Alison Roberts - Midwives On-Call

‘What?’ She had her hands on her hips now, glaring. He’d shocked her so much, all those years ago. She’d been totally gutted when Josh had been stillborn, devastated beyond belief. She’d curled into a tight ball of misery, she’d hardly been able to function, but when finally daylight had begun to filter through the blackness, she’d clung to what had seemed her only hope.

‘Oliver, let’s stop with the in-vitro stuff. It’s tearing me apart—it’s tearing us apart. Let’s try instead for adoption.’

But his reaction had stunned her.

‘Em, no.’ He’d said it gently but the words had been implacable. ‘I can’t guarantee to love a child who’s not my own. I won’t do that to a child.’

It had been a divide neither of them could cross. She had been so desperate for a child that she couldn’t accept his refusal to consider adoption—and Oliver had walked away rather than concede.

‘I love Gretta and so does Adrianna,’ she said now, forcing herself to stay calm. Forcing herself to put the hurt of years ago on the back burner. ‘So, moving on …’

‘Toby?’

And mentioning her son’s name was a sure way to defuse anger. Even saying his name made her smile.

‘Adrianna found Toby,’ she told him. ‘Or rather Adrianna helped Toby find us.’

‘Would you like to tell me about him?’

She’d prefer not to, actually. She was finding it disturbing on all sorts of levels to stand outside in the dusk with this man who’d once been her husband. But he had offered to take the children on Saturday, and she did need help. These last few months, with Gretta’s health deteriorating, had been taking their toll on Adrianna. This Saturday would be gold for both of them, she knew, and Oliver had offered.

Therefore she had to be courteous. She had to share.

She had to stand outside with him a moment longer, even though a part of her wanted to turn around and run.

Why?

It was how he made her feel. It was the way her body was responding. He’d been her husband. She’d thought she knew this man at the deepest, most primeval level—yet here he was, standing in the dusk asking polite questions about children he knew nothing about.

Her children.

‘Toby has multiple problems.’ Somehow she’d pulled herself together … sort of. ‘He’s African, as you can probably guess. He has scoliosis of the spine; his spine was so bent he looked deformed even when he was born, and his family abandoned him. One of the poorest families in the village took him in. His pseudo-mum did the best she could for him but he hadn’t been fed properly and he was already suffering from noma—a facial bacterial infection. She walked for three days to the nearest hospital to get him help—can you imagine that? But then, of course, she had to go back to her own family. But she’d fought for him first. One of the international aid agencies took on his case and brought him over here for facial reconstruction. So far he’s been through six operations. He’s doing great but …’

‘But you can’t keep him.’

She stilled. ‘Why not? The hospital social worker in charge of his case knew Adrianna and I were already fostering Gretta, and she took a chance, asking us if we’d be willing to take him on. Adrianna did all the paperwork. Mum drove this, but we both want it. Theoretically he’s supposed to go home when he’s been treated. We’re still in touch with his African foster-mum but she’s so poor and she’s very happy that he stays here. So in practice we’re fighting tooth and nail to keep him.’

‘Em, for heaven’s sake …’ He sounded appalled. ‘You can’t look after the world’s waifs and strays. There are too many.’

‘I can look after the ones I love,’ she threw back at him, and tilted her chin. Defiant. She knew this argument—and here it came.

‘You can’t love him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s not your kid.’

‘Then whose kid is he? The woman who bore him? The woman who walked for three days to save him but can’t afford to feed him? Or Mum and me, who’ll do our damnedest to keep him healthy and safe?’

‘Em …’ He raked his hair, a gesture she knew all too well. ‘To take two kids like Gretta and Toby … A kid who’ll die and a kid you might lose. They’ll break your heart.’

‘You just said I can’t love them. You can’t have it both ways, Oliver.’

‘Is this what you wanted me to do? Adopt the kids the world’s abandoned?’

‘I don’t think I expected anything of you,’ she managed, and was inordinately proud of how calm she sounded. ‘At the end of our marriage all I could see was what I needed. I know that sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but it’s what I desperately wanted. Despite loving you I couldn’t stop that wanting. You always knew I wanted a family. I’m a midwife, and I’m a midwife because watching babies come into the world is what I love most. I’d dreamed we could have our own family …’

‘And when that didn’t happen you walked away.’

‘As I remember it, you walked.’

‘Because it’s not fair for me to adopt. These kids need their own parents.’

‘They don’t have them. Are you saying second best is worse than nothing?’

‘They’ll know … that they’re second best.’

‘Oliver, just because that happened to you …’

And she watched his face close, just like that.

He didn’t talk about it, she thought. He’d never talked about it but she’d guessed.

She thought, fleetingly, of her in-laws, of Oliver’s adoptive parents. But she had to think fleetingly because thinking any more made her so angry she could spit.

She only knew the bare bones but it was enough. She could infer the rest. They’d had trouble conceiving so they’d adopted Oliver. Then, five years later, they’d conceived naturally and their own son had been born.

Oliver never talked about it—never would talk about it—but she’d seen the family in action. Brett was five years younger than Oliver, a spoiled brat when Em had first met him and now an obnoxious, conceited young man who thought the world owed him a living.

But his parents thought the sun shone from him, and it seemed to Em that they’d spent their lives comparing their two sons, finding fault with Oliver and setting Brett on a pedestal.

Even at their wedding …

‘He’s done very well for himself,’ Em had overheard his adoptive mother tell an aunt. ‘Considering where he comes from. We’ve done what we could, but still … I know he’s managed to get himself qualified as a doctor but … His mother was a whore, you know, and we can never forget that. Thank God we have Brett.’

It had been as much as Em could do not to front the woman and slap her. It wouldn’t have been a good look on her wedding day—bride smacks mother-in-law—but she’d come awfully close. But Oliver had never talked of it.

It was only when the adoption thing had come up when Josh had died that the ghosts had come from nowhere. And she couldn’t fight them, for Oliver wouldn’t speak of them.

‘Oliver, we’re doing our best,’ she told him now, gentling, reminding herself that it was his ghosts talking, not him. She knew it was his ghosts, but she’d never been allowed close enough to fight them. ‘Mum and I are loving these kids to bits. We’re doing all we possibly can …’

‘It won’t be enough.’

‘Maybe it won’t.’ She was suddenly bone weary again. Understanding could only go so far. ‘But we’re trying the best that we can. We’ll give these kids our hearts, and if that’s not enough to let them thrive then we’ll be incredibly sad but we won’t be regretful. We have love to give and we’re giving it. We’re trying, whereas you … You lacked courage to even think about it. “No adoptions,” you said, end of story. I know your background. I know how hard it was for you to be raised with Brett but your parents were dumb and cruel. The whole world doesn’t have to be like that.’