Текст книги "The Secrets of Midwives"

Автор книги: Sally Hepworth

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

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 perspective.

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.”

“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.

Sean beamed at me. “Wow! You look fantastic.” He hugged me. “And look at this. A beautiful baby girl.”

Sean and I smiled into the stroller, and though it was probably gas, Mietta smiled back.

“There you go, she’s got good taste. Already recognizes a handsome man when she sees one.”

“She just thinks you’re funny-looking, Sean.”

“By the way,” he said, his selective hearing as good as ever. “I heard about the birth. Your mom is an absolute hero.”

I couldn’t hide my smile. “She sure is.”

“What a coup for midwifery, eh? Dr. Hargreaves is really excited about it—she wants your mom to come and speak to the Obstetrics department.”

“Really? I’m sure she’d be happy to do that.” It was the understatement of the century. Grace telling doctors how to suck eggs? It would be the highlight of her life.

“I bet her business is booming. It was all over the newspapers: ‘Breech Baby Delivered Amid Conanicut Island Blizzard.’ What a headline.”

“I don’t know if her business is booming. We haven’t talked about it. All we’ve talked about is the baby since she was born.”

He smiled. I smiled.

A doctor across the foyer caught Sean’s eye, and he held up one finger. “Well look, I have to run. Glad I got to meet your darling daughter.” Offhandedly, he pecked my cheek. “You girls take care of each other.”

“We will. Bye, Sean.”

*   *   *

I hadn’t expected all the fanfare at the birthing center. Anne had made chocolate-chip muffins, and a few of the midwives who weren’t even on shift had come in. Only one woman was in labor, and it was the early stages, so we managed to have a little party in the foyer.

“Tell us about the birth,” Anne said between fielding calls. “We’re dying to hear!”

I retold the story of Mietta’s birth several times to gasps and covered mouths, and funnily, quite enjoyed being the center of attention. Particularly on this subject, which I found quite interesting. Since Mietta’s birth, I’d read everything I could find on vaginal footing births and was constantly on YouTube, watching it happen. If I could have a successful safe vaginal footing delivery, I was determined to find out if others could too.

Mietta was passed around from person to person. It was quite nice having my arms free for a while. Talking to adults was also a nice change of pace. I chatted happily but kept my eyes trained on the door.

Susan sat by my side the whole time, and every now and again, I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.

The party crumbled when two clients arrived in progressed labor.

“We must do this again soon,” Anne said when the phone rang for the fifteenth time. She scrambled back to her desk. I took my cue, bundling Mietta back into her winter suit. While I waited for her to hang up so I could say good-bye, I felt—actually felt—Patrick arrive.

He wore a gray winter coat over a T-shirt and jeans. A leather bag crossed over one shoulder. His lips were curled into a preliminary smile. “Hi.”

Anne hung up the phone, still scribbling a message. “Okay. Do you need help getting out, Neva?”

“It’s okay, Anne. I’ll help her.”

Anne’s head snapped up. When she located Patrick, she inhaled sharply.

“Thank you for the party,” I said, before she could speak. “I won’t hang around. I see you’re busy.”

I held Mietta out for her to kiss, which she did, studying my face. I worked to keep it carefully neutral and avoided her stare. I felt like my feet might rise right up off the floor at any moment, and one pointed look from Anne, I knew, would be enough to send me into a full-blown panic.