Talking About My Baby. Margot Early

Tara embraced Dan, exclaiming, “Hi, Dr. McCrea! The other Dr. McCrea,” she added, beaming as though at a long-lost friend.

      Better friends than enemies, Tara told herself. If her sister, Ivy, had been there, Ivy would have accused her of insincerity. Tara and Dan weren’t friends; friendly adversaries was the best you could call it. But Tara believed you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. The midwives and Dan McCrea had often clashed over a patient’s care; no doubt it would happen again tonight, at Millie Rand’s birth.

      Dan eyed the baby in Isaac’s arms and addressed Tara. “Surely, that’s not yours?” His gaze swept up and down her body.

      Subduing an inner twinge of hurt, rising to it, Tara grinned. “Surely, you’re not implying that it couldn’t be.”

      “No one would imply that,” Isaac cut in—and wished he hadn’t.

      Tara’s expression was...mollified. He wanted her in a purely physical way; every man she met must want her. He couldn’t forget about her nursing that child who wasn’t hers. He couldn’t forget her.

      Tara saw a pregnant woman passing in the hall, her hand linked through her husband’s arm. Was that Francesca’s client? Trembling, she reached for Laura, carefully taking the infant from Isaac’s arms.

      It felt more intimate to him than it should.

      “Thanks, doc. I’d better go.”

      Dan’s eyes had followed Tara’s—then drifted to her ass. “In that case, I better go, too, to oversee this delivery.”

      “My mother will have this labor and delivery well under control.”

      “But I love to watch you in action.”

      Isaac’s throat knotted. His brother’s girlfriend of five years had moved out last winter. Still, the word “unprofessional” came to mind.

      She invited it She can deal with it.

      Yet the situation violated some sanctity of mother and child—woman and child. Tara held that infant like it was her own. Checking the baby’s face, tucking the blanket around her, her own eyes so involved in the child. Vulnerable.

      “You know, I’m hungry,” she murmured. “I think I’ll get something to eat.” She started in Isaac’s direction, toward the cafeteria, then tossed a glance at his brother. “Join me?”

      A wolf smile creased Dan’s face. “I think I can spare the time.”

      They like each other. Fine. Isaac was glad to write her off.

      Then she said, “And you?”

      “Sure.” So much for writing her off, Isaac.

      Now, Dan was looking him up and down. “Damn, you’re tall.”

      They loaded their trays scantily, no one genuinely hungry, and found a table at the side of the room. Realizing they’d forgotten napkins, Isaac went after them, and Dan smiled at Tara over a cup of coffee. “You know and I know that you’re really trying to keep me out of the delivery room.”

      “The birthing suite.” Tara tried some iceberg lettuce, the hospital’s finest. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

      “You’re going to fail. You know your problem, Tara? And I mean you and—” with his fingers, he indicated quotation marks “—‘midwives’ like you. Everything is black and white.”

      As her jaw dropped, Isaac returned to the table. When he sat down, his leg touched hers, and they both scooted back their chairs.

      “In your eyes,” Dan continued, “all obstetricians are bad, and we all want to burn you alive. This isn’t the Dark Ages. You’re the ones who want to stay in the dark. Why won’t you let us guide you instead? What gets you so riled up about technology?”

      Tara felt sweat droplets gathering on her forehead. Birth was sacred. What could she say about a roomful of people staring at the Broncos instead of a woman having a baby right before their eyes? How could she make Daniel McCrea, M.D., see the difference between a vibrant, powerful woman, laboring beautifully in the peace of her own home, and a woman on an epidural, plodding indifferently through the birth of her child? These were the images she saw. And others—from her time in a Chilean hospital. In Chile, like the U.S., traditional midwifery was all but destroyed. It needed a comeback.

      But all she said was, “Because technology, in my experience, leads to unnecessary cesarean sections.” Not to mention that you can’t catch a baby without causing genital mutilation.

      Well, okay, that was putting it strongly; everyone had to do episiotomies in certain circumstances. But every time, Dan?

      Isaac sipped his coffee, a Quaker silence keeping him out of the fray. He pictured births in Rwanda. Went far away, into himself. No, think about something else. Mice. When it turned cold, they’d flocked inside, and the local vet had given him two homeless cats. But there were too many mice for his cats to kill. He needed exterminators.

      “Do you know that some women prefer C-sections? And some women prefer painless births.”

      Try vacuuming once in a while, Isaac. If the mice have nothing to eat... Right. Orkin. Pest control. That was the answer.

      Tara wanted to scream. Dan was right. And probably some women had great memories of the baby arriving at halftime, and who was she to say that wasn’t best? Hey, the Broncos were great. Besides, how many times had Francesca and Ivy reminded her not to judge one birth experience over another? Again and again, they’d said, It’s not your birth, Tara.

      Oh, she hated hospitals almost as much as jails—and for similar reasons. “I acknowledge the necessity for some cesareans, and I support the right of women who want painless births to have them, Dr. McCrea. But I also support the right of women who want homebirths to have homebirths.”

      “Don’t get me started.” With an uneasy glance at Isaac, Dan changed the subject. “Tell me about this little tyke. You seem more suited to motherhood than the role of crusader. Especially, since you’re still not legal.”

      Dan McCrea’s eyes gleamed, and Tara knew it was all about power, about establishing power over her. Good luck. Dan McCrea wasn’t scary, and she would stall him here in this cafeteria as long as she could and count on his wanting to get some sleep before office hours tomorrow.

      Homebirth. Isaac had tired of the company before his coffee cooled to drinkable. He got up. “I’ll see you later.”

      Both seemed surprised.

      But he’d barely left the table before his brother said, “You know, Tara, there’s such a thing as being too natural. Too earthy. Too Eastern. Taoist, Zen, whatever you are. Ultimately, too folksy and backward. You’re all of the above.”

      Isaac shook his head as he left the cafeteria. Homebirth. Have at her, Dan.

      

      HE LEFT! DAN McCREA finally left.

      After forty-five minutes of innuendo, a litany of the latest peaks he’d bagged, and a genuine invitation to dinner—no chance—he finally said, “Well, Tara, till next time,” and departed...for the hospital doors.

      Folksy and backward. She’d thought it was a compliment before he said that.

      Waving at Pilar Garcia, a labor and delivery nurse, who had just filled a tray, Tara rose to speak to her old friend.

      Pilar glanced at Laura, then toward the doors. “Not a new romance?”

      “No. I was trying to keep Millie Rand from an unnecessary C-section. An epidural, anyway. How’s she doing?”

      “Just fine.” Pilar’s expression was mildly disapproving. Of Tara’s methods? Again, her eyes drifted to the baby, almost as though she knew the state of Tara’s womb.

      Tara thought deliberately of other things.

      There