Джеймс Паттерсон: The Midwife Murders

I ask Val to lean against the wall. She doesn’t move. I realize that one of us is going to have to get in there with her. It certainly won’t be Troy; he’s way too big. I step into the shower myself. I move Val’s hands onto the tiled shower wall.

“The shower helps with the pain,” I say.

“No, it don’t,” Val yells. Frankly, I bet she’s right about that. She is yelling a string of other nasty, angry sentences. Her outrage is aimed at us three midwives, and a man by the name of Alonso. Alonso seems to be married, and it is Val’s hope that Alonso and his “fucking wife” will die and burn in “fucking hell.”

Troy steps in. In his incredibly soothing voice, he says over and over, “Move with the contractions. Just move with the contractions.” The hot water is steaming up the bathroom, like it’s a bad day in the Amazon rainy season.

The contractions are coming much faster now, and Val is not cooperating with my directions or Troy’s directions. She is not moving with the contractions.

“She’s ready,” I yell, and I pitch my voice louder than Val’s. Then I tell her to kneel on the shower floor. She doesn’t move. So, very firmly, and as smoothly as possible, I ease her down to a kneeling position. I kneel next to her. I bend her over. I urge her to give “a really big push.” Amazingly she cooperates.

After the big push, and equally amazingly, two infant legs appear. Please, God, let this go well. Please, come on.

God must have heard me—this is not always the case—because with one more push the baby’s torso slides out.

Now the most dangerous part of all: we need the head. And the head is refusing to make an appearance. I cannot even see the neck or chin section. I am afraid that whatever flesh I think is emerging is actually the umbilical cord twisted around the infant’s neck. I know that in a moment we’ll have to call an OB surgeon in for a C-section. Tracy Anne is holding her phone in her hand. She’s ready to make the call as soon as I give the signal.

“One more breath. And one more push,” I say.

And then it happens. The baby comes out. I immediately create the metaphor that I will use when I tell the story of this delivery: “The baby popped out like the cork from a bottle of champagne.”

Champagne bottle or not, this second baby, another girl, is in serious distress. This baby girl is tiny, really tiny. A guesstimate weight? Three pounds. What’s as worrisome is the baby’s skin—a horrid purplish color, deep purple.

Troy cuts and clips the umbilical cord.

My stethoscope says the baby is breathing normally, but that important first scream of life has yet to emerge.

Val is yelling, “What is it? What is it?” as I hand the baby to Tracy Anne, who places Baby Number Two in a portable incubator and rushes her to Neonatal ICU.

“It’s another girl,” I say. “She needs help. Don’t worry. We’re going to get her all fixed up for you.”

“What’s wrong?” Val yells.

“Nothing that we can’t take care of.” I hope. God, I hope.

Troy slowly, carefully, lovingly helps Val to a bed. I remain in the bathroom to blot and shake off as much water as I can. I remove my shirt. I wring it out. I’m a mess. I look like a mess. I feel like a mess. But I’ve got to keep moving.

CHAPTER 7

A FEW MINUTES LATER—maybe five minutes—I step out of the bathroom and into the patient room.

The room is totally empty. No Troy. No Tracy Anne. Most upsetting, no Val.

I rush into the corridor. It’s crazier than usual. Along with the rolling gurneys and rolling wheelchairs, along with the patients walking with dangling IV packs, along with doctors and nurses and flower deliveries and meal deliveries, there are uniformed and plainclothes police officers, and right in front of me is the head of ob-gyn, Dr. Rudra Sarkar. Rudi, but I have never called him by that name. I have never seen Dr. Sarkar flustered or angry. Today is no exception.

Sarkar smiles at me and says, “I hope you don’t mind that I looked in on your birthing procedure today, Ms. Ryuan.”

Along with his good looks, his accent is seductive—slightly British with the tiniest Indian inflection. But I put myself on hold. I’m one of those women who is highly suspicious when a guy is extremely handsome. No foolish schoolgirl am I when it comes to men, but there is something fairly enticing about Rudi.

Before I can respond, he says, “I have not seen that old-fashioned water breech procedure since I was in Doctors Without Borders in Kolkata.”

He says Kolkata, not Calcutta . Cool. Cool until I realize his warm observation may actually be veiled criticism.

“Well, it seemed worth a try,” I say.

“And it was surely a try worth taking. Sometimes the oldest methods are the best, when used properly. That’s what you did.”

Damn it. Now I am feeling a little like a schoolgirl. “Thank you. It seems to have worked.”

“Yes, indeed. You are living proof that in a decade or two all obstetricians will be replaced by midwives. And perhaps that is the way it should evolve.”

That flattery had the annoying scent of bullshit to it. The schoolgirl in me is now vanishing fast. In fact, it is not only vanishing but being quickly replaced by the chief midwife, who hates any sort of main hospital interference.

“Can I ask you something, Dr. Sarkar?” Big smile from Sarkar, big nod also. I continue: “Why would a hospital staff member like you, the chairman of the department, even look in on a midwife birthing?”

“Well, I was passing by, and I thought—”

“And you thought you’d take a look and report back to our CEO, Barrett Katz, about how things were going in the crazy midwife world,” I say.

“Not at all. Paranoia aside, Ms. Ryuan, I simply—”

How many times do I have to interrupt before he stops smiling?

“Look, it’s no secret that our CEO has nothing but utter disrespect for the midwife practice, and I know that I am a midwife who particularly sets him off. He’s used to having people kiss his ass—”

“Now I must interrupt you, ma’am. Perhaps some people court him. I am not one of them. My lack of, as you say, ass kissing has not hurt me.”

I tell him that I’d really like to continue this discussion, but I need to locate the patient, Valerina Gomez, whose twins’ births he just praised. I add that with the current missing baby crisis, nothing unusual can pass unnoticed.

“A wise objective on your part. However, I can put your mind at ease. I thought your patient would be better off in the Addiction Recovery Center. I suggested that to your man, Troy.”

I explode.

“Let’s start with this. Troy is not my man . He is a trusted and professional midwife. Further, you should not even have made that suggestion. It was not a wrong decision. But it was none of your business. It should have been my decision.”

The guy smiles at me. Yes, I could spit.

“Enough,” I say. “Now that you’ve put my mind at ease about Val, I’ve got to get over to Neonatal ICU and see how the second twin is doing.”

Sarkar takes a small step and moves to his side. He stands very close and directly opposite me. “There’s no need for you to go to the ICU,” he says.

“What have you done? Transferred Gomez Baby Number Two to another unit, the way you did with her mother?” I am all-out angry.

Then he hits me with it.

“Please, Ms. Ryuan. Listen to me. Your visit is unnecessary for the saddest of reasons. Gomez Baby Number Two died within minutes of being taken to Neonatal.”

“No!” I yell, and it takes a few seconds to realize that Rudi Sarkar is holding both my hands in his. Then I do what I can’t help but do. I begin to cry.