“Hey,” he said. “You wanna hear a joke?”

“Sur—” I rolled to face him, then paused and blinked hard.

Mark reached up and touched my cheek. “What is it?”

It was the strangest thing. I’d just been on a date with Mark. I’d slept with Mark. It might have been all the wine, but … when I looked at him, I expected to see Patrick. No, not expected. I wanted to see Patrick.

“Nothing.” I threw him a smile. But my buzz was gone. “I’m fine. What was the joke?”

The joke was funny. Not hilarious, but funny. I thought of Patrick again. Usually I had to fight to keep my mouth straight when he told me a joke. He loved it when I laughed. He said I was a tough audience, but it wasn’t true. Sometimes his jokes were terrible and I’d still chuckle. Something about the way he looked at me right after he’d delivered the punch line—so cautiously hopeful—would set me off. And later, as I lay in bed or walked home from my shift, I’d think of that look and smile again.

The next time Mark tried to kiss me, I closed my eyes. But it didn’t matter. The passion was gone.

I hadn’t expected to hear from Mark again. But a few days later, I did: Did I want to catch a movie? Did I want to try that new French restaurant? Part of me did. But every time I tried to respond to his texts, my thumbs froze. Eventually he stopped texting, and I was grateful. Until now.

Mark turned to the woman to his right, as if remembering she was there. “Oh, uh … Neva, this is Imogen.”

“Hello, Imogen,” I said, forcing myself into a standing position. “Nice to meet you.”

Her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Hello.”

This, I knew, was the part when we would mutter something about being late, and shuffle off in separate directions. I was about to start the ball rolling when Mark’s expression darkened.

“Could you give us a minute, Imo?” His voice was falsely bright, but his gaze, I suddenly noticed, was fixed on my stomach. “I’ll meet you at your place.”

Imogen’s puzzled expression must have matched mine. She looked from me to Mark and back again. Then her eyes found my belly. “Oh-kay,” she said, frowning. “See you at home.”

Mark smiled at her reassuringly. But when Imogen was gone, his smile fell away. “You’re pregnant,” he said to me. It sounded like an accusation.

“Yes.”

“It’s not—” He cleared his throat. “—it’s not mine?”

“No. Oh God, no.” At least now I understood why he’d asked his girlfriend to leave.

“When are you due?” he asked.

“December thirty-first.”

I waited as he did the math. Then, satisfied, he nodded. “Well. Congratulations, I guess. I wish you luck.”

We bobbed our heads, the mood once again awkward. Drops started to fall from the sky, all at once heavy and separate, like tiny, teeming water balloons. The timing was good.

“Well, I guess I’d better—” Mark jabbed his thumb in the direction Imogen had headed.

“Yes,” I said. “Me too. Nice to see you, Mark.”

“You too,” he said.

I watched as Mark jogged away. Then, while I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, my phone began to ring.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Neva, I need your help.”

“Grace?” My heart beat a little faster. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a client in labor. Her sister was meant to be my birth assistant but she’s from out of state and the baby is coming early. I’ve tried Mary and Rhonda, they can’t come. Any chance you could assist?”

I processed the information she’d given me. Grace did home births. The baby was early. The equation didn’t add up. “If the baby’s premature, Grace, you need to take her to the hospital.”

“She’s thirty-seven weeks along, so there’s no need for a hospital. She’s having the baby at my place.”

A man leaving the building held the door open for me, and I gave him a wave as I slid inside. “What stage is she at?”

“I haven’t examined her yet, but I’d guess she’s five to six centimeters dilated, water intact, contractions six minutes apart for the last hour. Second baby.”

“When did labor start?” I started up the stairs.

“A couple of hours ago, but it’s progressing at a reasonable rate.” I could hear the desperation in Grace’s voice. “Darling? I really need you.”

I heaved the door open and plodded into my apartment. “I’m on my way.”

“You are?” Grace’s voice broke. “You’re really coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” I said. The idea that she thought I wouldn’t brought on a wash of shame. Sure, Grace and I had our troubles. But she was my mother. And no matter what problems existed between us, if she needed me, I’d come.

11

Grace

“Okay, Gill, just relax. I’m going to give you an internal exam, see how you’re progressing. Lie back for me. Perfect.”

I snapped on my gloves and knelt at the end of the bed. Gillian’s husband stood to my right. “David, I need you to help me slide her down the bed. You grab her shoulders, and Gill, you lift your bottom and shimmy down. Ready? Go.”

When Gillian was in position, I started my examination. “Eight centimeters. My, my. Well done, you.”

I smiled, then felt for the head, pausing as my fingers found a hard bone in the center of the skull. I concentrated on keeping my face neutral. What was that? I splayed my fingers, feeling the soft surrounding tissue. It felt like a buttock but … it couldn’t have been. The baby had been head-down last time I examined Gillian. With my right hand I felt the outside of her stomach. Yes, it felt like a head.

Gillian started another contraction, and I removed my gloves and drifted to the sink. I couldn’t make sense of it. If the baby was head-down, what was I feeling? Even though it was unlikely, I couldn’t rule out a breech. If it was—it was high-risk. Too high-risk for a home birth. She’d have to be transferred to the hospital.

“I’m here.”

I turned. Neva stood by my side in sweatpants and a hoodie that strained over her belly. Her hair was wet and windswept. I exhaled, suddenly grateful that none of my other birth assistants were available. “Neva! Thank goodness.”

Neva turned to Gillian and David. “My name’s Neva,” she said. “I’m a Certified Nurse-Midwife, and I’ll be assisting with your birth. Looks like you’re doing a great job so far. I’ll go wash up, and then we should get you up and about. Let gravity do some work for you.” She hesitated then, and looked at me. “I mean … if that’s okay with Grace.”

“Uh … yes,” I said. “It’s fine with me.”

As Neva chatted to Gillian, an image of my little strawberry-haired baby daughter popped into my mind, so at odds with the woman I saw before me. She touched Gillian’s stomach gently but not too familiarly. Her facial expressions were professional but warm. All her best qualities were in play.

When Neva finished her chat with Gillian, she joined me at the sink. “How is it going? Have you done the internal yet?”

“Yes, though…” I lowered my voice. “The baby was head-down at thirty-five weeks, but when I examined her just now, it felt a bit like a breech. Hard in the middle, soft at the sides. I’m not sure.”

“Thirty-five weeks? That’d be late for it to turn,” she said, echoing my thoughts. “Could it have been the nose you were feeling? A face presentation?”

“I suppose.” But I doubted it. I’d felt faces before. This was different.

“Would you like me to have a look?”

I sagged. “I’d love it.”

Neva smiled and my concerns vanished, just like that. With Neva by my side, we’d work this thing out. The idea brought on a small bubble of joy.

I went to Gillian’s side. “Would it be okay if Neva did another examination before we get you up? The baby’s not in the position I expected, and I want a second opinion.”

Gillian’s face clouded.

“This happens sometimes,” I continued, trying to be upbeat. “We’re monitoring the baby’s heart rate, and there is no sign of distress. We just need to know what’s going on.”