17
Grace
I woke in an empty bed. It was early—not yet seven—but Robert’s briefcase, which had been reclining at the foot of the bed when I got in last night, was gone. The blinds were cracked open and red-pink light filtered in, pretty but ominous. Red sky in the morning, shepherds take warning. Robert had been snoring when I got in, so I didn’t have the chance to tell him about Mom. Then again, even if he had been awake, I might not have told him. After his outburst the other day, I felt inclined to play my cards a little closer to my chest.
At 8:53, I was still in bed. The light had faded to peach, but otherwise, not much had changed. I still had seven phone calls to make. Seven clients to disappoint. I hadn’t found the right words yet. You know how you entrusted the most important experience of your life to me? Well, I’m going to let you down at the last minute without giving you a valid alternative, because I’m being investigated for negligence. Truthful, but I didn’t like the sound of it. As the minutes ticked closer to nine, the time I’d deemed acceptable to call, my anxiety grew. So, at 8:57, when my cell phone rang, I lunged at it—a prospect of distraction—without so much as checking the screen. “Grace Bradley.”
“Grace. It’s Molly.”
I cursed silently. Out of the seven, Molly was the one I least wanted to speak to. When I’d spoken to her last week, she told me her husband had been laid off and she was worried the stress might somehow affect the baby. We’d become close over the past months. To leave her now was unthinkable. I had a flash of pure hatred for Dr. White and his complaint.
“Molly, hello. How are—?”
“I’vebeenhavingcontractionsforaboutfourhours.” Molly’s words tumbled out without so much as a pause.
I shot upright. “Where are you, honey?”
“At my apartment. Is it too early for you to come over?”
It was. About a month too early.
“How far apart are contractions?”
“The last two were around three minutes apart.”
My hand, which was holding the phone, began to shake. “And before that?”
“Well … at first they came every eight minutes. Then every five. Now they’ve gone down to three.”
“Are they painful?”
“Oh, God. Hang on a sec, Grace. Ohhhhh.” A familiar low whimper came through the phone.
“Molly, is that a contraction? Can you answer me? Can you talk through it?”
The whimper turned into a wail and then died down to nothing. “Sorry. They’re getting bad. Can you come?”
Silently, I slapped a palm against my head.
“Grace? Are you there?”
“I’m here. It’s just that there’s something I need to tell you.” I continued to slap my head. “I’m so sorry, but … I’m not going to be able to deliver your baby.”
There was a pause. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish it was. There’s been a complaint made against me. My license has been suspended until a full investigation has been done and the Board of Nursing has made a ruling. Which won’t be for about a month.”
“A month?” Molly’s voice squeaked. “But my baby is coming. What am I supposed to do?”
“Given the fact that you’re already in labor, you’ll have to go to the hospital. That, as far as I can tell, is your only option.” I waited, but only silence rang through the phone. “Molly? Are you there?”
I could hear her breathing, so I knew she was.
“Molly,” I tried again. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It’s just the investigation. But if you go to the hosp—”
“I watched my mother die in hospital a year ago.” Her voice was calm—almost robotic. “I don’t want my baby to come into the world in a place of sickness and death. That’s why I came to you.”
My heart sped up. Her mother. Of course.
“Molly. I want to deliver your baby. But if I do, I risk losing my license permanently.”
“Well, I’m not going to the hos—” Molly paused to moan through another contraction. When it finished, she said, “You do what you have to do, Grace. And I’ll do the same.”