23
Grace
Neva and Mom sat on kitchen stools as I tossed flounder fillets in bread crumbs. I’d been looking forward to hosting our monthly dinner. Robert had been verging on mute for days—so consumed by his work—and I’d hoped I’d get a chance for some real conversation tonight. No such luck. Mom and Neva stared at the wall beyond the peas they shelled, barely answering the questions they were asked. They must have eaten a slice of the same silent-pie Robert was eating.
I thought about divulging my secret to them, that I was actually delivering babies while the investigation was going on, but I decided against it. I was actually quite enjoying my double life. Somehow, it felt like my way of giving the finger to that smug doctor who’d issued the complaint. The only difficult part was the technicalities. Two nights earlier I’d received a text from a mother in labor. At two in the morning. Robert roused as I started to get dressed, and I’d had to pretend I was sleepwalking. A few minutes later, once he’d fallen back into a deep sleep, I’d seized the keys and left the house in my pajamas.
Only occasionally, when I really allowed myself to think about it, did I worry about the consequences that would come about if I were caught. By the Board of Nursing. By Robert. But whenever those thoughts popped into my head, I chased them out again. Positive thinking, Grace. Positive thinking.
“Having any food aversions, darling?” I asked Neva, trying to get some conversation out of my unusually quiet daughter. “When I was pregnant with you, the mere sight of a mushroom was enough to send me running to the bathroom.”
Neva shrugged. “I’ve gone off tuna, I guess.”
“Oh.” I paused, my hands still buried in fish and bread crumbs. “Are you okay with flounder?”
“Should be. Though I won’t know for sure until you put it in front of me.”
I chuckled, trying to catch Mom’s eye. Any woman who’d been pregnant could sympathize with that. “Did you get any food aversions when you were pregnant, Mom?”
Mom focused steadily on her sleeve, picking off some lint. “I suppose I did.”
“What about cravings?” I asked. “When I was pregnant with Neva, I could have eaten fried rice all day long.”
“Oh, I don’t know … It was a long time ago, dear.”
It was odd, how hazy she was sometimes. Even though she was eighty-three, I’d have thought these kinds of things would be burned into her mind.
The doorbell chimed as we were about to sit down. “Neva,” I said, “your father’s eating in front of the hockey game. Can you take him his dinner in the den? Be nice—he’s in a mood.”
I dried my hands on a tea towel as I made my way to the door. Behind it stood a small woman with a cap of short, blond-gray hair. She held the neck of her navy anorak with one hand against the wind.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello. I’m Marie Ableman. From the Board of Nursing.” Marie clutched the coat as a gush of wind ripped past. She shuddered.
“Oh. Uh … Come in.” I held the door open and she came into the foyer. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“No. I was going to call you tomorrow, but I thought it might be a good idea to speak in person. I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”
“No, I guess not.”
But I did mind. Good news was given via the fastest possible means, be it a phone call or an e-mail. Bad news was given in person. At least, that was how I figured it.
“The investigation is still under way,” she said, possibly in response to my face. “We still need to speak to a few more people yet.”
“Okay.”
“The reason I’m here is about this.” She reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. A photocopy of a prescription. “I was concerned to find that you had prescribed Tylenol 3 for this woman the day that her son was born. I was even more concerned when I saw that she was a former client of yours. And then, when I found that no medical professional had signed her birth certificate, I became a little suspicious.”
Marie had the stance of someone who was trying to be fair. It was a stance I was sure she used regularly, in her particular role. “Believe it or not, Mrs. Bradley, I am on your side. I am a nurse myself. I know it is a difficult, sometimes thankless, profession. I don’t believe you were intentionally negligent, or that you tried to hurt Gillian or her baby. I’m sure you did what you thought was best. But I now have reason to believe that you are delivering babies while your case is being reviewed, which is something you were expressly told not to do. I want to help you, but if this is the case, my hands are tied.”
I felt the heat in my cheeks. I’d been caught. In some ways it was a relief. This secret was weighing on me, perhaps heavier than I’d allowed to myself to believe. Part of me wanted to share the load. “Marie, I’m sorry—”
“It’s not the case,” Neva said from the doorway. She stood beside Mom. It was funny, they were two tiny women, but suddenly, together, they seemed so large.
“What’s not the case?” Marie asked.
“The prescription. That’s not Grace’s signature. It’s mine. I’m Grace’s daughter, Neva.”
“You wrote a Tylenol 3 prescription for Molly Harris, your mother’s former client?” Marie asked.
“Yes. And I delivered her baby. I offered to take over all Grace’s clients while this investigation was going on. That way, at least Grace could attend and they could have some continuity of care.”
“So … this … is your signature?” Marie said.
Neva stepped forward, barely glancing at the paper. “Yes.”
Marie looked back at the paper, and Neva also looked. The paper clearly said G. Bradley, but to Neva’s credit, she didn’t miss a beat. “I’d just attended a fifteen-hour labor. You want to argue over my penmanship?”
I became aware of Mom advancing until the three of us—Mom, Neva, and I—stood, shoulder to shoulder in a row. Marie looked from one to the next to the next, then shook her head. She knew she was right. But she couldn’t prove it.
“No. I don’t want to argue anything. I’m here because I want people to have access to a good standard of nursing. Believe it or not, I don’t always think doctors are the best judge of that. But I need you to work with me.” She looked at Neva. “So, if you do deliver any more of your mom’s client’s babies, please make sure you sign the birth certificate. All right?”
Neva nodded. “Yes. I will. Sorry about that.”
“And try to get your initial right on the prescription.”
A trace of red appeared on Neva’s cheeks.
“I’ll get the door,” I said as Marie reached for the handle.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Bradley. I’ll let myself out.”
We all watched her leave. After the door had snapped shut, I turned to face my daughter. “Thank you, darling. Thank you so much.”
“I don’t know what you are up to, Grace,” Neva said, shaking her head, “but a little prior warning might have been helpful. By the way, what’s with the easy-to-read signature? God, couldn’t you be more like a—?”
“Doctor!” we all said in unison, then laughed, a little giddy with our small victory.
“Come on.” I linked arms with Mom and Neva. “I guess I owe you an explanation. I’ll fill you in over dinner.” We turned toward the dining room.
“Perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of filling me in too?”
I froze, then lifted my eyes to the top of the stairs, where Robert was standing. And, all at once, my giddiness bubbled away to nothing.