“My baby is no longer a baby. Her body is changing and growing. She’s experiencing the awakening of a vital force that brings woman the ability to create life. You may not know this, but the traditional name for first menstruation is ‘menarche.’”

Panic broke out; a swarm of moths over my heart. I no longer wanted Grace to disappear and take the last thirty seconds—I wanted her to take my future. To take Monday, when I would have to go to school and face the fact that I was a social outcast, now and forever. To take the coming few weeks, when I would have to go about my life, pretending I didn’t hear the whispers and snickers.

“In some cultures,” she continued, oblivious, “menarche inspires song, dance, and celebration. In Morocco, girls receive clothes, money, and gifts. Japanese families celebrate a daughter’s menarche by eating red rice and beans. In some parts of India, girls are given a ceremony and are dressed in the finest clothes and jewelry the family can buy. I know for you young ones it can seem embarrassing or, heaven forbid, dirty. But it’s not. It is one of the most sacred things in the world, and not to be hidden away, but celebrated. So, in honor of Neva’s menarche, and probably some of yours too—” She smiled encouragingly at my friends. “—I thought it might be fun to do like the Apache Indians here in North America, and—” She paused for effect. “—dance. I’ve learned a chant and we can—”

I can’t believe I let it go on for as long as I did. “Mom.”

Grace’s smile remained in place as she met my eye. “What is it, darling?”

“Just … stop.”

I barely breathed the words, but I know she heard them, because her smile fell like a kite from the sky on a windless day. A steely barrier formed around my heart. Yes, she’d gone to a lot of trouble, but she’d also left me no choice. “Dad!”

Our house was small; I knew he would hear me. And when he appeared, his frantic expression confirmed he’d heard the urgency in my voice. He surveyed the room. The horrified faces of my friends. The abundance of red everywhere—Grace’s dress, the balloons, the new cushions, which amazingly, I had only just noticed. He clasped Grace’s shoulders and guided her out, despite her determined protest and genuine puzzlement.

But now, as Grace hovered over me, I didn’t have Dad to help me. I turned the gift over and began to open it tentatively, starting with the tape at one end.

“It’s not a puzzle, darling. You’re not meant to unpeel every little bit of tape, you’re meant to do this!”

Grace lunged at the gift with such vigor, she rammed the table with her hip. Ice cubes tinkled. The water pitcher did a precarious dance, teetering back and forth before deciding to go down. Glass cracked; water gushed. A burst of mint filled the air. I shot to my feet as the water drenched me from the chest down.

Usually after a commotion such as this, it is loud. People assigned blame, gave instructions, located brooms and towels. This time it was eerily quiet. Gran and Grace stared at the mound that was impossible to hide under my now-clinging shirt. And for maybe the first time in her life, my mother couldn’t seem to find any words.

“Yes,” I said. I cupped my belly, protecting it from what I knew was about to be let loose. “I’m pregnant.”

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.”