The Secrets of Midwives (4 page)

By the time I lifted the phone to my ear, Grace was already talking.

“I know, I'm sorry. It's late. It's just … I'm stunned, flabbergasted, horrified—”

I lowered myself into the seat by the hall table. My old body felt like a sack of rocks. “Yes. It was a big shock.”

“You didn't know, did you?”

“No. I didn't.”

“How could
I
not have known?” Grace whined. “I'm her mother. I'm a
midwife.
Can she really be thirty weeks? She doesn't look thirty weeks.”

“You were the same when you were pregnant,” I said. “Nothing more than a thickened waist until the eighth month.”

“And why won't she tell us who the father is? She didn't tell you, did she?”

“No. She didn't.”

“It makes no sense. I'm not judgmental, am I? I might have been a little shocked at first, but I'd have gotten over it. Why didn't she come to me … or you, for that matter? You of all people would know how she feels.”

“You know Neva,” I said. “It just takes her a little while. She'll come around.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Grace groaned. “It's just so frustrating. Why doesn't she come to me? Maybe if I was more like you—”

“She didn't come to me either, remember?”

“No. I suppose not.” This sated her a little.

“Besides,” I said, “Neva wouldn't want you to change. She loves you.”

“Maybe, but she doesn't like me very much. My husband doesn't either. You are my mother, so you have to love me—biology forces it.” A short pause followed. “Would my father have liked me, do you think?”

I hesitated. Stupidly, I hadn't expected that Grace would draw a parallel between her grandchild's absent father and her own. Stupid, because I'd already made the connection myself. “I … yes. Of course he would.”

Another silence ensued, this one long enough to unsettle me.

“Did you ever love him, Mom?”

Grace had asked a million questions about her father over the years. The color of his hair when the sun hit it. The lilt of his accent. Whether he was so tall he would've hit his head on the top of the doorway if he wore a top hat. She liked details. The one, single photograph I had of Bill, a wedding photo, was tattered and bent from spending so much time in Grace's pocket or under her pillow. But this question, she'd never asked before.

“Yes, I did. Once.”

She sighed and I wasn't so deaf I didn't hear her relief. I hoped we could leave it at that. Because when Grace needed answers, she didn't leave a door unopened. And this particular door was one best left shut.

“So what should I do, then? About Neva, I mean.”

“It's not for me to say.”

“But if you were me?”

“I'm not you. But if you're asking what I'm planning to do … I'm going to accept her at her word—that her baby has no father—and ask her how I can best support her.”

I wondered if any of this was getting through. Hard to tell with Grace. One minute she could be all emotion, and the next—who knew? Robert had once described a date with her as an emotional bungee jump. Grace had thought it was hysterically funny at first, but once she thought more about it, had become cross with him. Case in point, I suppose.

“You're right. As always. But…” Grace sounded unsatisfied. I could picture her by the phone, jiggling back and forth as she used to as a child when she couldn't make sense of something.

“But
what
?”

“How can you stand it? A secret like this? Isn't it eating you alive?”

I almost laughed. If only she knew.

“Secrets are hard,” I said. “But if keeping the secret allows you to have a relationship with your daughter? I, for one, think it's worth it.”

 

4

Neva

When my mother doesn't know what to do about something, she talks about it.
I've got this problem,
she'll start, and then vault into whatever's on her mind. It doesn't matter if it's a stranger, a client, my father, or my grandmother, she's happy to air her linen, dirty or otherwise. Generally speaking, she already knows what she wants to do. I get the feeling she just likes the sound of her own voice.

When I was twelve, Dad got a bonus. He'd promised me for years that if he got a bonus, we could go on vacation—anywhere I wanted to go.

“So where's it going to be, Nev?” he had asked. “Disneyland? Hawaii?”

“I don't know. How about … Seattle?”

It was the first place that sprang to mind. But once I'd said it, I was pleased with my answer. I could picture the three of us moseying around the Pike Place Market in our rain jackets, ducking into a café for clam chowder when the heavens decided to open. “I liked the movie,
Sleepless in—
”

“Seattle!” Grace said. “Of course, I loved that movie. That scene where they meet on the top of the Empire State Building and … hang on—” Grace clapped a palm to her cheek. “New York!
That's
where we should go. That'd be cool, right?”

“Grace,” my father warned. “It's Neva's choice.”

“Uh…” I was caught off guard. My thoughts scrambled to catch up. “New York would be kind of cool … I guess.”

“Just think about it,” Grace said. “We can go to the top of the Empire State Building just like Meg Ryan and Tom Cruise—”

“Hanks,” I corrected.

“—and we can go ice skating at Rockefeller Center!”

Dad frowned. “It's August, Grace.”

“—and we can picnic in Central Park!” Grace was beaming from ear to ear. It was hard not to get caught up by her enthusiasm.

“Now, wait just a minute,” Dad said. “The destination is Neva's choice. Not yours.”

Grace pouted. “She said it sounded cool—”

“Maybe it does. But if she wants New York, I'm going to have to hear it from her lips, understand? Her lips?”

Two heads swung to me. And because they were staring at me, and because I did think New York would be kind of cool, I nodded. But a few days later—once Grace had booked the tickets—I realized I didn't really want to go to New York. I wanted to go to Seattle.

*   *   *

I rolled over in bed, trying to get comfy. It was no good. My belly felt heavy and it wasn't just my belly. This wasn't how I'd wanted things to go. I knew, with the rational side of my brain, that people would find out I was pregnant sometime. But another part of me believed that as long as I could keep it to myself, I'd be in control.

Giving up on sleep, I headed for the kitchen. I had visions of warm milk with cinnamon and honey, but as I had neither cinnamon nor honey, it would have to be plain milk. As I stood waiting for my mug of milk to heat in the microwave, a shadow appeared on the floor beside me.

“Geez, how's a man supposed to get any sleep?”

I smiled. “Don't you have your own place, Patrick?”

“You gave me a key!”

“For emergencies. Three years ago.”

I removed my milk and turned around. Three years ago, Patrick had been a new divorcé, drowning his sorrows in the bars that were a lot closer to my College Hill apartment than to the East Greenwich home he'd shared with his wife. He never told me the details of the split and I didn't ask. I didn't need to. Patrick was a good guy, and a wonderful doctor, but when it came to women, he was like a fat man at a buffet: he couldn't help himself. After several weeks of him ringing the buzzer—or climbing up the fire escape—to my apartment in the small hours of the morning when he'd had too much to drink, I relented and gave him a key. I expected that once Karolina moved back to Germany he'd start spending more time at his own home, or maybe buy himself an apartment in town. But three years on, I still regularly found him on my couch, snoring after a big night out or catching some z's before an early shift at the hospital. The strangest part about it was … it wasn't strange.

“I'd have thought that as a well-respected, well-paid doctor, you could afford a hotel, or at least have a girlfriend in the area. I mean … what?”

Patrick's face was pale. He stared at my stomach, and after a silent curse, I followed his stare. My hospital shirt was dry now, but it had become stiff, making my belly look, if anything, larger than it actually was. I assessed my options and found only one. I had to tell him. I was going to tell him sometime and there was no hiding it now. I may as well have screamed,
Hello! There's a life growing inside me! Come and take a look!

“You're pregnant.”

“Yes.”

For once, smooth-talking Patrick couldn't seem to find any words. “Who's … who's the father?”

I sighed. “This is awkward. I don't know how to say this, but … it's yours.”

Apart from his lips, Patrick's face didn't move an inch. “It's mine?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

He wandered over to the chair in the corner and sank into it. I watched, unspeaking, as he picked up a matchbook from the table and turned it over between two fingers. “That's weird. Since we've never had sex.”

“Oh, right!” I forced a laugh. “So it's not yours. Whew! That must be a relief.”

Patrick didn't laugh. “I can't believe you're joking about this. Whose is it, Nev?”

I couldn't believe I was joking either. What was wrong with me? I should just tell him the truth. He wasn't Grace. He wouldn't fire questions at me or demand answers. And the idea of sharing the burden—well, it was like a hot shower after a brisk swim at the beach. But something held me back. “It's … mine.”

“And who else's?”

“Just mine.” I downed my milk and turned to wash out my mug.

“Have you told your mom?” he asked.

With my back to him, I nodded. Patrick hadn't met my mother, but he knew enough to know the minefield I'd be facing when I told her. My hand cupped my belly.
It won't be that way for us, little one. Not a chance.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked.

“Gran. You. Susan. That's it. Although there's no hiding it now, is there?”

“Not Eloise?”

“No.”

Eloise, my roommate, was perhaps the obvious person to tell. She was sweet, considerate, reliable. But she'd met Ted, her very nice, very time-consuming, boyfriend shortly after moving in and we'd never quite made the journey from roommate to friends. It was fine by me. I'd more or less given up on female friends in the seventh grade when I realized that female friendship was practically a religion. Thou shalt not sit next to another friend at lunchtime. Thou shalt insist you wear my favorite jacket and then get mad when you spill soda on it. Thou shalt not talk to anyone currently being shunned by the group. In contrast, hanging out with male friends felt like sliding into a pair of old jeans: comfy, predictable, unpretentious. I especially felt this way with Patrick.

I upended my mug on the draining rack and with nothing else to do, spun around. Patrick was right in front of me—so close, my belly skimmed his. “You mean you've gone through this alone?”

I tilted my head up, but for some reason, couldn't look at him. He pulled me against his warm chest. “Oh, Nev.”

I didn't bother protesting. Patrick was too strong to push away and besides, I didn't want him to see the rogue tear that streaked down my face. Our friendship had always been more about laughter than tears. Laughter was what had brought us together, five years ago, at The Hip. It was quiz night. Susan and I had just completed a successful vaginal twin-delivery at the birthing center and it seemed like a good excuse for a drink and some mindless trivia. We had just ordered a jug of beer when Patrick and Sean, an ob-gyn whom I'd met in surgery, sidled up to our table.

“So?” Sean pulled out a free chair and sat down. “Team of four?”

Sean was so assuming, so confident. I had an overwhelming urge to tell him
Sorry, our table is full
. But my eye had already slid over to Patrick. I knew him—I knew them both from the hospital—but Patrick, I liked. He was a good guy. The kind of doctor who stayed late to help his patients and never hurried them even if his shift had long finished.

“Sure,” I said after Susan nodded. “Why not?”

“Nether, isn't it?” Sean asked.

Patrick elbowed him. “It's Neva, you goose.”

“Nev-a?” He helped himself to a glass of our beer. “Unusual name.”

“More unusual than Nether?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Sean continued, unperturbed. “You could have been conceived in the Netherlands.… Hey, I work in obstetrics, I've heard it all.”

I started to laugh, but stopped when I noticed something playful in Patrick's expression. “Not a fan of unusual names, Sean? Weird, given your middle name.”

Susan and I swiveled to Sean. He paled. “Now just a sec—”

“Tiffany,” Patrick announced proudly.

Susan's hand shot to her mouth. A snort bubbled from me.

“It was my mother's maiden name,” Sean muttered.

We couldn't hold it in any longer. At least I couldn't. It tore from the depths of my stomach. Beside me, Patrick was doubled over and tears streamed from Susan's face. Everything Sean said only made it worse.

I can't remember the last time I'd laughed so much. Patrick admitted his middle name was Basil, like the herb. Susan told us she had an uncle named Esther. But nothing beat Tiffany. As obnoxious as Sean was, there was something so … likable about him. Particularly after he told us about Laura, the Texan cashier at his neighborhood grocery store. He told us he always gave her large notes because he loved hearing her count back the change in her smooth American-pie drawl.
Fave, Tayn, Twenny dahllars. Thare you gow, kand sir. You have yerself a good day, now.
He planned to wear her down until she finally agreed to become his wife. Patrick said he didn't have a hope. At least, not after she found out his middle name.