The Secrets of Midwives Read Online Free Page B

closed my eyes, all I could see were gray clouds and seagulls. Wind tangling my hair and briny sea air in my lungs. It was 1954 and I was on my way to America. As I strolled the windblown deck, newborn Grace peeked out of my wool coat, perhaps wanting a glimpse of the new life we were about to start. I continued to stroll until, on the third trip around, she drifted off. I waited until I was sure she was completely out, then gingerly lowered myself onto a plastic seat.
    â€œDo you mind if I have a look?”
    A woman about my age hovered over me, tugging the hand of the young man beside her. She strained to see inside my coat. Grace’s eyes flickered under her lids with new sleep, but seeing the woman’s enthusiasm, my motherly pride rose up. I opened my coat an inch.
    â€œOh, Danny, look—it’s so tiny! A boy or a girl?”
    â€œA girl. Grace.”
    â€œYou lucky thing. We’re desperate for a baby, aren’t we, Danny? She’s beautiful. How old?”
    â€œTwo weeks.”
    â€œTwo weeks? But … shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”
    I opened my mouth, releasing a cloud of smoggy air but no words.
    â€œWell,” the woman said, “your husband must be taking very good care of you.”
    Ah, my husband. There wasn’t one of those, of course. But my mother, unable to completely turn her back on me, had prepared me with an answer to that question.
    â€œActually, my husband … passed away. He was a farmer. There was an accident.”
    â€œOh no.” The woman looked at her husband and then back at me. “You’re raising the baby alone?”
    â€œA lot of people have worse luck.”
    Again, the woman turned to her husband. She just couldn’t seem to get her head around it. Life—and love—had obviously been kind to her. “That’s so sad. You’re going to America alone?”
    â€œNo.” I smiled at the ginger-haired bundle in my arms. “I’m going with my daughter.”
    *   *   *
    At some point I must have drifted off. When I woke, it was with a flying start. It was going to be one of those nights. Jolting in and out of consciousness. Skating along that foggy line between reality and dream. Usually, when this happened, I’d take a book into the study—just because I was restless, didn’t mean I had to disturb Lil. But tonight, I didn’t get the choice. Because the phone was ringing.
    I sat up and dropped my legs off the side of the bed. In the dark, I located the red numbers of the clock—1:03 A.M. Grace.
    Lil, ten years my junior and perpetually nervous of bad news coming at night, was already on her feet.
    â€œI’ll get it, Lil,” I said. “It’ll be Grace.” I reached for my dressing gown on the bedpost, and by the time I’d reached the hall, Lil held the receiver to her ear.
    â€œHello?” she said. She nodded, then held the phone out to me. “Grace.”
    â€œThank you, dear. You go back to bed.”
    I rubbed her arm as she horseshoed around me. Poor Lil. First she spent the evening huddled in our room reading a book—her choice, of course. But now her sleep was being interrupted. She was as sweet and tolerant as they came, but sometimes I wondered if Grace was wearing her thin.
    By the time I lifted the phone to my ear, Grace was already talking.
    â€œI know, I’m sorry. It’s late. It’s just … I’m stunned, flabbergasted, horrified—”
    I lowered myself into the seat by the hall table. My old body felt like a sack of rocks. “Yes. It was a big shock.”
    â€œYou didn’t know, did you?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t.”
    â€œHow could I not have known?” Grace whined. “I’m her mother. I’m a midwife. Can she really be thirty weeks? She doesn’t look thirty weeks.”
    â€œYou were the same when you were pregnant,” I said.