Текст книги "The Secrets of Midwives"

Автор книги: Sally Hepworth

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

21

Floss

“Breech? You’re sure, dear?”

When Neva arrived on my doorstep with groceries, I’d had a feeling something was up. Her hair, which was normally smooth and restrained in a ponytail, was wild and stringy. At first I’d thought it was Grace standing there. Her face had been flushed, and it looked like she’d been crying. Now, with her legs crossed underneath her on my sofa, the tears flowed freely.

“Completely sure.” A new tear slipped down her cheek and she flicked it away. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Don’t apologize, dear.”

“… the ridiculous thing is, I didn’t even notice it was breech. It was Patrick who pointed it out. Patrick is the guy you met at the hospital,” she said before I could ask. “He’s the one who is pretending to be the father of the baby.”

I repeated the sentence in my head to be sure I’d heard correctly. “Pretending to be the father?”

Neva nodded.

“I see.” I tried to keep my face neutral. Any reaction too large had a way of frightening my granddaughter into silence, and she clearly needed to talk this through. “And why is he doing that?”

“He offered, to help with the questions. We’re kind of seeing each other.”

I waited, but Neva didn’t say anything more. “Patrick must care about you a lot to pretend to be the baby’s father,” I said gently. “Are his feelings reciprocated?”

“Yes, but…” She trailed away.

“But what, dear?”

“I just don’t see how it can last. He’s not the baby’s father. And sooner or later, he’s going to want to know who is.”

“You wouldn’t consider telling him?”

“I can’t. He’d leave me.”

Behind Neva, Lil trailed the hall, a garbage bag in her hand. I met her eye briefly. Last night, once I’d finished recounting my own secret, Lil had thanked me for telling her then excused herself for bed. This morning, she’d bustled around, preoccupied with all the jobs in the house that suddenly needed doing. I left her to it. She needed time to process.

“You never know,” I said. “People can surprise you.”

“Not this time.”

Neva sank farther into the couch, almost as though she wanted to disappear into it. I knew better than to push her. “Well, it’s up to you, of course.”

“I wish he was the actual father, Gran.”

“But he’s not,” I said. “No point in wishing things are different than they are.” Neva nodded, staring at her lap. “For what it’s worth, though,” I added, “I think biology is an amazing but largely irrelevant part of being a parent.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “In fact, I think choosing to be there for a child, despite the fact that you aren’t biologically related to it, makes it even more special.”

Slowly, a smile appeared. “You’re so wise, you know that?”

“Not wise. Just old.”

She heaved herself out of the chair and kissed my cheek. “I have to go.”

Neva saw herself out, and the room was quiet again, apart from Lil shuffling around in another room. After a minute or two, she came in and lowered herself onto the opposite sofa. “Is Neva gone?”

I nodded. “She’s found out her baby is breech.”

“Breech?”

“Upside down. She’ll probably have to have a C-section. Not the end of the world, but a disappointment for Neva.” I exhaled. “She also has some other personal problems. Poor love has got herself into quite the tangle with this baby/father business.”

“Were you able to offer her some advice?”

“I’m hardly one to be giving advice on secrets, Lil. Besides, it’s complicated. Now that she has Patrick, she has so much to lose.”

“There’s always something to lose when it comes to revealing a truth,” Lil said. “But there’s also something to be gained.”

Before me, Lil had only loved once before, a woman name Rosita. Rosita was married to a man with whom she shared four children, and she told Lil that when her youngest son turned eighteen, she would leave. As the time grew close, Lil searched for rental properties and found a cottage in Jamestown—two bedrooms, in case any of the children wanted to come and stay. But Rosita’s youngest son’s birthday came and went, and still, Rosita only came for day visits to the cottage. They’d cook meals together, go grocery shopping. Take strolls along the beach. Then, at night, Rosita went home again to her husband.

One sunny afternoon as they strolled along the pier, they bumped into a man. He was gray-haired, probably in his early fifties. A friend of Rosita’s husband. When he saw Rosita, Lil saw a glimmer of recognition. At the same time, Rosita took a subtle step away from Lil. “Rosita,” the man said. “Fancy seeing you in Conanicut Island! Is Vince with you?”

There was a brief shaking of hands, and then Rosita twisted on the spot. “Oh,” she said. “Yes, this is Lil. An old school friend.”

Lil hadn’t expected to be introduced as Rosita’s lover. But the way Rosita tied herself in knots spoke volumes. That was the day Lil realized their relationship would always be a secret. And after a lifetime of hiding who she was, she wasn’t prepared to live with secrets anymore.

I knew all this. So Lil’s clasped hands and settled jaw shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“What are we talking about, Lil?” I asked.

“We’re talking about secrets. Sometimes people keep them for so long, they forget the reason they’re even doing it. Or the reason changes or becomes distorted.”

I still didn’t know exactly what Lil was getting at. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Grace is an adult now. She can handle this.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“She can,” Lil said. “People handle a lot worse every day. But I’m not sure you can handle keeping this secret. You just had a heart attack, Floss. If you don’t tell Grace the truth, I’m afraid—” She paused, cleared her throat. “I’m afraid it’s going to kill you.”

“No. You don’t understand, Lil. You couldn’t possibly understand. Unless you have children of your own, you can’t understand the need to protect them before all else. Before even yourself.”

Lil winced a little, and I was stung by my own words. But rather than running away or crying, she sat a little taller. It was as if I had further confirmed her resolve.

“Why don’t you be honest, at least with me?” she said. “This isn’t about Grace handling it or not handling it. This is about you. What you’re afraid to lose. You are afraid, not for Grace’s welfare, but for your own. You’re afraid that if you tell her this, she won’t consider you her mother anymore.”

“No. That’s not it.”

“I may not be a mother,” Lil continued, “but I know what it’s like to keep a secret. I spent the best part of a lifetime denying who I was. And it wasn’t until I admitted the truth that I ever felt any peace. I want that peace for you, Floss. You need to tell Grace the truth.”

22

Neva

As I was stopped at the traffic lights on the way back home, I slid my phone out of my pocket. A little envelope flashed on the screen. I smiled when I heard Patrick’s voice.

“Nev, it’s me. I was thinking of dropping by. Thought maybe we could … I don’t know … watch a movie and fall asleep on the couch together, what do you think? Call me back.”

My heart skipped as I pressed delete. The idea of Patrick and me falling asleep on the couch together sounded like something I could get used to. Something I wanted to get used to. I thought about what Gran had said. Could I tell Patrick? Was it possible that he would understand? Or would I be forcing our relationship into an early grave?

I waited for the next message.

“Yes, hello. This is a message for Neva Bradley. My name is Marie Ableman from the Board of Nursing. It’s six fifteen P.M. Can you please call me when you get this message? 555-4102.”

Pulling over, I lowered the phone and stared at the screen. The Board of Nursing? Calling to get some incriminating evidence on my mother? The time on my phone said 9:35 P.M. Too late to call. Though … if she was investigating my mother, perhaps I didn’t care about Marie Whatshername’s personal time. The phone rang four times before someone answered.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice—the voice from the message. She sounded curious, annoyed, and very much off duty.

“This is Neva Bradley. I’m sorry it’s late, but I just received your message.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Bradley, thanks for calling back.” The voice immediately took on a new, polite tone. She exhaled, getting her work hat on. “Yes, as you may know, I am investigating a complaint made against Grace Bradley in the delivery of Gillian Brennan’s baby. I understand you were assisting with this birth.”

“I was.”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about it. It will only take a few minutes.”

For some reason, I pulled myself tall in my seat. “Go right ahead.”

It did only take a few minutes. I answered Marie’s questions honestly, if a little stiffly. I didn’t need to lie. Mom had not acted negligently. But I would have lied if I had to. Without hesitation. And I was certain she would have done the same for me.

“In your opinion, was Mrs. Bradley irresponsible at any time during labor and delivery?” Marie asked, winding up her questions.

“She was not. She acted in the best interests of her client and the baby at all times.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bradley. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let you go.”

“Wait. What happens now?”

“I have a few more people to speak with yet,” Marie said. “Then the notes will be reviewed by a subcommittee and a recommendation made to the Board of Nursing on a course of action.”

“What kind of course of action?”

“It really depends. If no evidence is found to support the complaint, we will recommend the case be closed.”

“And if evidence is found? Not that it will be.”

“If Mrs. Bradley is found to have been negligent, it is possible that she could be fined or even lose her license.” Marie’s voice softened. “But as I said, I still have a few more people to speak with. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Infuriatingly, Marie was calm, impartial, and fair—not at all the villain I’d thought she would be. She was just doing her job. I wanted to believe from her tone that Mom would be given a fair hearing, that was all I could really ask for. Because if she did get a fair hearing, there was no doubt in my mind that the case would be closed.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I hung up the phone. Even though I believed Mom would be vindicated, I felt a little sick. Mom losing her license was too wrong to comprehend. Like a world-class sprinter losing their legs. Or an opera singer losing her voice. It wouldn’t just be her who would lose. The world would.

I pulled up in front of my apartment. As I took the stairs, I rang Patrick. In my building, another phone was ringing. I shoved a finger in one ear, anticipating his voice. It rang again, and then he answered.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“Hello,” I said, feeling shy. I took the last three steps to my door and found it ajar. “Hey, can I call you back? The door to my apartment is open, and I need to check that there isn’t an intruder.” I laughed. “If there is, he’ll be disappointed with our abysmal lack of technology and easy-to-move goods.”

The door peeled open, and Patrick appeared in the doorway. He pressed the phone to his ear and raised his other hand, palm toward me. “Please don’t call the police.”

I crossed my arms. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll put back your 1990s VCR and your collection of Spice Girls CDs.”

“Even Greatest Hits?”

He pouted. “Fine.”

It probably wasn’t romantic, but I loved being with Patrick like this. Other than my Dad and Gran, he was the only one I felt completely comfortable with. It had to be a good omen for us. He stood aside and I entered the apartment.

“It’s a good thing you decided to let me keep my 1990s VCR,” I said. “How else would we watch a movie and then fall asleep on the couch?”

“Ah, you got my message.”

He shut the door and turned to face me. In a gray T-shirt and jeans, he was deliciously rumpled and weary-looking. His gorgeous looks gave me a burst of courage, and I sidled up to him and touched his chest. “I did. But I have a better idea.”

The oven beeped, and Patrick retreated toward the kitchen. “Oh yeah?” he called over his shoulder. “If your idea is nachos, I’m way ahead of you.”

“Uh…” I followed him to the kitchen and lingered in the doorway. “Nachos are good. But that wasn’t my idea.”

Patrick’s head was in the oven. “What was your idea?”

“It was … something else.”

I let that sink in. Then Patrick unfolded into a standing position. I knew I was blushing, but I forced myself to hold his gaze.

His brow was furrowed. “But … nachos are terrible cold.”

I blinked.

“Kidding!” He crossed the kitchen in two large steps. “I mean, they are. But I don’t care. Sorry.” As he talked, he covered my face in kisses. I accepted them, and his apology. “Let’s eat the nachos later,” he said, his lips pressed against mine. “Let’s eat them … never.”

He marched me backwards toward my bedroom, all the while mumbling about the insignificance of nachos, about how, actually, he didn’t really even like nachos. In fact, apart from the fact that they’d kept him alive throughout college, he hated them. I laughed between kisses as we made our way through my kitchen and living room. We stopped when the backs of my knees hit the bed.

“Enough about nachos,” I ordered.

His smile fell away, replaced by a serious, intense expression. “What nachos?”

I reached for the top button of his shirt and flicked it open. I undid another, then another, releasing each button until the shirt slid off his shoulders and onto the floor. Carefully, we unfurled on the bed. And after what felt like an eternity, he kissed me.

It continued like a dream. On and on, we kissed, hands trailing, mouths exploring. I lay back as he kissed my nipples, rubbing and caressing and even nipping me gently with his teeth. I felt a rush of adrenaline, and I began to get excited about what would happen when he went farther down.

As if reading my mind, his mouth descended farther, obscured completely by my belly. I stared at the ceiling and then … ahhh.… his mouth was warm and wet as it rolled over me. I lifted my hips to meet him and threw my head back. Oh. God.

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.