The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

  I recognized the expression on Sean’s face immediately: pity.

  “His fiancée.”

  It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. As my memories of the night faded, I was able to be in the same room with Patrick without having to feign an excuse and leave. And after a while, I realized it was for the best. Patrick would be a terrible boyfriend. By the sound of it, he was a worse husband. But as a friend, well, he wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Now, I relaxed into his arms.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Patrick and I sprang apart. Eloise stood sleepily in the doorway in her nightie. “Sorry,” she said again, “I was just getting some wat—Oh my God!”

  She stared at my stomach.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”

  Her eyes rushed up to mine, then dropped again to my belly. “But … you’re really pregnant.”

  I nodded. Under her gaze—and Patrick’s—my stomach felt twice as large, my secret twice as ridiculous.

  “Do you want to talk?” she asked, flicking a glance at Patrick. “I can make coffee.”

  I shook my head. I knew this was the time to explain but I didn’t trust myself. “Actually, I’m really tired. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow?”

  Without waiting for a response, I squeezed past them both into the hallway and then into the bathroom. It was steamy and it smelled of Eloise’s strawberry bubble bath. I sank onto the tiles. Deep vibrations rumbled through the wall—Patrick talking to Eloise about my revelation. I cocooned my belly with my arms. There’d be a lot more people discussing it soon.

  But I’d survived this far. Every time I had to steal a new, larger shirt from the birthing center. All the times I’d made up obvious lies to get out of after-work drinks. Even the time I told Anne at reception I had a urinary tract infection to explain my frequent trips to the bathroom. I’d survive this too. And it would be worth it.

  I hugged myself a little tighter, and a fist or foot jabbed against my ribs. I think it was my baby, trying to hug me back.

  5

  Grace

  I dragged a stool up to the bed. “I’m going to take your blood pressure, Gillian. Can you roll up your sleeve for me?”

  It was the day after Neva’s announcement and I still felt faint. Neva was pregnant. Thirty weeks in. No father had been named. Thankfully I’d had back-to-back prenatal appointments to take my mind off things. Gillian was my last for the day. And as soon as we finished I would get to the bottom of this nonsense.

  Gillian pushed up the sleeve of her shirt so it bunched under her shoulder. I slid the cuff to the fleshy part of her arm and felt down the cord for the hand pump. “So how have you been feeling?”

  “Fine. Excited.”

  “You should be,” I said. “This experience is going to be life-changing for you.”

  Gillian beamed and I wondered if she was the same woman who’d crept into my office seven months ago, newly pregnant and trembling at the very mention of the word “birth.” During that consultation, she told me that the first time around she’d hoped to have an active, drug-free hospital birth. She wanted to breast-feed as soon as possible after birth and have the baby sleep in her room. But Gillian’s labor was long and arduous. She didn’t dilate as fast as the doctors would have liked. After twelve hours, the doctor artificially ruptured her membranes and, after seventeen hours, they gave her drugs to speed things along. The drugs brought on such strong, painful contractions, Gillian agreed to an epidural. She wound up flat on her back, surrounded by cords and intravenous drips. Though the baby was never in distress, the doctor performed a “routine” episiotomy before dragging the baby out with forceps and placing her into the hands of a waiting nurse. Gillian’s daughter spent the first night in the hospital nursery because after the epidural, the nurses didn’t think Gillian could care for her on her own.

  I cringed as she recounted her experience, but it wasn’t the first time I’d heard a story like that. Instead of providing support, the hospital system provided pain medication. Instead of patience, they provided drugs to speed along labor. Instead of empowering women, they undermined their ability to give birth naturally. Well, get ready, I told Gillian at that first appointment, because we’re taking your power back.

  “I just wish I’d known about you earlier,” Gillian said. “I knew about home birthing but I was worried it wasn’t safe.”

  “So no concerns now?”

  “None. In fact, I have more confidence in your ability to handle this birth than I did in those doctors that delivered my daughter. And I know that if anything goes wrong, we’re an eleven-minute ride away from Newport Hospital.”

  “That’s right,” I said. It was funny … when I heard clients talk like this, I felt validated. Not just that home birthing was okay, but that I was okay too.

  “And now that I’ve seen your birthing suite, I’m ready,” she continued. “The bedspread, the pillows, the birthing pool, the oil burners … it’s exactly what I was hoping for. And I love your sculpture.”

  Gillian was looking at my new creation, a three-headed clay sculpture with a swollen belly. It was supposed to represent the coming together of mother and child, but as so often happened with my artwork, my sculpture had other ideas. A third head had presented itself—covered in stubble and with a large knobbly nose. The father. I was pleased with how it turned out. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Do many people use your room?”

  “Some. Most clients like to give birth in their own home, but many folks don’t have the space. And I have a few out-of-towners that live too far away for me to travel to them.”

  I scribbled down Gillian’s blood pressure, then released the cuff. The air hissed out of it. “Your blood pressure’s fine. Now if you’ll just lie down, I’ll measure your belly. See how this baby is growing.”

  I held Gillian’s arm, taking some of her weight as she lifted her legs and lowered her torso down. Beside the bed, on a small table, was a picture of Neva in her graduation cap and gown. “That has to be your daughter,” Gillian said.

  “It is.” I smiled at the picture. In it, Neva looked happy, if a little uncomfortable to be having her photo taken. “The day she graduated.”

  “She’s a midwife too, isn’t she?”

  “Not just a midwife. One of the best midwives around.” I located the baby’s head—low down in the pelvis, engaged—and placed the tip of my measuring tape there. “And she’s pregnant herself. Her first.”

  “Congratulations,” Gillian said. “Are you going to deliver the baby?”

  My smile waned. I stretched the tape up the middle of Gillian’s stomach to the baby’s buttocks, right under her ribs. “Actually, Neva works at a birthing center in Providence, so she’ll probably deliver there.”

  “Oh.” Gillian studied my face. “Well, I’ve heard good things about birthing centers.”

  I sighed. “They’re not the worst option in the world, I suppose. Their rates of intervention are lower than the hospital’s, at least. But the one that Neva works at is attached to a hospital! It’s nowhere near as intimate as the home. Ob-gyns and pediatricians roam the halls, desperate to jump in and take over.”

  “I suppose I hadn’t thought of that,” Gillian said. “Well, hopefully your daughter won’t run into any complications and she can have a natural, intervention-free birth at the birthing center. With any luck, she won’t even have to see a doctor.”

  “Yes. Or his forceps … Anyway, we shouldn’t be talking about my daughter. This is about you. I’m looking forward to meeting your sister. Is she still planning on assisting me with delivery?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. She’s almost finished her midwifery studies and I’d love to have her there.”

  “Mind? You’re saving me the trouble of getting a birth assistant. And I also happen to think it’s wonderful having female family members in the room when you give birth.” I thought of Neva again and my heart broke a little. “It’s how births used to be. The women of the c
ommunity—mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts—all came together to support the mother in labor. Secret women’s business, they called it. I’d like to see more of that. Now that dads are present in the delivery room—which is a great thing, don’t get me wrong—we’ve lost a bit of that camaraderie.” I checked the measurement against last week’s. Good growth. “When does your sister arrive?”

  “A week before I’m due.” Gillian rubbed her belly. “Let’s hope this little one can wait until then.”

  I hauled her into a sitting position. “Don’t worry. Only about five percent of mothers deliver on their due date and most mothers deliver late. Don’t look so worried. Worst-case scenario, we find another birth assistant. You’ll be fine.”

  I finished up Gillian’s appointment and saw her out. Immediately my thoughts turned to Neva. Why was she doing this? Why wouldn’t she let me in? Even as a brand-new baby, Neva had done things her own way. I’d intended to co-sleep and breast-feed and baby-wear into toddlerhood. Neva had other plans. After three weeks of strapping her to my chest while she screamed, Robert settled her in two minutes by wrapping her up and settling her in her crib. When she was six months old, she decided she’d rather drink from a bottle than from me, so after a couple of weeks of pumping to give her breast milk, I switched to formula and she was much happier. Mom assured me that with time, we’d become close, and I clung to that hope with all my might. But now she was twenty-nine. Pregnant. If we weren’t close now, what hope did we have?

  Something was going on with her. Hiding her pregnancy until the seventh month. Keeping the father a secret from everyone. It made no sense. On some level, I could understand why Neva would keep the secret from me—perhaps she was afraid I’d demand she have a home birth or do something to embarrass her—but why would she keep it a secret from the father?

  An idea came at me before I could stop it. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake it off. There was nothing else for it. I had to see my daughter.

  * * *

  The traffic wasn’t bad and I got to Providence in forty minutes. Anne was behind the reception desk at the birthing center. Her gray hair was streaked with purple and her skin was tanned. She’d been on vacation somewhere glamorous like the Swiss Alps, as I recalled. Or was it the Greek Islands? Either way, together with her burgundy cardigan she resembled something of a red wine grape.

  “Hello, Anne. How are you, darling?”

  Anne beamed, her white teeth creating a line in the sea of purple. “Grace. Decided to come and help us again? We could use an extra pair of hands around here.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, although it was a lie. I’d assisted them a couple of times when they were short staffed, but only because I foolishly assumed that I’d get to do a delivery with Neva. Both times I’d been assigned to another midwife. Probably at Neva’s request. “Neva about?”

  “She arrived an hour ago, but her client has been transferred for a C-section. She’s probably gowning up now, but you might just catch her.”

  I was already turning toward the door when I had an idea.

  “Oh, Anne? Would you mind if I took a copy of the birth notes from one of my deliveries here? I’ve got a new apprentice and I wanted to tell her about the shoulder dystocia delivery I did when I was here. Kena Roach was the mother’s name.”

  The phone rang, and Anne waved me behind the desk. “Go ahead, just leave the originals.” She reached for the phone with one hand, and with the other opened her top drawer and fished out a tiny cabinet key. “Here you go. St. Mary’s Birthing Center, this is Anne speaking.”

  With a fluttering heart I scooted behind the desk into the file room. I approached the archive file cabinet where Kena’s file would have been and, after a quick glance over my shoulder, proceeded to the next filing cabinet, marked CURRENT CLIENTS. The lock was stiff and I had to jiggle it about to get it to turn. Then, with a slight tug, the top drawer slid open. My heart did a little leap. Before I could lose my nerve, I scanned the B names;

  Ball, Emily

  Barry, Lisa

  Beaumont, Isabelle

  Bradley, Neva

  I gave myself a congratulatory hug. Exactly what I needed. I slid the file out and opened it. The first page was the document I was looking for.

  Client: Bradley, Neva

  Date of LMP: Uncertain (PCOS)

  Due Date: December 31, 2014

  Medical History: Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. Irregular bleeding for 3+ years. LMP not known.

  I scanned over the address and medical history until I got to the field I was looking for.

  Father’s Name:

  The adrenaline left my body like the wind from a sail. I don’t know what I expected. That the name of the man would be written there plain as day? Maybe. Or perhaps that something else telling would be there. Like “Father Unknown” or something. But blank? It gave me nothing. Less than nothing. It actually supported Neva’s ridiculous theory that her baby had no father. Something I refused to accept.

  Anne was still on the phone and I dropped the key on her desk on my way out. With new determination I marched toward the hospital. If I couldn’t get the information I needed from her file, I’d get it from Neva.

  I found her in Labor and Delivery, looking at some charts. Beside her was the ob-gyn. The white coat gave it away, but even without it, I would have known. Something about the look of importance he wore like a badge. Neva was leaning toward him, listening so intently that she jumped when I spoke.

  “Grace, hi,” she said. From the way she looked at me, you’d have thought a Martian had just entered Labor and Delivery. “What … what are you doing here?”

  The doctor, I noticed, was watching us keenly. He was close to good-looking—tanned, with radiant white teeth—but his nose was slightly too big and his eyes slightly too small. He did, however, have height on his side. It made me think of the old expression: Tall cures all. “Neva, I’ll leave you to it,” he said.

  She nodded. “Be right there, Doctor.”

  I seethed at the inequity. He, the high-and-mighty ob-gyn, was “Doctor,” while my daughter—just a midwife—was “Neva.”

  When he was gone, she looked at me. “Grace, I’m sorry but I can’t chat. A client is about to go in for a C-section.”

  “Does she need a C-section, or did that doctor bully her into it?” I knew it was a risky comment, but I couldn’t help myself. “Anyway,” I said, “can we talk while you robe up?”

  “Gown up?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Potato, potahto.”

  Her lips twitched; a good sign. “Fine,” she said. “But I’ve only got a minute.”

  I followed her into a room filled with lockers and sat down on the central bench. She stripped down to her underwear and then flipped through a pile of scrubs in plastic packets, looking for her size. As I stared at the mound on her belly, I wondered once again how I could have missed that she was pregnant.

  “So? What can I do for you?” She stepped into a pair of wide-legged hospital pants and knotted the waist string.

  “It’s about the father of your baby,” I said. No point in beating around the bush. “I want you to know that none of this is your fault. Or the baby’s. We will love that baby unconditionally and so will you. And I don’t think you need to use the pregnancy as a reason not to press charges either. In fact, the baby’s DNA could prove—”

  Neva held a palm toward me. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were raped.” I scanned Neva’s face for any sign of affirmation. “Weren’t you?”

  Neva closed her eyes. It frightened me. Either I was right, or she was trying very hard to stay calm.

  “Honey? Am I right?”

  “No, Grace.” Neva spoke slowly. “I wasn’t raped.”

  I continued to watch her face. “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent sure. Look, I really have to scrub up for surgery.”

  “Okay, it’s just … if you weren’t raped, then…”
I didn’t get it. If she wasn’t raped, then why wouldn’t she want anyone to know who the father was? Unless … I gasped as it dawned on me. “He’s married!”

  “Oh my God,” Neva said.

  I stayed on Neva’s tail as she exited the locker room. “That’s it, isn’t it? He’s married. You’re protecting him. His family?”

  When Neva turned, her face was taut. I was on her last nerve. “No. That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  I must have yelled because several people stopped in their tracks and stared. Neva took my arm and led me toward the elevator. Her nails pinched my skin. “Just go home. I’ll call you later. I promise.”

  “But—”

  Neva peered over her shoulder and I followed her gaze. The ob-gyn—Dr. Cleary, according to his badge—stood in her eye line. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yes,” Neva said. “Fine.”

  I froze. My daughter might not be forthcoming with personal information, but some things a mother could tell on sight. Chemistry—it was palpable. I could feel it now. Neva was involved with this doctor.

  I tried to catch a glimpse of his left hand but before I could see anything, Neva had shoved me into the elevator. When the steely doors clamped shut, I slumped against the wall. Suddenly I understood why Neva didn’t want to tell me who the father of her baby was. Whom did I hate more than anyone in the world, including parking inspectors and tax collectors?

  Ob-gyns.

  6

  Floss

  The day after receiving Neva’s news, I was anxious. I hadn’t slept much. And during the brief minutes of sleep I did snatch, I’d dreamed of Grace’s father. Now I made myself my fourth coffee for the day and carried it into the sitting room. It was a warm, clear day, and through the window I could see a pair of young tourists carrying a kayak down the sand-edge road toward Hull Cove. Usually just a glimpse of this was enough to relax me—to remind me how fortunate I was in life. Not today.

  Lil was on the couch, reading a book. When I sat beside her, the cushions bounced. “Let me guess,” she said. “Grace?”