by Mary Kubica
He doesn’t look at Shelby when he speaks to her. “I’m going to get this baby out of you. Sound good?” Shelby unleashes a scream with the next contraction. Dr. Feingold finds humor in it. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says arrogantly. It makes me irate. The absence of a no should never mean yes. I’ve worked hard to create a culture of consent with my clients, especially in situations like this, where Shelby is vulnerable and Dr. Feingold in a position of power. There are risks in all manners of delivery. I know that. But a woman should be made aware of these risks. She should be given the opportunity to weigh the options for herself.
I see Dr. Feingold preparing the forceps for use. I won’t be silenced. “There are possible complications to using forceps to aid in delivery, Shelby,” I say, speaking quickly, urgently. I stand at the side of the bed, leaned into her. I look in her eyes. Shelby is completely spent. The exhaustion is tangible. She’d do anything for this delivery to be through. “The worst being brain damage, skull fracture, death. You should know this before—”
Dr. Feingold cuts me off. “Your doula,” he says smugly, degradingly, “has no medical training. Are you going to listen to her or me?”
Another contraction racks Shelby. “Just get this baby out of me!” she screams.
Dr. Feingold takes that for consent. He applies forceps to the baby’s head. He uses the forceps to first turn the baby’s head. With the next contraction, he instructs Shelby to push as he drags the baby out. As he does, Shelby screams in excruciating pain, despite the epidural, as if she’s being torn in two.
The baby doesn’t cry when she arrives. My first thought is that she won’t survive.
KATE
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
“You should have told me you were going to ask about Meredith,” Bea shouts at me as we make our way across the parking lot and toward the car. The rain is coming down hard, the parking lot riddled with puddles that we step into, sending rainwater everywhere, soaking our legs and feet. We use whatever we can to keep ourselves marginally dry. Bea has slipped out of a jacket and holds it over her head. I use my tote bag, though it’s canvas, and doesn’t do much to fend off the rain. The rain leaks through. I get wet, anyway, despite the bag.
The medical building backs up to an expressway. Traffic is heavy and loud. The fact that it’s raining again only compounds the problem. The rain is as loud as the street traffic. The streets are wet. People tend to drive like idiots when the streets are wet, meaning that every few seconds someone lays on their horn.
Bea isn’t shouting at me, though she is angry. She’s shouting over the noise.
“Why?” I shout back as we reach the car. Bea and I part ways, me going to the driver’s side where I open the door and slide quickly in before the rain has a chance to follow me.
My body is sore from the exam. I feel dirty, sick. I want nothing more than to go home, to shower, change, wash Dr. Feingold’s hands from me.
On the other side of the car, Bea slips into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door closed. She turns to me and says, “So I could have talked you out of it. You told me you just wanted to get eyes on him, Kate. You didn’t tell me you were going to ask about Meredith.”
She pauses for breath. “He isn’t a nice man,” she says, which I know. Even if he hasn’t killed Shelby or done something to Meredith, he still wouldn’t be a nice man. He’s arrogant, insensitive, abrasive.
I turn on the car and begin to drive. Rain pours down from the sky. The wipers whip back and forth across the glass. They can’t keep up with the downpour. I have trouble seeing out the windshield as I pull out of the parking lot and into the street. I cut it too close, cutting off another car; the driver lays on their horn for a prolonged period of time, putting me even more on edge than I was to begin with. Usually I’d step on the gas and pull away, but I can’t with the streets as wet as they are. It takes time for us to pick up speed.
“Careful, Kate,” Bea scolds. “That was close.” The other car switches lanes and speeds around us, inconvenienced and apparently immune to the weather.
The window is all fogged up. I rub at the glass with the sleeve of a shirt, clearing a semicircle out of which I just barely see. I turn on both the rear and the front defrost.
“I didn’t tell you,” I say to Bea, “because I knew what you’d say.”
“And what’s that?” she asks. She tosses her wet jacket into the back seat.
“You’d tell me not to go through with it.”
“You’re damn right,” she says. “The man is in the middle of a malpractice suit. Meredith is a witness. She was going to expose him. Regardless of what’s happened to Shelby or Meredith, you think bringing her name up wouldn’t tip him off to something? He knows where we live, Kate,” she says. “He knows because you told him. You wrote it down on those forms. If he figures out we’re Meredith’s next-door neighbors, he’ll think we’re colluding with her.”
“But you saw his reaction?” I ask, fighting through the fog to see. I lean forward in my seat, gazing out that four-inch circle that gradually grows, but not quickly enough for me. I consider pulling over, waiting the deluge out. But more than anything, I want to be home, behind a locked door. I need a shower. I need clean, dry clothes. It’s cold in the car and I’m drenched to the bone. “You saw how he responded when I asked about Meredith, didn’t you? He lied, Bea. He said he’d never heard of her, when he has. Why would he lie if he hasn’t done something to her?”
“I don’t know, but listen,” Bea says, her tone softening so that she’s hard to hear over the pelting rain, which isn’t only rain now, but hail. It stabs at the hood of the car like knives. “It’s time we stop being amateur sleuths and let the police handle this. We’re in over our heads,” she says, sounding scared. Bea is the strong one, my fearless leader. I’ve never known Bea to be scared.
“I know we are,” I say, feeling guilty for what I’ve done, for worrying Bea like this. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have brought Meredith up. That was stupid of me,” I say, though I’m glad I did it. I got the answer I was looking for. I came out of the appointment with exactly what I was hoping to get: a gut reaction telling me that yes, this is a man who could hurt another human being.
The rear windshield starts to clear. As it does, the street behind me becomes minimally visible, enough to see a pair of headlights riding my tail from behind.
At first I think nothing of it. I wish only that the other driver would slow down. The roads are wet. They’re slick. I can feel the slipperiness and the unpredictability of the street in my hands as I cling tightly to the steering wheel, going below the speed limit. The rain comes down so quickly that the wipers can’t keep up. It makes it difficult, if not nearly impossible, to see. I focus my attention on the taillights of the car in front of me and try to keep in a straight line. But I can’t see the markings on the street to know for certain if I’m between the white lines, or if I’ve glided over them, into oncoming traffic. As we pass the cars that move in the opposite direction of us, I hold my breath, hoping and praying that there’s enough space between us because I don’t honestly know. I keep at a safe distance from the driver before me. It’s safer that way, in case he or she needs to slam on the brakes, and because the spray of rainwater from their tires only exacerbates my visibility problem.
I only wish the driver behind me would do the same. He’s close to rear-ending me. The rain brings out the worst in drivers.
I step on the gas, hoping to widen the distance between us, but it doesn’t help because this other driver only speeds up as I do, still riding my tail. I can’t get a good look at the car. The rain is thick. It’s impossible to see through, other than where cars or traffic signals emit light.
“What’s wrong?” Bea asks, sensing my growing agitation.
“This idiot driver is riding my tail,” I say.
Bea takes a
cursory glance in the side mirror. “Just take your time,” she says. “He can go around us if he wants.”
Bea keeps talking. She’s talking about what’s just happened with Dr. Feingold, I think, but what she’s specifically saying I don’t know, because I’ve unintentionally tuned her out. My attention is honed in on this car behind us. I’m trying not to panic, wishing that this other driver would do what Bea’s said: get in the left lane and pass. He’s making me a nervous wreck, but I don’t feel comfortable speeding up, not that it would necessarily matter because he’d just go faster, too.
I close in on an intersection. I’ve lost all sense of direction because of the rain. I can’t get my bearings, and realize almost too quickly that this intersection is where I need to turn to go home. Without thinking or indicating, I yank on the steering wheel and we sharply turn. The street must be lower in the intersection because the standing water is deep. For a second, the car loses traction and I think we’re about to hydroplane. I resist the urge to slam on the brakes, riding it out instead, letting the car self-correct.
Bea falls into me. “What was that?” she asks, panicked, as I regain control of the car. Bea rights herself on the seat, staring out the window to orient herself to where we are.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling breathless, my heart racing over what just happened. “I almost missed the turn.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, “you could have taken another one. You could have turned around in a parking lot. What are you trying to do, kill us, Kate?”
I go quiet. I focus on the road. I hate it when Bea and I fight. She’s angry with me. But she’s also angry for me because of what happened with Dr. Feingold. While I endured his pelvic exam, she was forced to watch. That must have been as awful for her as it was for me. We’ve both come undone.
Bea knows this as well as me. Her tone softens. She lays a hand on my arm. “You want to pull over and I’ll drive? You’ve been through a lot today, and this weather is the pits. Why don’t you let me drive, Kate?”
I shrug her off. “I’ve got it. I’m fine. Besides, we’re almost home.”
I glance into the rearview mirror. That same car is still riding our tail. The driver made the same last-minute, ninety-degree turn as me. I become hyperaware. This driver is following us. He doesn’t want to lose sight of Bea and me. It’s the reason he follows so closely: because he doesn’t want to allow enough room for another car to slip in and separate us. I feel it in my gut. I try so hard to get a look at the driver, but his car and his face are fuzzy and indistinct because of the rain. If it wasn’t for headlights tailing me, I might not know someone was there.
I say to Bea, “I think that car’s following us.”
“What car?” she asks.
“The one behind us. Riding my tail.”
Bea turns in her seat to look out the rear window. “Who is it?” she asks. “Can you tell?”
“This damn rain,” I say. “I can’t get a good look.”
Bea and I left the medical building together. We were in the elevator alone. No one was with us. Dr. Feingold could have conceivably taken the stairs and followed us out that way. Bea and I were so distracted in the parking lot that we nearly ran to the car, arguing, desperate to get out of the pelting rain. We didn’t pay attention to who else was in the parking lot with us. Dr. Feingold could have been ten feet behind and we wouldn’t have known. “Maybe it’s that car you cut off leaving the doctor’s office,” she says. “He was pissed. People get road rage.”
“That driver passed me,” I remind her. “He’s gone.”
We’re still miles from our house. I’m panicking, not wanting to lead this person directly to where Bea and I live, though if it is Dr. Feingold, that doesn’t matter because I’ve already given him my address. How stupid I’ve been.
I keep driving because I can’t think of anything else to do. If this person’s intent is to scare and intimidate us, then they’ve succeeded. I practically lose the ability to drive because I’m so nervous. I drive slowly, hands locked on the ten and two position.
“Just try and ignore him,” Bea says, but that’s easier said than done. She leans forward in her seat to turn the radio on, a nice distraction. We don’t speak. Before I know it, I’m closing in on our home. I’m just a few miles from it, and still not sure what to do. I can’t go home. I can’t lead this individual to our house. Who’s to say what he’ll do when we get there, though for the first time ever, I take comfort in the fact that our house likely swarms with workers. Certainly no one would harm Bea or me while witnesses watch on.
It’s just by dumb luck that we pass the police station on the way home. It becomes visible through the rain, only because a patrol car, with lights and sirens blazing, comes speeding out of the parking lot as we draw near. Certainly the driver of this other car wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow us into the police station parking lot. As I approach the parking lot, I turn my signal on and ease up on the gas. I make the turn into the parking lot as the other car switches lanes and accelerates down the road, leaving a spray of rainwater in its wake.
Both Bea and I try, but neither of us manages to get a good look at the driver or the license plate. It’s all just a blur, indecipherable in the rain.
LEO
NOW
On your third day home, you start talking about some kid named Gus. It’s by accident that it happens. Someone’s playing ball outside. The thump of the ball hitting concrete carries inside. It gets your attention. “It’s just a basketball,” Dad says, seeing that you’ve gone white. Ever since you’ve been home, Dad’s neurotic about keeping doors and windows shut and locked, the blinds closed. You can never be too careful. He spends his nights awake. He sits in the parlor and reads. No one’s taking you on his watch.
“Gus plays basketball,” you say.
Dad looks up from his scrambled eggs and asks, “Who’s Gus?”
You tell him. Dad goes white, too. He excuses himself and leaves the room, taking his cell phone with him.
You weren’t alone in that basement. Someone was with you. Someone got left behind.
We drive back down to the police station. The lady cop becomes more assertive in her questioning. She no longer tiptoes around you like you might break. Now that we know someone else is still there, it’s time, she says, to get down to business.
She asks what you know about this kid Gus. You don’t know much. You can’t even tell the lady cop what he looks like because, for all your time together, you never got a good look at his face. You don’t know how old he is. You don’t know where he’s from.
The lady cop looks in those missing kids’ databases. She and her henchmen come up with a handful of missing kids named Gus, or some variation of it. Argus. Augustus. Gustavo. They show you pictures, and ask if any of them is your Gus. You don’t know. A missing kid from Cookeville, Tennessee, might be, you think. But really, you don’t know. You’re just trying to please the lady cop by saying something. I probably would, too.
I spent a lot of time on those missing kids’ websites when you were gone. Did you know that? Here’s the cracked thing about those sites. Not only do they have pictures of the missing kids that they’re looking for. Sometimes what they have is found skeletal remains and they’re trying to figure out who they belong to. They call these kids Jane and John. There are a bajillion of them, just red and blue dots all over a map, one dot for each unidentifiable body they’ve found. Cops don’t know who they are, but they’re in bad shape when they find them, or parts of them, anyway. There’s no end to the evil things people will do to one another.
When you were gone, I spent a lot of time online wondering if you were going to be one of the unidentifiable.
I told Dad about these kids. He took my internet away for a month. I never mentioned them again. I wasn’t stupid enough to suggest to Dad that you were skeletal remains. Still, I put the idea in his head
.
The lady cop asks you a lot of questions. You know nothing. We get nowhere.
When they first found you, a local cop drove you around and around that town, trying to see if you could remember where you’d been. But other than identifying smokestacks and a fence, you were clueless. I looked that town up on the internet, if it can even be called a town. You have to zoom in real close on the map to see it. It’s called Michael and has a population of about forty-five. It’s five hours from our place, somewhere close to the Mississippi, in an area that’s all farmland and trees. Every year it floods.
From the couple of pictures I saw of it on the internet, it’s pretty skeevy. Vacant storefronts, with boarded-up and broken windows. Decrepit farmhouses. The only other houses besides farmhouses are tornado bait, aka mobile homes.
Makes me wonder how you ended up there.
Dad’s the one who suggests hypnosis to see if that will help dredge up memories, about Mom, about Gus. The lady cop isn’t going for it. She says you’re not in the right state of mind for that.
It’s true. You’re shell-shocked. You don’t sleep, and even when you do, you have nightmares. You wake up sweating and screaming. You sleep on the basement floor at night because it’s the only place you can actually sleep. You can’t look anyone in the eye. You’re afraid of running water. You shit bricks when the elementary school bus drives by.
“Someone’s child,” Dad tells the lady cop, “is still missing. Mine is home. I can’t have that on my conscience.”
MEREDITH
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
The Tebows’ baby is covered in forceps marks and bruising when she arrives. Within minutes of her birth, her tiny head begins to swell. Within hours, she begins to seize. A cranial head ultrasound is performed, where doctors discover an intracranial hemorrhage, otherwise known as a brain bleed. The cause: excessive mechanical force to her head, resulting from forceps misuse.