The Midwife's Playlist

by Piper Lennox

  That, and Hudson has some mystical ability to see and hear all, completely undetected. No use bullshitting him.

  “He’s got a few more months,” I tell him, finally. “Caroline kind of latches onto every little improvement, but big picture?” I shake my head and lean against the soft serve machine that hasn’t worked since the 1990s. “Same old.”

  “Keep him comfortable.” Hudson plates some scrambled eggs and bacon, probably for Mr. Fisher at Table Four. His usual order in the usual spot. It’s both weirdly comforting and depressing, how little changes around here. “That’s all you can do.”

  “So you’re saying I should let him watch golf all day in his boxers, pumping steak purée into his stomach via a feeding tube?”

  “If that’s comfortable for him,” he quips, both of us laughing under our breaths.

  I get two Styrofoam boxes down from the expo shelf and help him pack the orders, then thank him again. Like my conversation with Tanner, brief as it was, this one leaves me feeling optimistic. If the guys can forgive me for leaving like I did, maybe there’s hope for Easton to do the same.

  You’re goddamn delusional. If anything, other people forgiving me will only make Easton hold onto things that much harder. And she should. If some guy treated Caroline the way I treated Easton...let’s just say the Hillford population sign would need updating.

  Dad’s almost asleep when I get back. He stirs when I put the boxes in his lap, grumbling about how I got too much food.

  “Just eat what you can,” I mutter. I’m tired of doing the whole Nightingale routine without Caroline, who only has to bat her eyes and scold, “Dad, come on now. Don’t be stubborn.” He’ll take any pill and eat whatever’s on his plate, when Caroline asks. When it’s just me and him, I swear he tries to be as contrary as possible.

  “Don’t forget to ask Jason and April about borrowing their minivan.” Dad opens one of the boxes again and makes a face, shutting it. “Caroline can’t bring the baby home in this truck.”

  “I know, Dad. I was there. I was the one who realized it.” I grit my teeth. Don’t yell. He’s dying. It’s shitty that I feel calmer, reminding myself of that, but sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me from going off.

  “And anyway,” I add, after we pull onto the half-paved, half-dirt road that leads to the house, “the Lawrences aren’t our only option. I can ask literally anyone in town, and they’d send a fleet of cars to that hospital for her.”

  “Easton won’t even be there when you ask.”

  I swing into the driveway a little harder than I probably should. “Leave it to me, all right? I’ll get them home just fine.”

  He’s probably thinking of the last time I said that. There’s a twist in the way he shuts his mouth, a stiffness to his legs when he gets out of the car, that clues me in.

  Maybe I’m imagining it. I’ve been doing that more and more lately: reading into everything with a lens of guilt I can’t wipe clean.

  It’s dark when I finally get up the nerve to pass through our gate and knock on the Lawrences’ kitchen door. The wood rattles. The screen feels the same on my fingertips now as it did years ago.

  April smiles the same, when she peeks out and sees me. Jason shakes my hand in the same solid way.

  I’m stunned when they pass me the keys to the van, the second I finish explaining. I didn’t even get the chance to actually ask the favor.

  “Lasagna?” April shoves a Tupperware container into my hands before I leave. I’m not that hungry, but I thank her and eat it as soon as I get up to my bedroom, having abandoned my food from the diner in the fridge.

  I don’t know if April follows some recipe or just goes by memory, but it tastes exactly like the lasagna she would send our way after church. Mom would wash the Tupperware immediately and fill it with lemon squares or blueberry muffins, maybe some peach cobbler, then send me back to the Lawrences’ kitchen in some never-ending cycle of food-trading.

  When I’m done, I rinse the container in the work sink and tell myself I’ll wash it properly tomorrow. There’s no rush to return it; it’s not like I’ve got anything to put in the container for them. Nothing to give back.

  Nine

  I get the call at four in the morning.

  It’s not the time that puts ice in my blood. I’m used to late calls and texts from clients. In the days surrounding a woman’s due date, it’s a sixth sense: the ability to hear my phone ringing before it makes a sound.

  But it’s entirely different when you get a call from a woman before dawn, and it’s your mother.

  “She had a fall,” she says, when I sit up and slap my bedside table until I find my lamp’s thumbwheel.

  “Who?” For some reason, I think she means Caroline. I blame it on the dream she interrupted: the McLean family on one side of the fence, my family on the other, while Ford and I, suddenly eight years old again, walked it like a tightrope. We passed each other flawlessly, without ever touching.

  “Your grandmother.” Mom’s voice fractures. The phone scrapes the air, lost in a pass and fumbled across clothing, before Dad comes on the line.

  “She hurt her hip,” he says evenly, “but she’s already awake and laughing it all off, you know her. The doctor says she can come home in a couple days, if everything keeps going as well as it has so far.”

  “A couple days, that’s it? What if she falls again? And—and how did she even fall the first time? I thought you put those safety rails in the tub, and the grip things on the stairs—”

  “Easton.” His register drops. “She’s getting older. It happens. She just got confused, that’s all. Tripped on her way to the bathroom.”

  I think again about her calling me April. The mistake had barely fazed her, but it haunted me the entire drive back.

  Had it happened on any other night, I would have thought to tell my parents. But all I could think about was leaving, putting more than a fence’s width between Ford and myself.

  “Her memory’s going,” Dad adds, softer. “They, uh...they’re saying it’s the early stages of dementia, maybe a stroke. She’s got a referral for a neurologist in the city, though. We’ll know more then.”

  Ironically, this news stops the tears surging in my throat. The use of medical terms, or the confident way he says “neurologist in the city,” calms me down. These are procedural things, actionable: measured in science and handled with medicine, facts, and protocols.

  “Okay. Tell me what else the doctor said.” I set the phone to speaker and pull my hair into a ponytail, then dress in fresh leggings and a sweater. An energy shot from my bureau clears the last of the fog away, and I can swipe on concealer before Dad finishes telling me about her new meds. This is my typical routine for middle-of-the-night calls. The familiarity makes me forget, briefly, that this isn’t a birth I’m heading to, something I’ve done over fifty times. This is brand-new.

  It’s only when I pull into the parking lot at Memorial that the difference hits me, and I mean really hits. It feels like all my tears are tucked away in some little balloon at the top of my chest, waiting to burst as soon as I let my guard down.

  I open the mirror and fix my eyeliner.

  I pick a playlist.

  “Immortals.”

  “Titanium.”

  “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

  My body melts into the molded cushion of the seat with every new track. I count my heartbeats.

  I can do this.

  Just in case, though, I unhook my iPod from the stereo, fish my headphones out of the glove box, and stick the bundle in my purse.

  Mom smiles when I slide into the room, but I can tell she just finished a giant crying jag. The puffiness of her eyes almost pops that water balloon in me, but I steel myself with facts from the doctor: a bad bone bruise, but no fracture; abrasions on her palms from where she tried to catch herself; no sign of infection, but they’re watching closely.

  “And the, uh...the stroke?” I prompt, when he smiles and turns like we’re d
one here. “My father said you’re sending her to a neurologist in the city.”

  “Yep, St. Anthony’s has a great unit. They’ll be able to tell you more than we can.”

  Of course, I think, fighting the scoff scything back and forth in my throat. Sometimes, I really love Hillford’s smallness, the simplicity—but when it comes to all things medical, I remember why I chose a rental house halfway to the city.

  Grandma accepts my hug, but shoos away my get-well wishes. “I’m fine, stop that. A couple days and I’ll be good as new.”

  I nod, jaw tight. “Good as new” flew out the window a long time ago, but I guess there’s no harm in letting her pretend.

  Dad and I wander the halls, mostly silent. He clears his throat now and then to repeat his assurances that Grandma will be okay. I hum the songs from my playlist under my breath to keep the balloon from popping.

  “Shit.” Dad shakes his foot and winces on our seventh or so lap of the ward. He stumbles back a little, which makes my heart seize up and my arms shoot out from my sides—which is laughable. Dad’s not a small man. If I tried to catch him, all it would accomplish is both of us getting hurt.

  Luckily, he rights himself quickly, flashing me a smile. “Foot’s just a little sore. They said it happens in both feet equally, but I swear, this one’s giving me hell.”

  I push down the panic. “It’s getting worse.”

  “It’s fine.” He shakes it out again before strolling in a circle around me. Actually, “strolling” is the completely wrong word to use, because you could spot his limp from across a stadium.

  “Don’t you go and fall down, too,” I tease, as we make our way back. There’s some sense of urgency to our gait now, like my joke jinxed him. I don’t relax until he’s in the recliner by Grandma’s bed, feet elevated on a plastic chair.

  “Mom?” I want to tell her about Dad’s pain, because Lord knows he won’t, but the look he shoots me lets me know I’ve got to play this with more subtlety.

  When Mom looks up from her stroke pamphlets, I ask if she wants to get coffee. “And maybe some fresh air?” For good measure, I wink at Dad, to make it seem like I’m doing him a favor by getting Mom’s mind off all this. The way he nods, I guess he falls for it.

  In the elevator, I pull her hand from her mouth before she can chew her cuticles down to nothing. “Dad’s neuropathy is getting worse.”

  She nods, swallowing. “He hasn’t been following the diet lately. I guess I haven’t been enforcing it, though...with your grandma moving in, and your dad’s hours getting cut....”

  Oh, God. This is what’s going to do it. This is what will pop the balloon.

  “I knew I should have put a nightlight in the hallway,” she whispers, and her mouth purses into a line that mirrors the fissure running right through my heart.

  “Mom, don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. It’s not anyone’s—it just happened.” I squeeze her hand when the elevator opens. We bypass the cafeteria and go to the garden. It’s not much: a wide, winding sidewalk with a gazebo in the center, surrounded by more shrubs than flowers. Still, being outside gives her some composure. My mother loves nature. When I was little, I could always count on finding her in the garden when I got off the bus on warm days.

  While we walk, she tells me the rest: Grandma’s eyesight and hearing starting to slip more and more, Dad sneaking junk food into the house. “If I had more time to cook for him, maybe—”

  “No, don’t even go there. Dad is a grown man, perfectly capable of feeding himself. I can’t believe he’s doing that to you. Like you don’t have enough to deal with?” I grate my teeth together, glad my father isn’t out here. I’m not sure I could resist chastising him like the little kid he’s insisting on being.

  “It’s hard on him, honey. He’s not going to change overnight. And with the stress at work, and Mama moving in…he’s just falling into old habits.”

  “And you’re just making excuses. Look, I love Dad. I know he isn’t doing this on purpose or anything. I just...I just hate that he’s not making things any easier on you.”

  “He does, though. Emotionally, financially...I couldn’t possibly take care of your grandma all by myself.”

  This, I have to admit, is true. My mother is sensitive, prone to fever-pitch worry and whirlwind emotions. Dad is more like me: comforted in facts, quick to take action. My entire life, when any kind of crisis occurred, I knew I’d find Mom feeling enough for all three of us, and Dad formulating a plan before anyone could ask, “What now?” I just wish he’d do that when it comes to his own health. If not for his sake, then for hers.

  “I feel like....” Mom folds her arms and takes a deep, rattling breath. “I feel like I’m not doing enough. Ever. There’s so much they both need, and so much the house needs. Every day, I wake up with this list in my head, this feeling like, ‘Today everything will come together. I’ll get it all done.’” Her face crumples. We stop walking. “But I never can. I always hit a point where it just feels like too much.”

  Mom starts crying again.

  And I’m officially undone.

  “I can help out more, Mom, really. I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much, it’s just...work, you know, there’s a lot to do now that I’m independent. But I can be there, too. With you guys. I will. I promise.” I hug her and cringe when she thanks me instead of shoving the offer aside, like I hoped she would. It’s not that I don’t want to help my folks out more.

  It’s because I know, in about two seconds, I’m going to say exactly what I swore to myself I never would say. I’m going to make the only promise that will actually calm my mother down, and the one promise I never wanted to make.

  “I’ll move back home.”

  Mom sniffs and pulls away from me, so I replace the cringe with a smile. “Really?”

  My face actually aches. “Really.”

  “Easton, sweetie, that would be wonderful!” She throws herself into another hug, sobbing all over again. At least they aren’t sad tears, anymore. “Thank you, honey. I promise, it’s only temporary. I know you have your own life. But this is such a relief, knowing you’ll be there.”

  “Of course, Mom.” I melt into her hug. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

  Like a good lyric, I take these words and put them on repeat. She needs me. She needs me. This might not be what I want—actually, it’s the exact damn opposite. But it’s what my mother, my family, needs.

  After more tears, hugs, and thanks than I can count, we finish our walk through the garden. Mom can’t stop smiling.

  Dad takes the news far less enthusiastically. “Easton has her own life, April. She doesn’t need this. And we don’t need her help.” He pauses, throwing a glance my way. “No offense, sweetheart.”

  I shrug. Not one bit taken, because I know it isn’t true.

  When Mom hugs me goodbye, she whispers, “Don’t worry, he’ll come around. Who knows: maybe you moving back will motivate him to try harder! He’ll be so eager to get you out.”

  I force a laugh. That makes two of us.

  The lobby intensifies my headache. Too much activity, even for sleepy little Hillford. Too many bright, buzzing lights and friendly chitchat.

  Outside, the sky is a piercing blue, cloudless, with pure white sunlight slapping the entire town at once. I rest my purse against a pillar and start digging for my sunglasses. It feels like I’ve got a hangover.

  That must be why it takes me a minute to recognize the van to my right, even after I glance up and spot the same chipped paint as my parents’ minivan, the same Hillford Hotel decal on the rear window, and someone who is neither of my parents leaning into the backseat.

  “Whoa, uh, excuse me: are you with the hospital? Because this is my family’s car.”

  Ford turns at the exact moment I step away from the pillar. The exact moment my purse tips forward, out of my hands, still unzipped.

  He opens his mouth, but the cascade of my possessions at our feet stops him.
/>
  “Shit.” I bend down and start scooping up whatever I can. My fingers attract a lot of asphalt chips in the process, but I can’t possibly care about that now.

  “Hey.” He kneels to help. “More babies to deliver?”

  I snatch some tampons from him and shove them into the bag. “No. Just visiting. What are you doing with my parents’ van?”

  “Stealing it.” His smirk fills the balloon in my chest back up, this time with searing steam. He’s lucky I’m exhausted.

  “Chill. They let me borrow it.” He stands and offers his hand to help me. I grab the van door instead. “Dad’s truck only has one row—can’t put a car seat in the front.”

  “Oh.” I glance into the van and, for the first time, notice a car seat base and pack of diapers. “Sorry, just...long morning. My grandma had a fall last night.”

  “Shit.” He reaches for me, then stops. I wonder why it steals all the air out of my lungs, and why I want to fold myself up in his concern like a blanket. “Is she okay?”

  “Um...yeah, yeah, I think so. Overall.” Briefly, I tell him the facts and our plan of action. I make sure to leave out the whole “me moving back home” part, though. He’ll know soon enough.

  “God, I’m sorry, E.” This time, Ford doesn’t stop himself from rubbing my arm. It’s quick. It’s light. It could barely classify as a touch at all, if it weren’t for the fact I feel it all the way down to my marrow.

  “Thanks.” I glance back into the van. “Having trouble with the car seat, huh?”

  “That’s an understatement. I’ve installed septic tanks that were simpler than this.”

  Despite myself, I smile and throw my purse into the front seat. “Here, I’ll show you. It’s easy once you get the hang of it. See these hooks? You’ve got to latch them to the anchors in the seat.”

  “Yeah.” He holds up his hand: small punctures, still bleeding, reside in the center of all four fingertips. “Not as easy as it sounds.”

  I wince, but laugh. He puts every finger down but the middle, then smiles and steps into the van with me, one foot on the ground, one inside.