I became an orphan at six. My mother already had two daughters and was giving birth to a third. I remember everything: my mothers screams, the neighbors gathering, their tears, and then my mothers voice fading away
Why didnt anyone call a doctor or take her to a hospital? I never understood that. Was it because the village was remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving me, my sister, and the newborn, Pauline.
After Moms death, my father was lost. We had no relatives here; everyone was out West, and no one was there to help him look after us. The neighbors urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Moms funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he propose to the schoolteacher, saying she was a kind woman. He went to her, got her consent, and apparently she liked him. My father was young and handsometall, thin, with dark eyes that seemed to swallow you whole.
That evening, my father arrived with his fiancée to introduce her.
Ive brought you a new mother!
I was furious, bitter, not fully understanding why my childs heart felt something was wrong. The whole house still smelled of Mom. We still wore the dresses she had sewn and washed, and now he was bringing us a new mother. In hindsight I see it, but at the time I hated both him and his fiancée. I have no idea what she thought of us, but she walked in arminarm with my father.
Both were a little drunk, and she said,
Call me mom and Ill stay.
I told my little sister,
Thats not our mother. Our mother is dead. Dont call her that!
My sister burst into sobs, and I, the older one, stepped forward.
No, we wont call you mother. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Oh, such a clever retort for a little girl! Then I wont stay with you.
The teacher left, and my father began to follow but stopped at the doorway, indecisive. He stood there, head down, then turned to us, gathered us in his arms, and began to weep openly. We cried with him. Even baby Pauline in her cradle started to whimper. We mourned our mother, while Dad mourned his beloved wife, though our grief was deeper than his. Orphans tears sound the same everywhere, and the longing for a mother is universal. It was the first and only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us for two more weeks because he worked in the forest industry and his crew was out in the woods. What could he do? There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged with a neighbor, gave her money to feed us, left Pauline with another neighbor, and went back to the forest.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come, cook, heat the oven, and then leave. She had her own affairs. Most of the day we were by ourselvescold, hungry, scared. The village began to look for a solution. They needed a special woman, one who could accept our children as her own. Where could such a person be found?
In conversation we learned that a distant cousin of one villager knew a young woman abandoned by her husband because she could not have children. Perhaps she once had a child who died, and God gave her no more; nobody really knew. Finally they found her address, wrote a letter, and, through another aunt named Zina, called her to us.
Dad was still in the woods when Zina arrived early one morning. She slipped in so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps inside the housesomeone moving, dishes clinking, the smell of pancakes drifting through the kitchen!
My sister and I peeked through a crack. Zina was calmly washing dishes, sweeping the floor. She realized we were awake from the noises.
Come on, my little blondes, lets eat!
She called us that, and it surprised us. We were blond with blue eyes, just like Mom.
Summoning courage, we left our room.
Sit at the table!
We didnt hesitate. We devoured the pancakes and began to feel a strange trust in her.
Call me Aunt Zina.
The next day Aunt Zina bathed my sister Vera, cleaned everything for us, and left. When she returned the following morning the house had been transformedclean and tidy as it had been when Mom was alive. Three weeks passed while Dad remained in the forest. Aunt Zina cared for us as best she could, but she never let us become attached. Vera, only three then, clung to her; I was more wary. Aunt Zina was strict, a bit distant. Our mother had been joyful, loved to sing and dance, and called Dad Vincent.
What will happen when your father comes back from the woods? And what is he like?
I tried to brag about Dad, almost ruining everything.
Hes great! Very good! When he drinks, he falls asleep right away!
Aunt Zinas eyes narrowed.
He drinks often?
Often! I replied, then nudged her under the table and added,
No, only on special occasions.
That evening Aunt Zina left reassured, and Dad returned that same night. He looked around, surprised.
I thought you lived in poverty, but you live like princesses.
We told him everything we could. He sat, thoughtful, then said,
Ill go see the new lady of the house. How is she?
Shes a real beauty, answered Vera, she makes pancakes and tells stories.
Thinking back, I cant help but smile. Zina wasnt a beauty by conventional standardsshe was thin, small, rather plainbut do children truly understand beauty?
Dad laughed, got dressed, and went to see the aunt who lived nearby. The next day he returned with Zina. He had gotten up early to fetch her, and she entered the house very timidly, as if frightened.
I said to Vera,
Lets call her mom, shes kind!
And we shouted together with Vera,
Mom, mom is here!
Dad and Zina fetched Pauline together. For Pauline, Zina became a true mother, caring for her like a treasure. Pauline didnt remember her own mother. Vera had forgotten, and I alone kept Moms memory for my whole life, just as Dad did. Once I caught Dad looking at Moms photograph, murmuring softly,
Why did you leave so early? In leaving, you took all my joy with you.
I didnt spend much longer with Dad and my stepmother. In fourth grade I was sent to a boarding school because our village lacked a high school. After seventh grade I attended a technical institute. I always wanted to leave home earlywhy? Zina never hurt me with words or deeds; she protected me like her own daughter, yet I kept my distance. Am I ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwife, perhaps not by accident. I cannot turn back time to save my mother, but I will protect another mother
