The Secrets of Midwives (18 page)

“What's your fault?”

“I've got fancy tastes,” she said. “You used to say that yourself, Floss, remember? And Bill, he's not a rich man.”

Elizabeth had a contraction, and Evie and I remained silent, waiting.

“It's hard for him,” Elizabeth said when the contraction was over, “having another mouth to feed. I can hardly expect to be fed like we were at the boardinghouse. It's tough, country life.”

Evie leaned forward. “But he
does
feed you?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “Yes, of course. It's just that … sometimes I get greedy.”

Elizabeth wouldn't meet my eye. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what she meant. Elizabeth wasn't greedy. And I didn't have a clue why she'd think she was.

“What are you saying?” I asked gently.

Elizabeth looked from me to Evie and then to her lap. “Just … when Bill's not happy with me … he doesn't give me food.”

The fire cracked into the silence. My mouth formed around questions that I couldn't seem to project. Perhaps because there were so many. How could a man not give his pregnant wife food? Why would he do that? How long had he been doing this? Why didn't I see it? And, most important,
Why wouldn't Bill be happy with you?

“Does he at least give you housekeeping money?” I asked eventually. It was the only question I felt I could speak without bursting into rage or, worse, tears.

Elizabeth looked taken aback. “Of course not. We don't have that kind of money.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“What kind of money do you think he's spending at the pub, Elizabeth?” I cried, then bit back my frustration. It wasn't Elizabeth I was angry with. When I spoke again, my voice was softer. “You don't deserve this. Bill is controlling everything about you, who you see, what you eat.…” I trailed off when Elizabeth closed her hands around her stomach. A chill traveled down my spine. “You didn't fall, did you?”

Elizabeth kept her head down. It was all the answer I needed.

Back in my days as a student-nurse, we'd looked at a case study of a toddler who'd been starved by his mother for not behaving. When he died, at age five, he weighed less than an average one-year-old. But there was no sign of physical beating, not even a bruise. When I'd asked the matron about it, she'd said …
Abuse comes in many ways. The only universal thing about it is the perpetrators' need to control
.

I suddenly remembered the padlock on the larder doors. I whipped around and strode to the kitchen without a word.

“What are you doing, Floss?” Evie called after me.

An axe rested against a stack of wood next to the fireplace. I snapped it up. “Making Elizabeth a snack.” The axe was small but heavy. It hit the arm of the padlock on the first go, knocking it clean off the door handle.

“Floss!”

As I suspected, the cupboards were full of food. Dry biscuits, sugar, flour, butter, eggs. There wasn't time to bake anything, so I threw a handful of crackers on a plate, slathered them in butter, and raced back to the bedroom. Elizabeth ate a couple, for my sake more than hers, I suspect. After that, I kept trying to force more on her, but she declined.

Thirty minutes later, Elizabeth felt the urge to push. At Evie's instruction, I brought in a large pail of boiled water for hand washing. I placed it on the bureau.

“Okay, Elizabeth,” Evie started. “I want you to slide down so your bottom is at the end of the bed, then roll onto your side. Help her, Floss. Then, when you feel the next contraction, I want you to give me a big push. Understand?”

“I'm a midwife, Evie, I know—” The next contraction took her breath. Her face twisted.

“Good girl,” Evie said. “Very nice. The head is coming.”

I moved down to the end of the bed so I could see. The head
was
coming, and fast. The next contraction came, and the next after that, each time easing the head out a little more, and each time, pushing Elizabeth a little further than she could go. I'd seen a lot of exhausted mothers go through this stage of labor, but Elizabeth's condition was worrying me. A couple of times between contractions, her eyes rolled back in her head.

“It's crowning. Just hold on. Breathe!” Evie urged. “Come on, Elizabeth, breathe. Floss, I need you down here. Grab the towel and bring it here, then wash your hands.” Evie had one hand on Elizabeth's knee and the other on the baby's head. “Good girl. Now put the towel down in front of me.”

I grabbed the towel, then washed my hands in the hot water. I dried my hands on another towel and knelt at the end of the bed next to Evie. Elizabeth whimpered.

“You're nearly there,” Evie said. “Floss, get the instruments ready—the clamp and the scalpel, please. Elizabeth, pant. You know how it's done.”

I collected the clamp and the scalpel, keeping my eyes on the baby. I couldn't take my eyes off it. Even though I could see only the top of its little head, something magical was happening. Gently, the head eased out, revealing a tuft of bloody, matted hair.

“The head is out!” I exclaimed.

Evie's forehead remained lined, but her lips loosened into a slight upturn. “You are so close, Elizabeth. Your baby will be born in just a minute.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and nodded, psyching herself up. Her eyes remained closed for several minutes, long enough for me to wonder if she'd fallen asleep—or passed out. I was just rising to check her when her eyes sprang open and she moaned.

“This is it. Push,” Evie encouraged. “Come on, love. That's wonderful. Here it comes.”

I watched in silence as the baby turned and a little face appeared. “Oh, Elizabeth. I can see the face.”

Elizabeth's face unfolded, and for a heartbeat, she looked young and healthy, the Elizabeth I knew and loved. “Really? You can see the face?”

“I can. It's a beautiful face.”

Elizabeth's face crumpled again. She was struggling. Her red face shimmered with sweat. Evie appeared unflustered, going about her business, focused completely on the baby being born. I watched as she slipped her fingers around the baby's neck and guided the shoulders out, rotating as she went. The rest of the baby quickly followed, landing in the warm towel that I had laid out. Evie held the vernix-covered baby upside down by the feet. There was a tiny cry. My insides collapsed.

“Congratulations,” I said as Evie passed the baby to Elizabeth. “You have a daughter.”

*   *   *

A chorus of familiar, hushed voices roused me from sleep. “Thanks so much for calling us, Lil. How is she doing?”

It was Neva's voice I could hear, and then Lil's, reciting the prognosis from the doctor. A minor myocardial infarction. Too weary to open my eyes, I just let their words wash over me.

“What have they given her?” Grace spoke now—I recognized her bossy, professional tone. Clearly the news of my heart attack had frightened her, and she wanted to feel back in control. I heard my chart being lifted off the foot of the bed. “Aspirin, beta-blockers, nitroglycerin—”

Lil cut in. “What is nitroglycerin?”

“It's a common medicine.” The male voice was unfamiliar. “It widens and opens your blood vessels, and allows blood and oxygen to reach your heart more easily. Very effective.”

“Are you a doctor?” Lil asked.

“Yes, though I'm not an expert in this area. My patients are a little short in the tooth for heart attacks.”

The papers ruffled again. “That's weird,” Grace said. “Mom's blood type is AB positive. I didn't know she was AB positive.”

My eyes flew open. Grace, Lil, and a man whom I now presumed to be Neva's pediatrician friend stood at the foot of my bed, studying my chart. Neva was by my side. Her face lit up.

“Gran,” she said. “You're awake.”

Grace dropped my chart back on the rail and came to my other side. “Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Absolutely fine. I told Lil not to worry you. I knew you'd just come down here.”

“You had a heart attack, Gran!” Neva said. “As if we'd be anywhere else.”

“You need to let us help you more, Mom,” Grace said. “We can do your grocery shopping, errands, whatever you need.”

“Stop your fussing,” I told them. “I'm fine.”

Lil watched the pediatrician intently. “Could those things—shopping, errands—have caused her heart attack?”

“I'm not her doctor, but generally speaking, light activity should
reduce
the risk of heart attack. It's more likely to be brought on by high cholesterol or poor diet. Sometimes it's just genetics or age. Sometimes stress.”

Lil's ears pricked up.
Stress
.

“Sorry, Gran,” Neva said. “You haven't been introduced to Patrick. He's my—”

“Boyfriend.” The man sent Neva a sideways wink. “It's nice to meet you, Ms. Higgins. Sorry it's under these circumstances.”

I smiled. I liked his spunk. “It's nice to meet you too, Patrick. Call me Floss.”

My gaze floated back to Grace. She was holding my chart again, frowning at it. Lil's expression gave away her own worries. Both of them, I knew, had questions for me. So, probably, did Neva. I'd managed to evade them this time. But next time?

It was all starting to close in on me. And I got the feeling it was only a matter of time before my secret came out.

 

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.”