The Secrets of Midwives (7 page)

The room came apart at the seams. What a delightful young man! Isn't Elizabeth lucky? Many of the guests were in tears. I also shed a tear, though perhaps for different reasons.

The bridal waltz followed, then all the dances after that. Father–daughter, mother–son, in-laws, bridesmaids. Bill and Elizabeth swept around the floor, gazing at each other, as indeed they should have been. Evie and her new beau, Jack, pressed up against each other like a pair of magnets. Meanwhile, I took my maid of honor duties seriously, powdering Elizabeth's nose, keeping her quarrelling aunts apart, dancing with the best man. As the event drew to a close, I helped Elizabeth's parents pack up the hall. As I bundled the last of the gifts into Elizabeth's father's car, two fingers tapped impatiently against my shoulder.

“Does the groom get a dance with the maid of honor?”

I slammed the trunk and turned around. Bill was glassy eyed, his top three buttons undone and his bow tie hanging open. He gave me a cheeky grin.

I consulted an imaginary piece of paper that I pulled from an imaginary pocket. “I don't see it on the run sheet, I'm afraid.”

He moved in closer beside me and I caught a whiff of the carnation in his pocket. He looked at my pretend run sheet. “Are you sure? I think I see it—” He pointed a finger in the air. “—right here.”

“I think you're seeing things. Elizabeth is about to throw the bouquet. We'd best get inside.”

“Are you hoping to catch it?” he asked.

“No. Evie should be the one tonight.”

“And why, may I ask, not you?”

I looked at my feet. I worried that if I looked directly at Bill, I might not be able to look away. Ever. “Well … she and Jack have been dating for months, and I—I don't have a lad.”

“Well, then…,” Bill said, “how about that dance?”

I scanned the space around us. A few guests hovered by their cars, saying good-byes. “I really don't think that's a good idea.”

Bill opened his arms in a waltz stance. He grasped my right hand in his left and pointed them at the sky. “Bill,” I said. “We really should get back to Elizabeth.”

I heard a car engine, then watched as the small group who'd been hovering outside drove away. Bill looked from the car to me and waggled his eyebrows. “All alone.”

He pulled me a little closer. Our bellies pressed together. My heart started to race, and I had no idea if that was good, or bad.

“Elizabeth has had my attention all day,” he said into my ear. At the same time, he moved his right hand a fraction lower. “And you, not having a lad and all, are in need of a bit of attention, I'd say.”

 

7

Neva

I decided to become a midwife on a Wednesday. I was fourteen. After school, my teacher had passed me a note with the address where Grace was delivering. This happened from time to time, when the client's house was within walking distance from school. This day it took me about twenty minutes to get there and when I did, a piece of lined paper was wedged between the wrought iron and the mesh of the screen door. The handwriting was Grace's.

Door is open. We're in the back.

“I'm here,” I called as I let myself in. I stood in the hallway, waiting for Grace to shout out a greeting. After a few minutes, she'd come and update me on how it was going, and either give me cab money or tell me Dad would pick me up on the way home. Not this day. Instead, the bedroom door peeled open. Her face was pale.

“Neva—thank God. Quick. Come in.”

I froze; a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“My birth assistant is sick, she's had to go home. Agnes is nine centimeters dilated—I need someone now.”

When I was younger I was often in the room while Grace's clients delivered. On those days, she jokingly called me her assistant. I may have passed her a towel or held a client's hand for a while. I may even have whispered a few motivating words. But she'd also had an actual assistant. Someone experienced with childbirth. “I can't.”

“Course you can.”

She ducked back into the room. Despite my reservations, I dropped my bag onto the floor and slowly followed her.

The woman—Agnes—sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a cream waffle-cotton robe. Her elbows were pressed against her knees and she rocked back and forth, moaning softly. Her husband sat beside her, rubbing her back.

“This is my daughter,” Grace said. “She's attended more births than you've had hot dinners.”

I wasn't so sure. The man was at least thirty. I'd attended about twenty births—fifty, if you included those I'd heard from my bedroom but didn't see. Unless he'd eaten a lot of cold dinners, Grace's stats were off.

“How old is she?” he asked.

I opened my mouth.

“Sixteen,” Grace cut in. “And we don't have a lot of choice, Jeremy. My birth assistant had to leave. We're just lucky we have an experienced person here to help us. Unless you'd like to transfer Agnes to a hospital?”

“No,” Agnes said.

Her husband, Jeremy, turned to her. “Honey—”

“No hospital! I'm not sick and neither is my baby. Why should we go to the hospital? I want my baby to be born right here in its home, not in some stark, sterile hospital room surrounded by strangers in surgical masks.”

Agnes's tone left no room for doubt. I could tell Grace was trying not to look smug. She failed. “Right, then,” she said. “It's decided. Neva, I have to prepare. Can you stay here with Agnes?”

She was gone before I could respond.

Another contraction was upon Agnes, and she curved in on herself again. She was in the advanced stages of labor, clearly, but I'd heard worse. I let her finish the contraction, then spoke.

“I'm Neva,” I started, feeling self-conscious. I squatted down, bending to see her face. It struck me that she might not be in the best position for this stage of labor. “Are you feeling comfortable there?”

She sat upright. I didn't expect, after the strength of her no-hospital declaration, to see anguish on her face. “I'm just … exhausted.”

“I know,” I said, though I didn't. I was a fourteen-year-old girl—what did I know about labor? I tried to think of what Grace would say to this woman, but all the options were too airy-fairy for my liking.
You are a warrior
was one of her catchphrases.
Think of your precious little angel, ready to grow its wings
. Neither of those things felt like me.

“Would you like to try standing?” I said. That was one thing my mother had taught me that was based on science, rather than fairy dust and sunshine. Good old gravity. “Your husband and I can take your weight, and you can hug one of us through contractions.”

I must have got her at the right time, because she seemed happy to get up, and reported that it helped a lot. Strangely, Agnes chose to hug me during contractions, rather than her husband, but I attributed it to height. Her head rested on my shoulder and we got into a good rhythm, pacing and adopting the slow-dance position when the pains came on. With each contraction, her face locked up—but she remained purposeful. She listened to all my suggestions and followed them.

“Shhh, you're okay,” I told her, rocking back and forth, working through a contraction with her. “You're okay.”

In fact, she was better than okay. I was impressed. Though I didn't share my mother's disdain of doctors and hospitals, there was something to admire about a woman's determination to stick to her guns to have a natural home birth. She was certainly being tested. As I rocked back and forth with her, an unexpected feeling came over me. A feeling that I was an integral part of something. Something greater than myself.

“You're amazing, Agnes.” Even as I spoke, the words sounded like they had come from someone else. “You're doing it. Soon, the pain will be over, but you'll have done something extraordinary. I'm very proud of you.”

It was an odd thing for a teenager to say to a woman in her twenties or thirties. But it just came out. Odder was the fact that she responded to it. She nodded. She
believed
me.

By the time Grace returned to the room, Agnes was feeling pressure in her pelvis.

“Looks like you're ready to push your baby out, Agnes,” Grace said. “Let's get you into position.”

To my surprise, Agnes looked at me. “Is it best to stand while I deliver too?”

“It's best to be in whatever position feels right to you,” I said, not missing a beat. I felt Grace staring, but I didn't break Agnes's gaze. “So you tell us.”

She frowned as she thought. “I'd like to squat.”

When Agnes was in position, squatting over the end of the bed with her husband and me at each side, Grace raised her eyebrows at me. “Go ahead.”

“Really?” I mouthed.

Grace nodded. If she had any concerns, she kept them well hidden. It bolstered my confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I could do this. I paused, trying to think what to say. But when Agnes whimpered, the words just came.

“Try to blow while you push,” I said, kneeling by Grace's side at Agnes's feet. “We don't want the baby to come too fast or it can cause a tear.”

Agnes did as I said. Grace moved to the side as the baby emerged, and I continued to guide Agnes, drawing on words of support that had obviously been buried deep in my subconscious. By the time the baby boy spilled into my arms, I knew. Women
were
warriors. And I wanted to be part of it.

*   *   *

Erin lay on the operating table, gripping her husband's hand. She blinked up at me tearily. “What's happening?”

I peeked over the curtain. Sean's forehead was gently pinched in concentration. Beside him, Marion, a gossipy middle-aged nurse who for some reason I'd taken an instant disliking to upon meeting, stood, suction at the ready. Patrick was in the corner, whispering to Leila, a pediatric nurse, who was chuckling. Everyone was going about their business, and the atmosphere told me everything was well. Still, I knew the patients liked to hear it from the doctor's mouth.

“How's it going, Dr. Cleary?” I asked Sean.

“We'll have this little one out in a minute,” he said. “The heart rate has stabilized.”

I squeezed Erin's hand and smiled at her husband, Angus. “Did you hear that? You're in good hands.”

“Very good hands,” Marion echoed. “Dr. Cleary is one of the best doctors in the country.”

Marion smiled preemptively at Sean. But when he kept his head down, her smile thinned. Marion made it her business to stay on the right side of doctors, if only to give the impression that she had more clout around the hospital than she actually did. It drove her crazy that Sean didn't buy into it, particularly as he wasn't opposed to a bit of hero worship. What she didn't know was that he was a private person and his disdain for gossip took priority over his need to have his ego stroked. It was one of many things I liked about him.

On the operating table, Erin started to well up. “I just wanted so much to do this myself.”

I squatted down beside her. Erin's two older sisters had delivered their children at the birthing center. Of all my clients, this family had perhaps been the most moved by the experience. Both sisters had raved about the transformative quality of natural birth, and about how afterwards, they'd felt superhuman. I knew Erin had hoped that she would experience this superhuman feeling today. And I was going to make sure that she did.

“I know. But Dr. Cleary said everything looks good. We're lucky that we have access to expert medical attention when complications arise. The most important thing is that your baby is safe.”

A tear dripped onto the table. “But why did complications arise? What did I do?”

I felt a stab of resentment toward my mother and her bitter diatribe about doctors and hospitals. While I was a huge fan of a natural birth where it was possible, I was a huger fan of doing what was safest for mothers and babies. Some women chose to have a C-section, some needed one for their own, or their baby's, health. Scaremongering and quoting intervention statistics did a lot more harm than good, in my opinion.

“I'll let you in on a little secret, okay?” I lowered my voice. “That superhuman feeling people describe? It has nothing to do with the way the baby comes out. It's about what happens to the mother.
You
become superhuman. You'll grow extra hands and legs to look after your baby. You'll definitely grow an extra heart for all the love you'll feel.” Erin was watching me intently. “The second you see this baby, you won't care if it came out your stomach or your nose.” About this, I was certain. “You'll feel it, I promise you. Just wait and see.”

“A nasal delivery?” Sean's voice was loud and contemplative through the screen. “Is that what you midwives get up to in your birthing center? I always thought you lot were a little unorthodox.”

Erin's lips curved up slightly. That was another thing I liked about Sean. He knew when and how to lighten a mood.

“Here we go,” he said, and a tiny cry came through the thin sheet. Erin sucked in a breath as a little face appeared over the top of the curtain. “No! Already?”

“It's a boy!” Sean said with delight that was hard to feign. “Just a bit of cord around his middle. He's fine.”

“A boy!” Erin cried. “Did you hear that, Angus? It's a boy.”

I stood and peeked over the screen. Sean handed Patrick the baby and he carried him over to the baby warmer. “He's a good size,” I said. “Looks perfectly healthy. The pediatrician and nurses are checking him out, but I'll go hurry them along. We want him in your arms as soon as possible.”

“Oliver,” Erin said. “His name is Oliver.”

I nodded. “I'll bring Oliver back as soon as I can.”

Leila, the pediatric nurse, was rubbing Oliver with a warm towel while Patrick did the suction. He was pinking up beautifully. “Looks good,” I said.