by Judy Baer
“A little? The man couldn’t get through a metal detector in an airport.”
“You’ve got company.” Lissy pointed toward the living room, deftly changing the subject. “She’s been waiting thirty minutes for you to get home.”
“Really? Who…”
My jaw dropped in surprise at the sight of Emily Hancock perched properly, like a small bird, at the edge of my couch. Her feet were flat on the floor, her ankles pressed primly together, her Donna Karan suit skirt demurely covering her knees. She held her purse on her lap in a nervous vise grip and her blouse, buttoned to the top button around her neck, seemed to be choking her. A pretty woman, Emily wore artful makeup, her hair coiffed perfectly and her expression… Well, that was completely out of sync with the rest of her.
She looked like Bambi staring into the headlights of an oncoming car.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Emily. If I’d known you were stopping by…”
“It was an impulse. I hope you don’t mind?” There was a hint of a plea in her voice. “I just needed to talk to someone sane.”
“Of course I don’t mind. Did Lissy offer you anything to drink?”
“She did but I’m not thirsty. My stomach has been a little upset.”
“Nothing a glass of milk won’t cure. Come into the kitchen.”
She stood up and followed me obediently, as if I actually knew what I was talking about. Milk settles my stomach so at least it’s worth a try.
When we were seated across from each other sharing a package of Oreos and a quart of milk, Emily’s color began to return.
“I knew you were just what I needed, Molly. I’ve been in a state all day. My husband is out of town. He’s got several board meetings that demand much of his time so he’s not available by phone. My own mother is a nervous wreck and all my friends think I should have my head examined.” Emily played nervously with the wrapping of the now-depleted Oreos. Her impressive diamond ring winked in the light. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Emily, everything is going to be fine. Don’t pay any attention to them. I thought we had a deal that you’d ignore the negativity from now on.”
“Are you sure you don’t think I’m crazy?” She put her hand on my arm and I could feel her tremble. “That I’m risking my life or at least ruining it entirely?”
“By having a baby? Hardly.”
“But I’m forty-five years old, something of which my mother reminds me every time we speak. ‘I was twenty when I had you, Emily, and it was terrible even then. I was in labor for three days. The doctor said it was the hardest birth he’d ever seen and now you, at forty-five, choose to get pregnant? Have you lost your mind?’” she quoted. Her elegant features crumpled in dismay.
“You do a great imitation of her and every other Doubting Tomasina in the world.”
“I can tune her out some of the time,” Emily continued, “but my friends…if I can even call them that!”
Emily had rudely inconvenienced her circle of friends’ social lives when she decided to get pregnant. Now their fourth for bridge would be up nursing a baby when she was the dummy. No long, leisurely lunches at the club. No day-long shopping trips or late-night dessert forays after the theater. A baby at her age? Not only did her friends think it was ridiculous but also downright stifling. She was disrupting their fun. Some friends. “What are they saying now?”
“Same old, same old. That forty-five is no age to have a baby. That I’ll regret it. That I won’t be able to go sailing or play tennis and that my figure will be ruined.”
“As if! You’re more buff than most twenty-five-year-olds I know. You have abs and you’ll be able to see them again as soon as this baby is born.”
“They also ‘helpfully’ tell me that the baby might have something wrong with it and that I was nuts not to have had amniocentesis or genetic testing done. But we knew it wouldn’t matter, that we’d love this baby no matter what. What was the point?”
“It sounds to me that by you having a baby, they think you are ruining their lives.”
“Something like that.” Emily smiled wanly. “Just when I need support most, everyone is freaking out on me. No one understands that my husband and I are ecstatic. We’ve tried forever to get pregnant and had given up entirely. No one else seems to think it’s even possible that we could have had a baby now. Our baby is a late-in-life miracle for us—” tears sprang to her eyes “—and everyone else is horrified.”
“When the baby actually arrives their tunes will change.” I patted her arm. “Maybe they’ll even be a little jealous.”
“It could be, but they aren’t helping right now.” Emily stared at me. “I just needed to see you and hear some common sense. It’s not easy being one of the oldest mothers on the planet.”
I burst out laughing. “You aren’t even close!”
“It feels that way.”
“Just be thankful that you aren’t another Sarah.”
Emily looked at me blankly, as if I were talking in riddles.
“You don’t know the Biblical story?”
“Not really.”
“Sarah and Abraham were husband and wife. Sadly, Sarah was barren. It caused her a lot of hurt and shame because to have children was so important in those times. It was even worse for Sarah because God had promised her husband that his children would become a great nation.”
“Yet she was unable to give him a child.” Emily smiled weakly. “I see her problem.”
“But God promised Abraham that he would have a son even though Sarah was ninety years old and Abraham nearly a hundred.”
“Double my age,” Emily muttered.
“God kept His promise, and when Abraham was a hundred years old, Isaac was born.”
Emily finally smiled. “Then maybe my friends should be grateful I didn’t wait any longer to get pregnant!” She studied me for a long moment. “You talk about God a lot.”
“I love Him,” I responded simply.
“And you trust Him?”
“Look at His promise to Abraham. God’s timing isn’t our timing, but He always comes through eventually.”
“If He can get Sarah through a safe birth in her nineties, He should have no trouble helping me at half her age.”
“That’s what I believe.”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
When Emily stood to leave, she gave me a hug so tight that I almost gasped for breath. “You have no idea how you comfort me, Molly.”
“Anytime.”
“I’m so glad you’ll be with me during labor.”
She must have seen a wisp of hesitation in my eyes.
“You are going to be there, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. It’s just that things have gotten a little…complicated…lately.”
“Tell me how.” Emily rested her hand on the doorknob.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“As I know I’ve mentioned before, my dream is to educate more and more women about doulas and how they can help ease a woman’s labor. I want to start a center where doulas and clients can meet. I can even imagine doula volunteers working at the hospital on weekends to be available to birthing women who can’t afford a doula of their own. Unfortunately, I’ve run into some opposition at Bradshaw Medical.”
Emily remained silent.
“I’m considering not taking any more clients who plan to give birth there. That won’t affect you, of course, but in the future…”
“That’s ridiculous.” She looked indignant. “Is this all Dr. Reynolds’s doing?”
“Dr. Reynolds is one of the finest obstetricians I’ve ever met,” I assured her, “but he’s not a fan of what I do. His philosophy is that there should be no one but medical personnel present for a birth. He thinks that a doula just gets in the way.”
“He hasn’t kept up with the times,” Emily said indignantly.
“Maybe not, but he�
�s a good doctor. I don’t know or understand his reasoning, but I don’t think it is wise to cross him. He’s got all of his patients at Bradshaw. I’ll just have to focus my energies elsewhere.”
“There are other doctors at Bradshaw. I’m sure he’s the only doctor who has restrictions about people in the birthing room. He can’t chase you away.”
“Dr. Reynolds has a lot of influence there…. His grandfather and all…”
“I’ve met Everett Bradshaw and his wife. They’re lovely people.”
“You know them?” I recalled the massive, uninhabited house near the lake.
“I can’t imagine that Dr. Bradshaw would agree with his grandson’s stand on this.”
“But he’s not here, and Clay is,” I pointed out.
The tables turned and she patted me on the arm, comforting me. “Don’t worry about it, Molly. Things will work out.”
“You are beginning to sound like me.”
Emily laughed. “Maybe someday I’ll be the one to help you.”
I couldn’t imagine how, but right now I’m willing to take help from anyone who will give it to me.
Chapter Thirteen
“You’ve got to talk to him, Molly.” Tony stared at me over his milkshake as we sat in one of our favorite haunts, a hole-in-the wall burger-and-malts place not far from the hospital. Grease, salt, red meat and butterfat—Tony’s four favorite food groups. He keeps promising me he’s going to improve his diet soon. “You can’t let him drive you out of business.”
“He’s not driving me out of business,” I explained patiently for the umpteenth time. “I’m not even in business yet. He’s just driving me out of Bradshaw Medical. I don’t want to spend my life butting heads with Clay Reynolds over whether or not I’m a valuable commodity in the birthing room. I’m not taking it personally anymore. Even the medical midwives have begun to have issues with him, but I can’t really fault him. He’s exceedingly attentive to his patients. Besides, how can every child on the planet be wrong? They all adore him.”
“You should be able to be with your clients there,” Tony insisted stubbornly. He reminded me of Elvis today, in jeans and a white T-shirt rolled slightly at the arms. A forelock of dark hair fell over one eye as he sneered at the idea of Dr. Reynolds chasing me away from Bradshaw. Not only that, “Blue Suede Shoes” was playing on the jukebox at the back of the café.
“I have lots of clients who go to different hospitals, Tony. And I am just a doula, not a medical professional.”
“Just a doula? I can’t believe I heard those words come out of your mouth. Are you going to let Reynolds get to you like that?”
I have an approach/avoidance thing going on with Clay Reynolds, I’ve decided. I’ve been sitting on his nerves ever since we met, and yet, when I forget how stubborn, obstinate and inflexible he is, I am just like the rest of the single women in the hospital—thinking he’s so good-looking that it shouldn’t even be legal. I like him as much as I dislike his opinions. It would be much easier if I didn’t.
Eager not to go there, I tried to change the subject. I picked one of Tony’s hot buttons. “How’s Wanda?”
Tony’s face took on a pained expression. “She sent me flowers. What am I going to do?”
“Take yourself off the market. Find yourself a good woman and settle down.”
“What’s the fun in that? Besides, what kind of woman would I look for? You are the only one who has ever given me that…zing.” He grinned appealingly at me but I didn’t fall for it.
“I only give you a ‘zing’ because I won’t date you. You, apparently, need someone who is hard to get.”
“Okay, Ms. Freud. What else do I need?” Tony put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “This I’ve got to hear.”
What would a good match for Tony be like? I began to tick off the attributes on my fingers. “Easy to look at, witty, good sense of humor, loves poetry and the Bard, highly intelligent and completely uninterested in you. A blonde, maybe, if you couldn’t find a redhead like me.” I looked at him. “Anything else you’d like to add?”
“No, you pretty much summed it up. Where do you think this dream woman hangs out?”
“What does it matter? She’s not interested in you.”
Tony beamed his most beguiling grin. “But that’s what I like best about her. That and the part about loving poetry. ‘To love is to admire with the heart. To admire is to love with the mind.’ Theophile Gautier. Know him?”
“Like a best friend,” I retorted. “Really, Tony, only you know most of these people and their quotes. If you want to find a girl to love, look in the stacks at a library, in an English department at an ivy-covered university or a moldy used bookstore, not the all-you-can-eat places you frequent.”
I sighed and took a deep swig of my chocolate malt. “We’re a pathetic pair, wanting what we can’t have. Why don’t we just settle for less?”
“Because that’s not how we’re made.”
“So you think I should try to talk to Dr. Reynolds again?”
“He owes you an explanation of why he feels the way he does. He’s trying to isolate the women who have hired you so they have no support group. That practice is ancient history. He’s trying to return us back to the dark ages!” He slurped on his malt for emphasis.
He was being overly dramatic, but I didn’t argue with him. It felt a little like that to me, too.
“Here’s the deal,” I countered, hoping to point out just how ridiculous this all was. “I’ll talk to Dr. Reynolds about the situation if you will make a date with a woman with the attributes I listed. And start haunting libraries and used bookstores.”
He thought about it for a moment. “It’s a dumb idea, but I’ll do almost anything to get you to talk to Reynolds. We’ll meet here this time tomorrow. You tell me how your meeting with Reynolds went and I’ll report on my date. Deal?”
How do I get myself into these things?
I twisted and fidgeted in the reception area outside Dr. Reynolds’s office. I hadn’t expected to actually see him today when I’d agreed to the deal with Tony. I’d thought I’d come back to Tony tomorrow, hands helplessly in the air, saying Reynolds wouldn’t even let me cross his threshold.
The woman at the desk watched me squirm. “Maybe you’d prefer to go into the doctor’s office to wait.” Then she added, “I’m just filling in while the other receptionist is on break.”
No wonder she was being so helpful. She wasn’t the real gargoyle at the gate, just a fill-in.
She waved me toward Dr. Reynolds’s inner sanctum.
“No, really…”
“It’s okay. Go on in.”
Rather than cause a fuss, I did as I was told.
Reynolds’s private office was a surprise. I’d expected walls of medical books, and a dearth of photographs and personal memorabilia. I didn’t see him as a collector type but I was wrong. There was an entire bulletin board of photographs of babies—laughing, crying, red-faced, cute, not-so-cute, chubby, scrawny—the whole gamut. The display reminded me of the one I have at home. There were also childish crayon drawings, lumpy clay figures and macaroni art displayed, right next to a small but real Picasso sketch.
The man is a contradiction if there ever was one.
I sat down in a finely upholstered leather armchair, leaned my head against the back and closed my eyes. The calm before the storm. It wasn’t until I heard a small cough that I realized I was not alone in the office. Someone was sitting behind the desk.
I could be forgiven for not noticing right away. After all, the individual’s head barely cleared the top of the writing surface.
“Noah!”
“Hi. Are you waiting for my daddy, too?” He wielded a green crayon and peered at me curiously through those thick lenses of his. The little professor at work.
“I am. Does the receptionist know you’re in here?”
“I don’t think so. Nobody was outside when Daddy and I came.”
“I see.” I
strained to see what he was working on. “Is that a green cow?”
He gave me a disgusted look usually only bestowed on town idiots. “It’s a horse.”
“I see.”
He sighed, knowing I really didn’t see at all. “The horse from The Wizard of Oz.”
My thick-headedness must have shone through.
“You know, the horse of a different color?” His little-professor look was more charming when I wasn’t the one under scrutiny.
A dim bulb lit in my brain. “Now I get it. Cute.”
“A visual play on words, or something like that,” he said. Then, seeing my confusion, added, “That’s what my dad calls it, the horse of a different color, I mean.”
“So you and your daddy talk like that, using big words?”
He looked at me disparagingly. “How else would we talk?”
Of course. How silly of me to ask. Clay had managed to make his six-year-old son into a sixty-five-year-old man. He knew how to take the fun out of everything.
Noah pushed his glasses up the stub of his nose and peered at me again. He had the same disquieting dark blue eyes as his father. I squirmed under his childish scrutiny.
“How’s Hildy?”
Ah, Hildy, an ice breaker if there ever was one. “She’s good. I’ll bet she’d like to see you again.”
Noah stared at me with a wistful expression on his small features. “I want to see her, too.” He paused. “But what I really want is a puppy of my own. Daddy says no.”
“Do you have any pets?” I found myself both fascinated and charmed by this little boy who talks like an old man.
“Fish.” He said it contemptuously as he might say “cockroaches” or “bedbugs.”
“Fish are nice,” I ventured. “Are they goldfish?”
“Koi,” he informed me. “In a pond.”
“I see.” A nice, cozy pet. Clay might as well have gotten the child a plaster cast of a dog.
“There are some saltwater fish, too,” he continued. He’d gone back to coloring his green horse as he spoke. “But someone comes in to take care of them. Dad says they’re ‘fussy.’”
They aren’t the only ones!
“So I’ve heard,” I said aloud. “You like animals a lot, don’t you?”
