The Midwife's Confession. Diane Chamberlain

brown hair. Her cheeks were round and rosy, her eyebrows smudged pale crescents. She blinked her eyes open and looked at us blindly but with interest, as though she’d been waiting to see us as anxiously as we’d been waiting to see her, and I felt my own eyes fill at the miracle in my arms. I couldn’t tear my gaze from her, but Sam lifted his head to look at Noelle. She sat, a small smile on her lips, at the foot of the bed.

      “We’re going to name her Noelle,” he said.

      I looked up in time to see the smile leave her face. “Oh, no, you’re not.” She made it sound like a warning.

      “Yes,” I said. “We want to.”

      Even without my contacts, I could see the sudden rise of color in Noelle’s cheeks.

      “Please don’t,” she said. “Promise me you won’t saddle this child with my name.”

      “Okay,” Sam and I said together, quickly, because clearly we’d caused her distress. I didn’t understand. Did she hate her name? I’d always thought it was a pretty name, lyrical and strong. For whatever reason, though, the thought upset her. It didn’t matter. We’d pick another name, a beautiful name for our beautiful little daughter.

      Now, sitting in the church next to the daughter born that night, I remembered my closeness with that daughter. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. It had blossomed between us so easily in those early years. How did that closeness turn into this unbearable distance? Was there any hope of ever getting it back?

      6

       Emerson

      God, I felt like a zombie. The reception after the service was in my own house, but I could hardly find my way around the rooms. Faces and voices blended together into a jumble of sight and sound. Nearly everyone was wearing black except me. I had on my favorite green blouse and the green-and-tan floral skirt that was getting too tight in the waist. Just plucked them out of the closet that morning without thinking. Noelle would have hated all the black, anyway.

      I was only vaguely aware of what was happening: Jenny and Grace going upstairs to escape the adults; the caterer Tara’d hired floating through the rooms with trays of bruschetta and shrimp; Ted keeping an eye on me from wherever he was. He knew I was a wreck. I was glad that Noelle’s mother had left with her aide after the service. I didn’t think I could bear to see any more of her sorrow.

      Tara was doing her social-butterfly thing, but for the most part she stayed close to my side. Ted and Ian were holding their little plates and talking in the corner of the living room, probably about sports. I still hadn’t adjusted to seeing the guys together without Sam. Now Noelle was gone, too. Not only that, but my grandfather’s nursing home had called that morning to tell me they were moving my beloved grandpa into hospice. I was losing everyone. Nothing was going to feel right again for a long time.

      A few volunteers from Noelle’s babies program had come over. I knew most of them, though not well. I tried to make small talk with everyone, nodding, smiling, shaking hands. People said nice things about Noelle. Nobody said, “Why did she do it?” At least, not to me. They asked me how the café was doing and I answered with my usual “Great! Stop in sometime!” But I heard their voices and my own through a thick fog. I kept searching the room for the one person who was missing: Noelle. When I’d catch myself looking for her, my body would suddenly jerk back to reality. I was losing my mind.

      An hour into the reception—an hour that felt more like three—Tara finally pulled me away from a woman who was going on and on about knitting baby clothes. “Break time,” she said in my ear.

      I let her guide me through the living room and out to the sunroom we’d added on the year before. Tara took me by the shoulders and lowered me to the sofa, then plunked down on an ottoman in front of me. The voices from the living room were a hum through the closed sunroom door. They sounded wonderfully far away. I looked at Tara. “Thank you,” I said. “I was drowning out there.”

      Tara nodded. “I know. It’s hard.”

      I scrunched up my face. “I keep looking for Noelle,” I admitted. “That’s insane, isn’t it? I mean, seriously, I’m not joking. I keep expecting her to walk through the door.”

      “Me, too,” Tara said. “I still think I see Sam sometimes. I thought I saw him in the grocery store the other day. And there was a guy driving down Water Street and I almost turned the car around to follow him.”

      “I don’t get why there weren’t more people at the service,” I said. The turnout—or lack of turnout—hurt me. “I honestly thought there’d be … that every mother whose baby she delivered …” I shook my head. “You know the kind of relationship she had with her moms. That closeness. I thought they’d all come.”

      “I know.” Tara rubbed my hand where it rested on my thigh. “I thought the same thing, but maybe they didn’t see the article in the paper.” She’d written the piece about Noelle and she’d done a great job with it. A bit of melodrama in her description of Noelle, but that was Tara.

      “Word would have gotten around, though, article or not,” I said.

      “They’re probably so busy with their families,” Tara said.

      I suddenly pounded my fist on my thigh. “I just don’t understand why she did it!” I sounded like a broken record. “What did we miss? What did I miss? How did we fail her?”

      Tara shook her head. “I wish I knew.” She massaged her forehead. “It wasn’t financial trouble, right? She had that money socked away, so that couldn’t have been it.”

      “She didn’t give a damn about money, anyway,” I said. “You know that.”

      “I keep thinking maybe she was sick and didn’t tell us,” Tara said. “She didn’t have insurance and maybe suicide seemed like her only way out. Has the final autopsy report come back yet?”

      “Not yet. I don’t think she was sick, Tara, I really don’t. I’m sure the report’s going to show a massive dose of tranquilizers and narcotics and that’s it.”

      Tara leaned back on the ottoman. “She was terrible at asking for help,” she said.

      “Or showing weakness,” I added. “She always had to be the strong one.”

      The sunroom door opened a few inches and a woman poked her head into the room. “Is one of you Emerson?” she asked.

      “I am.” I wanted to get to my feet, but my body had other ideas and I stayed rooted to the sofa.

      The woman crossed the room like a drill sergeant, all sharp edges and quick movements, jutting her hand toward me for a shake. I actually recoiled. I felt like a balloon she could pop if I let her get too close. “I’m Gloria Massey,” she said. She was in her mid-sixties, with short, no-nonsense gray hair. Khaki pants. Navy blue blazer.

      Tara stood from the ottoman and offered it to her and the woman sat down in front of me, her knees pointy knobs beneath her pants. Gloria Massey. Her name was familiar, but God only knew why. I glanced at Tara, frowning, and I could tell she was trying to place her, too. Both our minds were mush. She seemed to figure that out.

      “I’m an obstetrician with Forest Glen Birth Center,” she said. “Noelle used to be a midwife in our practice.”

      “Oh, right.” I gestured toward Tara. “This is Tara Vincent. We were Noelle’s closest friends.”

      “Yes, I remember,” Gloria said. “You went to UNCW with her, right?”

      Tara nodded. “She was a few years ahead of us, but yes, we did.”

      “Well, I’m sorry to get here so late,” Gloria said. “I had a delivery this morning so I missed the service, but I wanted to be sure to see you two and tell you how sorry I was to hear about Noelle. She was one of a kind.”

      “Thank you,” I said.

      “I