Margot Early - Talking About My Baby

“What law?” But Tara knew. Midwives would no longer be required to qualify as nurses. Instead, they’d have to verify that they’d attended a certain number of live births and take a test... “Oh, I know about it.” Just as she knew there were eight or nine different titles for midwives, titles with little meaning to the consumer. Professionally, she was direct-entry, meaning she’d come into midwifery without pursuing nursing school. By choice, she held no credentials.

As far as Tara was concerned, midwife would do.

Matrona.

“As of January, you can be licensed. It’s just a matter of paperwork and passing the test.”

“We’ve covered this one, Mom. No test, no certification. Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry...”

“Why not? Tara, the certification process will be nothing to you.”

“This isn’t about me. Birth is a natural process, and women should be able to have their babies however and with absolutely whomever they choose. That is a basic human right, and that is why I’ll never certify—to uphold that right. Not my rights. The rights of mothers and fathers who want homebirths. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists is out to take away their rights.”

“Becoming licensed won’t keep you from homebirths.”

“You want me to go on? We could talk about how, in some states, CNMs can’t attend homebirths and licensed midwives can, and how Colorado is becoming one of those states—”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you.” Francesca was a certified nurse-midwife. “And no one’s asked you to become a CNM.”

“Okay, me. I’m against regulating midwifery. Word of mouth is the best regulation there is. Word of mouth and community, something this country needs to relearn.”

Francesca kept her voice even. “I can’t let you do homebirths out of this house, Tara, or under my business name. It compromises my reputation, my position in this community. And I refuse to risk your going to jail when you have that child to raise.”

“Ah, we’re getting somewhere,” Tara told Laura. “She admits you’re mine.”

Francesca sighed.

She might as well have said, You’re just like your father, which Tara had always known wasn’t really an insult, just something to be accepted. Like her parents’ divorce, her father’s desertions.

“Tara, I don’t see how you can legally adopt her. You’re single. You’re poor. You’re unemployed—”

“And I’ve just moved to the perfect place for finding a rich husband.” She tried to banish Isaac McCrea from her mind. Isaac and his family, their cats and their mice.

Francesca looked thoughtful. “I suppose if you fell in love with the right man, the two of you could adopt. -Not that I’d favor marrying for money—”

The phone rang.

Millie Rand was due. This must be it.

“A birth,” exclaimed Tara. All thoughts of marriage and adoption fled. While Francesca answered the phone, Tara gathered up Laura and filled a new bag for the feeder. She would accompany her mother to the hospital, though she wouldn’t be allowed to assist as a midwife—with or without certification. But she could help in other ways. She eavesdropped on the conversation, and when Francesca got off the phone, Tara said, “Fill me in. I’m coming along.”

Her mother’s lips pressed shut. Shaking her head with a rueful smile, she held Tara’s head between her hands and said, “When are you going to make things easier?”

“That’s why I’m here, Mom!”

Her mother’s sigh could have reached the back of a stadium.

FRANCESCA’S CLIENT AND her family hadn’t yet arrived when Tara and her mother reached the hospital’s small labor and delivery suite. Francesca and Tara and Ivy, her sister, had provided the toys and books for the children’s corner with the help of former clients whose children had outgrown the toys.

Laura was restless, so Tara walked her through the hospital. Isaac McCrea rounded a corner from the cafeteria, and they both started, between giant oil paintings of elk in the aspens.

“Hello, Tara.” Uncomfortable, Isaac recalled Tara’s visit to the chalet—as he had every hour since she’d left.

“I hope your emergency had a good outcome.”

His emergency had been a battered wife. He and two ER nurses had talked her into going to the shelter in Montrose. It had taken four hours. Danielle, who’d begged to come to the hospital with him, was asleep on the floor of the playroom on the maternity unit; the boys were at home. He’d been about to collect his daughter, but suddenly he was in no hurry.

He nodded ambiguously as his brother, Dan, paused beside him in the hallway.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s back.”

Tara held Laura toward Isaac. “Help me out, doc.”

A second later, he was holding the infant while Tara embraced Dan, exclaiming, “Hi, Dr. McCrea! The other Dr. McCrea,” she added, beaming as though at a long-lost friend.

Better friends than enemies, Tara told herself. If her sister, Ivy, had been there, Ivy would have accused her of insincerity. Tara and Dan weren’t friends; friendly adversaries was the best you could call it. But Tara believed you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. The midwives and Dan McCrea had often clashed over a patient’s care; no doubt it would happen again tonight, at Millie Rand’s birth.

Dan eyed the baby in Isaac’s arms and addressed Tara. “Surely, that’s not yours?” His gaze swept up and down her body.

Subduing an inner twinge of hurt, rising to it, Tara grinned. “Surely, you’re not implying that it couldn’t be.”

“No one would imply that,” Isaac cut in—and wished he hadn’t.

Tara’s expression was...mollified. He wanted her in a purely physical way; every man she met must want her. He couldn’t forget about her nursing that child who wasn’t hers. He couldn’t forget her.

Tara saw a pregnant woman passing in the hall, her hand linked through her husband’s arm. Was that Francesca’s client? Trembling, she reached for Laura, carefully taking the infant from Isaac’s arms.

It felt more intimate to him than it should.

“Thanks, doc. I’d better go.”

Dan’s eyes had followed Tara’s—then drifted to her ass. “In that case, I better go, too, to oversee this delivery.”

“My mother will have this labor and delivery well under control.”

“But I love to watch you in action.”

Isaac’s throat knotted. His brother’s girlfriend of five years had moved out last winter. Still, the word “unprofessional” came to mind.

She invited it She can deal with it.

Yet the situation violated some sanctity of mother and child—woman and child. Tara held that infant like it was her own. Checking the baby’s face, tucking the blanket around her, her own eyes so involved in the child. Vulnerable.

“You know, I’m hungry,” she murmured. “I think I’ll get something to eat.” She started in Isaac’s direction, toward the cafeteria, then tossed a glance at his brother. “Join me?”

A wolf smile creased Dan’s face. “I think I can spare the time.”

They like each other. Fine. Isaac was glad to write her off.

Then she said, “And you?”

“Sure.” So much for writing her off, Isaac.

Now, Dan was looking him up and down. “Damn, you’re tall.”

They loaded their trays scantily, no one genuinely hungry, and found a table at the side of the room. Realizing they’d forgotten napkins, Isaac went after them, and Dan smiled at Tara over a cup of coffee. “You know and I know that you’re really trying to keep me out of the delivery room.”

“The birthing suite.” Tara tried some iceberg lettuce, the hospital’s finest. “Whatever gave you that idea?”