Read Online Beneath a Southern Sky by Deborah Raney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Raney
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recliner in the Haydon living room, wrestling with a fussy, hungry infant. Her mother hovered like a honeybee over a freshly opened peony.
“Are you sure you don’t want to give her just a little formula? I’ve got it all ready.” She held out a warm bottle filled with the strong-smelling brownish liquid.
“No, Mom,” Daria said evenly, ignoring the proffered bottle and struggling to control her frustration. “Thanks anyway, but she just needs to nurse some more.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting enough milk. Some women just don’t produce enough, you know. There’s no shame in supplementing with formula once in a while, honey. After all, you were raised on it.”
“Mom, please!” The words came out more forcefully than she’d intended. She softened her tone. “Could you just leave us alone for a few minutes? I think she’s a little distracted.”
Margo set the warm bottle on an end table. “I’m just trying to help,” she said, hands on hips.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“I don’t mean to interfere. But after all, I did raise two babies myself.”
Daria ignored her mother, and finally Margo sighed and took the bottle back to the kitchen.
For the first few weeks of motherhood, it had been wonderful to have her mother’s expert help with the baby, to have all her meals prepared and served, and to have a free roof over her head. But now that Natalie was two months old and Daria was beginning to feel confident in her role, she was feeling desperate to have her own space.
Natalie finally fell asleep at her breast. Daria eased out of the chair and headed upstairs to put the baby down for a nap. As she passed her father’s desk, she grabbed the morning paper with her free hand.
Natalie opened her eyes the minute Daria laid her on the crib mattress, but she didn’t protest when Daria left the side of the crib and went to sit cross-legged on her own bed, spreading the newspaper out before her.
Daria had secretly pored over the classified ads every day for the past two weeks, growing more frustrated as she realized how under-qualified she was for any job that paid enough to provide for a single woman with an infant. A teaching job would be perfect. If she couldn’t be home full time, at least she could have summers with Natalie.
But going back to college seemed an impossibility. She was angry with Nate for allowing her to quit school, even though it had been her own idea to drop out and go to work to help put him through medical school. “I don’t even know why I’ve stayed in school this long,” she’d told him back then. “It’s just a waste of money. It’s not like I’ll need a degree in Colombia.” But she thought now that he should have insisted that she finish, that she get a degree of some kind.
She was angry with Nate, and she was angry with God for letting him die. It didn’t make sense that a loving God would allow someone as caring and giving as Nathan Camfield to die just as he was beginning a life dedicated to serving others. How could God have let them—both of them—sacrifice so much, work so hard toward Nate’s goal of becoming a doctor? How could he have called them to the mission field, only to take it all away, leaving her alone and ill prepared to support their daughter? She would never understand it.
Sighing, she forced away the angry feelings and turned again to the classified section of the paper. With a growing feeling of desperation, she folded back the page and began scanning the columns.
An item under the “Help Wanted” section caught her eye: “Receptionist for veterinary clinic in small town. Full-time position with flexible hours, benefits. Will train.”
Well, it was far from the teaching field, but “flexible hours” and “will train” sounded promising. And the clinic was nearby in Bristol, where she had attended high school. She scribbled down the address, along with the phone numbers of several other
“Are you sure you don’t want to give her just a little formula? I’ve got it all ready.” She held out a warm bottle filled with the strong-smelling brownish liquid.
“No, Mom,” Daria said evenly, ignoring the proffered bottle and struggling to control her frustration. “Thanks anyway, but she just needs to nurse some more.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting enough milk. Some women just don’t produce enough, you know. There’s no shame in supplementing with formula once in a while, honey. After all, you were raised on it.”
“Mom, please!” The words came out more forcefully than she’d intended. She softened her tone. “Could you just leave us alone for a few minutes? I think she’s a little distracted.”
Margo set the warm bottle on an end table. “I’m just trying to help,” she said, hands on hips.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“I don’t mean to interfere. But after all, I did raise two babies myself.”
Daria ignored her mother, and finally Margo sighed and took the bottle back to the kitchen.
For the first few weeks of motherhood, it had been wonderful to have her mother’s expert help with the baby, to have all her meals prepared and served, and to have a free roof over her head. But now that Natalie was two months old and Daria was beginning to feel confident in her role, she was feeling desperate to have her own space.
Natalie finally fell asleep at her breast. Daria eased out of the chair and headed upstairs to put the baby down for a nap. As she passed her father’s desk, she grabbed the morning paper with her free hand.
Natalie opened her eyes the minute Daria laid her on the crib mattress, but she didn’t protest when Daria left the side of the crib and went to sit cross-legged on her own bed, spreading the newspaper out before her.
Daria had secretly pored over the classified ads every day for the past two weeks, growing more frustrated as she realized how under-qualified she was for any job that paid enough to provide for a single woman with an infant. A teaching job would be perfect. If she couldn’t be home full time, at least she could have summers with Natalie.
But going back to college seemed an impossibility. She was angry with Nate for allowing her to quit school, even though it had been her own idea to drop out and go to work to help put him through medical school. “I don’t even know why I’ve stayed in school this long,” she’d told him back then. “It’s just a waste of money. It’s not like I’ll need a degree in Colombia.” But she thought now that he should have insisted that she finish, that she get a degree of some kind.
She was angry with Nate, and she was angry with God for letting him die. It didn’t make sense that a loving God would allow someone as caring and giving as Nathan Camfield to die just as he was beginning a life dedicated to serving others. How could God have let them—both of them—sacrifice so much, work so hard toward Nate’s goal of becoming a doctor? How could he have called them to the mission field, only to take it all away, leaving her alone and ill prepared to support their daughter? She would never understand it.
Sighing, she forced away the angry feelings and turned again to the classified section of the paper. With a growing feeling of desperation, she folded back the page and began scanning the columns.
An item under the “Help Wanted” section caught her eye: “Receptionist for veterinary clinic in small town. Full-time position with flexible hours, benefits. Will train.”
Well, it was far from the teaching field, but “flexible hours” and “will train” sounded promising. And the clinic was nearby in Bristol, where she had attended high school. She scribbled down the address, along with the phone numbers of several other
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