by Judy Baer
“I just wish He’d hurry up. My sister is going nuts.”
“I can’t do anything else but I can pray,” I offered. “That’s one thing I’ve had a lot of practice at.”
A smile broke through, and the sparkle came back into his eyes. “You’re something else, Molly. I’m crazy about you.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and swung me in a big circle. “If I ever were to settle down, it would be with someone like you.”
That statement didn’t even make me think twice. Tony will never be ready to settle down. He’ll be flirting his way through the nursing home, making every woman there, no matter her age, wish they had a Tony in their life.
Chapter Four
“Now tell me exactly what a doula does.”
Emily Hancock, a painfully well-dressed, worried-looking creature stared at me intently, as if I were planning to extract a wisdom tooth, not aid her in guiding a new child into the world. We sat in the highly polished stainless-steel kitchen of her three-story Tudor, looking out over gardens and grass manicured within an inch of its life.
“I know very little about this. Midwives, I’m familiar with, but doulas… They’re new, aren’t they?”
New? As in something developed recently to maintain new technology such as the latest generation of cell phones or MP3 players? Hardly. “A doula is actually a very old concept.
“Doula is a Greek word meaning a woman who serves other women.” I tried to smile encouragingly at the nervous woman. “We use massage, aromatherapy, positioning and reflexology to make our clients comfortable during birth.”
“I had no idea,” Emily murmured approvingly.
“A doula’s function is to be there for a mother in labor in any way she can, from ice chips to foot rubs, reading aloud to singing lullabies. During labor, your wish is my command.”
“Nothing medical?”
I held up a hand as if to ward off a bad idea. “I always defer to medical personnel. I know how to stay out of the way when necessary. Women have even hired me to be in charge of their husbands so that they won’t have to worry about them fainting during labor.”
“There’s no worry about that with my husband,” she said wistfully. “He won’t faint. If he’s even there, that is. He’s taking part in a mission trip to Guatemala about the time the baby is to be born. The trip has been in the works much longer than the baby, and he’s been instrumental in the planning, so he’s hoping to go and still get back in time for the birth.”
Finally her shell cracked and tears sprang into her eyes. “What made me think it would be a good idea to have a baby when I’m well over forty? I should have known better.”
“You aren’t the first forty-year-old mother and you won’t be the last. You are in wonderful shape, healthy and you’ve had an easy pregnancy so far. My mother had her last child at forty-two and she’s absolutely fantastic. She took up golf last summer.”
“Really?” Emily looked hopeful.
“I’m from a family of nine. My mother had a baby every two years for eighteen years. Her ‘caboose’ baby was born at forty-two.” Poor little Kevin, I thought. Mother, when she called him the little caboose on a very long train, had never meant for the name to stick. At twenty, his nickname is still “Caboose.” I know very few people outside our family who actually realize his name is Kevin. His girlfriend calls him Coby so maybe the next generation will eventually forget the nickname.
“Nine? Imagine.” Emily appeared unable to grasp the concept.
“We did come one at a time, and we were small to begin with. Fortunately, my dad said that our house was made of rubber and that the walls could stretch to accommodate any number of children. Somehow he was right.”
“No wonder you are in this business. You love children, don’t you?”
“I do. I taught both preschool and kindergarten before becoming a doula. I can’t get away from people under six years of age—or their mothers.”
Emily looked at me thoughtfully. “Frankly, when I asked you here today to interview you, I really didn’t plan to hire you. It was more to salve my curiosity, to leave ‘no stone unturned’ concerning my pregnancy. My doctor didn’t recommend having a doula. In fact, he discouraged it rather vehemently.”
I felt a knowing chill run through me.
“But I’ve changed my mind. I like you, Molly, and I like what you say a doula is and does.” She gave a small, wry laugh. “And at my age, I need all the help I can get.”
I drained my teacup before speaking. “Your physician wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Clay Reynolds at Bradshaw Medical Center, would he?”
Emily looked surprised. “Yes, it is. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. I just know that he’s not a fan of having doulas—or anyone but medical personnel—around during a delivery. Lucky guess.” Or very unlucky.
“He’s a wonderful doctor,” Emily said. “So compassionate and thorough. I know he is a bit old-fashioned when it comes to his mothers, but he’d do anything in his power to protect a woman or a child. A lot of women trust him implicitly.”
There it was again, his mothers. I’m not sure I like anyone as proprietary about mothers as he is. Until he came along, they were mine, all mine.
“I had high hopes for Bradshaw,” I admitted, “but now I think I’ll have to turn my sights elsewhere.”
Emily stood up to refill my teacup. Her body profile was slender but for the “baby bump” around her middle. She wore a black sleeveless knit top, trim khaki pants, casually expensive black heels and diamonds that would make the queen wince. She could have been taken for twenty-five instead of forty. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just a pipe dream.”
“It’s too late now. You’ve already started.” She also refilled the plate of tender date cookies and rich macaroons.
“I have this vision,” I admitted reluctantly, “of creating an agency through which mothers and doulas can connect. Somewhere an expectant mother can go to discover if a doula is right for her. Currently moms are referred to us by health nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors or by word of mouth from friends who’ve used a doula. Some doulas have formed small group associations in order to promote their practices, but I envision something more.”
I was on a roll now, excited, like I am every time I think of what I’d like to have happen. “I want everyone to know what a doula is and how to hire one. I’d like to create an agency that not only has a roster of doulas but also educational programs and support groups about all things concerning mother and baby.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea. Why would you give that up?” Emily sat down, kicked off one shoe and tucked her foot beneath her leg.
“I’m not giving it up entirely, but I may have to give up on creating it at Bradshaw Medical Center. I’d love to start the program through a hospital. Because of Bradshaw’s size, it would be a good place to begin a pilot program. They already have a free clinic in one of the more depressed neighbor-hoods so it would be a simple matter to add an agency like this. But now that Dr. Reynolds is head of the obstetrics department…”
Emily had an odd expression on her face as she patted my hand. “Don’t worry about the hospital or Dr. Reynolds right now, my dear. That can be worked out. You did, after all, sell me on the value of a doula.”
For no good reason that I could discern, Emily’s words comforted me greatly.
After I left the Hancock home, I drove my red Volkswagen convertible to the Yarn Shack to buy what was, for me, almost better than chocolate or sleeping in late—baby yarn.
“Back already?” Matilda, a robust woman in her sixties, said when she saw me enter. “You knit faster than anyone else I know.”
“Not really. I just buy yarn faster than anyone else you know.” I headed straight for the soft pinks, blues, yellows and greens. “I want enough to knit a couple of baby hats.”
“I’ve got something you’ll like even better.” Matilda dug beneath the
counter and came up with a pattern book. “New hats. Look.”
She opened the book to reveal a massively colorful jester’s hat with six points and silver bells on the tip of each point. There was also a knitted stovepipe hat reinforced with a cardboard liner that looked like something the Mad Hatter might wear, and an alligator hat with its jaws open at the back of the wearer’s head. “Anyone you know need a new hat?”
My weakness is hats, the louder and more garish the better. I make them for everyone I know. What’s more, I insist they wear them. Poor Caboose, er, Kevin. Because he was the youngest, he got more of my hats than my other siblings. The boy wore my knitted hats in the shapes of animals or vegetables until junior high when I made him a hat that tied beneath his chin and had an elephant face and trunk on the back.
I gave up pressing him about it when he said he’d fear for his life in the boys’ dressing room if he wore the hat to school. I gave it to my oldest brother, Mike’s, son. He was three at the time and had less violent friends.
Crazy hats strike me as funny and lift my spirits. If everyone in the world wore a zany hat, we wouldn’t take ourselves so seriously and news programs and political debates on television would be much more fun.
After purchasing the pattern book and yarn I needed, I drove toward Bradshaw Medical to meet Lissy and Tony and for lunch.
Everything about Bradshaw Medical is picturesque. The hospital sits on top of an undulating hill with a gradual slope. It was built by Everett Bradshaw in the sixties. Bradshaw had made his wealth early as a reconstructive cosmetic surgeon, and rumor has it that he’d felt compelled to “give back” to the community. Not a big hospital in size but very impressive in reputation, the facility has long since been a place where very public personalities go for treatment away from prying eyes. It had also been at Everett Bradshaw’s suggestion that the free clinic had come into being. Other than Everett’s grumpy grandson, a lot of good things are happening at Bradshaw Medical.
And not only that, they have a great cafeteria.
Lissy and Tony were already waiting for me.
“Where’s your nurse’s uniform?” I asked as I joined Lissy at a small round table.
“I’m already off for the day. I came in early to cover for someone. I changed out of my uniform so I’d be ready to rumble when you got here.”
“I’m hardly in a ‘rumbling’ mood. I have chores to do at home.”
“I know, I know, feed the livestock, slop the hogs…”
“I do not give Geranium ‘slop’ as you so crassly call it!”
“…paint a picture, knit a hat, live a horribly boring life….”
“Molly’s not boring. She’s the least boring person I know.” Tony, looking dashing in pure white, leered at me. “Beautiful, too.”
He put a tray on the table and began to unload it. “I though I’d get my food right away.”
“Turkey sandwich, potato chips, chili, nachos and cheese, French silk pie and ice cream? Tony, there’s enough food there to feed my entire family!” And that’s saying a lot.
He put his hands protectively over the pie. “It’s barely enough to keep me alive. Get your own.”
Lissy eyed his trim waist and washboard abs beneath his shirt. “Life is not fair. I’m going to gain weight just sitting at the same table with all that food.”
Tony dragged a big chip through the warm orange cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm. Fresh chips. You’ll have to get some.”
Shaking our heads, Lissy and I went through the cafeteria line and each picked up a salad and, as a wildly extravagant gesture, decided to split a piece of fresh strawberry pie.
When we returned to the table, Tony shook his head sorrowfully.
“We can’t help it if our metabolisms can’t keep up with yours,” Lissy said as he stared at the food on our plates.
“‘My salad days, when I was green in judgment.’”
Lissy and I stared at Tony.
“That’s what Cleopatra says at the end of Act One of Anthony and Cleopatra,” Tony informed us.
“You mean she was on a diet, too? I hope she didn’t get as sick of lettuce as I have.” Lissy stared down at her plate. “It’s been going on a long time, then. Dieting, I mean.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “‘Salad days’ doesn’t mean she’s on a diet. Cleopatra regretted her youthful inexperience and indiscretions. She meant that when she was young she was, like, well, green.” He looked at Lissy’s confused expression. “You know, like the tender shoots in spring—new.”
“Young and dumb,” I provided.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Lissy demanded.
“Nothing,” Tony said. “I looked at the salad on your plate and thought of Shakespeare, that’s all.”
“If there’s a woman out there for you, she’s going to be a strange one, Tony. If my salad reminds you of Shakespeare, what does my—” Lissy picked up a piece of cutlery “—my fork make you think of?”
Tony opened his mouth but I shut it for him with my finger. “Stop right there. I’m not up to a Shakespeare discussion right now.”
Then I turned to Lissy. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Tony, you’re too bright and too handsome for your own good,” Lissy pointed out. “You’re going to have a hard time meeting your match.”
He shuttered his eyes to half-mast and looked at me. “I’ve already met her. She just won’t have anything to do with me. Right, Molly?”
Lissy mimed sticking her finger down her throat and gagging at that.
I quickly changed the subject. “Are either of you going to volunteer at the free clinic this month? The new schedule comes out soon.”
“I can’t. I’m scheduled to work most of the days the clinic is open.”
“Me, too,” Tony said. “But I’m planning to be with you the nights we teach Lamaze classes.”
“I said I’d fill in at the reception desk when I can, although it won’t be enough,” I said. “The clinic is growing by leaps and bounds.”
“It seems odd to me that a medical facility like Bradshaw opened a free branch,” Lissy commented as she ate most of the strawberries off our slice of pie.
“The people they treat have to be low income and have no medical insurance,” Tony pointed out. “These people might not even seek medical help otherwise.”
“Whoever thought up that idea was very forward thinking,” Lissy commented.
Everett Bradshaw, I thought. It was odd how cutting-edge he’d been—and how his grandson was now retreating to the “old” forties ways.
“Want to go sailing with us this afternoon?” Tony asked. “The weather is perfect for it.”
Tony, among his other manly, girl-attracting attributes, owns a sailboat. I don’t think he’s a very good sailor, but he loves to see his dates in bathing suits. That’s his best and only reason for keeping the boat. He prefers a snowmobile. Unfortunately his dates then have to dress up in snowsuits so fluffy they look like the Michelin Man.
“I can’t. Hildy and I have an appointment today at three. We’re visiting the nursing home. I have to run home to get her after I eat and bring her back.”
“You’re no fun.” Lissy pouted. “Dates with dogs, knitting weird hats, rubbing pregnant ladies’ backs… You’ve got to get some new hobbies.”
Tony’s eyelids drooped seductively, and he put his hand over mine as it lay on the table. “How about me? I’ve been told I’m entertaining.”
“You certainly are, but I don’t have enough time for a high-maintenance hobby like you.”
“You need romance in your life, Molly. I could provide it.”
He looked so hopeful that I had to let him down easy—again. I disengaged my hand, put it on his cheek and stared into his eyes. “Listen to me, Tony. I refuse to ruin a good friendship by dating you. Sooner or later you’ll have to quit asking me.”
He cradled my hand in both of his. “I choose later. I’m not a quitter and I’m not ready to giv
e up yet.”
“I’ll go out with you as a friend anytime, you know that.”
“Small comfort,” he retorted cheerfully. “Do you want a bite of my pie?”
Dates with Tony, I’ll refuse. Pie? No way. I opened my mouth and he popped a bite of the French silk, the prime piece—the little tip at the end—into my mouth.
Just then a tray clattered onto the table next to us with more force than usual. I looked over to see Dr. Clay Reynolds throw himself onto a chair and scowl at the food before him. What was the chip on this man’s shoulder?
He bent forward, hovering over his tray and yet not seeming to see it. His gaze was fixed inwardly, seeing something invisible to the rest of us. What was he seeing? Who or what was he remembering?
We finished up quickly and, with a nod to Dr. Reynolds, scurried out of the cafeteria.
“I’ve seen grizzly bears protecting their cubs that look more cheerful than Dr. Reynolds did just now,” Lissy commented.
We both looked to Tony, who, because of his many connections, always knew all the hospital gossip.
“He blew up during a delivery today. Apparently a nurse hadn’t called him until the baby was almost here. He was furious. He’s the only doctor I know who prefers to be called off a golf course early to be with a woman in labor.”
“Is she in big trouble? He’s got a lot of influence around here,” I whispered, acrobats in my stomach doing handstands and flip-flops.
“Who knows? He kept it together until the baby was born, but several people heard him chastising her later. He’s got a lot of influence around here. She’s a good nurse. Too bad she crossed him.”
That dream about having a doula program at Bradshaw? Like a helium balloon released into the atmosphere, it drifted higher and farther away with each passing moment.
Chapter Five
“Come on, Hildy, time to go!”
Hildegard opened her eyes but didn’t lift her head from her paws. She gave me a cold, disinterested glare from her new doggie bed. Ever since I’d brought it home, the cedar chips still fresh and fragrant inside, Hildy had refused to budge. Even Geranium rooting in her dog dish had not prompted her to rise. That usually started a pig-dog skirmish worthy of the evening news.
