Abruptly his mouth pulled away and cold air hit where his warm mouth had been. I whimpered, about to protest, when all at once his hands were on my waist, lifting me, turning me. Then I was on my knees and his lips were on my back.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I breathed. God, yes.
When he entered me, we both gasped. And for a heartbeat, we remained just like that, with Patrick deep inside me. Finally, he took me by the hips and began to move.
I pushed back against him as he filled me. Again. And again. To his moans, I started to let go. I felt confident. Sexy. Safe. And, maybe for the first time in my life, like I was in the exactly right place.
* * *
The next month passed like a movie montage: little snapshots whizzing by so fast that all I registered was the happiness, rather than the individual moments. I could almost hear the background music, something soft and beautiful like Sarah McLachlan. Patrick and I were a couple. We were expecting a baby.
Eloise moved in with Ted at the end of November, and though Patrick didn’t officially live at my place, he pretty much did. Eloise’s room was now the baby’s room, which meant it housed the boxes of stuff we’d bought at IKEA but still hadn’t opened—a crib, a changing table, a bassinet. Patrick bought a stroller online that, according to him, was top-of-the-line, but when it arrived neither of us could figure out how to assemble it, so that had gone into the room too, still in the box. If Patrick wondered who the baby’s actual father was, he never brought it up. So I decided I wouldn’t either. Patrick was the father, and that was that.
In the meantime, I was getting on with business. I’d made an appointment to see the ob-gyn and I was meeting Patrick there in twenty minutes. I trudged through the snow, my boots crunching in the ice that was forming on the sidewalk. Setting up the appointment had been almost as tumultuous as the snow.
“I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Hargreaves on Friday morning for my scan,” I’d said to Patrick between bites of toast a couple of mornings earlier. “Nine A.M. Can you make it?”
“Lorraine Hargreaves? Chief Resident Lorraine Hargreaves? You know how to hobnob with the important people, Nev.”
“She offered, remember?”
“So she did.” Patrick nodded, duly impressed. “Of course I’ll be there. Hopefully she’ll give us some good news. Maybe she can turn the baby?”
“Unlikely. I already went over it with Sean. He felt the position, said it didn’t look good.”
Patrick blinked at me several times before he could respond. “Sean examined you?”
“No.” I grabbed a piece of his toast, took a bite. “He just felt my stomach. In the hallway.”
There was a long, uneasy silence.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just … don’t want Sean touching you.”
“Why?”
“Because. It’s … weird. And he’ll never let me hear the end of it.” He picked up his coffee and stared into it.
“Are you okay, Patrick?”
“Sure.” With his eyes still downcast, he gave me a halfhearted smile. “Fine.”
We finished our breakfast and went on with our respective days, but the exchange left me feeling wary. If Patrick felt that strongly about Sean examining me, how would he feel if he knew what we had actually done together? I knew on some level it suited Patrick to keep his head in the sand, to keep pretending my baby was the result of the Immaculate Conception rather than the child of another man. But how long could that last? It felt like we were skating around a precarious section of ice, and as soon as either of us stopped concentrating on avoiding it, we were both going to fall straight in.
Now I pulled up the hood of my jacket. It was wicked cold. I tugged at the middle of my puffer coat, but it was no use, it wouldn’t close. My belly was officially enormous. Fall had been kind this year, but today it was as though Mother Nature had looked at the calendar and, realizing she’d overslept, was overcompensating.
I hurried through the sliding doors of the hospital and, feeling the rush of warmth from the heaters, lowered my hood. Eloise crossed the foyer, and I lifted my hand to wave but she didn’t see me. Patrick stood at the information desk, chatting to, by the looks of it, the parents of a patient. His green scrubs exposed a deep V of olive skin and chest hair, partially covered by an orange lanyard holding his hospital accreditation. He looked tired after an all-night shift in Emergency, but he smiled at the couple and ruffled the hair of a little boy who wore his arm in a sling. I stood just inside the door and waited, rubbing my hands together to get some feeling back.
When Patrick noticed me, he excused himself and came over. His smile told me the strange conversation about Sean had been forgotten. For now.
“Hi.” His lips brushed against mine.
“Long night?” he asked.
He shrugged, sliding my coat off my arms and tossing it over his arm. He took my hand as we began to walk. I eyed his unusually large smile.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m excited about seeing the baby.”
“Oh, yeah.” I grinned. “Me too.”
He led me down through the hospital, a maze of halls that even after all these years could get me lost. On the way, we passed several acquaintances of Patrick’s, who nodded at him but seemed to avoid my gaze entirely. Before I could analyze it too much, we arrived in front of a white door with a glass panel and a sign that said DR. LORRAINE HARGREAVES, followed by a lot of letters. We slipped in.
“Neva Bradley and Patrick Johnson,” Patrick said. “We have an appointment.”
“So you do,” Dr. Hargreaves said, appearing at the desk alongside a heavily pregnant woman and a man who I assumed was the father of her baby. Though one never really should assume. “Go straight in,” she said, gesturing to the room she had just exited, before chatting to her receptionist about billing for the couple who were leaving. Patrick and I skulked into her office and sat down. Dr. Hargreaves joined us a little while later.
“Breech, huh?” she said, after a quick look at her notes. “Shame. You could always try a vaginal birth next time, though.”
“Maybe,” I said. I didn’t want to get upset about it. Not in front of Dr. Hargreaves. “We’ll see.”
“Would you like to find out the gender today?”
“No,” Patrick said immediately, although we hadn’t discussed it. He turned to me as an afterthought. “I mean … we don’t, do we?”
I grinned. “I guess we don’t.”
“Good,” Dr. Hargreaves said. “I like surprises. Now, let’s take a look. Up on the table, Neva.”
I felt a smidge of excitement; Patrick was rubbing off on me. With his help I climbed onto the table and sat still as Dr. Hargreaves took my blood pressure. Then I lay on my back and pulled my T-shirt up to my bra-line. Patrick held my hand, his gaze already focused on the monitor.
“I’ll measure you first.” Dr. Hargreaves reached into her pocket for a tape measure and stretched it across my belly from pelvis to ribs. She clicked her tongue. “Good size for thirty-six weeks,” she said mostly to herself. “Got your height, Patrick.”
Patrick’s smile froze.
“Now, just a little bit cold, Neva.” She squirted some clear, sticky liquid onto my stomach. “Let’s take a look.”
She lowered the device onto my belly and the beating heart immediately came into focus. Patrick clutched my hand.
“There it is.” Dr. Hargreaves continued to swirl the device around. “Head, bottom—the wrong way around—and there’s the heart, the brain.” Patrick, I noticed, was smiling at the monitor. “Right arm, left arm, right leg, left leg. I’ll avoid this area since you don’t want to know the sex.”
I found myself smiling too. When I found out I was pregnant, I hadn’t expected to have this. A loving man, a father-to-be, by my side. And although I’d never allowed myself to go there, the idea of doing this alone was suddenly unimaginably sad.
“Good-looking
little thing, I think,” Dr. Hargreaves said. “Right then, you can hop down.”
She wiped my stomach with a sheet of paper towel. When we were all back at her desk, she opened a new document on her computer.
“Okay, I have a few questions for each of you. Any hereditary conditions I should know about? Heart defects, spina bifida, blood disorders, Downs?”
“Nope,” I said.
“And in your family, Patrick?”
“Uh, no. Not that I know of.”
Patrick shook his head a little too fast, almost like a twitch. Dr. Hargreaves didn’t seem to notice, but I did.
“And you’ve been taking your prenatal vitamins since the beginning, Neva?”
I nodded.
“Good. Then this is going to be pretty straightforward. Now, we can do the C-section this side of Christmas, if you like. That’s only a week early. Give you a nice little Christmas present.”
Scheduling a date and time wasn’t something I’d expected to do for my labor. But before I could feel too sorry for myself, Patrick broke into the most adorable grin. “The best Christmas present ever.”
“Fine. You can book in the date with Amelia on the way out. Is there anything else? Any concerns?”
We bumbled through the rest of the pleasantries, and then Patrick walked me to the birthing center for my shift.
Halfway there, he stopped. “Nev, I’ve been thinking.”
I resisted making a joke about it hurting his head, as his expression was somber. “Go on.”
“All those hereditary conditions Lorraine asked about today—that’s important information. I deal with kids all the time who are born with genetic disorders. It’s horrible, especially if it comes as a surprise. Having that information in advance is invaluable—for early treatment, for readiness, for planning.”
“This baby won’t have any genetic conditions.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick was tight in the jaw. “Do you know the father well?”
“Yes. I know him very well.”
He paled. I took his hand.
“You’re the father, Patrick. In every way that counts.”
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Or maybe it was. I got the feeling that, over the past few weeks, Patrick had gotten as attached to my secret as I had. The idea that there was no father would be much easier to accept than the idea of an unknown man lurking out there, liable to burst in at any minute and turn our lives upside down.
Resignedly, he kissed the side of my head and we continued along the corridor. Perhaps it was a victory, but it didn’t feel like one. It wouldn’t be long before the subject came up again. And eventually, we were both going to have to admit the truth.
23
Grace
Neva and Mom sat on kitchen stools as I tossed flounder fillets in bread crumbs. I’d been looking forward to hosting our monthly dinner. Robert had been verging on mute for days—so consumed by his work—and I’d hoped I’d get a chance for some real conversation tonight. No such luck. Mom and Neva stared at the wall beyond the peas they shelled, barely answering the questions they were asked. They must have eaten a slice of the same silent-pie Robert was eating.
I thought about divulging my secret to them, that I was actually delivering babies while the investigation was going on, but I decided against it. I was actually quite enjoying my double life. Somehow, it felt like my way of giving the finger to that smug doctor who’d issued the complaint. The only difficult part was the technicalities. Two nights earlier I’d received a text from a mother in labor. At two in the morning. Robert roused as I started to get dressed, and I’d had to pretend I was sleepwalking. A few minutes later, once he’d fallen back into a deep sleep, I’d seized the keys and left the house in my pajamas.
Only occasionally, when I really allowed myself to think about it, did I worry about the consequences that would come about if I were caught. By the Board of Nursing. By Robert. But whenever those thoughts popped into my head, I chased them out again. Positive thinking, Grace. Positive thinking.
“Having any food aversions, darling?” I asked Neva, trying to get some conversation out of my unusually quiet daughter. “When I was pregnant with you, the mere sight of a mushroom was enough to send me running to the bathroom.”
Neva shrugged. “I’ve gone off tuna, I guess.”
“Oh.” I paused, my hands still buried in fish and bread crumbs. “Are you okay with flounder?”
“Should be. Though I won’t know for sure until you put it in front of me.”
I chuckled, trying to catch Mom’s eye. Any woman who’d been pregnant could sympathize with that. “Did you get any food aversions when you were pregnant, Mom?”
Mom focused steadily on her sleeve, picking off some lint. “I suppose I did.”
“What about cravings?” I asked. “When I was pregnant with Neva, I could have eaten fried rice all day long.”
“Oh, I don’t know … It was a long time ago, dear.”
It was odd, how hazy she was sometimes. Even though she was eighty-three, I’d have thought these kinds of things would be burned into her mind.
The doorbell chimed as we were about to sit down. “Neva,” I said, “your father’s eating in front of the hockey game. Can you take him his dinner in the den? Be nice—he’s in a mood.”
I dried my hands on a tea towel as I made my way to the door. Behind it stood a small woman with a cap of short, blond-gray hair. She held the neck of her navy anorak with one hand against the wind.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello. I’m Marie Ableman. From the Board of Nursing.” Marie clutched the coat as a gush of wind ripped past. She shuddered.
“Oh. Uh … Come in.” I held the door open and she came into the foyer. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“No. I was going to call you tomorrow, but I thought it might be a good idea to speak in person. I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”
“No, I guess not.”
But I did mind. Good news was given via the fastest possible means, be it a phone call or an e-mail. Bad news was given in person. At least, that was how I figured it.
“The investigation is still under way,” she said, possibly in response to my face. “We still need to speak to a few more people yet.”
“Okay.”
“The reason I’m here is about this.” She reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. A photocopy of a prescription. “I was concerned to find that you had prescribed Tylenol 3 for this woman the day that her son was born. I was even more concerned when I saw that she was a former client of yours. And then, when I found that no medical professional had signed her birth certificate, I became a little suspicious.”
Marie had the stance of someone who was trying to be fair. It was a stance I was sure she used regularly, in her particular role. “Believe it or not, Mrs. Bradley, I am on your side. I am a nurse myself. I know it is a difficult, sometimes thankless, profession. I don’t believe you were intentionally negligent, or that you tried to hurt Gillian or her baby. I’m sure you did what you thought was best. But I now have reason to believe that you are delivering babies while your case is being reviewed, which is something you were expressly told not to do. I want to help you, but if this is the case, my hands are tied.”
I felt the heat in my cheeks. I’d been caught. In some ways it was a relief. This secret was weighing on me, perhaps heavier than I’d allowed to myself to believe. Part of me wanted to share the load. “Marie, I’m sorry—”
“It’s not the case,” Neva said from the doorway. She stood beside Mom. It was funny, they were two tiny women, but suddenly, together, they seemed so large.
“What’s not the case?” Marie asked.
“The prescription. That’s not Grace’s signature. It’s mine. I’m Grace’s daughter, Neva.”
“You wrote a Tylenol 3 prescription for Molly Harris, your mother’s former client?” Marie asked.
“Yes. And I delivered her baby. I offe
red to take over all Grace’s clients while this investigation was going on. That way, at least Grace could attend and they could have some continuity of care.”
“So … this … is your signature?” Marie said.
Neva stepped forward, barely glancing at the paper. “Yes.”
Marie looked back at the paper, and Neva also looked. The paper clearly said G. Bradley, but to Neva’s credit, she didn’t miss a beat. “I’d just attended a fifteen-hour labor. You want to argue over my penmanship?”
I became aware of Mom advancing until the three of us—Mom, Neva, and I—stood, shoulder to shoulder in a row. Marie looked from one to the next to the next, then shook her head. She knew she was right. But she couldn’t prove it.
“No. I don’t want to argue anything. I’m here because I want people to have access to a good standard of nursing. Believe it or not, I don’t always think doctors are the best judge of that. But I need you to work with me.” She looked at Neva. “So, if you do deliver any more of your mom’s client’s babies, please make sure you sign the birth certificate. All right?”
Neva nodded. “Yes. I will. Sorry about that.”
“And try to get your initial right on the prescription.”
A trace of red appeared on Neva’s cheeks.
“I’ll get the door,” I said as Marie reached for the handle.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Bradley. I’ll let myself out.”
We all watched her leave. After the door had snapped shut, I turned to face my daughter. “Thank you, darling. Thank you so much.”
“I don’t know what you are up to, Grace,” Neva said, shaking her head, “but a little prior warning might have been helpful. By the way, what’s with the easy-to-read signature? God, couldn’t you be more like a—?”
“Doctor!” we all said in unison, then laughed, a little giddy with our small victory.
“Come on.” I linked arms with Mom and Neva. “I guess I owe you an explanation. I’ll fill you in over dinner.” We turned toward the dining room.
“Perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of filling me in too?”
I froze, then lifted my eyes to the top of the stairs, where Robert was standing. And, all at once, my giddiness bubbled away to nothing.
The Secrets of Midwives Page 18