9
Floss
I looked into the sea of expectant faces. It was the busiest session yet. For most instructors this was unusual in week three of a six-week course, but for me, it often happened this way. People enjoyed the course and then brought a friend, a parent, a grandparent. Not bad for the oldest instructor at the Jamestown community center. The oldest by twenty-five years.
“Welcome back, everyone. We are already in week three of Birthing Naturally. We have talked about proper prenatal care, the cycle of intervention, and techniques for managing your pain without drugs. Tonight you’re going to hear from my granddaughter, Neva Bradley, about delivering in a birthing center.”
I located Neva in the second row of the auditorium. It had been two weeks since she announced her pregnancy, and we still hadn’t had the chance to talk properly. I hoped we would tonight. Neva sat next to a wicker basket full of materials. On top I could see her plastic pelvis and baby dolls. Neva had delivered her presentation to my class several times now, and it always featured in the highlights in the course evaluation.
“But first,” I said. “I see we have some new faces in the room tonight, so let me start by introducing myself. My name is Florence Higgins, Floss for short. I am retired now, but I was a practicing midwife for over forty years, first in my native England and then right here in Rhode Island. I’ve delivered babies at home, in birthing centers, in hospitals—you name it, I’ve done it. Now, at eighty-three, I’m happy to be part of the cliché: ‘Those who are too old—teach.’”
That got a few laughs, as it always did.
“Neva is a Certified Nurse-Midwife. She currently works at St. Mary’s Birthing Center in Providence. She has delivered babies in hospitals as well as in birthing centers, so she will be well equipped to answer any questions you might have. So without further ado, I’ll hand you over to Neva.”
I took a seat at the side of the room. It was always a treat watching Neva’s class. Like her mother, when she talked about midwifery, she came to life. Today was no different. Within minutes, Neva had the class engaged, laughing, excited. People were passing the plastic doll through the pelvis. Men were wearing the baby suit, a fabric device, heavy in front, designed to allow the father of the baby to feel pregnant. By the time Neva was finished, I couldn’t help but feel enthused. And judging from the faces in the room, everyone else felt the same.
After the class, a few people remained and Neva waited around to answer questions. People seemed genuinely interested in the idea of birthing centers and had a lot of questions. While Neva answered them, I packed up the room. I was almost finished when a father-to-be, whose wife was speaking to Neva, came over to give me a hand.
“My wife and I have been debating the origin of your accent,” he said with a grin. “My money is on Surrey.”
His own accent, I noticed, was English. I smiled. “London. But I practiced as a midwife in Watford and Watford Rural.”
Neva and the man’s wife finished speaking and joined our circle.
“London!” the man said to his wife, who clicked her fingers as though she should have picked it. He grinned at me. “But you practiced in Watford Rural, you say? My grandfather lived in Abbots Langley. He was a farmer.”
“So was Gran’s husband,” Neva said. “Small world.”
“Oh, yes?” The man lit up as though he’d discovered we were long-lost relatives. “Abbots Langley?”
“Uh, no. Kings Langley.”
“Kings Langley?” He slapped his thigh. “That’s a stone’s throw from where Pa lived. I practically grew up there. He was a dairy farmer.”
“Is that right?” I yawned, hoping it would politely conclude the conversation. No such luck.
“What kind of farm was yours?” he asked.
“Oh, just … a normal farm, you know. A few cows, a few horses.”
“Not a working farm, then?”
“No.”
Neva gave me an odd look. “I thought it was a cattle farm? That’s what Mom said.”
“Ah—so it was. My mind’s going. It’s the old age.” I smiled, playing the doddering old lady. The couple accepted it, though I wasn’t sure about Neva.
We waved off the couple and sat down on two of the folding chairs. Neva stared at the basket in front of her. The animation she’d shown during the class was gone and she seemed flat. Tired.
I reached out and touched her belly. “How are you doing, dear?”
“Not bad.” Neva continued staring at the basket. “Better than Mom, probably.”
I smiled. “That’s probably true.”
“She doesn’t want my baby to grow up like she did. Without a father.”
“Is that what she said?” I asked.
“That’s what she’s thinking,” Neva said. “That scar runs pretty deep with her, doesn’t it?”
“It does appear that way.”
“Makes me wonder what my baby will be in for.… I’ve been thinking about you a lot, actually, Gran. You went through everything I’m going through, but worse. You started single motherhood in a new country.”
“It was tough, initially,” I said. “But I wanted us to have a fresh start.”
“Weren’t your parents upset that you left?”
I looked at my hands, crossed in my lap. “They understood my reasons.”
“And my grandfather’s family? Didn’t they want to see their granddaughter?”
“Perhaps they did,” I said after a time. “But I had to make a choice. I chose the path that I thought was best for my daughter.”
“You didn’t ever think the best path would be to stay on the farm in Kings Langley?
I looked up sharply. “No. No I didn’t.”
It wasn’t like Neva, firing questions at me like this. It was more her mother’s style. I could see she was concentrating on keeping a neutral face, but the blood rose to the surface of her pale skin. She was trying to make sense of her own situation.
“I guess I just feel so alone. I can’t imagine putting myself in a situation where I’d feel more alone.”
“You’ll understand when you become a mother, dear. Once you see your baby, you’ll forget about your own needs and you’ll do what’s best for them.”
“But that’s what I don’t understand,” she said. “Why was it best for you and Mom to travel to the other side of the world, where you didn’t know a soul?”
It was the obvious question. I actually couldn’t believe that no one had asked it before. What would make a young lady leave her friends and family for a faraway place with a newborn baby in tow? Or rather, who would.
Bill’s face sprang to my mind. His eyes. His cocky half smile. That air of likability that penetrated a room like killer gas. The same man who held me close outside the church hall on his wedding day. I still remember blinking at him, waiting for him to release me with a laugh and a joke. Because it had to be a joke. Bill McGrady wouldn’t proposition me.
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.”