B.J. Taylor

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El Nino

“Anita, are you sure you can’t stay here in Presidio with me tonight? You don’t need to drive back to Alpine in the dark.” Dolores Montoya worried about her granddaughter, a paralegal at Dan Newsome’s law offices in Alpine.
“Got to go Grandma. I need to put these papers in the safe at the office tonight. Dan wanted me to get the signature on these agreements in person so that there would be no delays with the seizing of assets tomorrow. See you next week when the acompanantes visit.”
“Goodbye, safe journey.”

Georgia Brown’s Café for coffee and pie in Terlingua popped into Anita’s mind as a just reward for an uneventful drive. Everyone knew that Georgia was an ex-hippie, catering to the locals. But not everyone knew that the purveyor of caffeine and sugar was also an ex-Jane network organizer from Chicago and a member of the acompanamiento movement hiding out from the FBI because of militant feminism and pro-abortion activities during the nineteen sixties. Georgia, if that was her real name, poured the best coffee and served the best pie in this part of the borderland.
Anita took a seat on the high stool at the lunch counter and looked around for the owner. Pattie, a waitress, magically appeared with cup and coffee for an initial fix and thoughts of Georgia disappeared.
“Thanks, this coffee should keep me awake until I get back to Alpine.”
When Pattie failed to make eye contact a tiny alarm went off.
“What’s the matter?”
A soft moan sounded from the kitchen and escalated to red alert.
“Is someone hurt? Is Georgia sick? What’s going on?”
“Better follow me to the kitchen,” Pattie said. “Now, please.”
Grabbing her bag, locating her nine-millimeter handgun and hiding it under her sweater, in the waistband of her trousers, ensuring the safety engaged, Anita mirrored the typical response of any borderland citizen faced with an ambiguous situation.
The waitress knocked softly on the office door, opened it, and waved her inside.
Anita entered cautiously and was briefly startled when the door shut. At the very back of the room, an older woman sat or rather squirmed in a La-Z-Boy recliner with Georgia kneeling between the woman’s legs.
“What the hell is going on?”
“What does it look like?” Georgia hissed, not turning from the woman in the recliner.
At that point the mystery woman screamed.
“Jesus, how frequent are the contractions?
“Jesus had nothing to do with this.”
Georgia turned for a second. One arm raised and brushed hair away from her eyes.
“Contractions, in ten-minute intervals,” she said.
“How much has she dilated?”
“I’m not a fucking midwife,” Georgia said. “Can we get your grandmother here? Fast? The baby is not turned properly, and I suspect early stages of breech.”
Anita speed-dialed her abuela.
“Mija,/em>,” Dolores said, “it is too early for you to have arrived back to Alpine. What’s wrong?”
“I stopped for coffee at Georgia Brown’s and discovered a very pregnant woman. Contractions are about ten minutes apart. Georgia thinks breech is likely.”
“Okay, check the woman’s blood pressure and heart rate. But first give your phone to Georgia”
“Dolores, this is Georgia. We need help. The mother arrived at the Café about an hour ago, exhausted from her walk all the way from La Mule and crossing at Boquillas. Her water broke in my bathroom. I cleaned her up and sat her in my La-Z-Boy. She’s 38 years old and this will be her fourth child. Partera, I think the baby is presenting feet first. I don’t know what to do. I’ve no experience with breech deliveries.”
“I need to know what her blood pressure and heart rate are.”
Georgia handed the phone back to Anita.
“Abuela, her heart rate is very fast and I’ve no instruments to give you a proper blood pressure reading. I’d say she’s overweight. But, if what Georgia says is true, 38 years old is dangerous given these conditions. Can you get to Terlingua?”
“I’m on my way. Get the mother to one of La Posada Milagro’s rooms. That’s just up the hill from Georgia’s. Tell Brittany to give us a room and make the woman as comfortable as possible. See you in about an hour.”
“Safe journey, abuela.”
“Georgia, my grandmother wants to meet us at La Posada Milagro.”
“Pull around back and I’ll help you load her into the car.”
“What’s her name?
“Yolanda Gaspar.”

“Take her blood pressure while I take the rest of her vital signs.”
“She has been unresponsive for about five minutes, abuela. Her name is Yolanda Gaspar. She had one contraction when I got her settled.”
“You did good. Yolanda’s heart is beating too rapidly. What’s her blood pressure?”
“It’s off the charts. I’ve never taken such a high reading.”
“Okay, critical condition. I’m not sure an ambulance from Alpine can make it in time.”
“I’ll call Dan and let him know the situation.”
“I can’t get a pulse from the mother. Please start CPR and be careful of the baby with the pressure.”
Dolores called it. “Stop, she’s dead. I barely hear the baby’s heartbeat. The only way to save the child is a C-section.”
Five minutes later, Anita was holding a baby boy while Dolores cleared his airways and got him to breathe. He wrinkled his face and screamed his unhappiness at being separated from his mother. Anita cleaned him up while Dolores took the placenta and umbilical cord and wrapped it in a towel. She pieced Yolanda back together as best she could.
“Abuela, Dan is on the way with the sheriff and ambulance. Dan says not to worry about legalities. He’ll be here to make sure the Sheriff understands that our role was to render medical help and that you followed the midwife procedures as prescribed by law.”
“Thank you, Anita. We have just enough time to bury the boy’s birth sack and cord before everyone arrives. Brittany left a shovel outside the door. Go bury this towel beside the rosemary plants in the garden. I’ll join you in a few minutes with the baby.”
Anita was patting down the dirt with the shovel when Dolores arrived with a much happier baby.
“Grandmother, I’ve set the anchor points within the circle. You can see north, south, east, and west. Let us begin,” Anita said. “What will you name this child?”
“Carlos Gaspar, American citizen.”
With a bright half-moon, in the starry sky, Dolores stood with the child within a circle, facing north. She lifted the swaddled baby high to the north, “To the north star, we present Carlos Gaspar, child of Yolanda may she rest in peace.” Dolores addressed all four cardinal points in the naming ceremony.
By the time Dolores had finished, Brittany stood solemnly beside Anita with a small infant formula bottle.
“She didn’t make it, I guess. I brought a bottle in case the little one was hungry,” Brittany said.
“Yolanda died a few minutes after I arrived,” Dolores said. “We’re fortunate that Carlos weathered the ordeal. Can you try to give Carlos his bottle while Anita and I clean up the room? I can see the lights of the ambulance and the sheriff arriving from up here on the mesa. They will be here in a few minutes. Carlos does not need any more commotion right now. Thanks, Brittany, take the baby to your room and see if he will feed.”

“Ms. Montoya, will you take the baby back to Presidio?” Dan asked.
“Yes, I ‘ll fill out his birth certificate and file it with at courthouse in Alpine. I need to take him back home with me so that I can record his weight and other vital information. I’ll call the Catholic orphanage system tomorrow. Can you make legal inquiries for anyone wanting to adopt in Alpine? He’s such a cute baby. Surely someone will want to adopt him.
“Abuela, do you have an infant car seat?” Anita asked.
“Of course,” Dolores said, tossing her car keys to her granddaughter. “It’s in the trunk. I’ll be along with Carlos in a few minutes.”
When Anita left, Dan assured Dolores that everything was okay. “There should be no legal repercussions. If you have any questions, please call me.”
“Thanks, counselor, I appreciate your help tonight with the Sheriff who can be a real ass. He’s not one of my children like Sheriff Reyna in Presidio. I delivered Reyna over thirty years ago.”
This got a laugh out of Dan.
Ms. Montoya and Dan arrived at her car and discovered Anita struggling to secure the infant car seat.
“Abuela, I just can’t seem to get this contraption installed.”
“That’s because an infant only sits in a rear-facing car seat until the age of two.” Delores sighed. “Hold Carlos while I fix this,” the partera gently handed Carlos over to her granddaughter. “If you want something done right, it’s best to do it yourself.” The older woman boldly crawled into the back seat, partially removing the seat cushion and wrestled the five straps and harness until securing the car seat in place. “There, that should do it,” she said in triumph. “I found a missing taco or two from months ago and some quarters; but for the most part, it’s cleaner back there than expected.” She wiped her hands with one of her signature white handkerchiefs embroidered with the Virgin of Guadalupe and stuffed it back into her pocket. She took Carlos from her granddaughter and gently snapped him in. “I find it truly amazing that you confidently carry a loaded, nine-millimeter, but you can’t install a simple infant car seat.”
Glancing back at Dan, the midwife issued her final orders, “Anita, you will be driving Dan back to Alpine since everyone has had enough of the Sheriff. So, good night and thanks for your help.”
As the woman drove out of sight Dan said, “She’s a bit bossy.”
“Yeah, but in a good way,” Anita said pointing her key fob to unlock her car for their drive back to Alpine. “Get in the car, we’re going home.”
B.J. Taylor is a Texas native wandering the borderlands between Texas and Mexico, by choice and inclination.
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