a decent view of the compound now that it was day. There were two rows of houses facing each other across a gravel driveway that led up from the road, past the path up to the gathering hall, and on to the outbuildings.
A gust of wind from that direction brought the smell of hay and cow manure. It smelled like my memories of my grandparents’ dairy farm. We’d visited out there regularly when I was little; it had been sold at auction when I was still very young.
Dad told me once that he’d joined the Air Force because he wanted to go to space, because the stars were as far as anyone could get from that farm, which he wanted to escape more than anything. For me, the smell summoned up memories of the pineapple upside-down cake my grandmother always baked for us during visits, accompanied by a glass of milk from Grandpa’s cows, and the tire swing that hung from the tree outside the farmhouse. For my father, it brought back the feel of an ice-cold outhouse seat in January—Grandma and Grandpa hadn’t gotten a septic system until 1961.
Sarah had paused at my side, following my gaze. “Do you have any experience with agriculture?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“We do ranching here, but you won’t be doing any animal care. That’s mostly the job of the men and the older boys.”
“What do you raise?”
“Laying hens, and steers.” She started down toward the clinic, and I followed her. Probably the smallest of the outbuildings was the henhouse. The others might house the cows for the winter—winter was calving season, I remembered hearing from my father. One might be hay storage, or other feed. One had to be agricultural equipment; maybe a car was in there, too. Something I could use to get away.
In the clinic, Sarah saw a series of women for prenatal checks. Most of the women had young children in arms or in tow, and Sarah handed the babies off to me while she examined the women. Little Ozzy got weighed without his diaper before he got handed to me to hold. I like babies—never wanted one of my own, but I’m quite fond of other people’s—and I stroked his downy hair. The children here, they were blameless, even if every adult was in on the kidnapping.
I took a minute to look the children over as they passed through my care. They were generally well-fed, so there was that, at least, and the babies showed no obvious signs of abuse. Starting in toddlerhood, some of the children had marks that I would have absolutely needed to report to Child Protection if I’d seen them in my clinic in Minot. You’re allowed to spank your children in North Dakota, but if you hit them hard enough to leave a mark visible later, that’s abuse.
As an ob-gyn, I rarely had to make those phone calls. My friend Lori, now retired, was a pediatrician; she generally made one or two a month. It was rare that there was follow-up for anything less serious than a broken bone, she told me once. She’d have called for the red welt I saw on the chubby thigh of a toddler girl who smiled at me and then wiped her runny nose on my shoulder, but probably nothing would have come of it unless there’d been another welt, and another call, at the next visit.