The placenta delivered intact. There was a tiny tear in the perineum, but it wouldn’t need even one stitch.
“Rectal tear?” Carline asked.
“No.” I felt Molly’s belly, checking that the top of her uterus was where it should be. She had hardly any bleeding, and the baby was already rooting around for a snack. I slid the blood pressure cuff on Molly’s arm and checked it: 117/72. Perfection.
Jane came back in. “Did I hear a baby in here?” she said in her customary postpartum greeting. “Oh, my goodness, look at that gorgeous little cutie-pie! She’s beautiful! Do you have a name picked out?”
“Clara,” Molly said, beaming up at her. “Clara Eloise Grady.”
I smiled. I did like the classic names. So far this year, I’d met two Rivers, a Maxton and a Kerrett. （Kerrett? Come on, parents.）
With Jane there, I tossed my gloves, took off my gown and went to the door, where Dr. Schneider stood, frowning. “Can I help you with something, Carline?” I asked, pulling her by the arm into the hall and closing the door behind me.
She looked like she smelled a rotten fish. “How much fetal head molding is there?”
“None. She pushed for less than fifteen minutes. No tearing, no rupture, no PPH.”
“This time. Don’t curse yourself.” She paused. “Is she going to eat the placenta or bury it in her front yard or whatever you earth mother witches do?”
“I would appreciate you laying off the negativity when I have a client in labor. ACOG recommended against routine episiotomies fifteen years ago,” I said, hoping the mention of the governing body of ob-gyns would affect her, since my opinion wouldn’t. “There was no reason for you to offer one, or even suggest it. It was almost like you were hoping something would go wrong.”
“What? Why would you think that? You midwives—sorry, nurse-midwives—are so sensitive.”
Do not mess with me, Carline. I am not in the mood these days. “You implied that she was too tired, in too much pain, not progressing fast enough, needed an episiotomy and had a rectal tear. None of those things was true. When I’m the midwife, I’ll let you know if you’re needed. Okay? Thank you.”
Then I went back in and closed the door behind me. One look at Molly’s blissful face, and the irritation with Dr. Schneider disappeared.
A healthy baby. A normal vaginal delivery without the need for intervention or medication.
Miraculous. Every single time.
* * *
Much to my surprise, I drove to Hannah’s house after I left the hospital. It was six o’clock, Dylan was having his last night out with his friends before he left for college the day after tomorrow, and I didn’t want to go home and steep in hatred. Might as well kill some time. Beth would know something was wrong. Plus, it was August. The Ice House would be packed.
I pulled into the driveway of Hannah Chapman Events. My sister lived on Wellfleet’s Main Street in a beautiful old Victorian. The first floor was for her business; she and Thomasina, her cat, lived on the second and third floors, and had my entire adult life. She had a beautiful patio in the back, bursting with color. Love of gardening was one of the few things we shared.
Right after graduating from college, Hannah had moved back to the Cape and begun working for a florist, which confused everyone . . . she had degrees in economics and psychology from Bates College. Then, two years later, she bought the woman out, changed her last name to Chapman （Dad was horrified, but at least she took the name of his boat）， and opened Hannah Chapman Events. She’d always been a great dresser, thanks to our stepmother, and now that sense of style was put to use in her business. Beatrice advised and helped, making them closer than ever, and when I came back to the Cape, newly married and pregnant, Hannah was fully ensconced in her work.
She quickly became the most sought-after wedding planner on the Cape and islands. Hannah didn’t touch a wedding that didn’t have a budget of at least six figures and often handled weddings that cost a million or more. Her professional life revolved around excess and materialism, high-maintenance brides and . . . well, greed. Showmanship. Wealth. All for a day （or a weekend）。
My professional life revolved around bringing humans into the world and taking care of women’s health. You can see we didn’t have much in common.
But once, a long, long time ago, I had worshipped her.
The best part of my childhood was ages zero to eight, back when I was innocent and happy. Hannah and I would play outside, climbing trees, jumping off the tippy old dock into the cool, perfect water of Herring Pond. We were free-range kids, allowed to roam wherever we wanted. Every path, every trail and every tiny beach were ours. We were the princesses of the forest.