The Secrets of Midwives (19 page)

“Why not?”

“I … don't know.”

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

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

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

I sagged. He had no idea how good.

“Oh, and Nev, about last night…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pregnant women need sleep.”

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

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

“So
that's
why none of them called.”

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

“Yeah,” I said. “That must be it.”

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

I shook my head.

“Does
he
know?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nev.”

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

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

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

He half smiled. “Even with that.”

My head began to swirl.

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

“Talk?”

He nodded.

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

“What is that supposed to mean?”

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

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

“Your efforts?” I didn't get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not half.”

“A quarter?”

“Two,” he said.

“Two?”

“Two.”

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

Patrick started to shake his head.

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

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

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

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

“Leila. And Kate.”

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

“Both were onetime things,” he said.

“When?”

“Ages ago.”

“When you were married to Karolina?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

17

Grace

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

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

“Grace. It's Molly.”

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

“Molly, hello. How are—?”

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

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

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

It was. About a month too early.

“How far apart are contractions?”

“The last two were around three minutes apart.”

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

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

“Are they painful?”

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

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

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

Silently, I slapped a palm against my head.

“Grace? Are you there?”

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

There was a pause. “Is this a joke?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart sped up. Her mother.
Of course
.

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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