I found myself nodding. “I look forward to it.”
“One other thing, Mrs. Bradley. Your license is suspended, pending the results of our investigation. You won’t be able to deliver any babies until this matter is resolved.”
I stopped nodding. “But … this is my business. I’ve committed to mothers who are due in the next few weeks, some in the next few days.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. You’ll have to tell them to make alternative arrangements.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you could refer them to another midwife.”
“Do you know how hard it is to get in with a private midwife in Rhode Island? If you’re not booked in by the time you’re six weeks pregnant, you can forget it. You think I’m going to be able to place a client who is due in a few days?”
“If they can’t be placed, they’ll have to go to the hospital.”
I found myself unable to speak.
“And, Grace, you are not allowed to contact Gillian or her family during this time.”
“Not contact Gillian? But I have to provide her postpartum care.”
“You cannot, Mrs. Bradley. Not unless you want to risk losing your license permanently. She will receive postpartum care in the hospital.”
“The hospital?” I scoffed.”What, maternity pads and Tylenol? She needs breast-feeding support, nutritional advice, pelvic-floor exercises. Do you think the hospital is going to provide that?”
“Mrs. Bradley—”
“No, it’s fine. No deliveries. No postpartum care for Gillian. Great system you have.”
“The system is here to protect people, Mrs. Bradley.”
“Indeed. Doctors.” I bristled. “Can I at least call Gillian to explain?”
“I’ll be in touch with her. I’ll explain. And I’m sure another midwife will be able to offer the services you spoke of. We’ll make sure Gillian is looked after.”
Ms. Ableman was playing good cop, but I wasn’t buying it.
“Okay. How long can I expect to wait for your”—I curled my lip—“recommendation?”
“It should be within four weeks, depending on the speed of getting your notes and getting interviews with the other involved parties. We try to be swift—we don’t want this drawn out for anyone’s sake.”
“That’s good of you.”
“Do you have any questions for me?”
How do you live with yourself? Why are you persecuting the patient who has already had to deal with having a baby with a cleft lip and palate? What right did this Dr. Whatshisface have to make a complaint about me? “No.”
“Okay. Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll be in touch.”
Now, I sat in the blue chair, waiting for Robert to come home. He’d been working late a lot; tonight was no different. Lately, we’d been like strangers, passing like ships in the night. I got to thinking about the day we met. I was still studying midwifery and running an art class out of Mom’s garage to make ends meet. Robert had been referred to the class by another student and, as an accountant, he wasn’t my typical clientele. He wasn’t a classic accountant; he was pretty boho, in fact. His jeans were ripped and his sideburns impressively long, and he had a psychedelic scarf tied haphazardly around his neck. It was only the bluish black dots on his cheeks and upper lip that gave him away. No one was clean-shaven back then. It was the seventies, and unless you had a corporate job, were prepubescent, or a woman, you had a mustache. I noticed Robert as I dashed from the garage back to the house for more chairs. I waved him in and when I returned, my regulars were sitting at the table, some already with lit spliffs in hand. But Robert was hovering inside the door, clearly out of place.
“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.”