The Secrets of Midwives (11 page)

Everyone was grinning and swilling. Everyone but me. Was I the only one who'd felt that? Evidently, I was. Conversations had resumed and from what I could hear, they weren't talking about Bill. Even Evie's dad was making small talk with Bill, and it appeared to be amicable. And why not? Nothing had happened other than a man being a little careless with his wife after a few too many drinks. Many men were guilty of worse. But the feeling in my stomach said it was something more.

*   *   *

“Gran?”

“Yes?”

Neva was watching me with an expression that made me nervous. “Why would you travel across the other side of the world with a brand-new baby?”

Silence engulfed us. I realized my misstep. Like Grace, Neva saw the parallels between our situations. But Neva's secret gave her insight Grace didn't have. She was right, of course. It didn't make any sense for me to cross the ocean with a new baby in tow.

Unless I had something to hide.

“What aren't you saying, Gran?”

I shrugged a little. “Perhaps it was a strange thing to do, but hindsight has a way of making things clear. In the moment, things are muddier, less obvious.”

Neva nodded, but her face was still wary. It worried me. She wasn't like Grace. She wouldn't press me on an issue I didn't want to discuss. But she also wouldn't forget about it the way her mother would. Her unresolved questions would sit, just under the surface, a palpable but invisible wall between us.

This wouldn't be the end of it. My granddaughter was on to me.

 

10

Neva

It was the first time I'd been home in days. Usually as I dashed from here to there, always late for the next thing, I courted a healthy lust for the idea of free time, the sleep-ins, the lazy breakfasts, the newspaper reading. Not today. The day ticked by in seconds, not minutes, and by late afternoon, I was climbing the walls.

When the buzzer rang at five
P.M.
, I perked up. A visitor. I heaved myself into a standing position, and then I found the button and tapped it down. “Hello?”

“Hi, darling.”

I opened my mouth, but I couldn't seem to project any words. Grace hadn't been to my apartment in years, not since she'd moved to Conanicut Island and developed a sudden intolerance for the “big smoke” of Providence. “Grace? Is that you?”

“Yes, it's me.”

Suddenly it was crystal clear. Grace was staging a surprise visit to try to catch me off guard. Perhaps she thought she'd find my baby's father crouched behind the sofa or, failing that, his wallet or football jersey in the bedroom. “Okay. Come on up.”

“Oh no, I can't stay,” she said. “Could you come down?”

My finger froze, poised over the button.
Seriously?
She'd come all the way to Providence and she wasn't even going to come inside? “Er … sure. Just a sec.”

As I took the stairs, it occurred to me that I liked the fact that my mother could still surprise me. Like the time when I was in the third grade, and as the rite of passage went, asked my parents for a dog. We were all living in Providence back then, and Dad said our yard wasn't big enough. Grace asked if I was upset and I remember saying “I guess not.” Being upset, I figured, wouldn't change the size of our yard.

That night, when Dad and I were watching TV, Grace crawled into the room on all fours, dressed in a white, furry bunny costume. Before we could even ask what she was doing, she barked, said they didn't have any dog outfits at the costume store, and that we could call her Rover. I had a strong urge to hug her, but instead I patted her furry back.

The next day she met me at the school gates, still dressed as the bunny. That, in essence, was the problem with Grace. She never knew when to quit.

I peeled open the door, and there she was. In her slightly too-long tie-dyed sundress with her wild strawberry hair, Grace looked small. Innocent. Well meaning.

“Well,” I said. “This is unexpected.”

Grace reached into a bag and produced a yellow Tupperware container. “Bell pepper and bean sprout soup. Rich in folic acid, vitamin A, vitamin C.”

“You made me soup?”

“Got to make sure my grandchild is getting its nutrients.”

Her smile was full and wide, exposing two rows of teeth. The steel gate around my heart opened and I stepped back, allowing the door to open further. “Come in, Grace. Have some soup with me.”

She pressed the soup into my hands. “I wish I could, but I have to get back. I don't want your father attempting to cook again.”

With a hand on each cheek, she kissed me. She smelled like essential oils—lavender and perhaps cedar. Grace loathed perfume, but thanks to the oils that burned constantly at her house, she always smelled lovely. “Let's talk soon okay, darling?”

I nodded dumbly as she turned and hurried away, her tangled hair trailing after her like a leashed puppy. As I watched her, I had an overwhelming urge to scream,
Wait! Stay. Have soup with me
. But it was too late. She was gone.

*   *   *

An hour later, I was still perched on the stoop of my building. Somehow the bustle of the street was preferable to the silence of my apartment. The sky was navy blue and dusted with lavender clouds, and the damp, earthy reek of an impending storm hung in the air. It was funny; Grace's visit, which was meant to be an act of kindness, had managed to make me feel even more alone than I had before.

People mooched along my street, nicely dressed, ready for a night out. There were no strollers about. People with kids were at home, out in the suburbs, cooking dinner and organizing carpools for the morning. Not these people. Some wore wedding bands; others were clearly new to each other—a first or second date. If things worked out for them, they'd probably do things the traditional way—an engagement, a wedding, then a baby. Or maybe they'd mix things up. I had to admit, I'd never minded the idea of doing things out of order, or perhaps never getting married, but I never expected that the baby would come before the man.

“Neva? Is that you?”

I blinked. “Mark?”

“It
is
you,” he said. “I thought you'd disappeared off the face of the earth.”

I smiled, wishing I'd done exactly that. It was all Eloise's fault. She had joined Sean, Patrick, and me for a drink at The Hip one night last year, and as usual, Patrick and Sean (but mostly Patrick) grilled her about my love life. Usually I found it pretty easy to ignore them, but this day, for some reason, they got under my skin.

“So tell us,” Patrick had asked, “does Neva ever bring guys back to the apartment?” Eloise told him the truth—that it was rare. Which was fine until she added that she'd be happy to introduce me to some eligible bachelors. The next thing I knew, her phone was out and she was preparing to text my number to a cute Italian accountant. I started to object, but as Patrick jotted down the number of Eloise's friend Amy, I heard myself say, “Sure thing. Text the accountant.”

Mark had done all the right things. Picked me up at the door, kept my glass full, asked me about myself. He even paid the bill while I was in the ladies' room. I laughed more than once and he disagreed with me a couple of times in a way that didn't get my back up. One glass of wine turned into a bottle, then another. As we made the journey back to my apartment, I was feeling pleasantly buzzed.

“So, do you want to um, come up for uh … coffee or something?” I asked on my doorstep. A pleasant beat of electricity fizzed between us.

“I don't drink coffee,” Mark said, taking a step toward me. “But, yes, I'd like to come up.”

As his lips touched mine, something stirred in me. It had been a long time. Somehow we made it up the stairs, across the apartment, and into my room, but we didn't make it as far as the bed. Afterwards, as we lay staring up at the roof, my head spun.

“Hey,” he said. “You wanna hear a joke?”

“Sur—” I rolled to face him, then paused and blinked hard.

Mark reached up and touched my cheek. “What is it?”

It was the strangest thing. I'd just been on a date with Mark. I'd
slept
with Mark. It might have been all the wine, but … when I looked at him, I expected to see Patrick. No, not expected. I
wanted
to see Patrick.

“Nothing.” I threw him a smile. But my buzz was gone. “I'm fine. What was the joke?”

The joke was funny. Not hilarious, but funny. I thought of Patrick again. Usually I had to fight to keep my mouth straight when he told me a joke. He loved it when I laughed. He said I was a tough audience, but it wasn't true. Sometimes his jokes were terrible and I'd still chuckle. Something about the way he looked at me right after he'd delivered the punch line—so cautiously hopeful—would set me off. And later, as I lay in bed or walked home from my shift, I'd think of that look and smile again.

The next time Mark tried to kiss me, I closed my eyes. But it didn't matter. The passion was gone.

I hadn't expected to hear from Mark again. But a few days later, I did: Did I want to catch a movie? Did I want to try that new French restaurant? Part of me did. But every time I tried to respond to his texts, my thumbs froze. Eventually he stopped texting, and I was grateful. Until now.

Mark turned to the woman to his right, as if remembering she was there. “Oh, uh … Neva, this is Imogen.”

“Hello, Imogen,” I said, forcing myself into a standing position. “Nice to meet you.”

Her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Hello.”

This, I knew, was the part when we would mutter something about being late, and shuffle off in separate directions. I was about to start the ball rolling when Mark's expression darkened.

“Could you give us a minute, Imo?” His voice was falsely bright, but his gaze, I suddenly noticed, was fixed on my stomach. “I'll meet you at your place.”

Imogen's puzzled expression must have matched mine. She looked from me to Mark and back again. Then her eyes found my belly. “Oh-kay,” she said, frowning. “See you at home.”

Mark smiled at her reassuringly. But when Imogen was gone, his smile fell away. “You're pregnant,” he said to me. It sounded like an accusation.

“Yes.”

“It's not—” He cleared his throat. “—it's not mine?”

“No. Oh God, no.” At least now I understood why he'd asked his girlfriend to leave.

“When are you due?” he asked.

“December thirty-first.”

I waited as he did the math. Then, satisfied, he nodded. “Well. Congratulations, I guess. I wish you luck.”

We bobbed our heads, the mood once again awkward. Drops started to fall from the sky, all at once heavy and separate, like tiny, teeming water balloons. The timing was good.

“Well, I guess I'd better—” Mark jabbed his thumb in the direction Imogen had headed.

“Yes,” I said. “Me too. Nice to see you, Mark.”

“You too,” he said.

I watched as Mark jogged away. Then, while I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, my phone began to ring.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Neva, I need your help.”

“Grace?” My heart beat a little faster. “What's wrong?”

“I have a client in labor. Her sister was meant to be my birth assistant but she's from out of state and the baby is coming early. I've tried Mary and Rhonda, they can't come. Any chance you could assist?”

I processed the information she'd given me. Grace did home births. The baby was early. The equation didn't add up. “If the baby's premature, Grace, you need to take her to the hospital.”

“She's thirty-seven weeks along, so there's no need for a hospital. She's having the baby at my place.”

A man leaving the building held the door open for me, and I gave him a wave as I slid inside. “What stage is she at?”

“I haven't examined her yet, but I'd guess she's five to six centimeters dilated, water intact, contractions six minutes apart for the last hour. Second baby.”

“When did labor start?” I started up the stairs.

“A couple of hours ago, but it's progressing at a reasonable rate.” I could hear the desperation in Grace's voice. “Darling? I really need you.”

I heaved the door open and plodded into my apartment. “I'm on my way.”

“You are?” Grace's voice broke. “You're really coming?”

“Of course I'm coming,” I said. The idea that she thought I wouldn't brought on a wash of shame. Sure, Grace and I had our troubles. But she was my mother. And no matter what problems existed between us, if she needed me, I'd come.

 

11

Grace

“Okay, Gill, just relax. I'm going to give you an internal exam, see how you're progressing. Lie back for me. Perfect.”

I snapped on my gloves and knelt at the end of the bed. Gillian's husband stood to my right. “David, I need you to help me slide her down the bed. You grab her shoulders, and Gill, you lift your bottom and shimmy down. Ready? Go.”

When Gillian was in position, I started my examination. “Eight centimeters. My, my. Well done, you.”

I smiled, then felt for the head, pausing as my fingers found a hard bone in the center of the skull. I concentrated on keeping my face neutral. What
was
that? I splayed my fingers, feeling the soft surrounding tissue. It felt like a buttock but … it couldn't have been. The baby had been head-down last time I examined Gillian. With my right hand I felt the outside of her stomach. Yes, it felt like a head.

Gillian started another contraction, and I removed my gloves and drifted to the sink. I couldn't make sense of it. If the baby was head-down, what was I feeling? Even though it was unlikely, I couldn't rule out a breech. If it was—it was high-risk. Too high-risk for a home birth. She'd have to be transferred to the hospital.