The Midwife's Confession

“Did you find out something about Noelle? Something about her baby?”

“I don’t want to get into it over the phone. I just…oh, my God, Tara.”

“What?”

“Henry’s at six, okay? I really… This will have to stay between the two of us.”

She didn’t sound at all like herself and she was starting to scare me. “Are you sick?” I felt panicky at the thought of losing someone else I loved.

“No, I’m fine,” she said. “Is six okay?”

“Fine,” I said. I hung up the phone, worried. She isn’t sick and nobody died, I told myself as I flipped my phone shut and returned it to my purse. Whatever it was, then, I could handle it.

15

Emerson

Henry’s was as familiar to me as my own living room. It always had this sort of amber glow inside. Something to do with the woodwork and the lighting and the mocha-colored leather seats in the booths. It usually comforted me, that space, but it would take a lot more than that to comfort me tonight.

I spotted Tara sitting near the window in the booth we always claimed as ours. “It should have a plaque with the Galloway Girls on it,” Tara said once, back when we were really good about getting together every week. Before life got in the way.

Tara stood to give me an unsmiling hug. She knew something serious was up.

Our waitress took our drink orders and since we knew the menu by heart, we ordered our meals at the same time. Tara wanted steak and a baked potato, and I ordered a house salad. I hadn’t been able to eat much of anything since discovering the letter and I doubted I’d be able to get through the salad, either. I was sure, though, that I could make quick work of a glass of white wine.

“That’s all you’re having?” Tara asked.

“Don’t have much of an appetite,” I said. “I’m glad to see yours is back to normal, though.” I tried to smile. Tara had always been one of those women who could eat what ever she wanted and not gain an ounce. After Sam’s death, though, she became almost skeletal. Noelle and I had worried about her.

“There is no normal for me anymore,” Tara said, and I thought about the bombshell I had in my purse. In a few minutes, there would be no normal for either of us. I felt my eyes begin to tear and even in the low amber light, Tara noticed.

“Sweetie.” She reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “What is it? Is it your grandfather?”

“No.” I pulled in a long breath. Well, I thought, this is it.

“I found something at Noelle’s house.”

The waitress set a glass of white wine in front of me and a red in front of Tara. I took a huge gulp while Tara waited for me to continue. My head already felt light.

“There was a box of letters…mostly thank-you cards and that sort of thing from patients and…just miscellaneous things.” I tapped my fingertips on the table. My hand was shaking. “I read through them all,” I said. “I just had to. I wanted to feel close to her, you know?”

“I know,” Tara said. Of course she understood. She told me that after Sam died she read some boring legal briefs he’d written just to feel connected to him.

“Anyway, I found these two letters.” My palms were damp as I reached into my purse. I’d folded the two sheets in half. Now I unfolded them, the peach-colored stationery with its brief handwritten message on top. “They’re from Noelle, not to her. This one’s just one line.” I smoothed my fingers over the paper and leaned closer to Tara. “‘Dear Anna,’” I read, “‘I’ve started this letter so many times and here I am, starting it again with no idea how to tell you…’”

“Who is Anna?” Tara asked. We were both leaning so far across the table that our heads were nearly touching.

“I don’t know.” I took another swallow of wine. “But I do know what Noelle wanted to say, though I still can’t believe it.” I slipped the sheet of peach stationery beneath the white sheet. “Here’s the second letter,” I said. “She obviously wrote this one on her computer and printed it, but it’s unfinished and I just have no idea—”

“Read it,” Tara interrupted me.

“It’s dated July 8, 2003,” I said. Then I began reading, my voice close to a whisper.“Dear Anna,“I read an article mentioning you in the paper and knew I had to write to you. What I have to tell you is difficult to write, but I know it will be far more difficult for you to hear, and I’m so sorry. I’m a midwife, or at least I used to be.“Years ago, I was taking painkillers for a back injury, which must have affected my balance as well as my judgment. I accidentally dropped a newborn baby, who died instantly. I panicked and wasn’t thinking straight. I took a similar-looking infant from the hospital where I had privileges to substitute for the baby I killed. I hate to use that word. It was a horrible accident.“I realize now the baby I took was your baby. I’m terribly sorry for what I put you through. I want you to know, though, that your daughter has extraordinary parents and is loved and…”

I looked up at Tara, whose eyes were wide. “That’s it,” I said. “That’s all she wrote.”

PART TWO

ANNA

16

Anna

Alexandria, Virginia

I could kiss my daughter goodbye in the morning, and it could be the last kiss I ever gave her. So every time I left for work, every time I sent her off with friends, I embraced Haley as if it might be the last time. She never balked, although I knew that day was coming. She was twelve, rapidly pushing thirteen, and someday soon she would say, “Mom, just go.” That would be okay. I wanted Haley to live long enough to rebel and say, “I hate you!” in the healthy, normal war dance of mothers and daughters all over the planet. So when she left the house with Bryan, slipping on her helmet and forgetting to say goodbye to