The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

  “But—”

  “Grace, you blew me away yesterday. I used to chuckle when you called your job magic. But you saved our daughter’s and our granddaughter’s lives. That is magic. I get how you can’t stop doing it.” He smiled at me so softly, it gave me tingles. “What I do? It’s not magic. It’s just numbers.”

  “But it’s important. Robert, we need the money. We can’t survive on magic.”

  “I got a couple of months’ salary in my severance package. And if I don’t find something else, we’ll sell the house.” He shrugged, as indifferent as I’d seen him in years. “It’s just a house.”

  I blinked. Was this the same man who’d hardly eaten or slept for weeks, worrying about his job and the future? Was he putting up a brave front for my sake?

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Rob?”

  “Actually it’s a relief,” he said. “When something is forced upon you, you have no choice but to deal with it. The uncertainty—the not knowing—was much worse.”

  I laughed. “Funnily enough, I know exactly what you mean.”

  32

  Floss

  In some ways, telling Neva was harder than telling Grace. She broke down in tears, which perhaps was to be expected, but I didn’t expect it of Neva. Some of it may have been to do with her hormones, but I suspected it was more than that. I was coming to realize that Grace was a lot stronger than I’d given her credit for. And Neva, perhaps, was more fragile.

  I remained by her side until she fell asleep, but as the sky began to darken, I thought of Lil. I was desperate for her, desperate to tell her I had a great-granddaughter, desperate to tell her I’d told Grace the truth. I wrote a note to Neva, telling her to call any time, day or night, and planted a kiss on her forehead. Then I slipped out.

  Back home, I had only just turned the key in the lock when the door opened. Lil stood behind it in her house slippers with a tea towel draped over her shoulder.

  “You’re home!” she said. “Come in, come in.” I followed her into the foyer. “You must be starving.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen before I could say a word. I noticed two places were set at the dining table. The sight of it warmed my heart. And although I wasn’t in the least bit hungry, I’d have happily eaten an entire horse if that’s what Lil produced.

  “Salad,” she said when she returned, setting a glass bowl in the center of the table. “I thought you’d probably want something light.”

  Lil smiled and a small part of my heart, a broken part, snapped back against the whole—a perfect fit. “You thought right, dear.”

  We sat in comfortable silence, our smiles speaking the words we couldn’t. I had no secrets anymore. At eighty-three, I finally understood what it was to have peace. I wanted to bottle it—swaddle it—and share it with the world. I no longer had anything to fear.

  As we finished our salad, the doorbell rang. A few moments later, Grace appeared at the head of the table.

  “Grace!” I wiped the corners of my mouth on a napkin. “Hello.”

  “Can I have a word, Mom?”

  I glanced at Lil. She was already standing up and clearing the dishes away. “Of course,” I said. “Come into the sitting room.”

  We sat down on opposite ends of the couch. The act of sitting there with my daughter, so comfortable only a day ago, now felt awkward.

  “I want to thank you for telling me the truth,” she started.

  I tensed. I knew what was coming. She’d want to know more about Bill. More about Elizabeth. She’d want family trees, photographs. And why shouldn’t she? She had a family history to reconstruct. The least I could do was to help her.

  “—but if it’s all right with you, I’d like to pretend you didn’t.”

  I stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s an amazing story. But what you did for me just proves that, if you weren’t my mother to begin with, you are now. I’d have liked to know Elizabeth, but … I can’t say I’m unhappy with how things worked out. Sometimes things happen exactly the way they are supposed to.”

  “Grace—” I struggled to take a breath. “Really? I thought when I told you this, you’d be determined to take off for England, to … I don’t know … find answers. I’d understand if you did. Are you sure you don’t want to?”

  “I’ll never say never,” she said. “But right now I’m pretty happy with the status quo. I have a good relationship with my daughter. I have a precious new granddaughter. I have a wonderful husband. And—” Her smile was almost shy. “—I have a mother who literally went to hell and back to protect me.”

  Grace was crying and, I realized, so was I. I exhaled. “If you’re sure. But if you change your mind, and I can help you, just let me know.”

  I glanced at the archway a split second before Lil appeared in it. After all our time together, I could anticipate her movements.

  “I’m going to head on up to bed and give you two some privacy,” she said. “Nice to see you, Grace.”

  “No,” I said, struggling to my feet. “Don’t go. I’d really like it if you stayed.”

  Lil looked at Grace, who now was also on her feet. She nodded vigorously. “Yes, Lil. Please stay.”

  “No. You two need time. You don’t need me hanging around—”

  “Nonsense,” Grace said. She hooked Lil’s arm in her own and brought her back to the sofa. Lil’s cheeks, I noticed, pinkened a little. “You’re family. And we don’t have any secrets from family.”

  “No, we don’t,” I said, taking Lil’s other hand. “Not anymore.”

  33

  Neva

  Before I was released from the hospital, Mark visited again, this time with Imogen. I was surprised—and at first, resistant—when he asked if he could bring her to the hospital. The idea of someone else touching my daughter, holding her—it felt too soon. But it wasn’t about me. Mark had every right to introduce his daughter to his fiancée. More importantly, Mietta had the right to know them.

  “She looks like Mom, don’t you think?” Mark asked Imogen.

  Imogen frowned, shaking her long hair back off her face. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  They’d been in my room for half an hour, and Imogen still hadn’t looked me in the face. I got the feeling she thought that if she ignored me heartily enough, I might actually disappear. I couldn’t blame her. Until today, I hadn’t given too much thought to how this whole situation would affect Imogen. Now I did. Her whole world as she knew it had been turned upside down. But she was here. And she was doing her best.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Mark asked Imogen.

  Imogen shook her head. “No. I shouldn’t.”

  “It’s fine with me,” I said, a little reluctantly.

  Mark brought the baby closer. “Go on. Hold her.”

  Her gaze hovered on Mietta for a moment. Then she said, “Fine. Why not?”

  Imogen got herself settled in the hospital armchair, then looked at Mark, palms upturned. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  I fought my instinct to give instructions. Be gentle. Support her head. They were competent adults. For someone who didn’t have any children (that I knew of) Imogen was actually remarkably comfortable. Maternal, even. It was bittersweet. I hated having another mother figure holding my daughter. But at the same time, I was grateful Imogen’s feelings for me didn’t seem to extend to Mietta. I actually got the feeling from the way she smiled at her that, if I were out of the picture, Mietta might even be welcomed.

  “I’m sorry, Imogen,” I heard myself say. “I know how difficult this must be for you. And it’s not fair. None of this is your fault.”

  “I realize that.” She still didn’t look at me. “It’s your fault.”

  It was a figurative slap in the face, and I accepted it. “Yes.”

  That must have appeased her a little, because after a short silence, she sighed. “But she’s Mark’s daughter, so I have to make the best of it.” She looked at Mark, standing beside her chair.
“That’s what you do when you love someone. You stick by them, even when life throws you … other people’s babies.”

  Imogen and Mark smiled at each other. I got the feeling that her little speech was for his benefit rather than mine. But I was glad I’d heard it too. It made me think about Patrick and the way that, despite what life had thrown at us, he had stuck by me.

  * * *

  I was getting released. For the first time in days, I was dressed and wearing shoes. I sat in the hospital nursing chair with Mietta in my arms, sucking in her sweet scent. My parka was draped over my arm.

  “Knock, knock.” A wheelchair nosed around the door, pushed by Susan. She parked it beside the bed and sidled up, her twinkling eyes defying her no-nonsense expression. “Ah. Look at the wee thing.” She broke into a full smile. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Thanks, Suse.”

  “Mom and Dad on their way?”

  “Nope,” I said. “It’s just us. I’m going back to my apartment.”

  Mom had asked me to come back home for a while, but I don’t think she expected me to agree. I had to do this on my own. At least, that was what I’d told her. But I was talking a lot braver than I felt. It was probably just the hormones, but I’d been on the verge of tears all morning.

  A frown etched into Susan’s forehead. “By yourself? How are you going to get home?”

  “Cab.” I waved my hand to stop her worrying. “We’ll be fine.”

  “No such thing. You can’t take your baby home to your apartment alone in a cab. Let me get my coa—”

  “It’s okay, Susan. I’m here.”

  In the doorway, in her turtleneck sweater and jeans, was Mom. It wasn’t the dramatic entrance I was used to—it was much more like the way I would arrive, without fanfare. She carried no balloons or flowers or banners. Her clothes were plain and her hair pulled back off her face. I barely recognized her.

  “Mom.”

  “I know you wanted to do this yourself, but—”

  The tears I’d held at bay for hours finally pushed over my lids. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Well, hallelujah!” Susan smiled as she snapped down the sides of the wheelchair. She muttered something about being glad she didn’t have to go out in this weather, and then reached for Mietta. “May I?” I nodded and she took the baby and handed her to Mom. “Hold your granddaughter for me, would you? There’s a love.”

  While Susan helped me into the wheelchair—a requirement of discharge that I really didn’t need—I couldn’t stop staring at Mom and Mietta. Mom held her close to her face and stared, right in her eyes. I’d seen Mom with babies before—she loved them. But this was different. They were connected by so much more than a gaze. I would have said it was a biological pull, but now, thinking of Gran, I wasn’t so sure.

  Susan gathered up my things and I signed a hundred documents before we started to roll. In the hallway, Mom started to talk.

  “Now, I hope you don’t mind, darling, but your father is at your apartment.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, well … there were a few things in the baby’s room that needed doing. I know you’re independent, but I couldn’t let you go home to a house without a crib or a—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Thank you.”

  “Thank your father. The stroller was a little tricky, but I think he figured it out.”

  Without warning, my eyes filled again. I looked at my lap. “Good. That’s … great.”

  Susan started a low cough, and the chair rolled to a halt.

  “Hello, Dr. Johnson.”

  I lifted my head. Patrick stood in front of me in green scrubs and a white jacket. He’d been by to visit me every day during my stay. He’d even held Mietta a few times. We hadn’t discussed “us” during the visits, though. I wasn’t ready for my last ray of hope to be extinguished, so I didn’t bring it up. Patrick probably didn’t bring it up, because there was nothing to say. Still, I enjoyed the visits. And I would miss them.

  “Going-home day?”

  I nodded. “I can’t believe it.”

  “And how’s this little one doing?” He bent, pushing back Mietta’s blanket to look her over in a way that I knew was instinct for him, a pediatrician. “You look pretty good to me.”

  He smiled as he closed the blanket up again. I fought the urge to cry.

  “Dad got that stroller set up,” I said. Why, I had no idea. Perhaps just to fill the silence.

  “He did?” Patrick frowned. He didn’t like being beaten.

  Beside me, Mom and Susan hovered awkwardly. The silence drifted on. I could feel their eyes, waiting for me to wind up the conversation. I didn’t. But Patrick didn’t either.

  “Well, then,” Susan said eventually. Her tone indicated that she thought we were both a little loopy. “I guess we’d better—” I felt my chair start to roll.

  “I have a present for Mietta,” Patrick said, as if he’d just remembered, or perhaps, just decided to tell me. Susan stopped pushing. “Maybe I could come by sometime and give it to her? Once you’ve had a chance to get settled.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We would love that.”

  “Good. I would too.” He bent forward, filling my airspace with his scent, and planted a brusque kiss on my cheek. “I guess I’ll see you soon.”

  I nodded. “Yes. I guess you will.”

  * * *

  Mom and Dad stayed the first night at my apartment.

  Like so many of the mothers I’d cared for over the years, I didn’t sleep a wink. Every time my lids became heavy, fear clamped around my heart. If I didn’t watch her constantly, would she remember to breathe? What if she spit up and then choked on it? What if? What if? What if?

  At some point, I couldn’t fight it anymore. Just one second, I’d rest my eyes. Just … one … second …

  At 3 A.M., I jerked upright, frantically taking in my surroundings. Where was I? I was home. With my baby. I snapped my head up and looked over the rim of her bassinet. It was empty.

  I shot through the house so fast that I got dizzy. Mom was asleep in my bed. No Mietta. I dashed up the hall into the sitting room and stabbed at the light switch. As the room illuminated, Dad thrust out a hand, shielding the light from his eyes. He sat in the recliner. Mietta was cradled against his chest.

  “Dad.” I held my chest. “You gave me a heart attack.” I switched off the light and turned on the small lamp.

  “Sorry, darling. She was fussing a bit, and you were asleep—so I just brought her out here. She’s fine now.”

  I looked her over. She did look positively blissed out. Dad’s hand covered her bottom, and he stroked her back with two fingers. He’d probably held me that same way once.

  “Do you want me to take her?” I asked.

  “No. You sleep. We’re having some Papa-and-me time.”

  I smiled. “Papa, is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Grampy? Gramps? Poppa? I don’t care.”

  He kissed the top of her head. My smile widened. My daughter would have a Papa. It was a relationship I had no frame of reference for, but I had a feeling it would be an important one.

  “Now, off with you,” he said sleepily. “Mietta and I have some bonding to do.”

  I skulked back to my bed. In the next room, Mom was already snoring. My daughter was asleep in the living room. And, with my dad watching over us all, my eyelids fluttered closed.

  * * *

  The next week passed in a blur, and I didn’t go out of the house once. Mom and Dad went home. I had mixed feelings about them leaving, and it was hard watching them go, but once they left and it was just me and Mietta, I felt a strange sort of content. Patrick called, a couple of times, but he had a knack for calling when I was asleep or in the shower. Once, he left a voice message, saying he hoped we were doing okay and was looking forward to seeing us soon. Another time, he texted, asking to see a photo. I thought these were good signs, but I didn’t want to read too much into them. I was in self-preservation mode. />
  Mietta and I camped out on my bed: sleeping, breast-feeding, and snuggling. The hormones must have buoyed my mood, because although I still thought about Patrick, and I still desperately hoped that we might have a chance together, I knew my world wouldn’t fall apart if things didn’t work out. No, I held my world—my tiny, pink world—next to my heart, virtually at all times. I’d always thought the idea of being attached to your baby at all times, as Mom advocated, was a little much. Sleeping in the same room, carrying them strapped to your chest—I thought it was her hippie mumbo jumbo on crack. But during the week that my daughter had been in the world, I’d realized both of us were happier that way. Turned out Mom knew more than I gave her credit for. About a lot of things.

  Dad, who was unemployed, came by every day—even more than Mom—to see his granddaughter. Gran and Lil had visited twice, once with roast chicken. I wanted to enjoy living in my bubble for a little longer, but I knew I would have to go outside soon. Anne had called and said everyone at the birthing center was champing at the bit to meet Mietta. And it hadn’t escaped me that it might be a chance to run into Patrick. Even if things could never be as they were, I missed him. I had the feeling that glimpsing him—in the real world—would give me a good indication of how the land lay.

  On the eighth day, I pushed Mietta to the birthing center in her new stroller. It felt good to be outside. It was a brilliant, blue-skied day. The snow had turned to mush at our feet, but my heavy-duty stroller made easy work of it. The week indoors had done nothing for my complexion. I’d slapped some pink on my cheeks and brushed my hair and squeezed into jeans and a bright blue knitted poncho. It was amazing the lift dressing up gave me. Even Mietta seemed happier to see me. I hoped she wasn’t going to be the only one.

  I decided to head to the birthing center through the hospital, even though it had a street entrance. I told myself it was to get out of the slush, but I wasn’t kidding anyone, even myself. I knew whom I was hoping to see. The halls were pretty quiet. I passed a few familiar faces, I even waved to a few folks, but no Patrick. Then, as I turned the final corner, I heard my name.