But I’d survived this far. Every time I had to steal a new, larger shirt from the birthing center. All the times I’d made up obvious lies to get out of after-work drinks. Even the time I told Anne at reception I had a urinary tract infection to explain my frequent trips to the bathroom. I’d survive this too. And it would be worth it.

I hugged myself a little tighter, and a fist or foot jabbed against my ribs. I think it was my baby, trying to hug me back.

5

Grace

I dragged a stool up to the bed. “I’m going to take your blood pressure, Gillian. Can you roll up your sleeve for me?”

It was the day after Neva’s announcement and I still felt faint. Neva was pregnant. Thirty weeks in. No father had been named. Thankfully I’d had back-to-back prenatal appointments to take my mind off things. Gillian was my last for the day. And as soon as we finished I would get to the bottom of this nonsense.

Gillian pushed up the sleeve of her shirt so it bunched under her shoulder. I slid the cuff to the fleshy part of her arm and felt down the cord for the hand pump. “So how have you been feeling?”

“Fine. Excited.”

“You should be,” I said. “This experience is going to be life-changing for you.”

Gillian beamed and I wondered if she was the same woman who’d crept into my office seven months ago, newly pregnant and trembling at the very mention of the word “birth.” During that consultation, she told me that the first time around she’d hoped to have an active, drug-free hospital birth. She wanted to breast-feed as soon as possible after birth and have the baby sleep in her room. But Gillian’s labor was long and arduous. She didn’t dilate as fast as the doctors would have liked. After twelve hours, the doctor artificially ruptured her membranes and, after seventeen hours, they gave her drugs to speed things along. The drugs brought on such strong, painful contractions, Gillian agreed to an epidural. She wound up flat on her back, surrounded by cords and intravenous drips. Though the baby was never in distress, the doctor performed a “routine” episiotomy before dragging the baby out with forceps and placing her into the hands of a waiting nurse. Gillian’s daughter spent the first night in the hospital nursery because after the epidural, the nurses didn’t think Gillian could care for her on her own.

I cringed as she recounted her experience, but it wasn’t the first time I’d heard a story like that. Instead of providing support, the hospital system provided pain medication. Instead of patience, they provided drugs to speed along labor. Instead of empowering women, they undermined their ability to give birth naturally. Well, get ready, I told Gillian at that first appointment, because we’re taking your power back.

“I just wish I’d known about you earlier,” Gillian said. “I knew about home birthing but I was worried it wasn’t safe.”

“So no concerns now?”

“None. In fact, I have more confidence in your ability to handle this birth than I did in those doctors that delivered my daughter. And I know that if anything goes wrong, we’re an eleven-minute ride away from Newport Hospital.”

“That’s right,” I said. It was funny … when I heard clients talk like this, I felt validated. Not just that home birthing was okay, but that I was okay too.

“And now that I’ve seen your birthing suite, I’m ready,” she continued. “The bedspread, the pillows, the birthing pool, the oil burners … it’s exactly what I was hoping for. And I love your sculpture.”

Gillian was looking at my new creation, a three-headed clay sculpture with a swollen belly. It was supposed to represent the coming together of mother and child, but as so often happened with my artwork, my sculpture had other ideas. A third head had presented itself—covered in stubble and with a large knobbly nose. The father. I was pleased with how it turned out. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Do many people use your room?”

“Some. Most clients like to give birth in their own home, but many folks don’t have the space. And I have a few out-of-towners that live too far away for me to travel to them.”

I scribbled down Gillian’s blood pressure, then released the cuff. The air hissed out of it. “Your blood pressure’s fine. Now if you’ll just lie down, I’ll measure your belly. See how this baby is growing.”

I held Gillian’s arm, taking some of her weight as she lifted her legs and lowered her torso down. Beside the bed, on a small table, was a picture of Neva in her graduation cap and gown. “That has to be your daughter,” Gillian said.

“It is.” I smiled at the picture. In it, Neva looked happy, if a little uncomfortable to be having her photo taken. “The day she graduated.”

“She’s a midwife too, isn’t she?”

“Not just a midwife. One of the best midwives around.” I located the baby’s head—low down in the pelvis, engaged—and placed the tip of my measuring tape there. “And she’s pregnant herself. Her first.”

“Congratulations,” Gillian said. “Are you going to deliver the baby?”

My smile waned. I stretched the tape up the middle of Gillian’s stomach to the baby’s buttocks, right under her ribs. “Actually, Neva works at a birthing center in Providence, so she’ll probably deliver there.”

“Oh.” Gillian studied my face. “Well, I’ve heard good things about birthing centers.”

I sighed. “They’re not the worst option in the world, I suppose. Their rates of intervention are lower than the hospital’s, at least. But the one that Neva works at is attached to a hospital! It’s nowhere near as intimate as the home. Ob-gyns and pediatricians roam the halls, desperate to jump in and take over.”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of that,” Gillian said. “Well, hopefully your daughter won’t run into any complications and she can have a natural, intervention-free birth at the birthing center. With any luck, she won’t even have to see a doctor.”

“Yes. Or his forceps … Anyway, we shouldn’t be talking about my daughter. This is about you. I’m looking forward to meeting your sister. Is she still planning on assisting me with delivery?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind. She’s almost finished her midwifery studies and I’d love to have her there.”

“Mind? You’re saving me the trouble of getting a birth assistant. And I also happen to think it’s wonderful having female family members in the room when you give birth.” I thought of Neva again and my heart broke a little. “It’s how births used to be. The women of the community—mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts—all came together to support the mother in labor. Secret women’s business, they called it. I’d like to see more of that. Now that dads are present in the delivery room—which is a great thing, don’t get me wrong—we’ve lost a bit of that camaraderie.” I checked the measurement against last week’s. Good growth. “When does your sister arrive?”

“A week before I’m due.” Gillian rubbed her belly. “Let’s hope this little one can wait until then.”

I hauled her into a sitting position. “Don’t worry. Only about five percent of mothers deliver on their due date and most mothers deliver late. Don’t look so worried. Worst-case scenario, we find another birth assistant. You’ll be fine.”

I finished up Gillian’s appointment and saw her out. Immediately my thoughts turned to Neva. Why was she doing this? Why wouldn’t she let me in? Even as a brand-new baby, Neva had done things her own way. I’d intended to co-sleep and breast-feed and baby-wear into toddlerhood. Neva had other plans. After three weeks of strapping her to my chest while she screamed, Robert settled her in two minutes by wrapping her up and settling her in her crib. When she was six months old, she decided she’d rather drink from a bottle than from me, so after a couple of weeks of pumping to give her breast milk, I switched to formula and she was much happier. Mom assured me that with time, we’d become close, and I clung to that hope with all my might. But now she was twenty-nine. Pregnant. If we weren’t close now, what hope did we have?