Slowly, I make my way through the courtyard that separates our chambers from the chamam, stopping occasionally to rest against the wall. Through my difficult confinement, my husband has suffered. Refusing all but my most chaste affections, he fasts and meditates constantly. Perhaps connecting to the One is something a person comes to crave like those who desperately seek kodeia, the essence of poppies.
The baby kicks me sharply in the side so I hurry to the betshimush. Afterward, I rest on a bench, Teoma walks in, rubbing his face and eyes vigorously. Perhaps he slept poorly, overwrought by the grief he has caused his own family in choosing not to take a wife. Yeshua keeps reassuring us all that his friend’s decision is for the higher good, whatever that means. Nevertheless, it seems a shame for such an attractive and, I assume, virile man not to experience married life.
My cumbersome attempt to stand catches his attention.
“I am sorry; I didn’t know anyone was in here…Mary?” Turning away from me, he tries to cover himself. How could he mistake the only pregnant woman in the house?
“Good morning, Teoma. I was just leaving, but it will take me a moment.” I turn and begin waddling away, barely able to walk around my daughter’s head.
“Wait! I’ll help you back to your room.” Feeling that familiar tightening, I nod and brace myself against the cool tile.
While he relieves himself another sharp contraction induces a gush of warm liquid to flow down my leg and a third nearly brings me to my knees. I cry out. Teoma rushes out of the betshimush.
“Mary, what is happening?”
“Teoma,” I pant, as the last contraction slowly ends, “I think my daughter has decided to be born.” Picking me up from my crouched and sodden state, he rushes so quickly that we must stop twice so that I might breathe through the contractions. Linens strewn across the floor, his loincloth twisted, Yeshua sleeps fitfully at night.
“Get up! Mary is having the baby!” Teoma yells and my poor husband leaps out of bed nearly tripping on the linens.
Another sharp contraction has me clinging to Teoma’s neck, my breath ragged. Yeshua tries to get him to put me on the bed, but I resist. “I am soaked, I need to change first.”
“For goodness sakes, Mary. Do not worry about the bed!”
“Please just put me down.”
“No, Mary, I’ll carry you until Yeshua prepares the bed.”
“Please, I want to stand.” Teoma carefully sets me on my feet. I hold onto his arm for a moment, “Sorry, I made a mess of you,” but the next contraction forces me to crouch.
Yeshua rushes over to lift me to my feet, “Mary, do not push.” The pressure so great, I must push. A gentle hayye caresses my back, as the angel guides me to kneel—chest to the floor—and I find much relief.
The men stand over me in their nightclothes, not knowing what to do. “Teoma, will you please get me a cushion for my head and get Ima Miriam? Yeshua, perhaps you could get me a fresh garment before visiting the betshimush.”
Teoma secures me a cushion before giving Yeshua a rough pat on the shoulder. “Make haste, your wife is having a baby!”
When he leaves, Yeshua drops to his knees beside me, his tears melting the rigid aura that has kept his emotions in and me out. Thank The One.
“This past month has been so difficult to bear. Not only the labor and the restrictions, but…,” I hesitate, wanting to be honest with him, “but it has been as if we were childhood friends, not husband and wife.”
His tears pour anew as he lies next to me. “It was too difficult to be with you as a husband and also be a healer.”
“The house is full of healers, but you are my only husband.”
He kisses me tenderly, finally sensuously, not chastely. Lying on my side, I respond with passion, for it has been too long. We are both crying and kissing when Miriam walks in followed by servants.
“My dears, it is wonderful to see that you have made up, but I do not think the baby should be delivered on the cold floor.” Laughing, she instructs the women to dress me. “Now, son, go to the betshimush and get ready for a long day.”
When Yeshua returns, he takes me to walk in the gardens. Breakfast has been laid out for us and he eats lightly, but I find it difficult to consume much. All through the morning the contractions get stronger and closer together. By noon, I have not made much progress.
Frustrated, I ask to lie down on the hammock. Yeshua carefully helps me before climbing in, looking nearly as tired as I feel. Gathering me into his arms, he kisses me, “Do not lose faith, love. This is why it is called labor.” I only manage a half-hearted smile. After a month of bed rest, I am in poor condition for this work.
In moments his breathing slows and a soft snore confirms he sleeps. At least one of us will be rested. Unfortunately, he’s not the one who has to push the baby out. More attuned to him than me, the baby lies quietly. Memories of Yeshua talking and singing to her, his mouth close to my belly, from the moment I conceived, brings a smile to my lips. So even still within me, she sleeps now with her father. I caress my lower belly and she moves gently against me like a kitten. Yeshua stretches his long legs over mine. Peaceful gratitude carries me through a long afternoon evenly interrupted by contractions.
“Yeshua, wake up,” I nudge him, unable to turn without toppling us over.
He yawns and stretches, “I was dreaming that I was holding our daughter, sleeping in the hammock together, she and I.”
“You were, but now I need to get up and go to the betshimush.”
My stomach has felt unsettled all day so I am not surprised that my bowels are loose, but the fresh dark blood brings a wave of concern. Immediately, the angel’s presence, like a warm breeze, reassures that all will be well.
Into the night I labor, but to no avail. Finally, Yeshua requests his father’s assistance. Having trained with the Essenes, Joseph carefully examines me. “This child must be born shortly; Mary is losing blood.”
Yeshua looks concerned, but the faces of the women express the gravity of the situation. An incredibly wrenching contraction forces me to sit up, panting and gripping Yeshua’s arms. Something tears inside and I scream. His face blanches as a gush of hot blood is released from my womb. Remembering the angel’s advice, I try to breathe.
Another ripping contraction ensues, longer and more powerful than the last. Soaked in my own blood, I am lightheaded, too weak to hold onto the birthing rails. So Leah supports me with her body as Yeshua receives clean linens from his distressed mother into trembling hands.“Can you feel the baby’s head?” Yeshua nods. “Good, now begin rimming the opening with oil gently but firmly stretching around her crown.” Faces go in and out of focus. Another contraction and I am asked to push. Taking a deep breath, I bear down but Yeshua shakes his head, his eyes worried. Leah whispers, “I know you’re tired, but you must push much harder.”
Unable to catch my breath, I nod, the room spins. Nausea overwhelms me and I begin to wretch. Leah cleans me up quickly so I can push again. Determined to get her out I push so hard my eyes might burst, but she doesn’t come. How can this be? She’s a month early. I reach down and feel the top of her curly head crowning. The angel assured me that the baby would be fine, but how much longer can she stay in my birth canal?
Joseph gathers the women to pray for guidance. Unfortunately, my labor does not wait and a huge contraction pushes the baby so forcefully against the opening that it begins to tear. With the next contraction, a river