The Secrets of Midwives (13 page)

“Give her to her mother,” Patrick said. “She wants to meet her parents before she sees my ugly mug. And there's obviously nothing wrong with her lungs.”

I didn't know whether to be glad or disappointed that Patrick was disproving so many of my preconceptions about doctors.

We moved Gillian to the bed, and I placed the baby, still covered in vernix and blood, on her mother's stomach. Neva stood at Gillian's side, rubbing the baby with a warm towel. I watched the scene, holding my breath. Gillian lifted the towel from the baby's face to look at her daughter. I thought about saying something, but decided against it. They needed time.

“Oh!” Gillian said eventually, in a half sob. She tried to swallow, blinked back tears. “Her face.”

I nodded to Neva to come and take my place at the end of the bed. The placenta was still to come, but I had to be with Gillian. I joined her at the head of the bed and gazed down at the newborn squirming on her mother's breast.

“Oh, Gillian.” My hand flew to my mouth. The baby's top lip rose to meet the base of the left nostril, leaving a gaping black hole in the center of her face. The rest of her face was fine—perfect, in fact. I peeled the towel back farther, revealing ten perfect fingers and toes, and a big round belly. She squinted up at us crossly. My heart exploded. “She's … beautiful.”

I couldn't keep the beam off my face. Neva was smiling too, but she wasn't looking at the baby. She was looking at me.

“She
is
beautiful,” Gillian said, as if seeing her for the first time. “Look, David. Look at her little hands and feet.”

I smiled as the new parents marveled at their new daughter. Had it really been twenty-nine years since I'd done this myself? Just like then, these parents had fallen hopelessly in love with their child in an instant. Everything was as it should be.

“Okay if I take a look at her?” I stood back as Patrick approached.

Gillian closed her arms around her daughter. “Do you have to take her?” A look of fierce protectiveness covered her face.

“Maybe just another few minutes, Patrick?” I asked.

Patrick smiled. “I'm not taking her anywhere. I can examine her right where she is, if that's okay. It's the best place for her, right next to Mom.”

Gillian loosened her grip slightly. She nodded. “Yes. That's okay.”

“Good. Now, let me see.” Patrick opened the towel. “Hello, beautiful.”

Neva was watching Patrick. Her expression was soft and unguarded.

“Does she have a name?” he asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Okay, well, I'm just going to have to call you ‘little one.'”

Without removing the baby from her mother, he did a once-over, listened to her lungs, checked her reflexes. “Good. Very good.”

Patrick smiled throughout the examination and when he was finished, he rewrapped her towel. “I'm sure you're anxious about the lip, so let's talk about that first. The good news is that we can do a lot with surgery. The operation is very common, and very successful. The palate is a little more complicated, but the prognosis is good.…”

Patrick continued, patiently answering the parents' questions in layman's terms, not a trace of the arrogant brush I liked to paint doctors with. He was so likable. I sidled up to Neva, who was inspecting the placenta in a kidney dish. “So—?”

Neva didn't even look up. “No. He's not the father. And I'm not interested.”

“All right. All right.” I held up my hands. “Keep your hair on—”

“Anyway, he's not the type to settle down with one woman. Why would you, when you can have them all? For God's sake,
you're
already in love with him! Can you imagine how it is around the hospital?”

I nodded slowly.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. It's just…”

“Spit it out, Grace.”

“Well, he
did
drive an awful long way, in the middle of the night, to help you out, Neva. And you
were
very comfortable asking him to do that. Maybe there's more going on than you—”

“Grace?” Patrick approached from behind, and Neva studiously returned her attention to the placenta. “I'm going to arrange for a transfer to the local hospital,” he said. “I want the baby to be looked at sooner rather than later.”

“Already?” I said.

“We can't!” Neva said. “Gillian has a tear that needs stitching.”

“Well,” Patrick said. “I could always take David and the baby—”

“No.” Gillian crossed her arms over her baby. “If she's going to the hospital, I'm going too.”

I smiled. The mother's instinct was primal, even after just a few minutes. “Okay,” I said. “We can tend to the stitch at the hospital. Let me just clean you and get you some fresh pads and we can go. Where's your other daughter? Is there someone you'd like me to call?”

“She's with a neighbor,” David said. “I'll go get her once we know everything is okay here.”

Neva had already got some pads down from the cupboard and was filling a dish with warm water. “I'll stay, Grace,” she said. “I know all the birth details, I can write the notes and clean up here. You go with Gillian. I'll call the hospital and let them know you're coming.”

A few minutes later, we loaded Gillian, David, and the baby into my car. Patrick started up his own vehicle, ready to follow us there. Neva held my car door open for me. “Good luck.”

I gave her a chaste kiss, and she caught my waist and pulled me into a quick hug. “You did good today, Grace,” she said into my ear. “And you were right. It
was
magic.”

Before I could gather my thoughts enough to speak, she was striding back toward the house.

 

12

Floss

The first time I laid eyes on Lil, she was in the third row of my Birthing Naturally class. In a black trouser suit with a mulberry scarf, she was dressed more for a wedding than a birthing class. Clearly she was too old to be pregnant. The empty seats beside her indicated she wasn't accompanying her daughter. She was a fine-boned woman with a pure white bob and a dainty, angled face. The opposite of myself, physically speaking. As I introduced myself to the class and handed out my reading material, I couldn't help stealing glances at her. She appeared a little out of place, but then, so did a lot of people. Birth, particularly for people of my generation, could make the best of people squeamish.

As soon as the class finished, she was out of her seat, beelining for the door. For a woman of her age, she was impressively lithe, but after ninety minutes of watching her arranging her delicate frame on the narrow chair, I wasn't going to let her go without saying hello.

“I hope you found the class worthwhile,” I called out as she zipped past me.

She hesitated then half turned back. “Er, yes. Thank you.” She took another step toward the door.

“Is your daughter expecting, or another family member?”

It wasn't my style to ask such personal questions, but for some reason, I couldn't help it.

She paused again. “Neither. No one is expecting.” She hesitated, perhaps unsure whether to say more. “I thought I was attending another class.” She looked at the cover of the notebook in her hand. “Room C1202.”

I blinked. “Toastmasters?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on her face.

A laugh escaped before I could help it. “So … why did you stay?”

“I'm not sure. But it sure had nothing to do with Birthing Naturally.”

*   *   *

It was early evening. Lil and I had eaten pasta in front of a television game show that I'd pretended to follow with some interest. But my heart hurt. Not figuratively—it physically hurt. A high, twanging pain across my sternum and my left side. I was thinking about Bill again. It had been years since he was such a part of my psyche, and I hated that he still had the privilege of my brain space. More so, I hated myself for the mess I had created. I'd never regretted what I'd done. But now, with Neva's situation so closely mirroring my own, my reasons for keeping the secret all these years seemed slightly less clear.

“You all right, Floss?” Lil asked. She'd cleared away the dinner dishes and now she stood in the corner of the sitting room, unfolding the wire rack to hang the laundry. She'd also cooked the dinner. I was letting down the team. “You're holding your chest.”

“Am I?” I looked at the hand hovering over my heart. “Oh. So I am.”

“You're worried about something.”

Lil wasn't stupid. I hadn't been myself since I'd got Neva's news, and while she'd left me to my thoughts initially, I got the feeling I'd used up my grace period. In the past few days, she'd become increasingly short with me. “I'm just … thinking about Neva.” I tried to ignore the faded yellow envelope peeking out of the corner of my purse. “And Grace.”

Lil shook out a T-shirt and hung it over the rack. “They've been taking up a lot of your thoughts lately.” She picked a pair of underwear out of the basket, then paused. “Neva's pregnancy is bringing up a lot of old hurts for you.” She draped the underpants over the wire and bent down to retrieve the next item. “I know virtually nothing about that part of your life. I wish you'd share with me.”

She continued hanging clothes, but her comment floated there, like dust in sunlight. I felt the presence of the envelope again—the letter from Evie that I'd dug out last night when I couldn't sleep. All I'd have to do was give that letter to Lil, and she'd know everything. But something stopped me. I wanted to tell her. I knew what it was like having someone clam up when you were worried about them. Though, at least Lil saw me every day and knew I wasn't in real, physical danger. When I was worried about Elizabeth, I didn't have that luxury. After Evie's engagement party, Elizabeth all but disappeared. Plans we made were always canceled.
Bill
had had a busy week;
Bill
needed her at home. It was frustrating, particularly since I couldn't seem to get her—or Bill—out of my mind. What was it about him? I couldn't put my finger on it.

I'd hoped that as her midwife, Evie would insist that Elizabeth attend prenatal clinics. If I could just see her, I was sure the funny feeling in my belly would dissipate. But Elizabeth took responsibility for her own prenatal care. She performed her own urine tests at home and she kept a weekly record of her stomach measurements, which showed the baby was growing properly. As a midwife herself, this was perfectly safe, and it made sense, since she lived a long way out and didn't have a car. But that did nothing to reassure me.

I thought about voicing my concerns to Evie, several times, but then what were my concerns, really? That I had a bad feeling about Bill? That he tried to dance with me outside on his wedding day? They sounded pathetic at best, and at worst, like sour grapes. So I just waited for Elizabeth to get in touch with me.

A few months later, out of the blue, a dinner invitation arrived, along with a note saying that Elizabeth was sorry she hadn't kept in touch better. I accepted the invitation. I'd have preferred that she come into town so I could take her to lunch and talk to her properly, but as that didn't seem to be an option, dinner would have to do.

I made the journey to Kings Langley on my bike. Elizabeth said that their house bordered town and country, but the closer I pedaled, the more obvious it became that it was just plain country. A light rain misted down over me as I pedaled. I hadn't seen a house for over fifteen minutes when I saw the lights of the little stone cottage. A car sat out front—a black town car. Strange. Bill didn't have a car. When I reached the house, I leaned my bike against the low wall, smoothed down my pinafore, and took the path to Elizabeth's front door, taking large steps to avoid the mud between the pavers.

Bill answered the door with a cigarette and a grin. “Floss. We were getting worried. We were about to send Michael out to look for you.”

Michael? I peered inside to where a young man stood. He was tall and thin, getting thinner at the top, like a sharpened pencil. His hair was brown, like his trousers, and neatly combed to the side. So
this
was the point of the dinner. My stomach, which already felt like it was being strangled with a belt, constricted further.

Bill gave me an easy hug. Easy for him. Not for me. His touch sent a strange tingle through me. I must have felt stiffer than an old corpse. He guided me through the door and straight into the kitchen, where Elizabeth stood, a clean red apron over her empire-line blouse. I was relieved to see her actually looking pregnant, even though she was carrying small, just a little mound in the front. The rest of her was normal size, perhaps even less than normal, but she'd always been slim. Her hair had been cut to chin length, and it was teased into a shiny, deep red bob that lifted at least three inches at the crown.

“Floss!” She took off her apron and hugged me. “I'm so happy you're here. I wanted to have you over sooner, but … well, never mind, you're here. Allow me introduce you to Michael. Michael: Floss; Floss: Michael.” She flicked her wrist back and forth between us. “Michael lives on a neighboring farm—cattle—with his father and brother, and was desperate for a home-cooked meal so I insisted he join us. Single and eligible.”

She lowered her voice and sang the last part, but she didn't lower her voice enough. Michael turned away, politely busying himself looking at photographs on the mantel, but his cheeks were pink, and he was clearly holding back a smile.

“Can I get you a drink, Floss?” Bill was in a jolly mood, and Elizabeth also appeared happy, high on the intoxication of matchmaking. It was hard not to get caught up in it. She ushered us to the “dining room,” a small, windowless area that adjoined the kitchen and centered on a circular table. The house
was
tiny. Just a kitchen, an eating area, and another closed door, which must have been the bedroom. The bathroom, from what I could ascertain, was outside. A hard slog, I imagined, for a pregnant woman who could be up several times through the night. Odd that I hadn't heard her complain about it. Then again, I hadn't heard much from her at all these past few months.