The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

  “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.

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “Very good.”

  “Making you broody, Dr. Johnson?” Marion said. “My daughter Josie is about your age, you know.”

  My gaze bounced to Patrick’s, but I quickly looked away. What was I doing, getting territorial over Patrick? Just because he slept on my couch occasionally didn’t mean he was in my jurisdiction.

  “If she’s a daughter of yours, Maz,” Patrick said, “she’s too good for a scoundrel like me.”

  “Far too good,” Sean echoed.

  “She could do worse, of course,” Patrick said. “Then again, Sean isn’t single.”

  Both men had smiles in their voices, but there was truth in their words. How two people could be such good friends but be so competitive at the same time was beyond me.

  “Now,” Patrick said to the baby, “let’s see how you are doing, little fella.”

  As with Sean, Patrick’s delight in his job was obvious. As he checked Oliver over—testing reflexes, rotating his hips—he chatted continuously, telling the baby what he was going to do before he did it. He spoke in a natural voice, the kind he would use over a beer with an old friend. Leila stared unashamedly. Even I could admit, there was something sexy about a man who was comfortable with a baby.

  “So, I hear congratulations are in order, Neva?” I lifted my head before I realized what Marion was saying, giving her a ringside seat to my horrified expression. “About the pregnancy, I mean.”

  I busied myself checking the baby’s fontanels. “Oh. Thank you.”

  “And due quite soon, I hear,” she continued. “You must be excited.”

  Casually, I scanned the room, assessing the fallout. Patrick winced. Leila’s mouth hung open. Sean had frozen, his hands still half-buried in Erin’s abdomen. He scanned what he could see of my stomach. “Neva, you’re expecting?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t look at him. I held my hands out to Patrick. “Baby, please.”

  I must have sounded authoritative because, rather than joke with me over one last check as he usually did, Patrick wrapped the baby and handed him over. I crossed the room, back to Erin.

  “I hope I haven’t put my foot in my mouth,” Marion said. Her tone made it clear that she hoped she’d done exactly that. “Eloise mentioned it this morning. It wasn’t meant to be a secret, was it? Because I’d hate to think—”

  “I’d hate to think you weren’t paying attention, Marion.” Sean’s voice was quiet but sharp, and it silenced the room. Marion’s cheeks colored. “Because as you can see, I’m still stitching the patient. And I need a lap sponge.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Marion fumbled for the sponge, and I could tell she was not happy. I almost felt sorry for Sean. Ignoring her attempts to ingratiate herself was one thing, but a public reprimand was quite another. She’d make him pay for that.

  I tried my best to focus on the task at hand, pressing the baby’s face against his mother’s cheek, letting him see her, smell her breath, feel her touch. With any luck, we could start him breast-feeding as soon as we made it into recovery. I needed to concentrate on that.

  “When are you due, Neva?” Sean asked me after a minute or two of silence. His voice had lost its sharp edge; in fact, it was a little quieter than normal.

  I met his eye over the curtain. “December thirty-first.”

  “A New Year baby,” he said. He frowned, then his gaze returned to Erin’s stomach. “What a miracle.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It really is.”

  * * *

  I pushed my scrubs into the overfull laundry basket and dragged myself toward the elevator. Now that my urgent tasks were done, the familiar weight of tiredness anchored me to the ground like cement boots. I still had to check in at the birthing center on my way out, to make sure none of my clients had gone into labor. If not, perhaps I’d have a lie down in one of the suites. It took less than ten minutes to walk to my apartment, but somehow that was too far.

  As I waited for the elevator, I leaned against the wall. At the far end of the corridor, Patrick held court with three student nurses, who were taking notes and giggling at intervals. Although Patrick was pro
fessional enough never to cross the line with a student, it was easy to see he loved the attention. Marion stood at the nurses’ desk, whispering furiously and stealing glances over her shoulder. I’d have assumed she was gossiping about my pregnancy, but thanks to Sean’s reprimand in theater, there was an equal chance she was slandering him. I couldn’t help but be grateful.

  I sighed and allowed my eyes what I called an extra-long blink.

  “Should I be hurt?”

  When I opened my eyes, Sean stood before me in blue scrubs, blue cap, and puffy blue shoe covers. My first instinct was to run. To locate the nearest exit and hurtle toward it as fast as my legs would carry me. But even if I had the energy to do that, it wouldn’t help me for long. “No. You should be relieved.”

  “Were you planning to tell me?”

  “Actually, I was waiting for you to guess. For someone who is usually quite perceptive, and an ob-gyn, I’d have thought—”

  “Neva.”

  His tone made me pause. “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you have your dates right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say? Yes?”

  I was about to say that if the answer to his questions continued to be yes, then yes, that’s all I was going to say, but before I could respond, he towed me into a corner. “Are you sure? Because if you’re just a few weeks out—”

  I stopped him before he could say the words. “It’s okay. I’m sure.”

  I rested a hand on his chest, partly to calm him, partly to regain some personal space. Finally he sagged like a day-old balloon. “God, Neva. I don’t know what I’d do if … well, I’m just glad it’s not.”

  I let Sean bask in the relief. I only wished I could have shared his joy. “Me, too.”

  “So?” he said. “Whose is it?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “I realize that.” A look of bafflement appeared on his face, followed by a short laugh. “And who else’s?”

  I was already so sick of saying it, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since I’d made the announcement. I longed for a stack of flyers of FAQs that I could hand out. This should answer most of your questions, I’d tell people as I pressed a flyer into their hand. And there is an e-mail address at the bottom if any of your questions remain unanswered. It is questions@nevaspregnancy.com. Alas, I had no printed flyers.

  “No one’s. Just mine.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. I sighed.

  “The father’s not going to be involved, okay?”

  Sean took a minute to digest that. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He did look sorry. He started that awkward, mumbly thing guys did when they were uncomfortable. Which, of course, made me more uncomfortable.

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  I pointed to the wedding ring, which he wore on a band around his neck during surgery. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

  One of us had to bring Laura up. True to his word, Sean had wound up marrying that Texan cashier from his grocery store. With frizzy, peroxide-blond hair and hips to match her enormous breasts, she was far from classically beautiful, but she had a pretty, friendly face and a sweet disposition. The kind of woman who, after three years of being married to an ob-gyn, still got choked up when he told her about delivering a baby. Not the kind of woman you felt good about betraying.

  “Probably not.”

  “How is Laura?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Tumor’s still shrinking?”

  He nodded. “Now they’re saying it’s the size of a pea.”

  Nine months ago, the tumor had been the size of a baseball. Her illness started with a headache. Sean had popped Laura a couple of Tylenol before work one morning, and by the time he got home, it was a migraine. Three days later, she was blind in one eye. Thanks to Sean’s connections at St. Mary’s, Laura was able to get in for a CT scan straightaway. The prognosis hadn’t been good. But according to Sean, Laura liked nothing more than proving people wrong.

  “She thinks it’s this green tea diet she’s been on. Loves telling me that doctors know less than nothing when it comes to people’s health.” Sean laughed, shaking his head. “It’s more likely to be the surgery, chemo, and radiation therapy. But I’ll credit the tea, if that makes her happy.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s working,” I said.

  “Yes,” Sean said. “Yes, me too.”

  “Anyway,” I started; then my mouth stuck on what I was supposed to say next.

  Anyway … give Laura my regards?

  Anyway … glad to have brought you the good tidings?

  Anyway … you’re off the hook?

  No appropriate sign-off existed for this particular conversation. Best that I just end it as soon as possible.

  “Anyway…,” I tried again. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  As I waited for the elevator doors to close, I saw Patrick at the end of the corridor. The nurses still stood in front of him, pretty and eager as ever. But his gaze was focused over their heads and down the corridor. Directly at me.

  8

  Grace

  Usually as I drove across the thin strip of Beavertail Road that links the south part of Conanicut Island with the north, I was at peace. With Mackerel Beach on my left and Sheffield Cove on my right, it was hard not to be. Right now the beaches were stuffed with swimmers and skin divers. Windsurfers tore across the sparkling green water at the mouth of the cove, and boats nodded good evening to one another. Still, as I drove the short distance home from a delivery, I wasn’t at peace. My mind was too full even to spare a thought for the healthy baby girl I’d delivered three hours before.

  The mystery of Neva’s baby was driving me crazy. I hated secrets at the best of times, but this one would do me in. I was going over it all in my head yet again as I pulled onto the grass in front of our stone-and-shingle beachfront home, next to Robert’s car. Odd. It wasn’t even five thirty; Robert was never home at this hour.

  My phone vibrated on the way to the door. I located it in my bag and shouldered it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Oh, um … hi, Grace, it’s Molly. Is this a bad time?”

  Molly. I did a quick calculation in my head. She wasn’t due for another month. Not a labor call. “Not at all, Molly. You okay, darling?”

  “Yes, I think so, but … I just wanted to check … I’ve been getting really thirsty lately. Like, almost a gallon and a half of water today thirsty. I know I’m probably being paranoid, but I thought I’d check if this was normal. I mean … my baby’s not dehydrated or anything, is it?”

  Molly Harris was twenty-two, and it was her first pregnancy. She was a natural neurotic, and I received a call most days about something. Once, she’d accidentally eaten some unpasteurized cheese. Another day, she’d thought her bladder leakage was her water breaking. But I was happy to take her calls. Molly had lost her mother to cancer shortly before she became pregnant, and I liked to think I’d become something of a mother figure to her.

  I fished for my keys in my bag. “Absolutely not. It’s completely normal for thirst to skyrocket during your third trimester. Your body has created about forty percent more blood to provide nutrition and oxygen to your baby, and all that extra blood uses up a lot of water.” I found my keys and inserted them into the lock, but when I turned, found it already unlocked.

  “Oh, okay. Jimmy told me I was being silly. I’m so sorry to bother you, Grace.”

  “Do I sound bothered? Call anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”

  I hung up and pushed open the door. The scent of something hearty hit me. It smelled like food, but it couldn’t be. Robert hadn’t cooked a proper meal in thirty years, save for some grilled cheese sandwiches and instant noodles when I was called out on a delivery. I took a step toward the kitchen, stopping short as Robert appeared in the doorway.

  “Hi,” he said. He grinned like there was not
hing strange about him being home at this hour. “How was your day?”

  I stared at him. He had a glass of red wine in his hand. My floral apron was knotted around his waist, and behind him, steam fogged up the stainless steel backsplash. “Is everything okay, Rob?”

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  “Then … what are you doing here?”

  “A man can’t surprise his wife with dinner anymore?”

  “A man can,” I said, “but he rarely does.”

  He handed me a glass of wine and kissed my cheek. But I still didn’t get it. “Seriously? You cooked?”

  “Reheated,” he admitted. “Meatballs from Isabella’s. Consider it an apology. For these last few weeks. I’ve been a beast.”

  “Weeks?”

  Robert winced. “Months?”

  “More like yea—”

  He cut me off with a poke in the ribs. I laughed. “What’s brought this on?”

  “More layoffs. Today I lost half my team.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “There’ll be more too. Projects are on hold. We’re having to cut our margins to win new work. We’re going to offshore a bunch of jobs.”

  We strolled side by side to the kitchen, where a pot of pasta was boiling over. I turned it off and looked at him. Behind the wrinkles and the salt-and-pepper hair, I could still see that handsome boy I’d married. I could also see Neva in him. The high, angular cheekbones, the flying saucer eyes and straight nose.

  “Is your job safe?”

  Robert tried determinedly to separate a clump of overcooked spaghetti. “Finance is a cost center, so no. But since I’m doing the calculations for severance pay, I’m probably okay this month.”

  “Well, we’ll be all right, whatever happens,” I said. “We have each other, we have our health.”

  He cracked a weary smile. “Yeah. The important stuff.”

  “At least I’ve got a recession-proof job,” I said. “People will continue to have babies. If it paid better, I’d tell you to shove the job and take up golf.”