The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

  Eventually I managed a dry laugh. “We’d best get inside, Bill. I’ve maid of honor duties to attend to, and you need to cut the cake.”

  Bill didn’t let go. His gaze was eerily piercing, like he was looking through my skin, to the bones and muscles underneath. I opened my mouth, suddenly on full alert.

  “Bill!”

  It wasn’t my voice that rang through the silence. It was Elizabeth’s.

  “Bill? Are you out here?”

  She stood at the door to the hall, cupping one hand around her mouth. Her singsong voice transformed Bill’s face, smoothing his lines and lifting his features.

  “Over here, my darling.” I wriggled out of his grip and he stepped around me, into the light. “Floss and I were just packing the last of the gifts into the car.”

  “Well, good,” she said. “It’s time to cut the cake.”

  Bill jogged up to meet her on the stairs. At the top, he turned around. “Coming, Floss?”

  The Bill standing before me looked like a normal, carefree young groom. Happy, friendly, and yes, a little drunk. I tried to conjure up his expression just a second ago—the piercing gaze, the pinch of his fingers on my waist—but it was already fading like a dream. As if it had never happened.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  I didn’t see Elizabeth for months after that. I thought she’d visit Evie and me regularly, particularly given her love for midwifery and her (rash, I think) decision to leave it when she got married. But apart from one letter, which did little more than detail the strangeness of living on a rural property, I didn’t hear from her. Not a dicky bird. Evie thought she’d be busy getting settled into married life. I expected she was right.

  The world kept ticking along. Babies were born. Evie and Jack got engaged. A month passed, then another. When I still didn’t hear from Elizabeth, I began to worry. What if Bill had told Elizabeth about what happened the night of the wedding, but twisted things to make it look like I’d been the one to try it on with him? Had I been the one to try it on with him? The whole thing had been so strange. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure it happened at all.

  Finally, I decided to ride out to their property on my bike. Even if the worst turned out to be true and Bill had told untruths to Elizabeth, it couldn’t be more terrible than the torture of not knowing. On my next day off, I was wheeling my bike down the front path when I passed Evie. A wad of envelopes was tucked under her arm and she waved a sheet of cream stationery under my nose.

  “Elizabeth is coming to my engagement party,” she said. “So you needn’t worry your dear head about her anymore.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s … wonderful news.”

  It was wonderful news. And I was certainly relieved that she was all right. But I was confused. If Elizabeth had responded to Evie’s invitation, why hadn’t she got in touch with me? Still holding the bike, I hesitated, then returned it to the shed.

  The engagement party came around before I knew it. Evie’s family was from East London, so the celebration was a good deal less formal than Elizabeth’s pre-wedding functions. Everyone was ready for a good time. The room was decorated with nothing more than balloons and streamers. The food was good and hearty, not an hors d’oeuvre in sight.

  “Floss! There you are.”

  Before I saw her, I was choked by a faceful of auburn hair. “Don’t hate me,” she said into my ear. “I’m a terrible pen friend. I got your letters. I’ve just been so busy, you know, getting settled and all. I’m so sorry.”

  In her arms, I blinked, then softened. “Of course I don’t hate you, Elizabeth. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I am,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  When she pulled away, I did a visual assessment. She certainly looked fine. In a pretty white sleeveless dress with a wide, red sash and a full skirt, she looked demure and fashionable. Her lips were fiery red and her hair, which had a tendency to become flyaway, was thick and shiny. She gave me a sheepish smile. With it, I realized how much I’d missed her.

  “So tell me,” I started. “—Oh, goodness!” A whirl of air went by, and suddenly I was flying. I was in Bill’s arms—I recognized his scent: booze and smokes and country air. He spun me in a little circle. “Floss, old girl. Long time no see.”

  He set me back on my feet and I patted down my blouse, which had become untucked. “Hello, Bill.”

  “Look at you.” He whistled. “A sight for sore eyes. Are you well?”

  Bill smiled as he awaited my response. Most of the people I’d spoken to that night had the curse of the wandering eye—continually glancing over my shoulder for someone better to talk to. Not Bill. His gaze didn’t waver. I felt a surge of warmth toward him, and in an instant, my worries melted away. “Very well, thank you.”

  “And there she is … the beautiful bride-to-be.”

  Bill greeted Evie in the same way he’d done me, swinging her about in circles. Elizabeth raised an imaginary glass to her mouth. He’s full, she mouthed.

  I chuckled. “What can you do? He’ll be embarrassed tomorrow.”

  “If he remembers,” Elizabeth complained. But her smile was tolerant and she seemed every inch the happy, understanding wife. I suppose anyone would be tolerant, with a husband like Bill.

  As the evening progressed, I began to enjoy myself. Everyone was happy and Elizabeth didn’t have a bad word to say about Bill or marriage. Not even a regret about leaving midwifery. It was unexpected. I’d thought an adjustment period would be normal for anyone. Not for Elizabeth. Perhaps marriage with Bill was enough to cancel out any feelings like that? I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous that I didn’t have a relationship that fulfilling.

  A spoon chinking against a glass stole our attention. Bill, red cheeked and smiling, was standing on a wooden barstool. “Ladies and gents, if I can have your attention, please. I’m sorry to hijack the celebration. This is Evie and Jack’s night, but I’ve an announcement to make as well.”

  I looked to Elizabeth. She was watching Bill. Her smile was wide but stiff; it seemed to be fixed in place.

  “My bride and I have been blessed,” Bill said. “Just when you think life can’t get much better … we’re going to have a baby!”

  The room fired with gasps and claps on backs. I drew in a breath. That explained Elizabeth’s glowing skin and thick hair. I pasted a smile to my face, but my heart felt heavy. Elizabeth smiled back guiltily. “Sorry. I was about to tell you.”

  My eyes drifted over her, looking for any other sign of pregnancy that I might have missed. But she was thin as a whippet, even thinner than usual, and as flat-chested as ever.

  Bill beckoned her. “Come up here, darling.”

  The crowd parted and Elizabeth made her way to where Bill stood.

  “Here she is,” he said. He reached for her, pulling her up onto the stool. I watched uncertainly. The chair, inadequate even for one person, wobbled, but Bill didn’t seem to notice. He was grinning like a fool. “Now. I’ve only been married a few short months, but already I’m a changed man. And when this one comes along”—he patted Elizabeth’s flat stomach—“life will be perfect. And so I’d like to make a toast to my wife. Now, where has my drink got to?”

  Bill reached behind him in search of his beer, and the stool rolled with him, going up on two legs. Elizabeth started to fall. A gasp rippled through the room. Men stepped forward, arms extended. I stepped forward too. Somehow, Bill managed to tighten his grasp on Elizabeth’s waist with one hand and, with the other, steady them against the bar. Collectively, the room exhaled.

  “That was close,” Bill said with a laugh. “You all right, darling?”

  Elizabeth nodded. She started to get down from the chair, but Bill held her tight. “I’ve got you,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  Elizabeth looked nervous. “I really think I should—”

  Bill shook his head almost imperceptibly. I had no idea what it meant. I did know, however, that Elizabeth immediately stopped p
rotesting.

  “Let. Her. Down.”

  The room hushed and people looked to where Evie’s father, a tall man with a ruddy face and a no-nonsense attitude, stood. His tone was affable but firm. Given his height and stature, I wouldn’t have wanted to argue.

  “She shouldn’t be standing on chairs in her condition, and you’re in no condition to hold her up, young man.” He nodded at one of his sons, a man who shared his father’s stature, who lifted Elizabeth to the ground. “All right,” Elizabeth’s father said to Bill. “Continue your toast, if you must.”

  The room stilled, apart from a few snickers at the back of the room. Elizabeth also stilled. Bill locked eyes with Evie’s father. He looked as though he were carefully contemplating his next move. I was overcome by an urge to leave, to flee the room, but another part of me couldn’t look away. What was going on? What was he thinking?

  Finally Bill’s lips curved up—the signature half smile. “You’re right, we can’t be too careful.” His face brightened, as if a switch had been flicked. “As I was saying, I’d like to raise a toast to my new bride. I’m going to need at least four boys to help me run the farm, and Elizabeth has done a great job of getting things started. To Elizabeth.”

  “To Elizabeth,” chorused the room.

  Everyone was grinning and swilling. Everyone but me. Was I the only one who’d felt that? Evidently, I was. Conversations had resumed and from what I could hear, they weren’t talking about Bill. Even Evie’s dad was making small talk with Bill, and it appeared to be amicable. And why not? Nothing had happened other than a man being a little careless with his wife after a few too many drinks. Many men were guilty of worse. But the feeling in my stomach said it was something more.

  * * *

  “Gran?”

  “Yes?”

  Neva was watching me with an expression that made me nervous. “Why would you travel across the other side of the world with a brand-new baby?”

  Silence engulfed us. I realized my misstep. Like Grace, Neva saw the parallels between our situations. But Neva’s secret gave her insight Grace didn’t have. She was right, of course. It didn’t make any sense for me to cross the ocean with a new baby in tow.

  Unless I had something to hide.

  “What aren’t you saying, Gran?”

  I shrugged a little. “Perhaps it was a strange thing to do, but hindsight has a way of making things clear. In the moment, things are muddier, less obvious.”

  Neva nodded, but her face was still wary. It worried me. She wasn’t like Grace. She wouldn’t press me on an issue I didn’t want to discuss. But she also wouldn’t forget about it the way her mother would. Her unresolved questions would sit, just under the surface, a palpable but invisible wall between us.

  This wouldn’t be the end of it. My granddaughter was on to me.

  10

  Neva

  It was the first time I’d been home in days. Usually as I dashed from here to there, always late for the next thing, I courted a healthy lust for the idea of free time, the sleep-ins, the lazy breakfasts, the newspaper reading. Not today. The day ticked by in seconds, not minutes, and by late afternoon, I was climbing the walls.

  When the buzzer rang at five P.M., I perked up. A visitor. I heaved myself into a standing position, and then I found the button and tapped it down. “Hello?”

  “Hi, darling.”

  I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t seem to project any words. Grace hadn’t been to my apartment in years, not since she’d moved to Conanicut Island and developed a sudden intolerance for the “big smoke” of Providence. “Grace? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Suddenly it was crystal clear. Grace was staging a surprise visit to try to catch me off guard. Perhaps she thought she’d find my baby’s father crouched behind the sofa or, failing that, his wallet or football jersey in the bedroom. “Okay. Come on up.”

  “Oh no, I can’t stay,” she said. “Could you come down?”

  My finger froze, poised over the button. Seriously? She’d come all the way to Providence and she wasn’t even going to come inside? “Er … sure. Just a sec.”

  As I took the stairs, it occurred to me that I liked the fact that my mother could still surprise me. Like the time when I was in the third grade, and as the rite of passage went, asked my parents for a dog. We were all living in Providence back then, and Dad said our yard wasn’t big enough. Grace asked if I was upset and I remember saying “I guess not.” Being upset, I figured, wouldn’t change the size of our yard.

  That night, when Dad and I were watching TV, Grace crawled into the room on all fours, dressed in a white, furry bunny costume. Before we could even ask what she was doing, she barked, said they didn’t have any dog outfits at the costume store, and that we could call her Rover. I had a strong urge to hug her, but instead I patted her furry back.

  The next day she met me at the school gates, still dressed as the bunny. That, in essence, was the problem with Grace. She never knew when to quit.

  I peeled open the door, and there she was. In her slightly too-long tie-dyed sundress with her wild strawberry hair, Grace looked small. Innocent. Well meaning.

  “Well,” I said. “This is unexpected.”

  Grace reached into a bag and produced a yellow Tupperware container. “Bell pepper and bean sprout soup. Rich in folic acid, vitamin A, vitamin C.”

  “You made me soup?”

  “Got to make sure my grandchild is getting its nutrients.”

  Her smile was full and wide, exposing two rows of teeth. The steel gate around my heart opened and I stepped back, allowing the door to open further. “Come in, Grace. Have some soup with me.”

  She pressed the soup into my hands. “I wish I could, but I have to get back. I don’t want your father attempting to cook again.”

  With a hand on each cheek, she kissed me. She smelled like essential oils—lavender and perhaps cedar. Grace loathed perfume, but thanks to the oils that burned constantly at her house, she always smelled lovely. “Let’s talk soon okay, darling?”

  I nodded dumbly as she turned and hurried away, her tangled hair trailing after her like a leashed puppy. As I watched her, I had an overwhelming urge to scream, Wait! Stay. Have soup with me. But it was too late. She was gone.

  * * *

  An hour later, I was still perched on the stoop of my building. Somehow the bustle of the street was preferable to the silence of my apartment. The sky was navy blue and dusted with lavender clouds, and the damp, earthy reek of an impending storm hung in the air. It was funny; Grace’s visit, which was meant to be an act of kindness, had managed to make me feel even more alone than I had before.

  People mooched along my street, nicely dressed, ready for a night out. There were no strollers about. People with kids were at home, out in the suburbs, cooking dinner and organizing carpools for the morning. Not these people. Some wore wedding bands; others were clearly new to each other—a first or second date. If things worked out for them, they’d probably do things the traditional way—an engagement, a wedding, then a baby. Or maybe they’d mix things up. I had to admit, I’d never minded the idea of doing things out of order, or perhaps never getting married, but I never expected that the baby would come before the man.

  “Neva? Is that you?”

  I blinked. “Mark?”

  “It is you,” he said. “I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  I smiled, wishing I’d done exactly that. It was all Eloise’s fault. She had joined Sean, Patrick, and me for a drink at The Hip one night last year, and as usual, Patrick and Sean (but mostly Patrick) grilled her about my love life. Usually I found it pretty easy to ignore them, but this day, for some reason, they got under my skin.

  “So tell us,” Patrick had asked, “does Neva ever bring guys back to the apartment?” Eloise told him the truth—that it was rare. Which was fine until she added that she’d be happy to introduce me to some eligible bachelors. The next thing I knew
, her phone was out and she was preparing to text my number to a cute Italian accountant. I started to object, but as Patrick jotted down the number of Eloise’s friend Amy, I heard myself say, “Sure thing. Text the accountant.”

  Mark had done all the right things. Picked me up at the door, kept my glass full, asked me about myself. He even paid the bill while I was in the ladies’ room. I laughed more than once and he disagreed with me a couple of times in a way that didn’t get my back up. One glass of wine turned into a bottle, then another. As we made the journey back to my apartment, I was feeling pleasantly buzzed.

  “So, do you want to um, come up for uh … coffee or something?” I asked on my doorstep. A pleasant beat of electricity fizzed between us.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” Mark said, taking a step toward me. “But, yes, I’d like to come up.”

  As his lips touched mine, something stirred in me. It had been a long time. Somehow we made it up the stairs, across the apartment, and into my room, but we didn’t make it as far as the bed. Afterwards, as we lay staring up at the roof, my head spun.

  “Hey,” he said. “You wanna hear a joke?”

  “Sur—” I rolled to face him, then paused and blinked hard.

  Mark reached up and touched my cheek. “What is it?”

  It was the strangest thing. I’d just been on a date with Mark. I’d slept with Mark. It might have been all the wine, but … when I looked at him, I expected to see Patrick. No, not expected. I wanted to see Patrick.

  “Nothing.” I threw him a smile. But my buzz was gone. “I’m fine. What was the joke?”

  The joke was funny. Not hilarious, but funny. I thought of Patrick again. Usually I had to fight to keep my mouth straight when he told me a joke. He loved it when I laughed. He said I was a tough audience, but it wasn’t true. Sometimes his jokes were terrible and I’d still chuckle. Something about the way he looked at me right after he’d delivered the punch line—so cautiously hopeful—would set me off. And later, as I lay in bed or walked home from my shift, I’d think of that look and smile again.