The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

“Elizabeth said that? That Bill blacks out?”

  I nodded.

  Evie seemed strangely contemplative. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking. She wandered over to her bag and pulled out some paperwork, then moved to the kitchen table. I picked Grace up out of her bassinet and went to stand beside her.

  “Birth certificate,” she said, scribbling on the page. “It’s dated two weeks ago, so people don’t question why you’re out and about with a newborn.”

  She seemed calm, in control. Much more than I was. She held out the page.

  “What are you going to do, Evie?” I asked.

  Evie’s eyes drifted over to Elizabeth, then down to the baby that was snuggled peacefully against me. “Same as you. I’m going to make sure Bill never gets his hands on that baby.”

  * * *

  It took over an hour to tell Grace everything, and while I did, she just listened, never once interrupting, flying off the handle, or dissolving into dramatic, disillusioned tears. I wished she would do that, or at least do something familiar to reassure me that she was actually still my daughter. Even though she wasn’t.

  “So what did you do?” she asked. “Once you left the house?” Her words felt distant, as though they didn’t belong to her.

  “I wrapped you up, wedged you in the basket of my bike and cycled faster than I ever had in my life. I reached the boardinghouse before sunrise, packed my things in the dark, and took the first train to London.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to my parents’ house. I told them you were born out of wedlock. They were Irish Catholic, and I knew it was about the only thing I could’ve said to get my father to cough up the money for the passage to America. An unwed daughter with a baby would’ve been a disaster. I stayed with them for two weeks, long enough to get a passport for you and me, and then they deposited me on the ship. And that was that.”

  Grace was silent for a long time, perhaps longer than she’d ever been in my company. As she sat, her fingers trailed up and down her legs, dragging the fabric of her long skirt with them.

  “Why didn’t Evie take the baby? Take … me.”

  The question baffled me. In all these years, the idea had never occurred to me.

  “I’m not sure. Evie was engaged, I suppose. She couldn’t just turn up overnight with a baby. But I was single. I was able to move far away. No one knew I’d even been at Elizabeth’s house that night. Evie was her midwife, I’d just gone as a favor to Elizabeth. I suppose it made sense.” I frowned, trying to think about it more. “It sounds strange, I suppose, but I think … in both of our minds … the second Elizabeth died, you became mine.”

  There was a tiny lift in Grace. So tiny, most wouldn’t even have noticed. I liked to think it was something that only a mother would notice.

  “What happened when my father got home and found his wife dead and his baby missing?”

  “For a long time, I didn’t know,” I admitted. “It took me two years before I dared to write to Evie. Six weeks later, she wrote back.”

  “And?”

  The letter was still in the front pocket of my purse and I plucked it out. “I think this contains the answers you’re looking for, dear.”

  Over the years, I’d become pretty good at knowing what my daughter was thinking. But as Grace looked from the letter to me, then back again, the skill deserted me. I watched as she opened it. Though I knew its contents by heart, I read along over her shoulder.

  Dearest Floss,

  After two years I had all but given up hope of hearing from you again. I was overjoyed to receive your letter, and to hear that you and Grace are healthy and well. I was also glad to hear that you’re still practicing midwifery. I wasn’t sure I’d continue myself after that night. I thought that with each new mother I’d see Elizabeth, and with each new baby, Grace. I blamed myself for Elizabeth’s death for a long time. But there’s something about what we do, isn’t there? Something about new life that helps to heal old wounds. I hope you’ve found it to be the comfort that I have these past years.

  I hounded your poor mother for months after you left. The hardest part of not knowing was not being able to picture you and Grace. Were you walking along a beach somewhere? Rocking on a porch swing? Trudging through the snow? I realize, of course, that I’m not the only one with gaps in my knowledge. I’m sure you’ve wondered many times what happened after you pedaled away into the night with Grace. And as much as I am loath to revisit it, even in my memory, I believe it is necessary so all of us can finally close this chapter.

  After you left, I bathed Elizabeth. I combed her hair and changed her linen. Perhaps it was silly, but after what Bill had put her through in life, I wanted her to have some dignity in death. A car pulled up just after sunup. The publican was driving Bill, and I could hear the singing from inside. I made sure my bicycle was out front, where it could be seen, then I slipped out the back door. Once Bill was inside and the car had disappeared over the hill, I cycled the two miles to the pay phone.

  I told Sister Eileen that Elizabeth delivered a healthy baby girl before she died, and that I’d left her in the arms of her father. I also told her Bill was drunk and upset, and I was concerned for her welfare. Sister Eileen, Dr. Gregory, and Sergeant Lynch picked me up at that phone box fifteen minutes later. When we arrived at the house, Bill was nowhere to be seen. A search went out immediately, and he was found before breakfast, passed out, on the side of the road near Wharton’s Creek. Everyone assumed that he’d drowned the baby in his grief. I think Bill himself assumed that, as he didn’t dispute my version of events. For once, those blackouts that terrified Elizabeth served some good.

  Bill was charged, but not convicted. Without a body or a witness, there wasn’t enough evidence. But everyone thought he’d done it. He had to leave town. Beating up on your wife was one thing, but drowning a baby daughter was more than a little place like Kings Langley could handle. I like to think that Bill got his dues, but who knows? The most important thing was that he didn’t get Grace.

  It’s funny, I’ve probably watched over a hundred women become mothers over the years. But you should know that none stand out as much as the moment I watched you become one. The way you stared at her? The way you instinctively held her to your heart? Perhaps it’s an odd thing to say, but … it almost feels like she was yours all along.

  Thinking of you both always,

  Your friend,

  Evie

  “Is he—” Grace’s voice caught, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “—is Bill still alive?”

  “No, dear. Evie wrote a few years ago to tell me he’d passed away.”

  Grace nodded. Her face was dry. Blank. I could just about handle any emotion from her—and I’d seen many over the years—but no emotion was another story.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  There were several answers. I worried for her safety. I didn’t want her near him. I feared the legal consequences of what I’d done. But none of them were the truth. “I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t think of me as your mother anymore.”

  I felt foolish enough just saying it, but waiting for her to reassure me felt more foolish. You’re my mother, I wanted her to say. You’ll always be my mother. But she didn’t reassure me. She didn’t say anything. I wanted to hang my head, to cover my face with my hands. But I forced myself to hold her gaze. This wasn’t about my need to be validated as a mother. It was about Grace.

  “Am I … like him?” she asked. “Bill?”

  “No. You’re like Elizabeth.” I forced myself to say the words. “You’re very much like your mother.”

  “I am?”

  I nodded. “In looks and in personality. Elizabeth was great fun. Loving. Adventurous. A midwife too. She was the one who gave you and Neva your beautiful hair color.”

  Grace glanced up abruptly, catching her reflection in the window. She turned her head from side to side. It was almost as if she was seeing herself for the first time.


  Her lips upturned slightly. Not a smile exactly. But not that lost, empty look I’d seen on her face a moment earlier. It made me wonder if Lil was right. Perhaps it wasn’t the lack of a father that had damaged Grace. Perhaps it had been the secret all along.

  30

  Neva

  Mark was in the doorway. He looked the same. Tall. Dark. Clean-cut. Still, I nearly didn’t recognize him, his expression was so cold and disbelieving.

  “Come in,” I said when he made no move to enter.

  He surveyed the room. Mark wasn’t stupid. I was sitting up in bed, propped up by several pillows. My daughter lay in my arms. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that you didn’t call an insignificant ex-lover to come and visit you and your newborn in the hospital if you didn’t have a bombshell to drop.

  He walked inside cautiously, as if any step might set off a grenade. His eyes found the baby. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl.”

  “And she’s mine?”

  “Yes.”

  He cursed quietly and twisted away from me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think she was yours. But she arrived last night … and she’s full term. Full lung capacity, a good size. Black hair.” I paused. “So she’s yours.”

  He took a couple of steps toward the door, then abruptly turned back. “So … you’re not on the pill?”

  “I have this condition, polycystic ovaries, so the chances of getting pregnant spontaneously are slim. It was just…” Looking down at my daughter, I couldn’t use the word “unlucky.” Instead I let my voice trail off. Mark didn’t seem to notice.

  “But you’re a midwife,” he cried. “How can you miscalculate a date by a month?”

  “Because of my condition, I rarely get periods. I went on the baby’s measurements.… Turns out she was small.”

  Mark looked desperate. He strode to the fogged-up window, placed both hands on the sill. “What about the other guy? Has he been given the good news, that he’s off the hook in daddy duties?”

  “I never told him. He was married and … it was complicated. I didn’t think he needed to know.”

  “Lucky him,” Mark said. He remained that way, at the window, for several seconds, breathing audibly. Then he whipped around to face me. “Imogen and I got engaged last week, did you know that?” He barely paused before continuing. “Anyway, how do I know you’re not lying now?”

  It was a valid question. After everything I’d put him through, why should he take my word for it? He didn’t know me well, and what he did know of me was that I was a liar, a liar who’d turned his world upside down. “I guess we’ll have to look into a paternity test,” I said.

  He nodded. “I guess we will.”

  We remained in silence for several minutes. I wanted to talk to Mark, to beg for forgiveness, to throw myself on his mercy. But this wasn’t about me.

  “Can I hold her?” he asked.

  Instinctively, my arms tightened around her. But with a little effort, I loosened them again. Mark was her father; he had a right to hold her. In fact, he had many more rights, and I’d denied them all so far. Yet, here he stood before me, waiting patiently for my agreement. “Yes,” I said. “Of course you can.”

  I held her out and he froze, as though he couldn’t believe I’d said yes. But when he took her, he cradled her with the utmost care, barely moving an inch. He reminded me of a child carrying a mug of hot coffee.

  “She looks like my mother,” he said quietly.

  “She does?”

  He nodded. “She passed away two months ago.”

  I closed my eyes. Another person who’d suffered because of my decision. Deep inside, I felt a quiet resolve build. “What was her name? Your mother?”

  “It was … Mietta.”

  “Mietta,” I repeated. “I love it.”

  Mark’s eyes met mine briefly. Then he dropped his gaze back to the baby. “Is that your name?” he asked her. “Mietta?”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to call her Mietta Grace,” I said. “Then she’ll be named after both her grandmothers.”

  He nodded. “It’s all right with me.”

  We remained that way, staring at our daughter until someone cleared their throat.

  Mark and I looked up simultaneously. Patrick was standing in the doorway. He was wearing his hospital accreditation on his lanyard, probably for ease of getting around the nursery. Security was tight in maternity wards.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you had company.”

  “It’s all right, Doctor,” Mark said. “I’m not going anywhere, so you may as well examine her now.”

  Mark looked back at Mietta, so he missed the slap of pink that hit Patrick’s cheeks.

  “Oh…,” I said. “No … this isn’t the doctor—well, he is a doctor, but he’s actually, he’s…” I twisted my mouth around, trying to find the right thing to say.

  “Patrick Johnson,” he said, extending his hand. His eyes flickered to mine, then returned to Mark. “And you are…?”

  Mark slid the baby up his arm, freeing one hand with which to shake Patrick’s. He smiled, oblivious.

  “Mark Bartolucci. I’m the baby’s father.”

  I’d never seen Patrick at a loss for words before. Perhaps from his experience dealing with anxious parents, he’d learned to be quick to smile or make a joke or just come up with the right thing to say at the right time. That skill deserted him now.

  Mark, by now, looked wary. He was starting to get the picture.

  “Mark, can you give us a minute, please?” I asked.

  I thought Mark was going to refuse, which would have been understandable, considering he had just been introduced to the daughter he knew nothing about. But eventually he handed Mietta back to me.

  “Actually, I’m going to go, Neva. I have to talk to … family and things. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can, um, make a plan.”

  Vaguely I wondered what on earth that plan would look like, but I didn’t want to be bothered with those details now. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll speak to you then.”

  He jerked forward and planted an awkward kiss on Mietta’s head, then hovered there for a couple of beats, smelling her, maybe. “See you soon,” he whispered.

  “So that’s the guy?” Patrick said, once Mark had left. “Seems nice enough.”

  “He’s engaged,” I said, though I don’t know why.

  Patrick sighed. “So what happens now?”

  The plan Patrick and I had to share the child care while both working part-time seemed too perfect to have ever been real.

  “Go back to my apartment, I guess. Start my life with my daughter.”

  He nodded. I wanted him to say that he’d be there. That all the plans we’d made still stood, and this was just the beginning for us. He didn’t.

  “You’ll be a great moth—”

  “Patrick?” The words leapt out of my mouth before I could process them.

  “Yes?”

  I choked on my tongue. What did I want to say? Stay? Let’s go back to the way things were? I know what I did was unforgivable, but … can you forgive me?

  “Can you stay awhile?”

  When it boiled down to it, it was the only thing I felt I could ask him. He might say no, but that, I could cope with. I couldn’t cope with him saying no to a life with me and my daughter.

  A reluctant smile crept across his face. “Yes. I can stay awhile.”

  31

  Grace

  It was a day for letters.

  When I arrived home from the hospital, a letter awaited me on the hall table. I didn’t need my glasses to recognize the stationery—it was from the Board of Nursing. I waited for the rush of joy or fear. Anticipation. Trepidation. Nothing came. It was hard to believe that just a day ago, my whole life was pinned on the contents of this letter. Now, I still wanted to practice midwifery again; I wanted it badly. But somehow the letter in my purse had put it all in perspe
ctive.

  In the sitting room, I fell into an armchair and tore my thumbnail along the top of the envelope. The font was small, and a large blue signature was scrawled at the bottom. I lowered my reading glasses from my head, and read from the top.

  Dear Mrs. Bradley,

  With regards to the complaint filed against you for negligence in the management of labor for Mrs. G. Brennan, we are writing to advise that we have thoroughly investigated the claim, and spoken to all parties involved in the matter. We are pleased to inform you that we have found no evidence to support the allegations; therefore, this case has been closed. Your record is clear of any charges.

  Sincerely,

  Marie Ableman

  Board of Nursing

  I reread the letter. That was it. One typed paragraph, and it was over. I wasn’t going to lose my license. It was good news, yet for some reason, it felt anticlimactic. Perhaps it was because so many questions remained. Would Robert forgive me? Would we find our way back to each other after everything that had happened?

  “Grace.” Robert appeared in the doorway. “You’re home. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Seriously? It feels like my legs are made of lead.”

  He eyed the letter in my hand.

  “Oh,” I said. “The Board of Nursing let me off. I’m not guilty.”

  Robert slapped the arm of the couch and cheered. Then he looked at me. “That’s it? That’s how you make the announcement? No megaphone? No squealing?”

  “Do I look like I have the energy to squeal?”

  He sat in the chair opposite me. “Well, this is fantastic.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Seems to be a day for news.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Long story.”

  Robert, bless his heart, seemed to accept that. In his polo shirt and jeans, he looked young and carefree. I did a double take. Polo shirt? Jeans? It was a Tuesday. “Robert, why aren’t you at work?”

  He sank further into his chair. “I got a letter of my own yesterday. Said I didn’t need to go to work today. Or any day.”

  I shot upright.

  “Don’t get upset,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s a job. Not as important as our daughter. Or our granddaughter.” He leaned forward and put his hand over mine. “Or you.”