“You don’t . . . you don’t schedule cesareans, do you?” she asked.
“Not unless there’s a reason to,” I said. “If the baby’s breech and we can’t get it to turn, we do, or if the baby is so big that we’re concerned it won’t make it past the pubic bone. Otherwise, it’s for emergencies only. Both mother and baby do best that way in almost every case.”
She nodded glumly.
“Are you taking childbirth classes at the hospital?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because I think the whole thing is absolutely disgusting, and I don’t want to know more than I have to, and . . . and because I’m . . . scared.” Those green eyes welled again.
Again, my heart squeezed in sympathy. “I think you’d be less scared and less grossed out if you knew more, Melissa. It’s the most amazing process a body can experience.”
“I’ve seen some videos on YouTube,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s horrifying.”
Those were the videos I watched to feel good about humanity. “Come on, now. It’s nature at its finest,” I said. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Your body will know what to do.” I hesitated, then added, “You have my number.”
“I do?”
“I called you when Ophelia was at my house.”
“Oh, right.”
“Call me or Wanda if you have questions, okay? We’re always available. You can get dressed now.” I gave her a professional smile and turned to the door.
“Do you hate me?” she asked suddenly.
I froze. Turned around and looked at her.
“I did,” I answered. “Sure. But it’s hard for me to hate a pregnant woman.”
“If we weren’t in this office, and I wasn’t pregnant, you would hate me, though?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Melissa. Last year at this time, I thought my family was rock solid. You and Brad . . . you broke that. The three of us will never be together the same way again. All of our family traditions, not to mention the future we’d planned. My son has to deal with this huge swerve. I loved Brad’s parents like they were my own. More than my own. Neither of you cared about that. Obviously, I have feelings about it.”
She nodded and swallowed. “When my sister came to take Ophelia back, I was . . . terrified. I didn’t really know how much I loved Phee till I thought she’d be taken away from me. So . . . I guess I can relate.”
“Ophelia seems glad to be staying here,” I said.
Melissa looked down, her silky blond hair （not quite so blond, now that she couldn’t color it） swinging forward. “It probably doesn’t mean much,” she whispered, “but I’m sorry.”
We looked at each other a minute. She really was beautiful, even with the blotchy skin, red eyes and double chin. “Thank you for that,” I said. “Good luck with the rest of your pregnancy. I’ll make sure Wanda sees your notes.” I opened the door, then looked back. “You can do this, Melissa. Give birth. Take care of a baby. You know more than you think.”
And then I left, hoping never to see her in the office again.
Wanda came in a half hour later, her cheeks glowing from exertion, and I updated her on Melissa. “You’re a better woman than I am,” she said. “Second time seeing your husband’s pregnant wife? Carol, let’s find a medal to give Lillie, okay?”
“I’m actually fine with martinis,” I said.
“Carol, schedule drinks this week for the three of us,” Wanda amended, flashing her smile. “Make it dinner. Someone’s birthday is next week.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Forty-two.”
“What a sexy age,” said Carol. “Forty-two. Enjoy it before you hit menopause, Lillie.”
The rest of the day was fast and busy and satisfying. We’d seen thirteen patients by the end of the day, and Wanda and Carol and I sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, talking about who would need what in the coming week. No babies were due this week or next, so we didn’t expect any late-night calls, which was convenient, because my family was taking me out for an early birthday dinner, since Hannah would be at a wedding planners’ conference on my actual day.
My birthday was one of the traditions Melissa and Brad had broken—we’d always had a big dinner at Vanessa and Charles’s house in Orleans, which made my mother seethe （not that she offered, mind you）。 It would be the first birthday in twenty years without Brad and his parents, the first birthday dinner Dylan wouldn’t be able to attend, the first birthday without Beatrice. I’d written her a letter last week, missing her a bit. It was nice to be able to tell her that. Maybe Beatrice and I had more of a bond than I’d ever admitted before.