The Midwife's Confession

by Diane Chamberlain

  Tara glanced toward the unit. “Do you think I can see her now?”

  Noelle nodded and got to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll ask them to let you in.”

  They walked through the hallway toward the recovery room.

  “Her miscarriages are scaring me,” Tara said. “She takes such good care of herself and does everything right, and…I don’t think I could handle it.”

  “Of course you could.” Noelle rested a hand on her back. “You’re tough. But let’s hope you never have to.”

  She knew that Tara and Sam were already trying to conceive and she wished them nothing but success. Their wedding day, nearly eight months earlier, had been one of the hardest days of her life. She’d felt sick that morning and wasn’t sure she’d make it to the wedding at all, much less be able to be a bridesmaid. Her illness wasn’t physical, though. She’d been sick with self-disgust. Why did people get so stupid when it came to sex? Why was it so hard to just say no? When she’d realized that night in Wrightsville Beach that Sam wouldn’t give Tara up, why didn’t she say, “I understand,” and leave? Then she wouldn’t have this unrelenting back pain or this unrelenting guilt.

  Most of all, she wouldn’t have destroyed one of the richest friendships she’d ever known. Now, Sam kept his distance. He went out of his way never to be alone with her. Even Tara had noticed that something was different. “Did you and Sam have a fight?” she’d asked her a few weeks after the wedding. She’d looked concerned, not wanting a rift between two people she loved. Tara was so guileless. So trusting when it came to Sam. Noelle had laughed off the question. “Of course not,” she said. Then she’d hugged Tara hard, thinking as she held her in her arms, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  She let Tara into the recovery room but didn’t go in herself. The nurses wouldn’t appreciate a crowd around Emerson’s gurney. Instead, she walked into the ladies’ room and swallowed a few of the pills she had stashed in her pocket. She leaned back against the cool wall and closed her eyes, anxious for the relief to kick in.

  She’d told everyone a drunk driver had run a red light, crashing into her as she was on her way home after a middle-of-the-night delivery in Wilmington. Ian, whom she’d been seeing ever since Sam and Tara’s wedding, wanted her to sue, but she told him the incident had seemed so minor at the time that she hadn’t bothered to get the other driver’s name. She pleaded with him not to badger her about it. She wanted that night to go away.

  A woman walked into the restroom and Noelle moved away from the wall. She washed her hands and left the room and walked straight through the corridor and the lounge and out to the parking lot. She needed to go home and throw some things in a suitcase so she could move into her sister’s house.

  In her car, she felt the Valium and Percocet start to kick in. Thank God. She was taking more medication these days, playing around with the cocktail of drugs. She was careful, though, trying to find a balance between keeping her back pain to a manageable level and being able to function. She didn’t ever want to compromise her medical practice or put her patients at risk. She’d known drug-addled doctors and nurses and had vowed never to be one of them. She had more sympathy for them since her back injury, though. She’d tried acupuncture, Reiki, rest, heat, ice, but nothing worked as well as a nice healthy dose of narcotics. She tried to save them for those times she knew she wouldn’t be called on to catch a baby or manage a patient’s care. On those occasions, she worked through the pain. It was a pain she thought she deserved.

  She took over the guest room at Ted and Emerson’s, dragging some clothes, her medical supplies, her heating pad and drugs and her logbooks with her. For the first time since leaving home eight years earlier, she felt part of a family. She cooked and cleaned and shopped and nursed her sister slowly back to life. She listened to Emerson talk about the lost baby, the plans and hopes she’d had for him—it had been a boy—how she’d allowed herself to imagine him starting school, graduating, marrying, having kids of his own. In Emerson’s imagination, he was musical and artistic, even though she and Ted were, to be honest, neither. He would have been kind and loving, though. Emerson was sure of that and Noelle didn’t doubt it. She listened to it all, thinking, My nephew, and she felt the loss herself.

  She was the only midwife she knew who had no children of her own, and her dream of having a child, of creating her own family, was growing with every baby she delivered. That longing made her look at Ian with fresh eyes.

  “I admire you,” he said to her in Emerson’s guest room one night. They’d just made love in the double bed, quietly, not wanting to be overheard. “The way you stepped in and took over to help Emerson and Ted.”

  Ian not only admired her, he worshipped her, the same way a few other men had worshipped her over the years. Worship had never been much of a turn-on for her. Did she love him? Yes, the way she loved all her friends, and that would have to do. There were no Sam clones around and Ian would be a good father and a more faithful husband than she deserved.

  “It’s easy to help Emerson,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love her. I just want to see her happy.”

  “She and Ted seem good together.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think they are.” Ted was one of those guys who never talked about his feelings, but every once in a while Noelle would catch him doing something that touched her. The way he’d tenderly stroke Emerson’s cheek while they were watching TV, or the sad look in his eyes as he wrapped the unneeded car seat in plastic before storing it in the attic. Moments like that, she felt a hunger for something more than she had in her life.

  “So, does living in this domestic harmony give you any ideas?” Ian teased her.

  Usually, she would laugh him off. He’d already asked her to marry him a couple of times, but she’d told him it was ridiculously early to talk about marriage. Tonight, though, thinking about Ted and Emerson, how good they seemed together despite their very different personalities, she hesitated.

  “Actually,” she said, “it’s nice.”

  “Wow,” Ian said. “I didn’t expect that answer. So will you marry me?”

  Now she did laugh, but she raised herself up on an elbow to look at him. “Do me a favor, Ian?” she asked.

  He brushed a strand of her hair over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Keep asking me, all right?” She smiled. “One of these times, I just might surprise you.”

  32

  Emerson

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  2010

  The night after Ian told us about Noelle’s surrogacy, I lay in bed, bone tired but unable to sleep. After leaving Ian’s office, I’d driven to Jacksonville for a too-quick visit with my grandfather, who slept the entire time I was there. That was just as well. I knew he was upset that he’d never gotten to spend time with Noelle and it hurt me to see his sadness and regret.

  By the time I got home, Ian had left a number for the last woman Noelle had served as a surrogate. I was glad Ted and Jenny weren’t home yet. I sat at my kitchen table and dialed the number. The woman’s name was Angela and she sounded weepy as I explained who I was and why I was calling.

  “The lawyer told me she killed herself,” Angela said. “I’m in total shock. We loved her so much. We wouldn’t have our two children if it wasn’t for her.”

  “Did Ian explain that we didn’t know Noelle was a surrogate?” I asked.

  “Yes. I guess that’s not a huge surprise to me, because she was a very private person. Rob and I didn’t know much about her life, either. We were nervous about using her in the beginning because she didn’t have kids of her own. They always say the surrogate should have her own family. But we’d spoken with another couple she’d been a surrogate for and they recommended her so highly, we felt confident going ahead with her.”

  “So…” I was having trouble formulating my questions, even though I’d thought them through before dialing the phone, “where did she live when she was waiting
to give birth?”

  “When she was pregnant with our son, we put her up in a hotel. But by the time our daughter was conceived, we felt much more comfortable about the whole thing and she lived with us the last three months of her pregnancy. She was a huge help, actually.”

  “Did she say why she did it?”

  “She said it was her calling. That was the word she used. Her calling.”

  “Did she ever seem like she was drugged to you?” I hadn’t expected to ask the question, but there it was, popping out of my mouth, and Angela didn’t answer right away.

  “Why would you ask that?” she said finally. “It specifically said in the contract that she was to use no drugs without her doctor’s—and our—approval.”

  “She had back problems and needed pain medication for a while and I wondered how she made out without it.”

  “I knew about her back,” Angela said. “I knew she was in pain sometimes, but she just put up with it. Plus, she was with us 24/7 those last three months. We would have known if she was using something. I trusted her completely.”

  “Did you think she was mentally stable?”

  Angela laughed. “I would say Noelle was crazy in a stable way, if you know what I mean. I mean, she was lovably crazy. Not a psych case. Just…” She sighed loudly. “She loved what she was doing,” she said. “She was happy doing it. I’m absolutely certain about that. I’m so sorry you lost her. It’s hard for me to imagine her taking her own life.”

  “Did she talk about her family?” I asked. “I know I’m badgering you with questions, but I—”

  “No, that’s fine. I’d feel the same way if I suddenly discovered someone in my family had led a secret life. And yes, she talked about her sister—about you—a lot. She raved about your cooking and baking.”

  “She called me her sister?”

  “Yes. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I only learned that recently.”

  “Wow. She always called you her sister. Unless she has some other sister.”

  “Just me,” I said, but in the back of my mind I was thinking, Who knows what else she was hiding? “I have just one more question,” I said. “Did she ever mention a woman named Anna Knightly to you?”

  “Anna Knightly.” Angela sounded as though she was mulling the name over. “I don’t think so. Was she another parent Noelle helped?”

  I shut my eyes. Hardly, I thought. “No,” I said. “Just someone I’m trying to track down.”

  Now as I lay in bed, all I could think about was Noelle and her secrets and I stared at the moonlight reflected on the ceiling. Ted was finally asleep next to me, but it had taken him a long time to get there. As bizarre as Noelle’s surrogacy seemed to me, it was a hundred times more so to Ted. He’d barely recovered from the realization that Noelle and I were sisters when I hit him with the real purpose of her “rural work.” We’d stayed up late, talking about it, but I didn’t think that either of us had fully accepted the truth by the time we went to bed. He didn’t know the half of it. I wished I could tell him about Anna Knightly. At the same time, I felt protective of Noelle. Ted was starting to make a face every time he said her name. I could only imagine his reaction if I told him everything else I knew about her.

  Tara and I thought we’d figured out Noelle’s motivation: she’d stolen a child. Through surrogacy, she’d found a way to give one back. It was her penance. Yet, one child hadn’t been enough to absolve her for what she’d done. She’d had to give and give and give. The baby she’d accidentally killed and the baby she’d stolen—they must have haunted her every day of her life until she found a way to permanently lay them to rest. It made me so sad. I knew she’d wanted children of her own. She loved kids. She must have felt undeserving of ever having them. If only she’d let me know we were sisters. If only she could have confided in me. Maybe I could have helped her.

  I kept picturing those surrogacy contracts and imagining Sam being a party to the whole thing. He’d known about the surrogacy. What else had he known?

  I pictured Noelle’s record books, wondering if the identity of the woman whose baby had died was truly locked away somewhere in their pages or if we were way, way off in our search. I was beginning to think that the page she’d torn from the logbook held the answer we were looking for and that page no longer existed. We had no way of knowing who that patient might be. The Birth Center wasn’t going to give us the information—if they had it to begin with. Only if we went the legal route would they turn over their old records and Tara and I weren’t ready to go there. Part of me was slipping back into denial. I had to remind myself of the letter Noelle had written to Anna Knightly to remember that this whole mess was real.

  I kept thinking about Denise Abernathy’s green-eyed blond kids. Denise’s daughter had been the last girl Noelle delivered. Lying next to Ted, wide-awake, I imagined Noelle desperately searching for a newborn baby whose eyes might turn green like her mother’s and older sister’s. Noelle had a sixth sense about eye color. She could always tell what no one else seemed able to—the color a baby’s eyes would eventually turn. I pictured her wandering through the hospital in the dead of night, lifting the eyelids of babies, checking their eyes for their color. The whole idea was insane and very, very bizarre. As bizarre as being a secret surrogate mother, five times over.

  If only we knew the date Anna Knightly’s baby had been born, that would clinch it, right? We’d know then if Denise Abernathy’s green-eyed blonde daughter was the one. At the very least, we’d be able to see if Noelle had recorded the birth that had gone so horribly wrong. I sat up in bed with a start. Were birth records online?

  I got out of bed. I’d find out right now.

  Downstairs, I snitched one of the stuffed mushrooms I’d made for Suzanne’s party from the refrigerator and carried it to my office on a napkin. I nibbled the mushroom as my computer booted up. Then I dug around a little and found the birth records site for North Carolina, but I couldn’t get any information without both a last and first name.

  I stared at the screen, thinking about Anna Knightly. She was the director for the Missing Children’s Bureau. She’d turned her own loss into a way to help others. I liked the very little I knew of her and I felt intense sympathy for her. How had she felt when she discovered her baby had simply disappeared? How had she gone on? And how could Noelle have done this to her?

  I didn’t want to know too much about her personally; I only wanted to know when her baby disappeared. I wanted Anna herself to remain a faceless name. Once we knew who had her child, I’d let the authorities deal with her. I hoped I never had to meet her.

  Yet without the help of the birth records, it seemed the only way to find a date for her baby’s disappearance would be to find her. I surfed over to the Missing Children’s Bureau. I’d briefly looked for her on that site before, thinking there’d be an in-depth bio of her someplace in its pages, but there wasn’t. It was a cramped site so full of information I didn’t know where to begin. There were resources for families and forms you could use to report the sighting of a child who might be missing and information on Amber Alerts. I dug around for a while and found some news reports in which Anna Knightly made statements related to specific cases, but nothing about Anna herself.

  Then, finally, I got it.

  How far back could I search for a missing child on the site? I opened the search form and entered the little bit of information I had: North Carolina. Female. Knightly. How many years missing? I picked thirteen, since Noelle had quit practicing twelve years ago and that was also the year she first became a surrogate. Then I clicked Go and quickly received the message 0 results found. Maybe the baby had a different last name.

  I sat back in my chair and stared at the screen again, and that’s when I noticed the tiny green letters at the bottom of the page: site search. I clicked on them and the search box appeared. Finally! I typed Anna Knightly into the box, and suddenly, there she was—her photograph and a short bio. I wanted to turn a
way from her picture, but it was too late. I stared at her. She had a round face. Not overweight, but soft and sweet. Her light brown hair was chin length and wavy. Her eyes were large and very green. Green, like Denise Abernathy’s children. It was her smile that got to me, though. Not a broad smile, but the sort you’d wear for an executive portrait. Warm, confident, yet sober. I am all about serious business, her smile said. I’m all about finding your children.

  I read the few lines of text below her picture.

  Missing Children’s Bureau director, Anna Chester Knightly, 44, has worked for MCB for ten years. Her infant daughter, Lily, disappeared from a Wilmington, North Carolina, hospital in 1994. She has one other daughter, Haley.

  Oh! She had another daughter. I was so glad.

  But 1994? That long ago? We’d definitely been off on our dates. I went back to the search form for missing children and changed my thirteen years to seventeen and up popped Lily Ann Knightly.

  There was no picture—just one simple line.

  Lily Ann Knightly was born August 29, 1994, and disappeared from a Wilmington, NC, hospital shortly after her birth.

  My heart gave a sudden thud in my chest. August 29, 1994. I rolled my chair back from the computer and walked to the long table by the windows where I’d stacked Noelle’s record books. I picked up the one labeled March 1994–November 1994. I opened it slowly, holding my breath as I turned the pages.

  “No,” I said out loud when I came to the page I’d been looking for, although I’d known perfectly well what would be written there. At the top of the page was the patient’s name: Tara Vincent. The date was August 31, 1994—the date Jenny was born by C-section and Tara went into labor with Grace. For the first time, I thanked God that I hadn’t been able to have a home birth and Noelle had been nowhere near my daughter. I reread Noelle’s notes about Tara’s long and terrifying labor, ending with the perilous delivery early in the morning of September 1. I flipped the pages quickly, hoping Noelle might have made another delivery close to that date, but the next record was for a child born September 15 and that had been a boy. I turned back to Tara’s delivery and the pages upon pages of Noelle’s notes. I read the last few lines, searching for the place where Noelle’s handwriting would change from that of the careful, confident midwife to that of a frightened woman who’d accidentally dropped her friend’s child. A woman about to race to the hospital to find a replacement. I studied her notes, but she’d covered her tracks well. I saw her final sentence again—“She’s a beauty! They’re naming her Grace”—and I wondered if at that point she was referring to the Grace Tara had given birth to, or the Grace I’d known and loved all these years.