Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

“Great, so am I,” I say. “In fact, I think I’ll pay a visit later to this in-house police unit.”

“They don’t know what they’re in for,” Sarkar says with a smile.

I begin to walk away and he calls after me, “Lucy. Speaking of paying a visit, is it okay if I pop by your office later? I have a little favor to ask.”

“Pop away, Rudi. I’m around all day,” I say. “Unless Dr. Katz fires me before then.”

“I hope not, Lucy,” he says. “We need you around here.”

CHAPTER 10

MOST PEOPLE HAVE A good idea of what midwives do. We help deliver babies. But that is only a very small part of the story. Sure, maybe it’s the most dramatic part, maybe even the most important part, but about 20 percent of our time is spent helping bring babies into the world. And we don’t spend the rest of the time waiting around for our moms to go into labor.

So what else do we do? We help women in many other ways, at every stage of their lives. Lots of women find us for prenatal care, but others come for urinary-tract infections, Pap smears, breast exams, IUD fittings—any traditional gynecological procedures. Some pregnant women come to discuss drug abuse, alcohol abuse, physical abuse. In our hospital, we get plenty of those. It’s challenging, but in a weird way it’s rewarding. A lot of women, especially the young ones and the ones with addiction problems, are scared about taking their baby home. So we talk, and we’re never in a hurry. I’ll listen to them until they’re talked out.

I’ve dealt with abused women, and I’ve dealt with couples who come to every appointment together. I’ve helped poor women find the right social services, and I’ve worked with two famous actresses, two famous authors, and a circus performer who makes her living as a bareback rider. (In her sixth month of pregnancy, she switched to being a clown.)

Today I’ve got a classy Upper East Side gal, as if where you’re from makes anything different in giving birth. This woman, one of my overeducated pregnant patients, is here to discuss the torment of a cyst on her ovary. I know that an ovarian cyst during pregnancy is one of life’s extraordinary tortures. I am truly sympathetic. But there’s not a lot I can do to help. Telling her to feast on binge-worthy TV episodes doesn’t seem like much of a help. I can almost actually feel the woman’s pain.

Sheila Gross talks with tears in her eyes. That’s how much it hurts. “It’s like I swallowed a razor blade. It’s got to be more than a cyst, Lucy. I know it is. I think it’s probably kidney cancer. I was on the internet …”

Ah. The magical phrases: I was on the internet and I was on WebMD and My cousin told her gynecologist about it .

I hold Sheila’s hand. “Listen. I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. It’s a cyst. We have the x-rays to prove it. Yes, it’s just about the most painful thing that can happen during a pregnancy, except for the birth itself. But there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. You could take Tylenol, but that won’t help a whole lot. And it’s actually better that you don’t. Now, eventually—”

Sheila interrupts. “It’s kidney cancer. I don’t want to sound like a crazy lady, but I’m really sure.”

“No. It’s not kidney cancer.”

“I’m sure that it’s kidney cancer. The pain in the back, right where the kidneys are …”

Okay. It’s time to play tough. “Stop it. It is not kidney cancer. It’s a cyst. It’s excruciating. All I can give you for it is my sympathy. And my sympathy is real.”

Five minutes later, Sheila says that she understands, but I know she doesn’t believe me. Or at the very least she thinks I’ve misdiagnosed her. I have to face it. Sheila’s going to spend the rest of her life believing that she had kidney cancer and that it miraculously disappeared after she gave birth.

Funny how arrogant people always think they’re smart people.

By lunchtime, I realize how hungry I am. I had no breakfast. I should eat an apple, a few whole-grain crackers, and a salad with just a disgusting, unsatisfying dash of red wine vinegar.

“Never balsamic vinegar,” Tracy Anne always reminds me. “That has a ton of sugar in it.”

I think it over carefully and then decide I will go down to the cafeteria and pick up a frosted doughnut, a bag of Fritos, and a special Lucy Ryuan dipping sauce: mayo, ketchup, mustard, and extra salt. As I’m convincing myself that I’ve worked hard enough to have such a deliciously stupid lunch, there is a knock on the door. Before I can say “Come in,” the door opens.

It’s Sarkar, of course. I had actually forgotten that he said he might come by.

He smiles. He speaks. “Is this the right office for my internal exam?”

“No,” I say. “We’re only doing bleeding hemorrhoids today. Come in and bend over.”

He laughs. I think I’ve used that joke only a thousand times.

“I am here to beg for my favor,” he says.

For this favor-asking visit, Sarkar has ditched his white coat. He’s spruced up quite a bit. He wears a blue linen blazer with slightly pegged gray khakis. Okay, there’s no point in lying to myself: he looks pretty good. Not hot, just pretty good.

“Hit me with the favor request,” I say.

“I have a patient who is near-term. You may have heard of her. Greta Moss.”

Heard of her? After Melania Trump, Greta Moss is quite simply the most famous model in the world. As a mainstream celebrity, she ranks somewhere between Beyoncé and Jennifer Lawrence on sites like TMZ, Dlisted, and People.com. Greta has fifteen million followers on Twitter, because, after all, what woman doesn’t want to know what kind of two-hundred-dollar seaweed-based cleansing cream should be used to remove your three-hundred-dollar Provençal organic avocado foundation?

“Yes, I think I’ve heard of her,” I say casually. Then, as if I wasn’t sure, I casually ask, “She’s married to that football player guy, right? Plays for the Bears.”

“Hank Waldren. He’s a wide receiver for the Giants.”

Not only is Waldren the male equivalent of his wife in the ridiculously good looks department, but also those hands … only Michelangelo could have sculpted them. Well, he is a wide receiver.

“Anyway,” Sarkar says. “Here comes the favor request. Greta Moss has suddenly decided that she wants to deliver with a midwife, not an ob-gyn. She told me that she wants her baby to be born the way she herself was born: on a kitchen table in Copenhagen.”

“We’re all out of kitchen tables,” I say. “And look out the window. It sure isn’t Copenhagen out there.”

“Come on, Lucy. Please. Greta really wants this,” he says. “And I think the publicity for the hospital, for you, for the midwives, would be great.”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but it would not be good for my schedule or Troy’s schedule or Tracy Anne’s schedule. We are booked solid. When is Greta Moss due?”

“Any moment,” he says.

“As in any moment, even this very moment?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Forget it,” I say. “It can’t be done.” I’m also thinking, Damn it, this guy thinks he can waltz in here, ask for a favor, and I’ll do it. He thinks that just because he’s charming and just because I’m a midwife that—

A knock on the door. Tracy Anne’s head appears.

“Katra Kovac has gone into labor. Birthing room 3,” she says.

Rudi Sarkar squints his eyes in a fake-funny evil pose. “Did you have your colleague poised to come in here to show me just how busy you are?”

“Sure. Tracy Anne was listening at the door. There’s really no Katra Kovac. There’s really no scared, unmarried seventeen-year-old girl who’s going to give birth. No, there are only big shots like Greta Moss and Hank Waldren. Sorry, Rudi.”