Текст книги "The Secrets of Midwives"

Автор книги: Sally Hepworth

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

7

Neva

I decided to become a midwife on a Wednesday. I was fourteen. After school, my teacher had passed me a note with the address where Grace was delivering. This happened from time to time, when the client’s house was within walking distance from school. This day it took me about twenty minutes to get there and when I did, a piece of lined paper was wedged between the wrought iron and the mesh of the screen door. The handwriting was Grace’s.

Door is open. We’re in the back.

“I’m here,” I called as I let myself in. I stood in the hallway, waiting for Grace to shout out a greeting. After a few minutes, she’d come and update me on how it was going, and either give me cab money or tell me Dad would pick me up on the way home. Not this day. Instead, the bedroom door peeled open. Her face was pale.

“Neva—thank God. Quick. Come in.”

I froze; a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“My birth assistant is sick, she’s had to go home. Agnes is nine centimeters dilated—I need someone now.”

When I was younger I was often in the room while Grace’s clients delivered. On those days, she jokingly called me her assistant. I may have passed her a towel or held a client’s hand for a while. I may even have whispered a few motivating words. But she’d also had an actual assistant. Someone experienced with childbirth. “I can’t.”

“Course you can.”

She ducked back into the room. Despite my reservations, I dropped my bag onto the floor and slowly followed her.

The woman—Agnes—sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a cream waffle-cotton robe. Her elbows were pressed against her knees and she rocked back and forth, moaning softly. Her husband sat beside her, rubbing her back.

“This is my daughter,” Grace said. “She’s attended more births than you’ve had hot dinners.”

I wasn’t so sure. The man was at least thirty. I’d attended about twenty births—fifty, if you included those I’d heard from my bedroom but didn’t see. Unless he’d eaten a lot of cold dinners, Grace’s stats were off.

“How old is she?” he asked.

I opened my mouth.

“Sixteen,” Grace cut in. “And we don’t have a lot of choice, Jeremy. My birth assistant had to leave. We’re just lucky we have an experienced person here to help us. Unless you’d like to transfer Agnes to a hospital?”

“No,” Agnes said.

Her husband, Jeremy, turned to her. “Honey—”

“No hospital! I’m not sick and neither is my baby. Why should we go to the hospital? I want my baby to be born right here in its home, not in some stark, sterile hospital room surrounded by strangers in surgical masks.”

Agnes’s tone left no room for doubt. I could tell Grace was trying not to look smug. She failed. “Right, then,” she said. “It’s decided. Neva, I have to prepare. Can you stay here with Agnes?”

She was gone before I could respond.

Another contraction was upon Agnes, and she curved in on herself again. She was in the advanced stages of labor, clearly, but I’d heard worse. I let her finish the contraction, then spoke.

“I’m Neva,” I started, feeling self-conscious. I squatted down, bending to see her face. It struck me that she might not be in the best position for this stage of labor. “Are you feeling comfortable there?”

She sat upright. I didn’t expect, after the strength of her no-hospital declaration, to see anguish on her face. “I’m just … exhausted.”

“I know,” I said, though I didn’t. I was a fourteen-year-old girl—what did I know about labor? I tried to think of what Grace would say to this woman, but all the options were too airy-fairy for my liking. You are a warrior was one of her catchphrases. Think of your precious little angel, ready to grow its wings. Neither of those things felt like me.

“Would you like to try standing?” I said. That was one thing my mother had taught me that was based on science, rather than fairy dust and sunshine. Good old gravity. “Your husband and I can take your weight, and you can hug one of us through contractions.”

I must have got her at the right time, because she seemed happy to get up, and reported that it helped a lot. Strangely, Agnes chose to hug me during contractions, rather than her husband, but I attributed it to height. Her head rested on my shoulder and we got into a good rhythm, pacing and adopting the slow-dance position when the pains came on. With each contraction, her face locked up—but she remained purposeful. She listened to all my suggestions and followed them.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” I told her, rocking back and forth, working through a contraction with her. “You’re okay.”

In fact, she was better than okay. I was impressed. Though I didn’t share my mother’s disdain of doctors and hospitals, there was something to admire about a woman’s determination to stick to her guns to have a natural home birth. She was certainly being tested. As I rocked back and forth with her, an unexpected feeling came over me. A feeling that I was an integral part of something. Something greater than myself.

“You’re amazing, Agnes.” Even as I spoke, the words sounded like they had come from someone else. “You’re doing it. Soon, the pain will be over, but you’ll have done something extraordinary. I’m very proud of you.”

It was an odd thing for a teenager to say to a woman in her twenties or thirties. But it just came out. Odder was the fact that she responded to it. She nodded. She believed me.

By the time Grace returned to the room, Agnes was feeling pressure in her pelvis.

“Looks like you’re ready to push your baby out, Agnes,” Grace said. “Let’s get you into position.”

To my surprise, Agnes looked at me. “Is it best to stand while I deliver too?”

“It’s best to be in whatever position feels right to you,” I said, not missing a beat. I felt Grace staring, but I didn’t break Agnes’s gaze. “So you tell us.”

She frowned as she thought. “I’d like to squat.”

When Agnes was in position, squatting over the end of the bed with her husband and me at each side, Grace raised her eyebrows at me. “Go ahead.”

“Really?” I mouthed.

Grace nodded. If she had any concerns, she kept them well hidden. It bolstered my confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I could do this. I paused, trying to think what to say. But when Agnes whimpered, the words just came.

“Try to blow while you push,” I said, kneeling by Grace’s side at Agnes’s feet. “We don’t want the baby to come too fast or it can cause a tear.”

Agnes did as I said. Grace moved to the side as the baby emerged, and I continued to guide Agnes, drawing on words of support that had obviously been buried deep in my subconscious. By the time the baby boy spilled into my arms, I knew. Women were warriors. And I wanted to be part of it.

*   *   *

Erin lay on the operating table, gripping her husband’s hand. She blinked up at me tearily. “What’s happening?”

I peeked over the curtain. Sean’s forehead was gently pinched in concentration. Beside him, Marion, a gossipy middle-aged nurse who for some reason I’d taken an instant disliking to upon meeting, stood, suction at the ready. Patrick was in the corner, whispering to Leila, a pediatric nurse, who was chuckling. Everyone was going about their business, and the atmosphere told me everything was well. Still, I knew the patients liked to hear it from the doctor’s mouth.

“How’s it going, Dr. Cleary?” I asked Sean.

“We’ll have this little one out in a minute,” he said. “The heart rate has stabilized.”

I squeezed Erin’s hand and smiled at her husband, Angus. “Did you hear that? You’re in good hands.”

“Very good hands,” Marion echoed. “Dr. Cleary is one of the best doctors in the country.”

Marion smiled preemptively at Sean. But when he kept his head down, her smile thinned. Marion made it her business to stay on the right side of doctors, if only to give the impression that she had more clout around the hospital than she actually did. It drove her crazy that Sean didn’t buy into it, particularly as he wasn’t opposed to a bit of hero worship. What she didn’t know was that he was a private person and his disdain for gossip took priority over his need to have his ego stroked. It was one of many things I liked about him.

On the operating table, Erin started to well up. “I just wanted so much to do this myself.”

I squatted down beside her. Erin’s two older sisters had delivered their children at the birthing center. Of all my clients, this family had perhaps been the most moved by the experience. Both sisters had raved about the transformative quality of natural birth, and about how afterwards, they’d felt superhuman. I knew Erin had hoped that she would experience this superhuman feeling today. And I was going to make sure that she did.

“I know. But Dr. Cleary said everything looks good. We’re lucky that we have access to expert medical attention when complications arise. The most important thing is that your baby is safe.”

A tear dripped onto the table. “But why did complications arise? What did I do?”

I felt a stab of resentment toward my mother and her bitter diatribe about doctors and hospitals. While I was a huge fan of a natural birth where it was possible, I was a huger fan of doing what was safest for mothers and babies. Some women chose to have a C-section, some needed one for their own, or their baby’s, health. Scaremongering and quoting intervention statistics did a lot more harm than good, in my opinion.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, okay?” I lowered my voice. “That superhuman feeling people describe? It has nothing to do with the way the baby comes out. It’s about what happens to the mother. You become superhuman. You’ll grow extra hands and legs to look after your baby. You’ll definitely grow an extra heart for all the love you’ll feel.” Erin was watching me intently. “The second you see this baby, you won’t care if it came out your stomach or your nose.” About this, I was certain. “You’ll feel it, I promise you. Just wait and see.”

“A nasal delivery?” Sean’s voice was loud and contemplative through the screen. “Is that what you midwives get up to in your birthing center? I always thought you lot were a little unorthodox.”

Erin’s lips curved up slightly. That was another thing I liked about Sean. He knew when and how to lighten a mood.

“Here we go,” he said, and a tiny cry came through the thin sheet. Erin sucked in a breath as a little face appeared over the top of the curtain. “No! Already?”

“It’s a boy!” Sean said with delight that was hard to feign. “Just a bit of cord around his middle. He’s fine.”

“A boy!” Erin cried. “Did you hear that, Angus? It’s a boy.”

I stood and peeked over the screen. Sean handed Patrick the baby and he carried him over to the baby warmer. “He’s a good size,” I said. “Looks perfectly healthy. The pediatrician and nurses are checking him out, but I’ll go hurry them along. We want him in your arms as soon as possible.”

“Oliver,” Erin said. “His name is Oliver.”

I nodded. “I’ll bring Oliver back as soon as I can.”

Leila, the pediatric nurse, was rubbing Oliver with a warm towel while Patrick did the suction. He was pinking up beautifully. “Looks good,” I said.

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Very good.”

“Making you broody, Dr. Johnson?” Marion said. “My daughter Josie is about your age, you know.”

My gaze bounced to Patrick’s, but I quickly looked away. What was I doing, getting territorial over Patrick? Just because he slept on my couch occasionally didn’t mean he was in my jurisdiction.

“If she’s a daughter of yours, Maz,” Patrick said, “she’s too good for a scoundrel like me.”

“Far too good,” Sean echoed.

“She could do worse, of course,” Patrick said. “Then again, Sean isn’t single.”

Both men had smiles in their voices, but there was truth in their words. How two people could be such good friends but be so competitive at the same time was beyond me.

“Now,” Patrick said to the baby, “let’s see how you are doing, little fella.”

As with Sean, Patrick’s delight in his job was obvious. As he checked Oliver over—testing reflexes, rotating his hips—he chatted continuously, telling the baby what he was going to do before he did it. He spoke in a natural voice, the kind he would use over a beer with an old friend. Leila stared unashamedly. Even I could admit, there was something sexy about a man who was comfortable with a baby.

“So, I hear congratulations are in order, Neva?” I lifted my head before I realized what Marion was saying, giving her a ringside seat to my horrified expression. “About the pregnancy, I mean.”

I busied myself checking the baby’s fontanels. “Oh. Thank you.”

“And due quite soon, I hear,” she continued. “You must be excited.”

Casually, I scanned the room, assessing the fallout. Patrick winced. Leila’s mouth hung open. Sean had frozen, his hands still half-buried in Erin’s abdomen. He scanned what he could see of my stomach. “Neva, you’re expecting?”

“Yes.” I didn’t look at him. I held my hands out to Patrick. “Baby, please.”

I must have sounded authoritative because, rather than joke with me over one last check as he usually did, Patrick wrapped the baby and handed him over. I crossed the room, back to Erin.

“I hope I haven’t put my foot in my mouth,” Marion said. Her tone made it clear that she hoped she’d done exactly that. “Eloise mentioned it this morning. It wasn’t meant to be a secret, was it? Because I’d hate to think—”

“I’d hate to think you weren’t paying attention, Marion.” Sean’s voice was quiet but sharp, and it silenced the room. Marion’s cheeks colored. “Because as you can see, I’m still stitching the patient. And I need a lap sponge.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Marion fumbled for the sponge, and I could tell she was not happy. I almost felt sorry for Sean. Ignoring her attempts to ingratiate herself was one thing, but a public reprimand was quite another. She’d make him pay for that.

I tried my best to focus on the task at hand, pressing the baby’s face against his mother’s cheek, letting him see her, smell her breath, feel her touch. With any luck, we could start him breast-feeding as soon as we made it into recovery. I needed to concentrate on that.

“When are you due, Neva?” Sean asked me after a minute or two of silence. His voice had lost its sharp edge; in fact, it was a little quieter than normal.

I met his eye over the curtain. “December thirty-first.”

“A New Year baby,” he said. He frowned, then his gaze returned to Erin’s stomach. “What a miracle.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It really is.”

*   *   *

I pushed my scrubs into the overfull laundry basket and dragged myself toward the elevator. Now that my urgent tasks were done, the familiar weight of tiredness anchored me to the ground like cement boots. I still had to check in at the birthing center on my way out, to make sure none of my clients had gone into labor. If not, perhaps I’d have a lie down in one of the suites. It took less than ten minutes to walk to my apartment, but somehow that was too far.

As I waited for the elevator, I leaned against the wall. At the far end of the corridor, Patrick held court with three student nurses, who were taking notes and giggling at intervals. Although Patrick was professional enough never to cross the line with a student, it was easy to see he loved the attention. Marion stood at the nurses’ desk, whispering furiously and stealing glances over her shoulder. I’d have assumed she was gossiping about my pregnancy, but thanks to Sean’s reprimand in theater, there was an equal chance she was slandering him. I couldn’t help but be grateful.

I sighed and allowed my eyes what I called an extra-long blink.

“Should I be hurt?”

When I opened my eyes, Sean stood before me in blue scrubs, blue cap, and puffy blue shoe covers. My first instinct was to run. To locate the nearest exit and hurtle toward it as fast as my legs would carry me. But even if I had the energy to do that, it wouldn’t help me for long. “No. You should be relieved.”

“Were you planning to tell me?”

“Actually, I was waiting for you to guess. For someone who is usually quite perceptive, and an ob-gyn, I’d have thought—”

“Neva.”

His tone made me pause. “Yes?”

“Are you sure you have your dates right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all you’re going to say? Yes?”

I was about to say that if the answer to his questions continued to be yes, then yes, that’s all I was going to say, but before I could respond, he towed me into a corner. “Are you sure? Because if you’re just a few weeks out—”

I stopped him before he could say the words. “It’s okay. I’m sure.”

I rested a hand on his chest, partly to calm him, partly to regain some personal space. Finally he sagged like a day-old balloon. “God, Neva. I don’t know what I’d do if … well, I’m just glad it’s not.”

I let Sean bask in the relief. I only wished I could have shared his joy. “Me, too.”

“So?” he said. “Whose is it?”

“It’s mine.”

“I realize that.” A look of bafflement appeared on his face, followed by a short laugh. “And who else’s?”

I was already so sick of saying it, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since I’d made the announcement. I longed for a stack of flyers of FAQs that I could hand out. This should answer most of your questions, I’d tell people as I pressed a flyer into their hand. And there is an e-mail address at the bottom if any of your questions remain unanswered. It is [email protected]. Alas, I had no printed flyers.

“No one’s. Just mine.”

He cocked an eyebrow. I sighed.

“The father’s not going to be involved, okay?”

Sean took a minute to digest that. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He did look sorry. He started that awkward, mumbly thing guys did when they were uncomfortable. Which, of course, made me more uncomfortable.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

I pointed to the wedding ring, which he wore on a band around his neck during surgery. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

One of us had to bring Laura up. True to his word, Sean had wound up marrying that Texan cashier from his grocery store. With frizzy, peroxide-blond hair and hips to match her enormous breasts, she was far from classically beautiful, but she had a pretty, friendly face and a sweet disposition. The kind of woman who, after three years of being married to an ob-gyn, still got choked up when he told her about delivering a baby. Not the kind of woman you felt good about betraying.

“Probably not.”

“How is Laura?”

“Fine,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

“Tumor’s still shrinking?”

He nodded. “Now they’re saying it’s the size of a pea.”

Nine months ago, the tumor had been the size of a baseball. Her illness started with a headache. Sean had popped Laura a couple of Tylenol before work one morning, and by the time he got home, it was a migraine. Three days later, she was blind in one eye. Thanks to Sean’s connections at St. Mary’s, Laura was able to get in for a CT scan straightaway. The prognosis hadn’t been good. But according to Sean, Laura liked nothing more than proving people wrong.

“She thinks it’s this green tea diet she’s been on. Loves telling me that doctors know less than nothing when it comes to people’s health.” Sean laughed, shaking his head. “It’s more likely to be the surgery, chemo, and radiation therapy. But I’ll credit the tea, if that makes her happy.”

“Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s working,” I said.

“Yes,” Sean said. “Yes, me too.”

“Anyway,” I started; then my mouth stuck on what I was supposed to say next.

Anyway … give Laura my regards?

Anyway … glad to have brought you the good tidings?

Anyway … you’re off the hook?

No appropriate sign-off existed for this particular conversation. Best that I just end it as soon as possible.

“Anyway…,” I tried again. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

As I waited for the elevator doors to close, I saw Patrick at the end of the corridor. The nurses still stood in front of him, pretty and eager as ever. But his gaze was focused over their heads and down the corridor. Directly at me.

8

Grace

Usually as I drove across the thin strip of Beavertail Road that links the south part of Conanicut Island with the north, I was at peace. With Mackerel Beach on my left and Sheffield Cove on my right, it was hard not to be. Right now the beaches were stuffed with swimmers and skin divers. Windsurfers tore across the sparkling green water at the mouth of the cove, and boats nodded good evening to one another. Still, as I drove the short distance home from a delivery, I wasn’t at peace. My mind was too full even to spare a thought for the healthy baby girl I’d delivered three hours before.

The mystery of Neva’s baby was driving me crazy. I hated secrets at the best of times, but this one would do me in. I was going over it all in my head yet again as I pulled onto the grass in front of our stone-and-shingle beachfront home, next to Robert’s car. Odd. It wasn’t even five thirty; Robert was never home at this hour.

My phone vibrated on the way to the door. I located it in my bag and shouldered it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Oh, um … hi, Grace, it’s Molly. Is this a bad time?”

Molly. I did a quick calculation in my head. She wasn’t due for another month. Not a labor call. “Not at all, Molly. You okay, darling?”

“Yes, I think so, but … I just wanted to check … I’ve been getting really thirsty lately. Like, almost a gallon and a half of water today thirsty. I know I’m probably being paranoid, but I thought I’d check if this was normal. I mean … my baby’s not dehydrated or anything, is it?”

Molly Harris was twenty-two, and it was her first pregnancy. She was a natural neurotic, and I received a call most days about something. Once, she’d accidentally eaten some unpasteurized cheese. Another day, she’d thought her bladder leakage was her water breaking. But I was happy to take her calls. Molly had lost her mother to cancer shortly before she became pregnant, and I liked to think I’d become something of a mother figure to her.

I fished for my keys in my bag. “Absolutely not. It’s completely normal for thirst to skyrocket during your third trimester. Your body has created about forty percent more blood to provide nutrition and oxygen to your baby, and all that extra blood uses up a lot of water.” I found my keys and inserted them into the lock, but when I turned, found it already unlocked.

“Oh, okay. Jimmy told me I was being silly. I’m so sorry to bother you, Grace.”

“Do I sound bothered? Call anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”

I hung up and pushed open the door. The scent of something hearty hit me. It smelled like food, but it couldn’t be. Robert hadn’t cooked a proper meal in thirty years, save for some grilled cheese sandwiches and instant noodles when I was called out on a delivery. I took a step toward the kitchen, stopping short as Robert appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” he said. He grinned like there was nothing strange about him being home at this hour. “How was your day?”

I stared at him. He had a glass of red wine in his hand. My floral apron was knotted around his waist, and behind him, steam fogged up the stainless steel backsplash. “Is everything okay, Rob?”

He laughed. “Yes.”

“Then … what are you doing here?”

“A man can’t surprise his wife with dinner anymore?”

“A man can,” I said, “but he rarely does.”

He handed me a glass of wine and kissed my cheek. But I still didn’t get it. “Seriously? You cooked?”

“Reheated,” he admitted. “Meatballs from Isabella’s. Consider it an apology. For these last few weeks. I’ve been a beast.”

“Weeks?”

Robert winced. “Months?”

“More like yea—”

He cut me off with a poke in the ribs. I laughed. “What’s brought this on?”

“More layoffs. Today I lost half my team.”

“Oh, no.”

“There’ll be more too. Projects are on hold. We’re having to cut our margins to win new work. We’re going to offshore a bunch of jobs.”

We strolled side by side to the kitchen, where a pot of pasta was boiling over. I turned it off and looked at him. Behind the wrinkles and the salt-and-pepper hair, I could still see that handsome boy I’d married. I could also see Neva in him. The high, angular cheekbones, the flying saucer eyes and straight nose.

“Is your job safe?”

Robert tried determinedly to separate a clump of overcooked spaghetti. “Finance is a cost center, so no. But since I’m doing the calculations for severance pay, I’m probably okay this month.”

“Well, we’ll be all right, whatever happens,” I said. “We have each other, we have our health.”

He cracked a weary smile. “Yeah. The important stuff.”

“At least I’ve got a recession-proof job,” I said. “People will continue to have babies. If it paid better, I’d tell you to shove the job and take up golf.”

“Don’t worry about golf. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We can’t afford to have both of our jobs in jeopardy.”

Robert continued to stir the pasta as if it would magically separate. I had my doubts. “How about we throw this out and start over?”

Robert smiled. “What would I do without you?”

We started again with some fusilli, and soon the house smelled like a starchy, herby Italian kitchen. As I cooked, Robert got under my feet, full of offers to stir this or salt that. I frowned and shooed him away, smacking his hand as he tried to taste. But I loved every second of it.

“I spoke to Neva today,” Robert said after a few minutes. His tone indicated he’d thought carefully about how and when to bring it up.

“Oh?” I continued stirring the pasta but my senses went on high alert. “What did she say?”

“She wanted to apologize to you for running off at the hospital.”

I tapped the spoon on the side of the saucepan and turned around. “Did she say anything else?”

“Not about the father of her baby, no.”

I deflated.

“But she is coming to dinner,” he said.

A squeal tore from me before I could stop it. “Tonight? Really?”

“Yes. But I want us to have a pleasant dinner together. I don’t want you interrogating her about the baby’s father.”

“But it would be such a good opportunity to—” I stopped when I saw Robert’s face. “Fine. Anyway, I know who the father is.”

“She told you?”

“No. I figured it out.”

Robert frowned. “I see.”

“Don’t you want to know who it is?” I didn’t give him the chance to answer. “It’s an ob-gyn that she works with—Dr. Cleary. He’s tall, handsome-ish, and as arrogant as a room of doctors. Rob? Did you hear me?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“As soon as I saw them together, I knew. Che-mist-try. And it makes sense. Neva wouldn’t want to tell me she was having an ob-gyn’s baby, would she?”

“I’m not sure.”

I waited for Robert to say more, but he didn’t.

“You think I’m wrong, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. I just wonder if your dislike of medical intervention would be enough to evoke such a strong stance from Neva.”

I thought about that. “You’re right,” I admitted. “Neva wouldn’t bother creating such a lie for my benefit.”

“I didn’t say that. I just think there might be a bit more to it. Neva wouldn’t create a drama unless she had no choice.”

I frowned. “You don’t think—?”

“What?”

“I don’t know … that there really isn’t a father?”

Robert coughed, then swiftly covered his mouth with his hand. “No. I don’t think that,” she said. “Even if it were medically possible to become pregnant without a father, do you think Neva would be the first one to get her hands on the technology?”

“I have to consider all possibilities. She’s a midwife. What if she was part of an early trial?”

“You’re not serious, Grace.”

I allowed a smile. “I was. But you’re right. It’s silly.”

Robert came to my side. “You make me laugh, you know that?” He reached over and turned off the heat on the pasta and sauce. “Why don’t we eat this … later?”

There was a distinct glint in Robert’s eye. I hadn’t seen it for a while. “But Neva—”

“—won’t be here for forty-five minutes.”

I hesitated, but only for a millisecond.

We could always make more pasta.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, I lay partially naked in my husband’s arms. The sex had been perfunctory and unimaginative, but I fought my inclination to be disappointed. Robert was making an effort. He’d made dinner. He’d invited Neva over. He’d initiated sex for the first time in God knows how long. And given the horrible time he was having at work, the least I could do was pretend to have enjoyed it.

In the corner of the room, a large canvas leaned against the wall, drying. A blend of reds, blues, and purples—an abstract piece, in theory. But who was I kidding? It was so obviously a vagina that as I looked at it, I actually blushed. Had I left it there as a message to Robert? Here I am, a woman with needs. Make love to me before I explode? Was that how things were now?

Before we got married, sex had been our strong suit. Not that I blamed marriage. Marriage changed things, but not in the way I’d expected. I hadn’t considered myself the marrying type, thinking it was a foolish ritual for people who required material security. I thought it would make me feel trapped. But it didn’t. In fact, with Robert’s surname where mine used to be, I felt invincible. Where I once had weaknesses, I now had Robert, the perfect yin to my yang. I’d always been excellent at anecdotes, but until Robert came along, they often fell flat when people wanted supporting “evidence” or worse, “studies.” With Robert by my side, he’d unobtrusively fill in the gaps in my arguments with “evidence,” shutting up all the naysayers with his gentle, authoritative tone. And afterwards, as we lay in each other’s arms on the sofa or the kitchen floor or wherever it was that had taken our fancy that night, we’d drink wine and marvel at what a perfect pair we made.

When I became pregnant with Neva, it was the beginning of a funny patch of our sexual relationship. I initiated a sex-free first trimester for fear of miscarriage, and though I didn’t encounter any resistance from Robert, things began to change. Without that intimacy, I noticed Robert was less affectionate with me, less likely to tell me his innermost thoughts. Once we were out of the “danger zone,” we did resume intercourse, but it was different somehow—more of a necessary release than a way of connecting. And the more my belly grew, the less effort Robert made. I’d thought after Neva was born things would go back to normal, but they didn’t.

What Robert lacked in the bedroom, he made up for in attentiveness to his daughter. He adored her. I’d expected that he’d love her, of course, but having no father of my own in the picture, I’d never had a point of reference. Neva returned his feelings. The way she settled in his arms, the way she lit up when he entered the room—it was something I hadn’t foreseen. Something wonderful. It was a shame, though, that during this period, sex slipped down a couple of rungs on our ladder of importance. It simply wasn’t a priority.