The Secrets of Midwives (9 page)

“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.

By the time Neva left home we'd fallen into what I believed was a typical pattern of noticing that it had been a while between drinks and deciding we may as well get on with it. The frequency wasn't desperate, and I still had the odd orgasm, so when I complained to my friends, they simply rolled their eyes and said they wished they had my problems. And outside the bedroom, Robert and I still had our laughs. We cuddled at night and, occasionally, held hands in the street. We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and Robert always put thought into the messages he wrote on the card. I'd asked myself more times than I could count if this was enough, and I'd come to the conclusion that it was. But now that Neva was gone and my mother was happily involved with Lil, lovemaking was creeping back up my list of priorities. So, I should have been pleased that Robert was initiating sex, even average sex. Why instead did I feel like I'd been kicked in the guts?

“Shall we finish getting dinner ready?” he asked after a minute or so of obligatory cuddling.

I rolled into a sitting position, invigorated as I remembered Neva was on her way. “Yes. Neva will be here soon.”

I stood, letting my dress fall over my hips to the floor. The doorbell rang.

“Oh. Here she is!”

Robert stomped toward the door and I hurried into the kitchen. The pasta was ruined yet again, so I tossed it out and flicked on the burner again. Our third attempt. While I waited for it to boil, I checked my reflection in the microwave. A little disheveled perhaps, but no more than normal.

As I stirred the meatballs, Neva and Robert rounded the corner. She delighted me by planting a kiss on my cheek. “Hi, Grace.”

“I'm glad you could fit us into your busy schedule.”

“Sure. Can I help?”

“Just sit down and relax,” I told her, pointing at a bar stool. “I'll take care of everything.” But Neva and Robert were already halfway to the dining room, lost in their own world of conversation. I watched them through the pass-through—Neva smiling, Robert's arm casually strewn across her shoulders. It irritated me no end.

“Red, Robert?” I called out.

He paused, mid-conversation. “Please.”

“And you, Neva?”

She half turned, but her eyes remained locked on her father. “Juice, please. Thanks, Grace.”

As I poured their drinks, I continued to watch them. They were so relaxed, so at ease. Robert showed no signs of worry over his job and Neva, no concern for her baby's apparent lack of a father. As they talked, they mirrored each other—scratching the same ear, crossing the same leg. It was a habit I'd always found endearing. I should have been pleased that Neva had such a kindred spirit in her father. But today, for some reason, it hurt.

When dinner was ready, I set their plates down and took a seat at the head of the table. They were talking about politics or the economy or something. But I would put a stop to that.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Enough about politics. Why don't you tell us about work, Neva? Any interesting births today?”

Neva and Robert exchanged a look. I frowned. “What?”

“You're not interested in hearing about the new state senator, Grace?” Robert asked. “Mr. Hang Seng?”

“Puh-lease,” I said. “No.”

“What do you think about the new minority leader, Grace?” Neva asked. “Ms. Dow Jones?”

“Dow? Frightful name.” I forked some pasta. I hoped I could turn the conversation onto baby names, and then, with any luck, the baby's father. But when I looked up, Neva and Robert were snickering. “What?
What?
”

All at once, the penny dropped: They were mocking me. “You weren't talking about politics,” I said slowly. “Were you?”

Neva and Robert were now full-on laughing. I glared at Robert and he registered it. “Sorry, Grace. I'm sorry.”

Neva's face straightened. “Yes, sorry, Grace.”

“Yes, well,” I said. “I should think so.”

Neva and Robert bowed their heads. And the mood, which had been happy and playful was soured. I shouldn't have been surprised. I had a talent for killing Neva's joy, it seemed.

“I must admit I'm relieved,” I said, wanting to fill the silence and pep up the mood. “Dow Bradley is terrible name.”

I hadn't intended to be funny, but I noticed the corner of Robert's lip starting to twitch. Then, so did Neva's. Before long they were chuckling, and even though I knew it was at my expense, I did too. I was powerless against laughter. Even the smallest little snicker, particularly in the most inappropriate of situations, was all it took to set me off. Now my mouth curved upward and giggles forced their way out from between my clenched lips.

I pasted on a silly grin. The night was young, and with all the laughter and good feeling, perhaps we'd find out the father of the baby yet.

“So,” I said, reaching for the serving spoon. “Who's for more meatballs?”

 

9

Floss

I looked into the sea of expectant faces. It was the busiest session yet. For most instructors this was unusual in week three of a six-week course, but for me, it often happened this way. People enjoyed the course and then brought a friend, a parent, a grandparent. Not bad for the oldest instructor at the Jamestown community center. The oldest by twenty-five years.

“Welcome back, everyone. We are already in week three of Birthing Naturally. We have talked about proper prenatal care, the cycle of intervention, and techniques for managing your pain without drugs. Tonight you're going to hear from my granddaughter, Neva Bradley, about delivering in a birthing center.”

I located Neva in the second row of the auditorium. It had been two weeks since she announced her pregnancy, and we still hadn't had the chance to talk properly. I hoped we would tonight. Neva sat next to a wicker basket full of materials. On top I could see her plastic pelvis and baby dolls. Neva had delivered her presentation to my class several times now, and it always featured in the highlights in the course evaluation.

“But first,” I said. “I see we have some new faces in the room tonight, so let me start by introducing myself. My name is Florence Higgins, Floss for short. I am retired now, but I was a practicing midwife for over forty years, first in my native England and then right here in Rhode Island. I've delivered babies at home, in birthing centers, in hospitals—you name it, I've done it. Now, at eighty-three, I'm happy to be part of the cliché: ‘Those who are too old—teach.'”

That got a few laughs, as it always did.

“Neva is a Certified Nurse-Midwife. She currently works at St. Mary's Birthing Center in Providence. She has delivered babies in hospitals as well as in birthing centers, so she will be well equipped to answer any questions you might have. So without further ado, I'll hand you over to Neva.”

I took a seat at the side of the room. It was always a treat watching Neva's class. Like her mother, when she talked about midwifery, she came to life. Today was no different. Within minutes, Neva had the class engaged, laughing, excited. People were passing the plastic doll through the pelvis. Men were wearing the baby suit, a fabric device, heavy in front, designed to allow the father of the baby to feel pregnant. By the time Neva was finished, I couldn't help but feel enthused. And judging from the faces in the room, everyone else felt the same.