“You must be Robert,” I said.
“Yes.” He extended his hand, which was novel, as creative types tended to hug. “I’m looking for Gracie.”
“You’ve found her,” I said, suppressing a smile. Gracie? No one called me that. But I was willing to allow it. His awkwardness was charming and he was quite handsome, this accountant. Pam—the regular who had referred him—had mentioned he was handsome, but people rarely understood my type. And even if they did, Robert wasn’t it. Still, I got that funny feeling in my belly, the feeling commonly described as “butterflies,” though I thought it more like ripples in a pond after you throw a stone: hitting you hard in the center before gently radiating outward to the tips of your fingers and toes. The feeling continued throughout the class, getting stronger the closer I got to Robert, and stronger still when I leaned over him to examine his work and my breast brushed his back. It was hard to gauge if Robert felt the same; he was a diligent student, concentrating on his picture as though it were a math puzzle rather than a creative expression of himself. But the fact that he loitered after the class had ended had to be a good sign, I figured.
“Did you enjoy the class?” I asked as I washed up the paintbrushes.
“I did. Very … relaxing.”
I covered my mouth, but a snicker came out.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, but you didn’t look relaxed. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve seen who makes life drawing class look stressful.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “I’m good at making things look stressful. In my world, you get paid more for that.”
“Your world sounds dreadful.”
“It’s not so bad right now.”
Robert’s gaze lingered intentionally on mine. Wow. This accountant could turn on the charm. Who’d have guessed it? I waved to the last couple of students as they headed out.
“Maybe you’d like to stay for a while.” I held his eye as I reached for the red and black kimono that hung over the back of my chair. “Maybe—” I held the pause as long as I could. “—you could draw me.”
With hindsight, I was incredibly forward. Robert had acted like it was no big deal, but I could see from the way his hands trembled that he was terrified. I sat on the stool, the kimono draped over my most private parts, my body angled to the right and my feet tucked into the lower bar. I turned my head to face him and opened the kimono, just enough.
“Make sure you get the shape right before focusing on the detail,” I told him, trailing my fingertips down the side of my breast. “Start here with the curve of the breast and the hip, then the narrowness of the head and the ankles. Use as many strokes as you need—this is art not science. The only way to do a poor female form is to fail to celebrate her curves.…”
I paused when I realized Robert was standing right in front of me.
“Oh.” I frowned. “What?”
“You are a goddess.”
A goddess. I liked the sound of that. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me … that … before.”
“That surprises me.”
Robert’s hands were no longer shaking. But mine were. When it came to men, I was used to being the pursuer. Men responded to it, yes, but the dramatic one-liners—you’re a goddess, et cetera—they usually came from me. It was strange sitting in the other seat. Good strange.
“I like you,” I said, as much to myself as to him. The revelation was as unexpected as it was undeniable.
“I like you, too.” Robert’s voice was awkward, but he may have been suppressing a smile. “Gracie.”
* * *
When I heard Robert’s keys in the door, I rose from my chair. I spied him at the end of the corridor, his tie pulled loose, his face concerned. “Grace. Are you okay?”
I stumbled toward him. “No. I’m not okay.”
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
I let out a sob. “There’s … there’s been a complaint made against me … with the Board of Nursing … by a doctor.”
Robert stepped away from me. “What?”
“It’s about the baby I delivered last night. She was born with a cleft lip and palate. We delivered her here then transferred both mother and baby to the hospital. The doctor—he went ballistic. Said he would report me.”
“What has he reported you for?”
“He says delivering a baby with a cleft palate was too high-risk to attempt at home, and also that I shouldn’t have transferred a patient with a perineal tear.”
“Did you know the baby had a cleft palate?” Robert’s expression was curiously blank. His voice was low and steady, his tone unreadable.
“Once labor had started … yes.”
“And the tear?” he asked.
“I knew about the tear, but I thought it was best for the patient and baby to—”
“Fuck, Grace!”
Robert’s outburst was so unexpected, I jumped.
“This is great, this is just … fantastic.”
“Robert, what’s wrong?”
He began to pace. “Do you have any idea how much shit I am in if I lose my job? Do you? We won’t even be able to make the next mortgage payment. That’s what we signed up for when we moved here. Every day I go into work, wondering if today’s the day I’m going to bring home my stuff in a cardboard box. I’m worrying about you and our future. Meanwhile, you’re taking unnecessary risks and putting our family at risk! For what?”
Robert stopped pacing and pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets. His cheeks were red. “We need your income, Grace. It may not be huge, but we rely on it. We can’t afford for you to take risks. Not right now.” He let out a long sigh and looked at me. The heat in his face was gone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted.”
“It’s all right,” I said automatically.
“It’s not. It’s just … a rough time right now. And I need you to be at work. I don’t have room in my head to deal with anything else.”
“Okay.”
I stood before him, shell-shocked. In our entire marriage, Robert had shouted only a handful of times. Once after I fell asleep at the wheel, driving home from a birth, and wrapped the car around a tree. (His anger was out of concern for me, rather than about the car.) Another time when Neva was nine and she ran onto the road after her Frisbee. Once when I taped The Golden Girls over the video of him skydiving in Australia. He was always apologetic afterwards, but this time I got the feeling that his anger remained. And I hadn’t even told him the full story. I lowered my gaze and whispered: “I can’t deliver any babies until after the investigation, Robert.”
Robert’s eyes bugged. “What?”
“My license is suspended. I can’t do any more deliveries. So I won’t be getting an income.”
Robert stared at me. The disbelief in his expression was much worse than the shouting. When my phone started ringing, Robert turned on his heel.
“Robert, wait.”
“I’m taking a shower,” he said, without turning around. His tone indicated this conversation was over, at least for today.
My phone was still ringing. Numbly I wandered over to it, picked it up. “Uh, hello? Grace Bradley.”
“Grace, it’s Lil. You mom is in the hospital.”
15
Floss
The hospital was quiet, apart from the usual noises. The beep and hum of lifesaving machinery. The squeak of rubber shoes. I could practically taste the disinfectant that hovered in the air. Lil was in the corner, repositioning herself every few minutes to get comfortable on the hospital chair.
Drugged up to the gills, I hovered on the brink of sleep. The edges of my mind rippled like the shallows of a pebbly stream, but in the middle, it was still and crystal clear. When I looked into it, it was Elizabeth’s reflection I was seeing. But not the smiling, rosy-cheeked Elizabeth. It was the other Elizabeth. Bill’s Elizabeth.
A month after my dinner at Bill and Elizabeth’s house, we got the call. Elizabeth was
in labor.
Evie checked the delivery bag while I got the bikes from the shed. I was accustomed to getting bikes out in the dark—women tended to go into labor at night—but navigating two bikes on the cobbled lane was a little challenging, and I dropped one out the front. It fell to the ground with an almighty clatter.
“Shhh!” Evie said, appearing on the steps with the delivery bag. “Are you trying to wake up the neighborhood?”
“Sorry.” I was anxious to get there, and it showed in my shaking hands. I picked up Evie’s bike and leaned it against the fence, then straddled my own. “So tell me, what did Bill say? Was she very far along?”
“It wasn’t Bill.” Evie’s lips formed a thin, straight line as she loaded the delivery bag into the basket. “It was Elizabeth.”
“On the phone? But the nearest telephone is two miles away. She couldn’t have—”
“She biked it.” Evie mounted her own bike. “Bill’s at the pub, wetting the baby’s head.”
Evie sounded as though she had her own set of reservations about Bill—it was unexpected. In that split second, I considered telling Evie everything—my concerns about Elizabeth, about Bill, about what I’d seen on Elizabeth’s stomach. But I didn’t. If Elizabeth was in trouble, Evie would see for herself soon enough. And if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t have to betray Elizabeth’s confidence.
We cycled, fast, into the night. It was a three quarters of an hour’s ride to Elizabeth’s place, and although we weren’t in danger of missing the birth, I just wanted to get there.
The last stretch of the ride was paddocks. In the dark, it was downright creepy. The only lights were from the little headlights on our bikes and, when we got close enough, the flickering light shining from Elizabeth’s bedroom window. When we reached her front fence, I leapt off my bicycle and raced down the path, leaving Evie to follow with the delivery bag.
“Elizabeth?” I called, stepping through the front door.
“In here.”
I dashed through the kitchen, past the tiny living room into the even tinier bedroom. It took me a minute to locate Elizabeth in the dark, but I eventually did. She was bent over at the end of the bed. “There you are!”
Elizabeth unfurled into a standing position, allowing me to see her properly by the light of the fire. Large circles shadowed her eyes, her face was gaunt, and her entire body—with the exception of her stomach—was bony.
Behind me, Evie gasped. “Elizabeth, my God. What has happened to you? You look like a skeleton.”
A contraction took hold. Elizabeth breathed deeply, grasping the knobs on the chest of drawers. I stared at her, bewildered. It had only been—what?—a month since I’d last seen her? She couldn’t have eaten a thing since.
When her contraction subsided, she sank to her knees, panting slightly. “Contractions are about five minutes apart”—she didn’t look at either of us—“and my bag of water has broken.”
Elizabeth was calm and official, more like the midwife than the woman in labor. She spoke as though she’d never heard Evie’s questions—which was impossible, as we were in a room the size of a cupboard, surrounded by silence. At a loss, I looked to Evie.
“Elizabeth,” Evie said. “If something’s wrong, we need to know. It could affect your baby.”
We waited but Elizabeth just pursed her lips. Her face, I noticed, had a bluish tinge, as though she were a walking, pregnant corpse. Why had I let her avoid me? If something happened to this baby, it was my fault.
“Elizabeth, please—” Evie started again, but Elizabeth held up a hand.
“I’m not talking about this, Evie, okay? Either deliver my baby or leave, and I’ll manage somehow on my own.”
Evie and I exchanged a glance. Thank God she was here. Normally, only one midwife attended a birth; the only reason I was here at all was because Elizabeth had asked me months ago. Even if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have missed it. Perhaps it was because it was Elizabeth’s, but I already felt an attachment to this child. Or, perhaps, a responsibility to the child.
Evie exhaled. “Have it your way. For now, we’ll focus on getting this baby born. But once it’s out, you are going to tell me what is going on. Do you hear me, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She was already half-bent with another contraction.
Evie took me to one side. “We’re going to have to assume Elizabeth is malnourished, which means breast-feeding may be difficult due to low supply. I have some evaporated milk in my delivery bag, which we can feed the baby with a syringe if necessary.”
“And the baby?” I asked. “Will it be okay?”
“I’m more worried about Elizabeth, at this point. As you know, babies are very good at taking what they need while they’re in utero. At the mother’s expense, usually.” Seeing my face, she patted my hand. “Why don’t you head into the kitchen and boil some water, Floss? And while you’re there, fix Elizabeth a snack. She’s going to need all the energy she can get.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Good idea.”
It was just a few paces to the kitchen, but I barely made it there. My legs felt like noodles. Elizabeth was so frail, so tiny. It made no sense. Was she ill? Had they run out of money for food? I thought of the night I came for dinner, the way Elizabeth wolfed down her meal. They’d certainly had food then.
In the next room the bed rattled, sending a shudder through the entire house. It was followed by an almighty “Owwwwarggghhh.” It snapped me into action.
Once I’d got the water boiling, I began opening cupboard doors. Crockery, cutlery, pots. In the freestanding larder, the shelves were clean and lined in shiny floral paper, but they were bare apart from tea and an empty sugar bowl. In less than a minute, I’d checked every cupboard except for the bottom two, which were bolted shut with a large padlock—probably where Bill kept his rifles. Nowhere was there even a morsel of food.
I poked my head back into the bedroom. “Elizabeth, where is the pantry, love?”
“It’s … uh … Oh, God.” Her face collapsed into itself as another contraction came on. I looked at my watch. Three and a half minutes since the last one. This labor was progressing rapidly.
“Have you done an internal?” I asked Evie.
She nodded. “Eight centimeters dialated.”
Elizabeth rolled from side to side, knotted up with the pains. It wasn’t going to be long now. Shiny instruments were lined up on a tray, and a clean towel warmed by the fire. The bassinet had been set up in the corner, and a wool blanket that Elizabeth had knitted hung over its edge. Evie stared off into the distance, her face a sheet of lines. I could tell she was wondering what kind of home this baby would be born into. It was hard to think about anything else.
“Why don’t we try walking?” I asked Elizabeth when the pains stopped. “See if we can get this baby into a nice position?”
To this, Elizabeth agreed. We paced the floor of the bedroom for an hour. Back and forth, stopping every couple of minutes to rock through the pain. Other than the pop and crackle of the fire, the silence was absolute. Usually that was how I liked it. Silence is the laboring mother’s music. But tonight it gave my mind too much room to think. And after an hour of it, I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth frowned, lifted her head.
“What is wrong with you? No more excuses. You’re to tell me. Right now.”
She sank onto the bed and started to drop her head, but I caught her chin and held it. I could feel Evie behind me, perhaps ready to tell me that this wasn’t the time, but I wasn’t going to listen. I’d already waited too long.
“Nothing,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s my fault, really.”
“What’s your fault?”
“I’ve got fancy tastes,” she said. “You used to say that yourself, Floss, remember? And Bill, he’s not a rich man.”
Elizabeth had a contraction, and Evie and I remained silent, waiting.
“It’s hard for him
,” Elizabeth said when the contraction was over, “having another mouth to feed. I can hardly expect to be fed like we were at the boardinghouse. It’s tough, country life.”
Evie leaned forward. “But he does feed you?”
“Yes.” There was a pause. “Yes, of course. It’s just that … sometimes I get greedy.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t meet my eye. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she meant. Elizabeth wasn’t greedy. And I didn’t have a clue why she’d think she was.
“What are you saying?” I asked gently.
Elizabeth looked from me to Evie and then to her lap. “Just … when Bill’s not happy with me … he doesn’t give me food.”
The fire cracked into the silence. My mouth formed around questions that I couldn’t seem to project. Perhaps because there were so many. How could a man not give his pregnant wife food? Why would he do that? How long had he been doing this? Why didn’t I see it? And, most important, Why wouldn’t Bill be happy with you?
“Does he at least give you housekeeping money?” I asked eventually. It was the only question I felt I could speak without bursting into rage or, worse, tears.
Elizabeth looked taken aback. “Of course not. We don’t have that kind of money.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“What kind of money do you think he’s spending at the pub, Elizabeth?” I cried, then bit back my frustration. It wasn’t Elizabeth I was angry with. When I spoke again, my voice was softer. “You don’t deserve this. Bill is controlling everything about you, who you see, what you eat.…” I trailed off when Elizabeth closed her hands around her stomach. A chill traveled down my spine. “You didn’t fall, did you?”
Elizabeth kept her head down. It was all the answer I needed.
Back in my days as a student-nurse, we’d looked at a case study of a toddler who’d been starved by his mother for not behaving. When he died, at age five, he weighed less than an average one-year-old. But there was no sign of physical beating, not even a bruise. When I’d asked the matron about it, she’d said … Abuse comes in many ways. The only universal thing about it is the perpetrators’ need to control.
The Secrets of Midwives Page 13
