The Secrets of Midwives (31 page)

“Now, off with you,” he said sleepily. “Mietta and I have some bonding to do.”

I skulked back to my bed. In the next room, Mom was already snoring. My daughter was asleep in the living room. And, with my dad watching over us all, my eyelids fluttered closed.

*   *   *

The next week passed in a blur, and I didn't go out of the house once. Mom and Dad went home. I had mixed feelings about them leaving, and it was hard watching them go, but once they left and it was just me and Mietta, I felt a strange sort of content. Patrick called, a couple of times, but he had a knack for calling when I was asleep or in the shower. Once, he left a voice message, saying he hoped we were doing okay and was looking forward to seeing us soon. Another time, he texted, asking to see a photo. I thought these were good signs, but I didn't want to read too much into them. I was in self-preservation mode.

Mietta and I camped out on my bed: sleeping, breast-feeding, and snuggling. The hormones must have buoyed my mood, because although I still thought about Patrick, and I still desperately hoped that we might have a chance together, I knew my world wouldn't fall apart if things didn't work out. No, I held my world—my tiny, pink world—next to my heart, virtually at all times. I'd always thought the idea of being attached to your baby at all times, as Mom advocated, was a little much. Sleeping in the same room, carrying them strapped to your chest—I thought it was her hippie mumbo jumbo on crack. But during the week that my daughter had been in the world, I'd realized both of us were happier that way. Turned out Mom knew more than I gave her credit for. About a lot of things.

Dad, who was unemployed, came by every day—even more than Mom—to see his granddaughter. Gran and Lil had visited twice, once with roast chicken. I wanted to enjoy living in my bubble for a little longer, but I knew I would have to go outside soon. Anne had called and said everyone at the birthing center was champing at the bit to meet Mietta. And it hadn't escaped me that it might be a chance to run into Patrick. Even if things could never be as they were, I missed him. I had the feeling that glimpsing him—in the real world—would give me a good indication of how the land lay.

On the eighth day, I pushed Mietta to the birthing center in her new stroller. It felt good to be outside. It was a brilliant, blue-skied day. The snow had turned to mush at our feet, but my heavy-duty stroller made easy work of it. The week indoors had done nothing for my complexion. I'd slapped some pink on my cheeks and brushed my hair and squeezed into jeans and a bright blue knitted poncho. It was amazing the lift dressing up gave me. Even Mietta seemed happier to see me. I hoped she wasn't going to be the only one.

I decided to head to the birthing center through the hospital, even though it had a street entrance. I told myself it was to get out of the slush, but I wasn't kidding anyone, even myself. I knew whom I was hoping to see. The halls were pretty quiet. I passed a few familiar faces, I even waved to a few folks, but no Patrick. Then, as I turned the final corner, I heard my name.

Sean beamed at me. “Wow! You look fantastic.” He hugged me. “And look at this. A beautiful baby girl.”

Sean and I smiled into the stroller, and though it was probably gas, Mietta smiled back.

“There you go, she's got good taste. Already recognizes a handsome man when she sees one.”

“She just thinks you're funny-looking, Sean.”

“By the way,” he said, his selective hearing as good as ever. “I heard about the birth. Your mom is an absolute hero.”

I couldn't hide my smile. “She sure is.”

“What a coup for midwifery, eh? Dr. Hargreaves is really excited about it—she wants your mom to come and speak to the Obstetrics department.”

“Really? I'm sure she'd be happy to do that.” It was the understatement of the century. Grace telling doctors how to suck eggs? It would be the highlight of her life.

“I bet her business is booming. It was all over the newspapers: ‘Breech Baby Delivered Amid Conanicut Island Blizzard.' What a headline.”

“I don't know if her business is booming. We haven't talked about it. All we've talked about is the baby since she was born.”

He smiled. I smiled.

A doctor across the foyer caught Sean's eye, and he held up one finger. “Well look, I have to run. Glad I got to meet your darling daughter.” Offhandedly, he pecked my cheek. “You girls take care of each other.”

“We will. Bye, Sean.”

*   *   *

I hadn't expected all the fanfare at the birthing center. Anne had made chocolate-chip muffins, and a few of the midwives who weren't even on shift had come in. Only one woman was in labor, and it was the early stages, so we managed to have a little party in the foyer.

“Tell us about the birth,” Anne said between fielding calls. “We're dying to hear!”

I retold the story of Mietta's birth several times to gasps and covered mouths, and funnily, quite enjoyed being the center of attention. Particularly on this subject, which I found quite interesting. Since Mietta's birth, I'd read everything I could find on vaginal footing births and was constantly on YouTube, watching it happen. If I could have a successful safe vaginal footing delivery, I was determined to find out if others could too.

Mietta was passed around from person to person. It was quite nice having my arms free for a while. Talking to adults was also a nice change of pace. I chatted happily but kept my eyes trained on the door.

Susan sat by my side the whole time, and every now and again, I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.

The party crumbled when two clients arrived in progressed labor.

“We must do this again soon,” Anne said when the phone rang for the fifteenth time. She scrambled back to her desk. I took my cue, bundling Mietta back into her winter suit. While I waited for her to hang up so I could say good-bye, I felt—actually felt—Patrick arrive.

He wore a gray winter coat over a T-shirt and jeans. A leather bag crossed over one shoulder. His lips were curled into a preliminary smile. “Hi.”

Anne hung up the phone, still scribbling a message. “Okay. Do you need help getting out, Neva?”

“It's okay, Anne. I'll help her.”

Anne's head snapped up. When she located Patrick, she inhaled sharply.

“Thank you for the party,” I said, before she could speak. “I won't hang around. I see you're busy.”

I held Mietta out for her to kiss, which she did, studying my face. I worked to keep it carefully neutral and avoided her stare. I felt like my feet might rise right up off the floor at any moment, and one pointed look from Anne, I knew, would be enough to send me into a full-blown panic.

Patrick commandeered the stroller and snaked it one-handedly out the door. I followed him down the hallway and through the automatic doors into the cold, sunny day. Once we got there, though, I had no idea what to say.

“I have a joke—” I started, but Patrick cut in.

“Sorry,” he said, “I just want to say this first. I'm sorry about how I reacted. When you told me about Sean.”

I opened my mouth.

“I was jealous,” he said louder, making it clear he was going to finish. “But I shouldn't have left you on the stairs like that. I shouldn't have let you believe that it would change things between us.” He blinked, frowned; then his face morphed into a soft smile. “Why are you crying?”

I reached up and touched my wet cheek. I
was
crying. “Because I love you. And I couldn't have blamed you if you'd changed your mind—”

“I didn't change my mind. Just so we're clear on that. And”—he blushed—“I love you, too.”

A tear dripped off my chin. I laughed. I was crying. I was professing my love for a man on the street. All the things I'd known to be true about myself were fast proving to be lies.

Patrick grinned. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Here. I've been meaning to give you this.” He fished a package, wrapped in white paper covered in yellow rattles, from his bag. “For Mietta. I bought it a while back. Before … well, you know. But I thought you still might like it.”

I wiped my cheek and took the gift. “Should I … open it now?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

As I slipped my hands out of my gloves, I saw they were shaking. I started to pick at the tape on one end and then decided to take a leaf out of my mother's book and tear it off in one go. Patrick laughed. The sound of it unraveled something in me, something that had been wrapped too tight for too long.

A book with a pale green cover stared back at me.
BABY'S FIRST YEAR
.

I opened the cover. The brightly colored pastel pages reminded me of the paint swatches Patrick and I had picked out for the nursery a lifetime ago. “Thank you,” I said. “We don't have one of these.”

“Well, now you do.”

I turned the page. At first it looked blank, but then I noticed the scrawly, doctorly pencil marks along the right-hand side.
MOMMY'S NAME IS
Neva
.
DADDY'S NAME IS
Patrick
.

I glanced up. Patrick blushed. “I filled it in before she was born, obviously, but you can change it to Mark's name if you want.”

His face was carefully neutral, his hands dug into pockets, shoulders sloped down. A strange stillness came over him. I couldn't even see the rise and fall of his breath.

“Well … there's a bit of space here,” I said slowly, looking back at the book. Maybe we can leave it and … just add Mark's name?”

Patrick's chest began to move again. “Sure. We could do that … if you want.”

Now we both smiled shyly. My insides tickled—that feeling when you've won a race and you're just waiting for it to be announced to the crowd. We rocked back and forth a few times, grinning stupidly.

“So…,” I started. “Gran and Lil are coming over later. They'd love to watch Mietta for a few hours. We could … I don't know … go for coffee or something—”

“Actually, I was hoping the
three
of us could go for coffee,” he said. “You, Mietta, and me?” His lips curled into a sexy half smile. How did he always know the exact thing to say?

“Nellie's?” I said.

He nodded. “Nellie's.” He started to push the stroller he had failed to assemble. “So what was the joke?”

“Ah yes,” I said. “Two babies were sitting in their cribs when one called over to the other: ‘Are you a little girl or a little boy?' ‘I don't know,' replied the other baby. ‘What do you mean, you don't know?' asked the first. ‘I mean I don't know how to tell the difference.' ‘Well, I do,' said the first baby, chuckling. ‘I'll climb into your crib and find out.' So he carefully maneuvered himself into the other baby's crib, then disappeared beneath the blanket. After a couple of minutes, he resurfaced with a big grin on his face. ‘You're a little girl and I'm a little boy,' he said proudly. ‘You're so clever,' cooed the baby girl. ‘But how can you tell?' ‘It's easy,' replied the baby boy. ‘You've got pink booties and I've got blue ones.”

I grinned at Patrick expectantly. “Good, right?”

“No.” But he chuckled. “Terrible.”

He kept walking, and I fell into step beside him. “Come on. Like you can talk.”

With one hand on the stroller and the other slung low around my waist, Patrick maneuvered us through the snow toward Nellie's. The sun was at our backs, and the light slid over our shoulders and onto Mietta's face. Before I could reach for the hood, Patrick quickened his step, putting himself between her and the sun. It was an instinct, a reflex. Something a father would do.

Gran was right. When it came to family, biology was only part of it. Patrick and I, Mark and Imogen, Mom and Dad, Gran and Lil—we'd give Mietta a wonderful family.

Together, the three of us turned the corner, toward Nellie's. Toward home.

 

About the Author

Sally Hepworth
is a former event planner and human resources professional. A graduate of Monash University in Melbourne, Australia, Sally started writing novels after the birth of her first child. She is the author of
Love Like the French
, published by Random House Germany in February 2014. Sally has lived around the world, spending extended periods in Singapore, the U.K., and Canada, and she now writes full-time from her home in Melbourne, where she lives with her husband and two young children. Visit Sally's Web site at
www.sallyhepworthauthor.com
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