*
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.