Maybe he sensed that I was a little terrified of what life would be like without our boy living with us.
How thoughtful. And talk about perfect timing! I’d originally been waiting till after graduation to tell my husband about the big surprise. As a reward for raising a child into adulthood and sending him off to college—and to have something exciting and different to look forward to—I’d booked us a trip. In April, sensing Brad was getting a case of the blues （as I was）， I’d decided we should take a vacation, just the two of us, something we hadn’t done since our honeymoon, aside from the very occasional weekend away. I spent hours and hours on travel sites, looking for the best hotels, restaurants, cheap flights, special offers, upgrade possibilities.
Venice for three days, a train ride into the Swiss mountains, where we’d stay at a beautiful hotel on a lake, then five days in Paris, where Brad had always wanted to go. A trip to begin this new chapter of our lives and take the sting of our son’s absence away.
Dylan would be out with his friends tonight, so he wouldn’t miss us. He was the very best of kids—a football player who viewed his body as a temple and all that. Drinking and drugs could seriously screw up his place at the University of Montana. Also, the dangers of drinking, drugs, unprotected sex （and saturated fats） had been drilled into him since his conception. His mommy was a healthcare professional, after all.
When I got home from work that night, I shaved my legs and washed my hair, conditioned it so I wouldn’t break the hairbrush—I took after my Portuguese ancestors with thick, coarse black hair. Last year, I’d found a few white strands, too, but hey. Well-earned, right? After I dried off and put on some lipstick and mascara, I decided I was gorgeous and Brad was a lucky man. Then again, he was damn good looking, too, just a little gray in his blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, his aqua-blue eyes framed by glasses. He had movie star eyes, Beth liked to tell me. Almost too blue to be real.
I put on a cute summer dress and pulled my long hair into a side ponytail. Earrings, perfume, strappy sandals. Texted my patient Ciara, who was at thirty-eight weeks and felt like the baby had dropped. How are you feeling, goddess? Anything changed?
No, but she just punched me pretty good in the side, and I saw her knuckles, Lillie! So amazing!
You’re growing a human, I texted back. YOU are amazing. Have a great night, and call me with any changes.
Being a midwife was like being someone’s best friend for an entire year, from the first obstetrical visit—sometimes before, if they come to you for fertility or other issues—to the three-month follow-up. The thrill, the responsibility, the honor of guiding the mama through her pregnancy, birth and postnatal care, not to mention any other female issues she might have in her lifetime . . . it was like nothing else. Ciara was a primipara—this was her first pregnancy—and she was in awe of the whole process, as she should be.
Smiling, I went into the front hall, where my husband was waiting. “You look gorgeous,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” he said, looking up from his phone. “Take a sweater in case it gets chilly.”
“Good idea.” He was right . . . spring nights could be wicked cold on the Cape, and P-town, the narrowest part of our little peninsula, always had a breeze off the water. I grabbed a blue sweater from my bureau.
As we closed the front door behind us, I stopped to check the swallows that had made a home against the beam and ceiling of our porch. They’d been delightfully noisy the past few days, especially when Mama Bird came to feed them.
“Hello, babies,” I said, peeking at their little bald heads. From the nearby lilac, the mama bird chirped, reassuring them that I was good people.
“Let’s go, Lillie,” Brad said, waiting at the top of the stairs that led to our driveway. He didn’t love the birds the way I did, and he often startled when coming in, since Mama Swallow was territorial. Me, on the other hand . . . I was a bird lover. I’d grown up in this very house, on this land, and I could identify every bird that graced us by their call and markings. Swallows were favorites of mine, swooping on the water, tails spread in their graceful arc. Plus, they were lucky. They represented a happy home . . . and, if you were feeling morbid, the soul of someone who died. My vov?, I liked to think, because I had adored my grandfather, and he was the one who’d built this house back in the fifties.
“Bye, babies. Sleep tight,” I said, then followed my husband down the walk.
In the car, I texted Dylan that we were going to Pepe’s for dinner and I hoped he was having fun. Ended it with a heart emoji, because I couldn’t help myself.