The Runaway Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  Reverend Easton, the part-time clergyman who was at Nita’s funeral, begins with a simple invocation that we read aloud from the program.

  “God, help us remember that the birth of Jesus Christ is the birth of hope.

  Let us sing with the angels, worship with the shepherds

  And give love to each other as if we were the three wise men.

  Amen.”

  “There will be no sermon this evening,” the pastor says, “because tonight is about the children.” Then we open our hymnals to begin the first carol. “Oh come, all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant . . .”

  I look around as we sing. There’s Terry in her wheelchair up front with Austin Aubrey and his wife, Elsa. There’s Helen Burke with her husband, Eugene, and Nell Ambroy, the pilot/ mayor who I’ve now come to admire after seeing her in action on the night of the boating accident. Across the aisle are the New Day folk, easy to spot with their unique and colorful outfits. Jed is sitting with John just in front of us and there are thirty or so others who I recognize, but don’t know by name.

  Next, the pianist begins “What Child Is This?” one of my favorites and a little choir steps forward. It’s Rainbow, Wade and Dian; John, Jed, Elsa and Aubrey; Molly Lou and Chris. “What child is this, who, laid to rest On Mary’s lap is sleeping?” they sing, and I get tears in my eyes.

  All heads turn as the children march in, led by Little Chris, wearing his homemade king’s outfit (a bathrobe and a paper crown he made himself). He’s carrying a chest of frankincense, clearly constructed out of two egg cartons and sprayed gold, and he grins as he passes.

  The preacher reads the familiar words from the bible, while the children act out the scene.

  “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed . . .”

  Halfway through the reading, I feel my neck burn and am certain that Peter Dolman is somewhere in back, but I can’t turn around.

  Then the service ends with the lighting of candles, done by two little girls dressed as angels, while Jed plays his guitar and the children sing, “This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine!” I think of Nita and her colorful beach glass decorations with the sunlight shining through. How she would love this!

  It’s snowing outside as we leave, big soft flakes that coat our clothes and tickle our noses and once again I scan the crowd. No Dolman.

  CHAPTER 54

  Night Call

  Once home, I pull on my flannel nightgown, light some candles and look at the gifts under my decorated pine bush. I wish I had some Christmas lights, but there’s no way to get them.

  Under the branches are the presents I bought at the Fibre Guild for Molly Lou, Rainbow, Jed and John. I even got a pair of mittens for Dolman, but I never thought of Big Chris and Little Chris and there’s no way to go back to the shop now.

  After going to church, I felt inspired. Little Chris was so cute in his king costume. I bought mittens for Peter, but I’ve put him between a rock and a hard place, so we probably aren’t friends anymore. I could change things around, give the mittens I purchased for Dolman to Big Chris, but what would I have for a seven-year-old boy?

  I walk from room to room, looking for ideas and stop in the kitchen where I discover a big unopened bag of M&M’s I bought for myself at Burke’s Country Store. A kid would like that! Just then, I hear an auto about a mile away. Funny, how sensitive I’ve become to that low-pitched hum, especially at night.

  Though supposedly the Nelsons are no longer a threat, out of habit I run from room to room switching off lights. The sound of the motor gets louder. Already, from the kitchen window, I can see headlights between the bare trees. Who would be coming down the road at this time of night?

  Just in case I have to escape, I step into my boots and put my parka on over my flannel nightgown. Then I continue my vigil at the window. I have no doubt the driver knows where he’s going. When the headlights turn into my drive, I jump back. The doors! Because the Nelsons seemed out of the picture, I’ve let my guard down and haven’t locked up!

  Quickly I turn the latch on the front door, then run to the back and lock that one too. As I return to the kitchen, I seize Lloyd’s heavy walking stick. Then from the counter, I grab a butcher knife and crouch in the corner next to the fridge. There are heavy footsteps on the front porch.

  “Sara!” a man’s voice calls. “Sara! I know you’re in there.”

  Conundrum

  I let out my air. It’s Dolman. Though I’m apprehensive about talking to the cop, it’s not like he’s going to assault me . . . (just ruin my life).

  “Coming!” I put the knife away, feeling foolish, turn the kitchen overhead back on and open the door. Dolman stands in his winter cop parka, snow on his hair, holding a two-inch-thick folder. He also has a bottle of apple wine under his arm, probably to sweeten the bad news.

  “Going somewhere?” He grins, indicating my outfit, and I realize how silly I must look holding a walking stick like a club and wearing a white flannel nightgown, a parka and untied hiking boots.

  “I heard the car. I was scared. I thought I might have to run for it.”

  Dolman raises his eyebrows, probably imagining me running like a fox through the snowy woods to Molly Lou’s house.

  “Sorry. I probably should have called.” He peels off his coat and hat, throws them on a kitchen chair, then gets out two wineglasses. (He’s only been in my kitchen twice, but he moves around as if he knows the place.)

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  I stare at the file folder. “Is that all about me or about the dead man?”

  “Both.”

  I take off my coat and wrap up in the flying-goose quilt. “I’ve been waiting to hear what you’d have to say. Dreading it, really. Let’s sit by the fire.”

  Might as well take this like a grown-up, I think. Face the firing squad. While Peter pours us each a glass of wine, I throw a log in the fire and stir up the coals. I just hope I don’t start crying again.

  “Sorry this took so long. I had a lot to think about and research to do, and then I had to deal with the provincial police and the Mounties. Let’s start with the dead guy.

  “When I left you, I felt that discovering who the man on the beach was would hinge on when he had died. He could have been a fisherman in a boating accident from anywhere on the lake or a victim of homicide. I felt that his body appearing on Gull Point last April would be critical for solving the puzzle, but how could I put that in my report without involving you?

  “Unsure what to do, I gave myself until the next morning to figure that out. Around three I woke up and it came to me that where and when the victim was found on Seagull Island weren’t as important as I first thought. The approximate date of the man’s death could actually be determined by the forensic examination. And the place he was found wasn’t that significant either . . . He could have died on either side of Lake Erie. Most likely he didn’t die on Seagull Island or I would have heard gossip about a missing person, a fight . . . or something. Word gets around.”

  I look down at my clenched white hands and open and close them.

  “So, with an almost clear conscience, I wrote up my report and called Windsor to tell them I’d just found a dead man, while walking solo on the beach that morning.”

  “Oh, Peter! Thank you.” I jump up to give him a hug but stop myself. “I hope you don’t get in trouble. I’d feel terrible . . .”

  He brushes my concerns aside. “So that’s where we stand with the dead man. An autopsy is scheduled and, after we find out when he died and what he died from, the Mounties will run an international computer search to see if we can find out who he is and where he came from . . .

  “Now about you . . .” He opens the manila file and the light in my heart grows dim.

  Good News or Bad

  Do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

  “The good, I
guess. Is there some good news?”

  “Well, I spent a lot of time at a library in Windsor that has a database of all the newspapers in English and also did some research on the computer at the office. Here’s what I found, working from Lorain, Ohio, back to Torrington, West Virginia.” He opens the file.

  “First of all, the real Sara Livingston never reported her driver’s license as stolen. Seems crazy, but she just said she lost it and applied for a new one.” He hands me a copy of an Ohio DMV application dated March 1 . . . “There’s also no alert about a stolen nursing license on the Ohio Board of Nursing website. It’s like the theft never happened.”

  “Most nurses don’t carry their licenses on them,” I interrupt. “Maybe she didn’t notice it was gone. To be honest, I don’t even know where mine is or my social security card either.”

  “So, back to your other legal problems. I checked the Torrington paper online and Clara Perry, certified nurse-midwife, was reported missing back in February. There was a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to her return put up by Richard Perry, PhD. That your husband?” (I nod, wondering where Richard would get that kind of money since I thought I cleaned him out . . . He must have had a secret stash at another bank. The rat!)

  “You were in the headlines for quite a while and so was the death of the woman at the home birth. Of course you were implicated and the hospital made a strong statement that you’d been instructed not to go to home births and that you were immediately dismissed pending your trial.”

  “My trial?”

  “Yeah, you were right about that.” He looks straight at me. “You were charged with manslaughter for leaving the delivery, but that charge has been dropped.”

  Here he spreads out a series of articles from the Torrington Times, all from last spring and summer. There’s a photo of me that was used on our practice’s brochure. LOCAL MIDWIFE CHARGED WITH MANSLAUGHTER AND MEDICAL NEGLIGENCE, the headline screams.

  “You had long dark hair then, but I’d still recognize you.”

  “There’s nothing about the missing money?” I ask. “Richard didn’t report it? That’s not like him.”

  “I couldn’t find anything. Maybe his lawyer advised him to publicly ignore it, so it didn’t seem like he was more worried about the cash than getting his wife back.”

  “The manslaughter charge was dropped?”

  “Yeah, look here . . .” He leans down and digs in the folder for copies of another two articles, headlined HOME-BIRTH MOTHER DIES OF RARE OB COMPLICATION and MIDWIFE CLEARED OF MANSLAUGHTER CHARGES.

  “Can I read these? It will take a minute.” Peter Dolman sits next to me so we can read together and I feel his warmth where our shoulders touch. He’s wearing a green V-neck sweater with no T-shirt underneath, hasn’t shaved for two days and smells like a guy who’s been working in the sun . . . but not in a bad way.

  I scan the articles and then read them again. Robyn Layton died of an amniotic fluid embolism as I suspected . . . The medical examiner concluded his report with . . . “The patient could have died from this unpredictable OB complication just as well in the hospital. Survival is rare, and if women do survive, most of the time they are brain damaged. The death was an unfortunate tragedy and not medical negligence.”

  I sit back, stunned. “So, I’m in the clear? I could go back to West Virginia if I wanted to?”

  “Do you want to? Do you want to go home?” Peter surprises me by taking my hand and looking into my eyes for so long I have to look away. I take a deep breath, trying to picture my return to Torrington.

  Even though I’ve been exonerated, the hospital will refuse to take me back and probably no one else will hire me after being in the headlines for the home-birth death. . . . Here on Seagull Island there is deep snow and peace, a lonely peace maybe, but clean and sweet.

  “No . . . I don’t want to go back. West Virginia isn’t home. Clara Perry doesn’t exist anymore and also I’d have to go through a bitter divorce.”

  “Oh yeah,” Peter says, digging around in the file again and pulling out a few announcements in the classifieds. “You won’t have to mess around with that. Apparently, in the US, there’s something called a three-step divorce, a procedure for filing with the courts if your spouse goes missing. You just list all that you’ve done to find him or her, like hire a private detective and advertise in the newspaper with a special code. You wait a few months and if there’s no response, the state declares you’re divorced. Richard Perry officially divorced you months ago. I found the court record. You’re a free woman.”

  A free woman. We drink another glass of wine and slip lower on the sofa, our sock feet on top of the coffee table. Dolman surprises me by patting my knee through my flannel nightgown and I don’t move away.

  “So this is the good news, right?” I question. “What’s the bad news?”

  “Well, you’re still in Canada under a false name and you don’t have a passport. You’re here illegally, a woman without a country.”

  “Oh . . . that!” I laugh.

  CHAPTER 55

  Armor

  Maybe it’s the wine. Alcohol has always had a strong effect on me, but I slip lower until my head is on Peter’s lap and he’s touching my hair. That’s when I come undone. I’m like Tiger, I love to be petted and it’s so long since anyone has petted me.

  With his tenderness, Peter removes the armor I’ve been wearing for almost a year, for more than that really. Then he removes my flannel nightgown and takes off his own things. We are standing naked in front of the fire, except for his turquoise eagle ring and my necklace. I kiss his ring. He kisses my carved seagull.

  “It’s from Lenny Knight,” I say. “He had it sent from overseas.” (I don’t say from where and I don’t mention my daughter.)

  “I’m glad he got out of the country. He’d been working with the Mounties for years, trying to untangle how heroin is getting into Ontario. He’s one of the good guys.” That’s all we say about Lenny. Lenny is one of the good guys and he’s still alive, maybe in Switzerland, climbing the Alps.

  Peter shifts the coffee table across the room and spreads the green-and-white quilt on the rug.

  Like animals meeting in the woods, we greet each other’s naked bodies. We curl and uncurl around each other. We smell each other and lick each other. We warm each other in the firelight and when it is over, we lie quiet and sweating.

  “You know,” I think out loud. “I grew up in a time when women were supposed to be the hero of their own story, but I’m not a hero. Running away was the act of a coward.” Peter doesn’t comment, but rolls over and wraps us in the quilt, face-to-face, as if we were in a big burrito, and I snuggle up against him.

  “Sometimes letting someone help you can be a gift to both,” he says, looking in my eyes.

  We lie there like that, quiet for a long time, listening to the wind outside and the crackling of the logs on the fire. I can feel both of our hearts beating and Peter’s hand between my legs again.

  Mirror, Mirror

  In the stillest part of the deep night, Peter’s cell whistles once and he reaches over to the sofa, finds it and looks at a text. “Gotta go,” he whispers, getting off the floor and tucking the quilt back around me. “Some fool is stuck in the snow out at Light House Park. Now why would you go out there this time of night?” He stirs up the fire and pulls on his sweater and pants.

  “I hope I didn’t take advantage of you.”

  “Maybe I took advantage of you!” I respond.

  IN THE MORNING, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, splash cold water on my face and can’t decide if I look beautiful or a mess. My short hair is sticking up and my cheeks are pink from rubbing against Peter’s two-day-old beard.

  Clara Perry has been cleared of the manslaughter charges, I think, looking at my reflection, but I’m not Clara Perry anymore. If I ever become a Canadian, I’ll change my name. I want to be Sara Livingston. I like being Sara Livingston. Peter said he found hundreds
of females with that name in the US and Canada. One more won’t matter.

  “Okay, that’s settled,” I tell Tiger who is meowing around my feet for his breakfast. Then I dress, fill his bowl, place the coffee table back where it goes and hide the incriminating file about me in a dresser drawer.

  “Might as well get back to reality,” I say out loud to my cat, who has spent the whole night shut up in the bedroom.

  The rumpled green-and-white flying-goose quilt is still on the floor. I pick it up, shake out the wrinkles then press the cool cloth to my face. Peter is gone but his smell is still here.

  All day it snows and I work on my knitting. It’s easy, I find, to make a scarf even if you don’t know what you’re doing. I have thick homespun yarn and big needles. Following the directions, I repeat the same stitch over and over—twelve stitches across, then twelve back. It’s called the popcorn stitch and the scarf is already a foot long. I’m making it for Peter.

  Knitting the scarf makes me feel close to him and I keep rubbing my face in the softness, the way I rub my face in Tiger’s fur. I can’t believe I’m dating a cop! Are we dating? Or was last night just a fling, something to be forgotten, locked in a dark closet and never mentioned again?

  Outside the picture window the gentle snow has turned harsh. Big wet flakes are now blowing hard and I can hear waves crashing up against the breakwall. The fire crackles. The clock on the mantel ticks.

  ALL THE NEXT day it snows, and I wonder about my relationship with Peter. Is it odd he hasn’t called? Does he regret getting involved with a crazy woman? Or is he just busy pulling people out of the snow?