2
Grace
“You can’t be pregnant,” I said. But as I reached out to touch Neva’s round wet belly, I could see that she was. And reasonably far along. Her navel was flush with the rest of her stomach. Her breasts were full, and I was certain if I looked under her hospital top, I’d find them covered in bluish purple veins. “How … far along?
A touch of pink appeared in Neva’s cheeks. “Thirty weeks.”
“Thirty—” I pressed my eyelids together, then opened them again, as if doing so would render the news less shocking. “Thirty weeks?”
It wasn’t possible. Her face was fresh and clear of spots and she didn’t appear to be retaining water. Her wrists were tiny. She didn’t have any additional chins. In fact, apart from the now-obvious bump, I couldn’t see a single sign of pregnancy, let alone a third-trimester pregnancy. The whole thing was very hard to believe. “But … your polycystic ovaries!”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t get pregnant,” Neva said. “Just that it’s a little less likely.”
I knew that, of course, but it was too much to comprehend. My daughter was pregnant. I was a midwife. How was it possible that I hadn’t known?
A steady stream of ice water dripped off the table’s edge, landing at Neva’s feet. The way she stared at it, you’d think she’d never seen water before. “Your table’s going to stain, Gran,” she said slowly. “Have you got any paper towels?”
I stared at Neva. “Paper towels?”
“I’ll get the paper towels,” Mom said. “Grace, take Neva into the front room. I’ll make tea.”
I followed Neva to the front room, observing her closely. Her waddle now was so apparent, I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. As she lowered herself onto the sofa I noticed she looked pale. Her skin was translucent—so fair. I could practically see the blood moving about underneath. When she was little, that skin had been a liability. In the summers, I’d had to keep every inch of her covered up, which was against my instincts to let her run naked and free. But to see her now, so perfectly alabaster, without so much as a freckle—it was worth it. She ran a hand through her auburn ponytail, which was thick and glossy and another pointer to her pregnancy I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to tell you earlier, it’s just taken me some time to get used to the idea. I haven’t told anyone apart from Susan, and that’s only because she’s doing my prenatal care.”
I nodded as though it were perfectly reasonable to hide a pregnancy for thirty weeks. Though, in some ways, it was classic Neva. Once, when she was in elementary school, I was greeted at the school gates by her teacher, asking why we hadn’t attended the school’s performance of Goldilocks. It turned out Neva had been cast as one of the three bears. When I asked her why she didn’t say anything, Neva had simply said, “I was going to.”
“So … I’m sure you have questions,” Neva said. “Fire away.”
My mind began spewing out possibilities. Why hadn’t she told us earlier? Had she had proper prenatal care? Would she consider a home birth? Was I the last to know? But one question was more pressing than the rest, and I had to ask it first.
“Who’s the father?”
Something in Neva’s face captured my attention. It was as though she had closed up. It was strange. It wasn’t a difficult question. And she had asked what I wanted to know. She hesitated, then looked at her lap. “There is no father.”
I blinked. “You mean … you don’t know who the father is?”
“No,” Neva said carefully. “I mean … I’ll be raising this baby alone. For all intents and purposes, there’s no father. Just me.”
A tray clattered against the coffee table and I glanced at Mom. If she’d heard, she wasn’t giving it away.
“I know this is a shock,” Neva said. “It was a shock to me too. Especially given that—”
“—the baby has no father?” I didn’t mean to sound judgmental, but I think I did. I couldn’t help it. It was an even more unsatisfactory answer than her not knowing who the father was. How could the baby not have a father? Unless … “You mean a sperm donor?”
“No,” she said. “Not a sperm donor. Though you can think of him that way if you like. Because he’s not going to be involved.”
“But—”
“Well, this is big news,” Mom said, pouring the tea. “How do you feel about it, dear?”
A touch of color returned to Neva’s face. “I guess … excited. A little sad I’ll be doing it on my own.”
“But you won’t be on your own, dear,” Mom said. She handed me a cup of tea.
“Of course you won’t,” I echoed. “The father might want to be involved, once you tell him. Stranger things have happened. And if he doesn’t, good riddance! Your father and I will do anything we can to support you.”
“Thanks, Grace. But like I said—”
I banged my cup onto the table, spilling a little into the saucer. “Neva. You don’t have to be cryptic, darling. Honestly, I don’t care who the father is. This is my grandchild. This baby will know nothing but love, even if its father isn’t part of its life. But at least tell us who he is.”
Neva’s jaw clamped shut. She met my eye, almost defiantly. And I knew the subject had been closed. Despite my shock and frustration, a pleasant surge of adrenaline rushed through me. It started in the sternum, then spread pleasantly through my center, like ice cream into hot pudding. Neva didn’t do things like this. She never got into any trouble, not interesting trouble. She’d always been so bookish that I’d actually looked forward to her teenage years, when I was sure she’d come into her own and make her mark on the world. But her teenage years had come and gone and her twenties were worse. She’d studied hard, then loyally followed Mom and me into our profession, where she’d quickly eclipsed us both in skill and success. Now, at twenty-nine, Neva was rebelling. And despite my desperation to know the parentage of my grandchild-to-be, I was excited.
“I’m tired,” she said. “Can we talk more tomorrow?” Neva stood with some difficulty and peeled the damp shirt away from her skin. Immediately, it stuck again. “Dinner was great. I’ll call you both tomorrow.”
“Wait!” I sprang to my feet. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I couldn’t let her leave. “Aren’t you … going to open your present?”
She paused in the archway leading to the hall. “Oh. Uh … yes. Sorry.”
I darted past her into the dining room and returned with the box, which I thrust at Neva. “You open it this time.” I held my hands up and away from the gift. “No interference from me. Promise.”
Cautiously she opened the box and tipped it up. The silver frame slid into her waiting hand.
The photo was an old one, taken when pictures were smaller and browner and rounder at the edges. Mom sat in her wicker garden chair on the piazza, her salt-and-pepper hair collected in a coil at her nape. In the foreground, I knelt with a four-or five-year old Neva in front of me. The hem of my skirt was pulled up and I was hiding behind it, while Neva—serious even as a child—gave her Gran an exasperated look. I’d stumbled over the picture in an album, and even though Neva said no presents, I thought she might make an exception.
A smile inched its way onto Neva’s face. “Who took this?” she asked, staring at the picture.
“Probably your father. Do you like it?”
I watched her closely. Her eyes, I noticed, were dry but filled with emotion. Perhaps for once I’d gotten it right with my daughter?
“I love it, Grace,” she said, looking up. “And I’m sorry. I know this is a shock. I just need some time. Is that okay?”
What could I say? If she meant accepting that her baby didn’t have a father, then, no, it wasn’t okay. I’d never heard anything less okay in my whole life.
“Of course, darling,” I heard myself saying. “Whatever you need.”