Текст книги "The Secrets of Midwives"

Автор книги: Sally Hepworth

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

16

Neva

In the passenger seat of Patrick’s car, my stomach wriggled like a sack of kittens. It was hard to believe that a few hours ago, he’d offered to pretend to be the father of my baby. He’d suggested we pretend to be a couple. He’d even introduced himself to Gran as my boyfriend! If it was anyone else, the intent would be clear. But Patrick, the player, couldn’t be interested in me—could he?

He pulled up outside my apartment. “Here we are.”

“You never answered me before,” I said. My head was too full of thoughts to try to weave it more naturally into conversation. “Why would you want to do this? Pretend to be the father of my baby?”

“Would you believe I have a thing for redheads?”

I let the silence be my answer.

Patrick sighed, exasperated. “Come on, Nev.”

“Come on, what? Tell me. If you want me to say yes, I need to know why.”

“Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Say wha—?”

With a flick of his seat belt, he silenced me. He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger and bent toward me. I held still, not even breathing. His lip curved up at one side. It was the most gentle, tender smile I’d ever seen from Patrick. Perhaps the most tender smile I’d ever seen from anyone. But I only got to enjoy it for an instant before he pressed his lips to mine.

The world slipped away. His lips were soft but firm. Gently, he pulled me closer. Involuntarily, I moaned.

My approval did something to both of us. Patrick’s tongue slid into my mouth, and deep inside me, a fire ignited. It was like watching a movie with a foreshadowed twist; I hadn’t seen it coming, but now I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. Not just the way Patrick felt about me. But the way I felt about him too.

When he broke away, I saw stars. It might have been the light, or the fact that we had just kissed, or perhaps the pregnancy hormones, but I wondered if I were dreaming. More than anything, I wanted to go back to sleep.

“Does that answer your question?”

“Uh … what was the question?”

“The reason I want to do this.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I think we’re good for each other, Nev. I’d hoped we’d get to this point and then conceive a baby but … if the baby’s been conceived and … you’re telling me the guy’s out of the picture, then … I’m still in. If you want me.”

I blinked. It was just too impossible to be true. And yet …

“Are you in?” he asked.

“Yes.” I sounded hoarse but sure. I nodded several times. “Yes. I’m in.”

We stared at each other. Patrick chuckled. “Okay, then. Well, I’m going to leave you to obsess about this all night,” he said. He refastened his seat belt. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to stay?” I blurted out. Immediately, I wanted to retract it. Sort of.

Patrick looked startled.

“Um,” I said. “I mean—”

He smiled. “I think I’m going to go home tonight. I’d love to stay,” he said, perhaps in response to my flaming cheeks. “But after all this time, I want us to do this right.”

The next day, he called during my lunch break. “Hey, there, baby momma.”

I blushed, even though I was on the phone.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yep.” Actually, I was tired. I’d spent half the night tossing and turning and obsessing over the kiss, the relationship, the offer to pretend to be my baby’s father. “Sorry, just a little distracted. I’m juggling two mothers in labor, early stages.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you that I haven’t told anyone yet. About being the father of your baby. So you still have the chance to change your mind.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Damn.” His tone was typically dry. “I really wanted to tell Marion.”

I laughed and held up one finger to Ruth, my birth assistant, to let her know I’d be right in. I moved into a quiet corner and lowered my voice. “Are you sure about this? You’ve really thought it all through?”

“Yep.”

I traced my finger against a groove in the wall. “You’re crazy, you know that? But … okay. Tell Marion. Tell the world.” Then another thought occurred to me. “Actually, don’t tell the whole world. We’ll tell everyone else that you are the father, but not Grace and Gran.”

“Why not?”

“I … don’t know.”

But I did know. It was one thing not telling Grace and Gran who the father was. It was another outright lying to them. There were so many ways that Grace got under my skin, but she’d always been truthful with me. As for Gran, I doubted she’d ever told a lie in her whole life. It was something I knew I could count on with them, and I didn’t want to break that circle of trust.

“I just don’t think I can look them in the face and lie.”

That seemed to be enough for Patrick. “Right, then. We’ll tell everyone except your mom and gran. Sound good?”

I sagged. He had no idea how good.

“Oh, and Nev, about last night…”

The baby, or maybe something else inside me—lower down—did a somersault. “Yeah?”

“I’m hoping we can have a repeat tonight.”

Twenty-four hours later, everyone—with the exception of my mother and grandmother—thought Patrick was the father of my baby. As Patrick said, everyone accepted it without question, amused that we’d finally revealed our relationship “after all this time.” Marion was a little miffed that she hadn’t been the one to expose the secret, but once she recovered, even she seemed pleased. Patrick accepted the pats on the back and congratulations like a proud father to be, and I smiled as the nurses tried to conceal their horror that Patrick had been snapped up. That part was fun.

As we’d told everyone we were a couple, I didn’t see any way around the new sleeping arrangements at my apartment. Eloise would have thought it was strange if he’d slept on the couch. So that night, when Patrick showed up after his shift, after a brief chat with Eloise and Ted, who were snuggling on the couch, we’d both wandered stiffly to my bedroom. I used the bathroom first, and as I waited for Patrick to finish his shower, I peeled back the sheet to examine my sleepwear for the tenth time. A tank top and shorts. A negligee, even if I’d owned one, would’ve looked ridiculous on a woman who was seven months pregnant, but it felt a little presumptuous to wear nothing at all. I sat up. Maybe my good underwear and bra set would be better? It was pink and girly and … No. Not me at all. I lay back down.

The next time I sat up, the light was off and I could tell some hours had passed. Opposite me in bed, Patrick smiled. “Hey, there, sleepyhead.”

I blinked awake. “Whoa. How long have you been staring at me?”

“I wasn’t staring until you suddenly shot upright. I’m a light sleeper. Unlike you.”

I yawned. “Sorry. I must have dozed off while you were in the shower.”

“Pregnant women need sleep.”

“True.” I frowned. “You know, I’m not used to having men in my bed watching me sleep.”

“You’re not used to having men in your bed at all. I should know. Unless you’ve been sneaking them out the window—which, as a doctor, I would say is a dangerous move—on the third floor.”

“So that’s why none of them called.”

I expected Patrick to laugh, but he didn’t. “Is that what happened to him, then? The guy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That must be it.”

“You’re really not going to tell me who he is?”

I shook my head.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

Patrick propped himself onto an elbow. “If it were my baby … I’d want to know.”

“Trust me. This guy doesn’t want to know.”

“So he’s definitely out of the picture, then?” For once, Patrick looked unsure of himself. It made my insides hurt. “He’s not going to swoop in later, demanding back his fatherly rights?”

“No.” My voice was confident. “Definitely not.”

Finally, that megawatt smile. “Well, good. Then his loss is my gain.”

The gleam in Patrick’s eye was unmistakable. It made me nervous. He was in my bed. He’d have expectations. I wasn’t nervous about sex … exactly … but sex with Patrick? It was thrilling and terrifying in equal parts. Thrilling because, well … he was Patrick. He looked the way he looked, and he was definitely very experienced. Terrifying because I was heavily pregnant and most likely not up to the job. But I was happy to try.

I reached for him under the blanket and found his naked waist, warm, flexing under my hands. Slowly, I edged toward him, sliding into his space. The baby sat between us. I leaned in, over it, and pressed my mouth to his.

“Nev.”

I pulled back, my body a crescent moon mirror image of his. “Yeah.”

“I know this is a bit unorthodox, me being in your bed like this. But I don’t have any expectations. Fantasies, but not expectations.”

“Fantasies?” I flickered my eyes to the bowling ball between us. “Even with this?”

He half smiled. “Even with that.”

My head began to swirl.

“But not tonight,” he said. “Tonight I thought we could just … talk.”

“Talk?”

He nodded.

“You are in bed with a woman, and you want to talk.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s me, Patrick. I know your history. Mr. Lipstick on My Shirt, Mr. Reeking of Perfume. You’ve been sleeping on my couch, remember?”

“Ah.” He rolled onto his back, smiling, winging his arms behind his ears. “So my efforts weren’t wasted.”

“Your efforts?” I didn’t get it.

He eyed me sideways and laughed. “Come on. Do you know how hard it is to get lipstick on your shirt collar? How many women do you know that kiss a man’s neck when they’re not naked? Women who still have lipstick on.” I thought about it, but before I could come up with an answer, he continued. “I was trying to get a certain person’s attention.”

“Wha—?” I paused, taking it all in. “You mean … me?”

He laughed again, but now he looked a little shy. My brain continued to work overtime. “You mean … you were trying to get my attention by getting heavy with other women?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds a little counterproductive. But, yes.”

Part of me wanted to slap him. Another part wanted to grab his half-naked body and … “In what world would it be productive?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled at the ceiling. “A lot of other women seem to find me attractive. I thought if you saw how they saw me…”

“So you slept with half of St. Mary’s!”

“Not half.”

“A quarter?”

“Two,” he said.

“Two?”

“Two.”

His face was earnest. And while Patrick was many things, he wasn’t a liar. “Wow. Just two.” I should have been relieved, but a strange, unpleasant feeling began to burn through me. “Which two?”

Patrick started to shake his head.

“Come on,” I said. “If it’s only two, you’ll remember which ones. Tell me.”

“I remember who they are, Nev. But I’m not telling you.”

“Patrick. If we are going to be in a relationship, we have to be honest with each other, right?”

He raised his eyebrows and I cursed internally. I was hardly the advocate for open honesty. I prepared to retract the question when he spoke very, very quietly.

“Leila. And Kate.”

I nodded, tried to look indifferent. I’d suspected Leila, but still, it irked me. And Kate—I didn’t know her very well, but she was very nice. And pretty.

“Both were onetime things,” he said.

“When?”

“Ages ago.”

“When you were married to Karolina?”

“No.” Patrick’s response was immediate, and horrified. “I was never unfaithful to Karolina. Kate was shortly after the split, and Leila, a year ago.” He searched my face. “Karolina was unfaithful to me. You knew that, right?”

“No. No, I didn’t know that. I assumed … well, with all the women afterwards…”

“There were quite a few women afterwards,” he admitted. “Probably not as many as you recall. But I never crossed the line while I was married. I can’t believe you thought I would.”

I was thrown. All the judgments I’d made about Patrick—his infidelity, his string of women—were all getting thrown out faster than I could ask him about it. Either he was a really good PR person or—or I’d gotten him all wrong. I hoped it was the latter.

“I’m not that guy, Nev,” he said, and pulled me toward him. “I may be a flirt … but I’m not that guy.”

“Well, good,” I said, resting my cheek on his chest. “Then it might just work out for us after all.”

17

Grace

I woke in an empty bed. It was early—not yet seven—but Robert’s briefcase, which had been reclining at the foot of the bed when I got in last night, was gone. The blinds were cracked open and red-pink light filtered in, pretty but ominous. Red sky in the morning, shepherds take warning. Robert had been snoring when I got in, so I didn’t have the chance to tell him about Mom. Then again, even if he had been awake, I might not have told him. After his outburst the other day, I felt inclined to play my cards a little closer to my chest.

At 8:53, I was still in bed. The light had faded to peach, but otherwise, not much had changed. I still had seven phone calls to make. Seven clients to disappoint. I hadn’t found the right words yet. You know how you entrusted the most important experience of your life to me? Well, I’m going to let you down at the last minute without giving you a valid alternative, because I’m being investigated for negligence. Truthful, but I didn’t like the sound of it. As the minutes ticked closer to nine, the time I’d deemed acceptable to call, my anxiety grew. So, at 8:57, when my cell phone rang, I lunged at it—a prospect of distraction—without so much as checking the screen. “Grace Bradley.”

“Grace. It’s Molly.”

I cursed silently. Out of the seven, Molly was the one I least wanted to speak to. When I’d spoken to her last week, she told me her husband had been laid off and she was worried the stress might somehow affect the baby. We’d become close over the past months. To leave her now was unthinkable. I had a flash of pure hatred for Dr. White and his complaint.

“Molly, hello. How are—?”

“I’vebeenhavingcontractionsforaboutfourhours.” Molly’s words tumbled out without so much as a pause.

I shot upright. “Where are you, honey?”

“At my apartment. Is it too early for you to come over?”

It was. About a month too early.

“How far apart are contractions?”

“The last two were around three minutes apart.”

My hand, which was holding the phone, began to shake. “And before that?”

“Well … at first they came every eight minutes. Then every five. Now they’ve gone down to three.”

“Are they painful?”

“Oh, God. Hang on a sec, Grace. Ohhhhh.” A familiar low whimper came through the phone.

“Molly, is that a contraction? Can you answer me? Can you talk through it?”

The whimper turned into a wail and then died down to nothing. “Sorry. They’re getting bad. Can you come?”

Silently, I slapped a palm against my head.

“Grace? Are you there?”

“I’m here. It’s just that there’s something I need to tell you.” I continued to slap my head. “I’m so sorry, but … I’m not going to be able to deliver your baby.”

There was a pause. “Is this a joke?”

“I wish it was. There’s been a complaint made against me. My license has been suspended until a full investigation has been done and the Board of Nursing has made a ruling. Which won’t be for about a month.”

“A month?” Molly’s voice squeaked. “But my baby is coming. What am I supposed to do?”

“Given the fact that you’re already in labor, you’ll have to go to the hospital. That, as far as I can tell, is your only option.” I waited, but only silence rang through the phone. “Molly? Are you there?”

I could hear her breathing, so I knew she was.

“Molly,” I tried again. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It’s just the investigation. But if you go to the hosp—”

“I watched my mother die in hospital a year ago.” Her voice was calm—almost robotic. “I don’t want my baby to come into the world in a place of sickness and death. That’s why I came to you.”

My heart sped up. Her mother. Of course.

“Molly. I want to deliver your baby. But if I do, I risk losing my license permanently.”

“Well, I’m not going to the hos—” Molly paused to moan through another contraction. When it finished, she said, “You do what you have to do, Grace. And I’ll do the same.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, I was in Molly’s bedroom. I tried to keep my mind on the task, but it kept wandering. What was I supposed to have done? Left Molly at home to deliver alone? Forced her into an ambulance to be taken to a hospital that terrified her? The way I saw it, I didn’t have a lot of options. But my heart felt heavy. And weighing on my mind most wasn’t the idea of the Board of Nursing finding out. It was Robert finding out.

Molly spent an hour in a squatting position, while her husband supported her weight. She was using every last bit of her energy to give the final push that would bring her baby into the world. She’d impressed me with her focus and control. Sometimes that was how things went. The calmest, most composed women came apart during labor and the timid, cautious ones rose to the challenge.

“Okay, Molly,” I said, kneeling at her feet, “Let’s find out if it’s a boy or a girl.”

When the time came, she let out a purposeful wail. I eased the baby’s head out slowly. The cord was around the baby’s neck, but loose, and I removed it. With the next contraction, Molly’s face contorted again and she pushed her baby boy into my hands. I glanced at the clock. “Ten thirty-two A.M. A perfectly sociable time to be born.”

I handed Molly her baby, and silence descended. Jimmy cried quietly. Molly stared at her baby and he stared back—an invisible cord of love connecting them. We all felt it. Magic was in the room. Magic that, perhaps, wouldn’t have been there at the hospital.

“Would you like to try feeding now, Molly?” I asked. “It might help encourage the uterus to contract and expel the placenta.”

Molly did want to try feeding. I had some medication that would cause the placenta to expel, but my clients generally preferred not to use it. I was inclined to agree with them. The female body was remarkable at managing this process on its own.

I covered the bed in towels, and Jimmy helped Molly lie down. The baby latched on without too much effort, and I sat back and waited for the placenta to come.

Jimmy and Molly looked spent but happy. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t envisage this scene in a hospital. Molly, I knew, would have been hysterical, in an environment that terrified her, surrounded by strangers. How wrong it seemed now that I’d even considered doing that to her. Here, on her own bed, she seemed calm, tranquil, and strong. Like every new mother should.

“Okay,” I said after fifteen minutes had passed. “Come on, placenta! Let’s see what the holdup is.”

I felt for the fundus, which was contracting, but gently, and kneaded it with my hands.

“Is everything okay?” Molly asked, looking up from her baby for the first time.

“Fine,” I said. “Just giving your uterus a helping hand. Generally, I like the placenta to come out within half an hour. We still have time. Keep feeding. You’re doing a great job.”

The baby continued to suckle happily at the breast. Jimmy fell asleep on Molly’s shoulder. But ten minutes later, the placenta still hadn’t come.

“Still nothing?” Molly asked. I could feel her assessing my face for worry, so I concentrated on keeping it straight.

“Nope. Not yet.”

“Are you worried?”

“No,” I said carefully. “But I would like it to come sooner rather than later. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to give you a shot, to help it expel.”

She frowned, and I could see the wheels spinning in her head. I doubted she’d be opposed to the shot, but like most of my clients, she wanted to know there was a good reason for its use. “And if we don’t use the shot?”

“Well, your placenta might come out on its own. Or there’s a possibility that we may have to take you to the hospital. Even if I give you the shot, it won’t guarantee that you don’t have to go to the hospital,” I added. “But I’d say the medication is your best chance. Up to you.”

“Give me the shot,” Molly said without hesitation.

Three minutes later, Molly had a sharp contraction, and a few minutes after that, the placenta was delivered intact.

I stayed with Molly until the early hours of the morning, then wrote up the birth—for my own records—and began to pack up my things. It was Jimmy’s idea for me not to write out the birth certificate. “If we don’t tell anyone you were here,” he’d said, you can’t get into trouble. We can just say we had the baby on our own. People do that, right? What are they called … free-birthers?” I told him I thought it was a wonderful idea. Too good to be true.

I left Molly a script for Tylenol 3 (the contractions caused by the shot could get quite painful) and promised to be back in a few hours. Then came the awkward part. I’d always liked the anonymity of the follow-up invoice for a few reasons. One, it felt wrong to put your hand out so soon after being part of something so intimate and special with a family. Two, it was usually the last thing on people’s minds after welcoming a child into their family. But now that I was off the record, I didn’t have the luxury of sending an invoice.

“Uh, Jimmy?” I hovered in the doorway. “Do you have a sec?”

Reluctantly, Jimmy left his wife and son and joined me in the hallway.

“Just about payment. Did you…” I couldn’t seem to find the words. “Um, how did you want to … organize this?”

Jimmy’s face pinkened. It reminded me that he’d recently been let go from his job. “Oh, yeah, um, sure. Hang on a sec.”

He sloped, teenlike, into the sitting room and unzipped the computer bag that was on the round dining table. He pulled out a wallet sealed with Velcro. “How much was it again?”

I bit my lip. “Um … well, three thousand.”

Jimmy nodded and looked back at his wallet. Already I could see that it contained nowhere near that amount. Desperately, he began to count out the notes.

“How much have you got, Jimmy?” I asked softly.

He looked up, shamefaced. I thought he was going to make something up, say it had been stolen or something, but he just sighed.

“About nine hundred. Could you take it as an installment? When I get another job, I can pay you the rest. I’m sure it won’t take me long to find something.”

His face was such a departure from what I’d seen a few minutes earlier. The weight of responsibility was already falling on his shoulders, and I knew too well how hard that could be for a man.

“No, Jimmy. Forget it. You need this money more than I do.”

Jimmy was bewildered. “You mean … you don’t want any money?”

The irony of what I was doing wasn’t lost on me. Robert was down on me for taking unnecessary risks that could threaten my ability to support my family financially, yet here I was, taking risks for no money at all. Where would Robert’s moral compass have stood on this? Was it further evidence of me putting my head in the sand, putting others ahead of our family? Perhaps. But I knew where my moral compass stood. And it was telling me this was the right thing to do.

I smiled. “You keep it. Use it to look after your wife and son.”