The Secrets of Midwives (6 page)

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?”

Lil didn't usually weigh in on my relationship with my daughter, but I knew she found it curious. She wasn't familiar with the relentless worry that went along with having a daughter. I got the sense she found Grace a little codependent and over the top. Perhaps she was. But Lil didn't understand Grace the way I did. More important, she didn't understand the circumstances that had made her that way.

“No.” I lifted my legs onto the ottoman and sank into the cushions. “Well, not directly.”

Lil set down her book: an invitation to talk. But I was hesitant. I'd told her Neva was pregnant, of course, and that her baby didn't appear to have a father. But I hadn't told her of the wound it had reopened for me. I'd never told Lil anything about Grace's father—she'd caught on to the fact that he was dead and left it at that. Now, part of me wanted to talk, but after all my years alone, I found the concept of talking through my troubles foreign at best, and at worst, frightening.

“I'm not saying I can do anything,” she said, reading my mind. “But I can listen.”

“You're a love,” I said. “But it's nothing I haven't been dealing with all my life. Daughters, granddaughters—”

Lil reopened her book. “Yes. So you say.”

I hesitated. “You all right, dear?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

Lil's downturned face appeared calm, unflustered. Mine, I was certain, was not. Though she never said so, I knew Lil thought I needed to take a step back from my family. Under normal circumstances, she may have been right. But this particular drama wasn't over the PTA or the Board of Nursing or a fight with Robert. This was something I'd set in motion, all those years ago, when Bill McGrady strolled into my life, and changed it forever.

Watford, England, 1953

In the smoke-filled front room of the Heathcote Arms, I tried not to let my boredom show. There'd been a wedding in town, which to all the single women in Watford meant one thing: eligible men. I was with Elizabeth and Evie, two fellow midwives who, like me, had moved from London for their midwifery training in Watford. We all lived at the nurses' home (or virgins' retreat, as it was nicknamed) in town. Sister Eileen had told us to be home by ten thirty sharp, but as we knew she was always in bed by nine thirty, we didn't worry.

Evie and Elizabeth were dressed to the nines, but while they'd turned several heads, no one had bought us a drink so far. It must have been my fault. Elizabeth and Evie were both widely accepted as magnificent, but with enough imperfections to make young lads think they were in with a chance. I, on the other hand, had a face my mother had once described as “handsome.” My bottom was wide rather than curvy and my hair was so determinedly straight that any attempt to curl it always ended in hot, frustrated tears. As such, I was forced to accept that our lack of success in the drinks department was something to do with me.

The room continued to fill and I was beginning to feel a little light-headed when the door opened and a gush of fresh air poured in, along with a pair of young men. All heads in the room turned to look. Through the smoke I could see that one of the men was tall and lean, with a large forehead and dark brown hair teased into a peak. Together with his mate, he did a rotation of the room then rambled over to our table.

“Can we buy you ladies a drink?”

The tall, handsome one was looking directly at me.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I'm being rude. This is my mate, Robbie. And I'm Bill McGrady.”

Evie and Elizabeth stared up at him from our bench seat, marveling as if Jesus Christ himself were standing before us. And, indeed, Bill McGrady was something rather special.

“I'm Floss,” I said, clearing my throat. “This is Evie and this is Elizabeth.”

Bill tipped his nonexistent hat. “Pleasure to meet you ladies.”

His gaze remained fixed on me. I knew I should look away, but somehow, I couldn't. I cursed the gods. In the past few months, I'd virtually accepted that men, on the whole, didn't interest me. I had a niggling feeling that perhaps women did. As if I wasn't confused enough—now
this
.

“I'd like a drink,” Elizabeth said. “A shandy, please. Same for you, Evie?”

Evie nodded.

“And for you, Floss?” Elizabeth asked. Sometimes, when she leaned in close like she was doing, I had the urge to scoot forward and kiss her perfect, pink mouth. But today, I was thinking about another set of lips. “Nothing for me. I'm fine.”

“Go on, Floss,” Bill said. I didn't want to be flattered or swept up, but looking at his cheeky, half-cocked grin it was difficult.

“Fine,” I said. I felt the blush, so I could only imagine how it looked. I'd probably broken out in a heat rash. “A sweet sherry would be lovely.”

When Bill turned to talk to Robbie, Elizabeth leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “Go on, love,” she said. “He's a doll. Go for it.”

“No, no,” I said. “You go for it.”

“He was staring at
you,
Floss.”

“He wasn't. Anyway, he's not my cup of tea.”

“
He's
not your cup of tea? Mr. Marlon Brando?”

I insisted that no, he wasn't. And after a few seconds of assurance, Elizabeth sighed. “Well, if you're sure.” She waited until I confirmed yet again, and then leapt to Bill's side. “How 'bout I give you a hand with those drinks?” she asked him.

I watched as Bill guided Elizabeth to the bar, his hand near, but not touching, the small of her back. Most men I knew would use a crowded bar to their advantage, but Bill appeared to be the perfect gentleman.

When they arrived at the bar, Bill cast a glance over his shoulder and I quickly joined a stilted conversation between Evie and Robbie. By the time I looked back, Bill was looking at Elizabeth. In an emerald green belted dress, she was looking particularly pretty, and from the look on Bill's face, he'd noticed. Her long auburn hair was out and curled, and she somehow looked demure but risqué at the same time. She was beaming and making theatrical hand gestures, perhaps telling the story about the young virgin who'd turned up at their prenatal clinic, convinced she was carrying the Lord's next child. Whatever she was saying, Bill was clearly enamored. And the brief moment we'd shared was clearly forgotten.

Bill and Elizabeth were married six months later.

It was a small wedding. Money was hard to come by then—the war had taken it from those who had it, and taken the lives of those who didn't. Bill's family never had money to begin with and Elizabeth's parents, who fancied themselves as society people, had married four daughters before her and now had little left other than their good name. As maid of honor, I'd been the first one to walk down the aisle. I'd smiled at the guests, the floor, the flowers—everywhere but at Bill. But when I reached the altar, I had to steal a look. His stance was relaxed, his smile traveled all the way to his eyes, and there wasn't a trace of nerves. This wasn't a man having second thoughts.

It was Elizabeth who'd spent the morning in a state of pre-wedding jitters: tense, teary, quiet. But when she appeared in the church's double doorway, her nerves were nowhere to be seen. Everything sparkled—her eyes, her smile, the antique jeweled comb in her hair. She'd decided to wear her hair out, a last-minute decision that her mother had fought, calling it “common,” but Elizabeth had stuck to her guns, and no one could argue with her now. With it flowing over the capped sleeves of her A-line gown, she was as whimsical and delicate as the peonies she carried.

Elizabeth and Bill were to spend the wedding night in the town's hotel, before moving to Bill's house in Kings Langley. According to Elizabeth, it was nothing but a humble cottage, but she didn't mind. What Bill lacked in money, he made up for in charm. And charm, we all agreed, was something he had in spades.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” he'd said when he opened his speech. “It's humbling for a man such as myself to be in the presence of you fine folk, and even more so to have married into a family such as the O'Hallorans. Most humbling of all”—he smiled at Elizabeth—“is to be standing here as the husband of this beautiful creature. I won't pretend to be anything more than I am—the son of a farmer who spent a few years in the service. A lot less than Elizabeth deserves. But I promise that I will work hard every day of the rest of my life to make myself worthy.”