The Midwife's Confession

Nevertheless, I wasn’t giving up this box.

“I want to keep the box for now,” I said to Ted. “I just want to see what all these women had to say to her.”

“I wish you’d dump it,” he said. “We don’t have room for all her stuff.”

“I’m taking it,” I said, feeling stubborn as I folded the top of the carton into place. Maybe, just maybe, something in the box would lead me to her son or her daughter and, in that small way, I could help Noelle live on.

10

Noelle

UNC Wilmington 1988

She sat in the lounge of the Galloway dormitory with the other Resident Assistants on the last day of their training. The freshmen would arrive the following day and then the lazy calm that had enveloped the Wilmington campus would give way to mayhem. Noelle was looking forward to it. She loved this school.

Empty pizza boxes and soda cans littered the tables of the lounge. Noelle hadn’t touched the artery-clogging pizza. She’d kicked off her sandals and sat cross-legged on one of the sofas, her long blue skirt pooling around her like the sea, and she ate carrot sticks and almonds from the Baggie she carried with her everywhere. She offered the bag to one of the other trainees, Luanne, who sat next to her on the couch and who helped herself to one of the carrot sticks. Of all the RA trainees in the lounge, Noelle was closest to Luanne, but that wasn’t saying much. Her fellow UNC students liked Noelle and respected her, but she was just a little too different to fit in. It had been that way all her life, and she didn’t really mind. She was used to holding herself a bit apart from her peers. The other girls treated her warmly and even turned to her with their problems, yet there was always a distance, and she never formed those intense, heart-to-heart connections that most women had with other women.

As for the guys … well, the jocks and frat boys had no idea how to relate to someone like Noelle. There was something weird about her, they’d say dismissively, not sure how to handle the discomfort they felt around her. She was the quirky woman you could see wandering alone around campus after midnight. She was pretty in an unconventional way, but she was too hard to get to know and not worth the effort. It was as if she were covered by a veil that couldn’t be pierced or lifted. She was simply out of their league, and deep down, they knew it.

Yet she had no dearth of lovers. There were certain guys on campus who were intrigued rather than intimidated by her. They were the cerebral or artsy types who were too shy to talk to the typical coeds, but who recognized in Noelle a kindred spirit. So although she’d had no real boyfriend during her first three years at UNC, she did have relationships that went deeper than friendship, even if those relationships would never lead to anything permanent. That was fine with her. She had one single goal and that was to become a midwife. The rest of her life could sort itself out later.

This would be her senior year as a nursing student and she was already researching midwifery programs for next year. She’d have no problem getting in wherever she wanted to go; she was at the top of her class. No one ever said as much, but they didn’t need to. She was a hard worker and her professors adored her. She had issues with some of the ridiculous rules she was required to follow in the hospital setting during her clinicals, but she did everything she was told. When she grew frustrated, she called her mother, who was still working for Miss Wilson and who could always calm her down. “Just do what they say and get your degree,” she’d tell her. “Then you’ll be freer to make your own rules. You have to find a way to work with the system, Noelle.”

Now, sitting with the other RA trainees in the lounge, Noelle focused her attention on the young man leaning against the back of one of the sofas. He was a grad student in psychology and he’d been their trainer for the past couple of days. “So tomorrow’s going to be chaos,” he said. “People will be complaining about their rooms and their roommates within an hour of their arrival. Just expect it and it won’t overwhelm you. If you have any problems, you know how to reach me, right?”

Everyone murmured a weary response. They were all tired of being cooped up in the lounge, and Noelle was no exception. The day was gorgeous, not too hot for the end of August, and she wanted to be outside. But the trainer was going to hand out their dorm assignments and she couldn’t leave until she’d received hers.

She’d requested the Galloway dorm, where she was sitting right that moment. It was where she’d spent her freshman year and she remembered the kindness of the RA she’d had back then. She wanted to be that helpful, nonjudgmental sort of RA for a new, green group of students.

The grad student was sifting through sheets of paper and Noelle knew they were the lists of students on each floor of the various dormitories.

“Noelle?” he said, holding one of the sheets toward her. “You’ve got Galloway. Third floor.”

“Excellent.” She stood to take the paper from him, then sat down next to Luanne again.

The grad student handed Luanne her list.

“I have Galloway, too,” Luanne said, studying the sheet of paper. “Cool.”

“What floor?” Noelle asked.

“Fourth.”

Noelle bit her lip, surprised when she felt a little seed of longing forming in her chest. “That’s where I lived my freshman year,” she said.

“Are you sentimental about it?” Luanne smiled at her. “I don’t have any big preference if you want to switch.”

She realized that she did want to switch. She couldn’t have said why. That year had been so good for her. She’d come into her own—away from home, living in a city for the first time in her life and loving every minute of it. The floors of the Galloway dorm were nearly identical, so it seemed silly to switch, and yet.

“You wouldn’t mind?” she asked.

“Uh-uh.” Luanne started to hand her the list of fourth-floor students, but as Noelle reached toward her with her own list, she noticed one of the names near the bottom of the paper and stopped. She looked hard at the name, her eyes narrowed as she tried to make sense of what she was reading. She drew the sheet of paper back.

“I’ll keep the third floor.” She heard the tremor in her voice. “I was just being silly. They’ve got our floors recorded and we’ll mess everything up if we trade.”

Luanne frowned at her. “I doubt it would be any big deal,” she said.

“No, this is fine,” Noelle said, and she pressed the list to her chest as if it were a long-buried treasure.

11

Tara

Wilmington, North Carolina 2010

I knocked on Grace’s door and heard her scramble a little, as though she might be doing something she didn’t want me to know about.

“Come in,” she said after a moment.

I opened the door and saw her sitting at her desk, a textbook open in her lap. She’d probably been on Facebook or answering email but was trying to convince me she was actually working. I didn’t care. I really didn’t. I just wanted her to be happy and okay. She looked up at me as she sipped from her favorite black mug. High-test coffee, no doubt. I couldn’t even drink the stuff she and Sam would make.

“Just wanted to see if you need any help with the sewing machine,” I asked.

“I don’t have time to do it now, Mom,” she said. “I’m studying.”

“Well, whenever.” I sat down on the edge of her bed, longing for a real conversation with her. Longing for contact. Twitter rested his big head on my knee and I ran my hand over his back. “Noelle would be so pleased you’re helping with the babies program.”

“Uh-huh.” She lifted her backpack from the floor and dug around inside it, pulling out a notebook. She looked everywhere in the room except at me. I hated the strain I felt between us. Just hated it.

I smiled at her mug. “I don’t know how you can drink coffee this late in the day,” I said.

She flipped open her notebook with an exasperated sigh. “You say that every single time you see me with a cup of coffee in the afternoon,” she said.

Did I? “It reminds me of your dad,” I said. “You two were so much alike that way.”

“Speaking of Dad,” she said, now looking directly at me, “how was your big date with Ian?”

I frowned, surprised by the question. Sarcasm wasn’t her style at all, and she’d caught me off guard. “It was not a date, Grace,” I said.

She looked out the window, her cheeks reddening, and I thought she’d blurted out the question before she’d been able to stop herself. “I think of Daddy being dead while you’re out having fun,” she said. “I don’t know how you can do that to him.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I said again. “Not the way you’re implying, anyway. It’ll be a long time before I’m interested in a man other than Daddy, but I need to be able to go out to dinner or a movie with a friend sometimes, the way you go out with Jenny. We both need to get out.” I leaned forward and lowered my head, trying to get her to look at me again. “Can you understand that?” I asked.

“It’s fine.” She didn’t sound convincing.

“I know you miss Cleve,” I said, straightening up again.

She looked down at her notebook and I had the feeling I’d touched an exposed nerve.

“It’s no big deal,” she said.

I’d never been certain how far things had gone between Grace and Cleve. Had they had sex? They’d gone out together for eight months and although I couldn’t picture it—I didn’t want to picture it—I suppose they had. The one thing I knew for sure was that she’d loved him. Even now, his pictures dotted her dresser and desk and the bulletin board behind the computer. She still loved him. I wished I could make the hurt go away.

“I remember what it was like when your father and I were separated,” I said.

“Separated? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t mean while we were married,” I said. “I mean when he went away to college while I was still in high school.”

“Well, the big difference with you and Daddy being separated was that Daddy didn’t break up with you before he left.” She looked surprised at herself for giving me a glimpse into her emotions. I needed to capitalize on that glimpse.

“I know, honey,” I said. “I know how hard it must be.”

“No, you don’t,” she muttered.

“I know it’s different than it was with your dad and me, but the way I dealt with being apart from him was to get busy. Get involved with things. Take action.” I leaned toward her. “I wish you could see how that would help you, Grace.”

“I am totally involved with things!” she snapped. “I’m working at the Animal House and going to school and now doing the stupid babies program. What more do you want?”

“All that’s good,” I said, “but it’s all work and no play, isn’t it? You could branch out a little, honey. I know you love Jenny, but you should do things with other friends, too. When your dad and I were apart, I made friends with Emerson and Noelle. I got into my studies and acted in plays.”

“Yeah, you were Miss Perfect, like always,” she said.

“I’m not saying that,” I said. “I’m just trying to tell you some possible ways to cope.” I twisted my wedding ring on my finger. I was doing that a lot lately whenever I felt tense. Whenever I felt as though I needed Sam by my side.

“You just stay busy so you don’t have to think about anything,” Grace said. “So you can forget about how messed up your life has gotten.”

“Oh, Grace.” I shook my head. “It has nothing to do with that. Being involved in things is just healthy.” I stopped twisting my ring and laid my hands flat on my thighs. “You know,” I said, “we haven’t talked about this in a while, but I wish you’d seriously consider joining the drama club. You don’t have to act. You’re such a good writer. You could write plays. I know you’re afraid it would seem weird, since I’m the—”

“You don’t know me at all!” She slapped her notebook down on her desk. “I’m not you, okay? I don’t deal with stuff the same way you do.”

“No. I know you don’t.” I slumped a little on her bed. I was failing with her again. “And that’s okay. It was just a thought.”

“I really need to study.” She lifted her biology book an inch or two off her lap to show me how I was interrupting her.

“All right.” I pushed myself off her bed, walked over to her chair and leaned down to give her a hug. She was stiff as a board beneath my arms. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” I said.

I left her room, shutting her door behind me, and stood in the hallway feeling frustrated and a little lost. This chilly girl who treated me with such impatience and disdain was not the Grace I’d known and loved for sixteen years. This was a girl who was angry with me. I wasn’t sure exactly why. For going back to work only two weeks after Sam died? She’d been horrified by that, but I’d needed to stay as busy as possible to survive. Was she still angry I’d gotten rid of Sam’s things? Did she think I was betraying him by seeing Ian?

One thing I knew for certain was that, rightly or wrongly, she blamed me for Sam’s death.

There were moments when I even blamed myself.

12

Emerson

It was Friday afternoon, and I thought I would finally have some time to myself to look through the box of Noelle’s cards and letters. Jenny was still at school, Ted was showing a property to a client and I’d closed up the café after the lunch crowd. People were telling me I should start serving dinner, but lunch and breakfast were all I could manage. Right now I could hardly keep up with that.

When I got home, I was surprised to find Jenny and Grace in the bonus room above the garage, sorting through the stuff for the babies program.

“What are you two doing home?” I asked, surveying the neat piles they were making of clothing and blankets.

“Half day today,” Jenny said. She gave me a hug. Jenny was a hugger and always had been. She got it from me. She sure didn’t get it from Ted.

“How are you doing, Grace?” I asked, picking up a tiny yellow hand-knit sweater from one of the piles. “God, this stuff is cute.”

“I’m good,” Grace said. “I totally suck at sewing, though.” She held one of the little blankets toward me and I had to laugh at the puckered hem. “The rest I did are better,” she said. “It was the tension on the machine. Mom had to fix it for me.”

I could picture Grace sewing. Maybe even enjoying it. She’d always loved things she could do alone. Writing. Reading. Drawing.

“Listen,” I said. “Suzanne’s party is in a couple of weeks and Tara and I can really use some help with the decorations. Would you two have the time to—”

“Suzanne’s having a party?” Grace looked up from the blanket she was folding.

I nodded. “Her fiftieth birthday party,” I said. “We’re going to have it here at the house and—”

“Will Cleve come home for it?” she asked. Her face was so hopeful, so filled with longing, that I could hardly bear to look at her.

“I’m not sure, honey,” I said. “Maybe.” A light had gone out of Grace’s eyes when Cleve broke up with her.

Grace dropped the blanket she’d been holding and pulled her phone from her pocket. I watched as she texted a message—to Cleve, no doubt. Jenny watched, too, and I didn’t miss the worry in my daughter’s face.

Jenny looked up at me. “We can help, Mom,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “And one other thing. When I spoke to Suzanne this morning, she said a couple of preemies were born overnight and asked if one—or both—of you could take a couple of layettes over to the hospital this afternoon.”

“Sure,” Jenny said. She loved any excuse to drive now that she had her license.

Grace looked up from her phone. “Can you drop me off home first?” she asked Jenny.

“Don’t you want to see the babies?” Jenny asked.

Grace shook her head, but I knew it wasn’t the babies she didn’t want to see. It was the hospital. Tara had told me that Grace couldn’t even look at the road sign for the hospital these days without going pale.

“They need to go over this afternoon sometime,” I said, “so I’ll let you two work it out.”

“Okay,” Jenny answered.

I headed for the stairs and was halfway down them when I heard Jenny ask Grace, “What does he say?”

I stopped walking and stood still, snooping.

“Can’t miss it or she’d disown me,” Grace said. I pictured her reading the text message from her phone display. I could hear the smile in her voice. The hope.

Oh, Gracie, I thought. He’s eighteen and in college, honey. There’s no place for this to go.

Downstairs, I headed for our home office where the box of Noelle’s cards was waiting for me. The box was beginning to feel like another person in my house, a person with too much power for the space she took up. It was our last hope, that box. Nothing in Noelle’s house had given us answers. Tara and I had spoken with the staff at every single obstetrical office in a twenty-mile radius, and they all knew what we hadn’t known: Noelle gave up midwifery years ago. Few of them had seen her recently, so we didn’t bother asking if they knew she was depressed. Suzanne and the other volunteers were all coming to us with that question. Whatever had been bugging Noelle, she’d kept it to herself. I suspected that the box wasn’t going to give us the answer, either, but if I ignored it, at least it gave me hope.

No more excuses. I had time now. I was going to start digging.

Ted and I shared our home office. It was a big low-ceilinged room that the previous owners had added on as an in-law suite … for in-laws they must not have liked too much. The low ceiling was oppressive, but the space worked for us. Ted’s desk and office equipment were on one side, while my smaller desk was on the other. We’d had bookcases built into one windowless wall, and two long tables were set up in front of the windows where Ted could spread out his area maps. At that moment, Shadow and Blue were snoring beneath the tables. Before I’d opened Hot! I’d used my part of the office for household records. Now, I had my own filing cabinet devoted to the café. It was so wonderful how things had fallen together for me, and I’d started to feel as though my life was charmed. Now Sam and Noelle were dead and I was about to lose my grandpa, and I knew I would never have that everything’s-right-in-my-world feeling again.

I sat down in the armchair by the window and lifted a fistful of cards and letters from the box, but I quickly realized that a leisurely approach wasn’t going to do. In my hands I had a letter dated a month ago and another dated eight years ago. There was a copy of an email exchange between Noelle and another midwife. Two pictures of babies. A picture of a teenage boy. A birthday card from Jenny that I remembered picking out for her to send Noelle years earlier. It was as though Noelle had taken a giant Mixmaster to the box and scrambled the contents. I wished Tara had the time to help me. In thirty minutes, she could have this mess alphabetized and arranged by date.

I stood, cleared off one of the tables by the windows and began sorting the cards and letters and pictures and a few newspaper clippings. Ted still thought I should just toss the whole mess, but Noelle had kept these things. They’d been important to her. I wanted to try to feel whatever she’d felt as she dropped each of them into the box. Why did she keep them? Ted thought I was becoming maudlin, grieving over Noelle and worrying about my grandfather. He said I was obsessed, and maybe I was, but the box felt like my last link to one of my two best friends. These were the things she’d cared about enough to save.

If I approached the items chronologically, maybe I’d be able to follow what had gone on in her mind over the years. Maybe I could even write a minibiography of her. If we ever found her now-adult child, maybe he’d appreciate having that remembrance of his—or her—birth mother.

“Like you have time to write,” I said to myself as I neatened the stack of cards. Shadow lifted his head to look at me on the off chance I was talking about food.

I spotted the card I’d sent Noelle for her last birthday. Her very last birthday. I touched the card, heavyhearted, then pulled another handful from the box. There was a newspaper clipping from the year before about the obstetrical practices in the area getting rid of their midwives. I shook my head. That was why we thought she’d quit. She told us that, didn’t she? That she was getting out while the getting was good, when the truth was, she’d gotten out long ago. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked out loud.

My plan to organize the items chronologically quickly fell apart because so many of the cards and letters had no dates. So I stacked them according to type: cards in one pile, letters in another, printouts of emails in a third pile and newspaper articles in a fourth. Tucked in the bottom of the carton, caught halfway beneath the flap, was a valentine Grace had made for Noelle when she couldn’t have been more than four. I pictured Noelle holding the card above her trash can, then deciding to add it to this box of keepsakes instead.

I heard the girls leave the house and used that interruption to take a break. In the kitchen, I made a cup of tea and unwrapped one of the scones I’d brought home from the café, breaking off the corners to give to the dogs. Then I carried the scone and tea back to the office.

When I walked into the room, a little blue-and-white-checked note card on the top of a pile jumped out at me. I rested my mug and plate on my desk and picked up the card. When I opened it, I had to sit down in the armchair as it hit me: the card was from me, and it was ancient. Seventeen years old, to be exact.

Noelle,

Thank you for taking care of me. You seem to understand exactly how painful this has been for me and know just the right things to do and say to help. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Love, Em

I remembered writing the words a few weeks after my second miscarriage. My second baby lost. Ted and I had lived near the campus then, and Noelle moved in with us for a couple of weeks to take over everything. She cooked and cleaned and, most important of all, listened to me grieve. Ted had run out of words to comfort me by then; he had his own grief to deal with. Noelle knew how badly I’d wanted those babies. Little more than a year later, I’d be holding Jenny in my arms. She couldn’t make up for the loss I felt—the loss I still felt when I thought of those babies I never got to know—but Jenny brought me back to life.

I held the card in my hand for a while. What was the point of keeping it? Of keeping any of the notes written to Noelle? Yet I put it back on the pile. I didn’t need to make any decisions right now.

I sipped my tea as I read through some of the letters. They were filled with happy words of gratitude, the sort of sentiments you wrote when you were bursting with joy, and I needed to read them after being broadsided by my own sad old card. I held the stack of letters on my lap, scanning most of them, reading every word of others, turning each of them upside down on the arm of the chair as I finished with it.

I came to a nearly blank sheet of notepaper and it took me a moment to recognize it as Noelle’s stationery. There was a familiar, faint peach-basket-weave pattern to the paper. I hadn’t seen her stationery in years—did anyone still write letters by hand?—but I remembered getting the occasional note from her on this paper. There was only one line on the sheet.

Dear Anna,

I’ve started this letter so many times and here I am, starting it again with no idea how to tell you

That was it. Just that line. Tell her what? Who was Anna? I sifted through the letters and cards looking for anything from an Anna. There was a card signed by an Ana. All she wrote was, “Noelle, Our family adores you! Ana.” Spelled differently from the Anna in Noelle’s letter. No surname. No date. There was a picture of a little boy attached to the card with tape, and when I pulled it off I saw a name written on the back: Paul Delaney.