The Midwife's Confession (22 page)

“That’s the sweetest thing,” I said, pointing to the girls. I watched as one of the twins—I had no idea which one—handed out turquoise baseball caps to each of her sisters and Haley. The cousins had all had their cheeks swabbed during the past week. Everyone I knew had had his or her cheek swabbed, and not one of them was a match for Haley. Not even close.

Haley whipped off her bandanna and all five girls put on their hats, giggling and pointing at one another as they headed toward us.

“Girls,” I said to my nieces, “you’ve blown my mind.”

“That’s a beautiful thing you did,” Bryan said to them.

It had been hard enough to tell my four nieces apart when they had hair. Now, it was impossible. Twelve-year old Melanie was the only one I could pick out with certainty. She was thinner, slighter and smaller breasted than her sisters, but she still shared their round brown eyes, their small chins and the smattering of freckles across their noses.

“We had to drive like ten blocks out of our way to get here because the streets are blocked off for the festival,” one of the girls said.

“Can we have money, Mom?” Melanie asked Marilyn. “I know I’m going to want to buy a ton of stuff.”

Marilyn doled out a twenty to each of her daughters and I reached for my purse where it hung from the banister, but Bryan beat me to it, pressing a bill into Haley’s hand.

“Thanks, Dad.” Haley grinned. Then the girls were gone as quickly as they’d arrived, a whirlwind spinning down the sidewalk, this time with Haley at its center.

“God, she looks so good!” Marilyn said as we followed Bryan toward the kitchen. “If it weren’t for the round face and the hair—the
lack
of hair—I’d have no idea anything was wrong.”

“I know,” I said. “She’s tough as nails.”

“And how about you? How are you holding up?” She stopped walking, turning me toward her and holding me by the shoulders to study my face. She leaned close to whisper, “Is it a help or a hindrance having Bryan around?”

It’s wonderful,
I thought. “He’s been a huge help,” I said. “The bone marrow drive is set for next week and he’s taken care of all the arrangements himself.”

“I’m so glad he’s coming through for you,” Marilyn said.

“What are you two talking about?” Bryan asked when we reached the kitchen.

“You.” Marilyn put her arm around him. “Tell me all about the bone marrow drive. How can I help?”

“How about some coffee first?” I asked, and she nodded and sat on one of the bar stools at the island.

“Well—” Bryan pulled out another of the stools and sat down facing his sister “—we’re going to get some press going. The
Post
will be sending someone to Children’s this week to interview Haley and Anna. Then closer to the drive, one of the TV stations will do a piece on them, too.”

“Really?” Marilyn looked a little worried. “That’s okay with Haley?” she asked me.

I nodded. “She understands why we’re doing it. We might not find a donor for her through the drive, but if we can get a few hundred more people to register in the global data bank, it might help someone else.” I
did
have misgivings about going public. I’d never been quiet about my own story—how Lily’s disappearance led to my passion for finding missing children. But I wasn’t entirely comfortable trotting Haley’s story out for all the world to see. Yet I knew Bryan was right. From everything I’d heard, personalizing the need for a bone marrow donor was the best way to encourage people to show up for the drive.

We drank coffee and talked a while longer, then Marilyn looked out the window. “It’s the most beautiful day,” she said. “What do you say we go to the festival, too? It’ll be fun.”

So that’s what we did. We strolled among the throng of visitors and vendors along King Street with what seemed like every other citizen of northern Virginia. Occasionally we’d catch a glimpse of five turquoise baseball caps in the crowd and we’d head in the opposite direction to let them enjoy their independence. It choked me up a little every time I saw them. I knew it would be Haley’s last day of feeling well for a while. One of her last days to act like just another kid. For today, she was one of five giggling bald girls in a turquoise baseball cap.

I tried to adopt my daughter’s living-in-the-moment perspective as I walked through the crowd. I tried not to think about our return to Children’s the next day. Instead, I breathed in the scent of hot dogs and popcorn and the river.

I reveled in the friendship of my sister-in-law and the new and unexpected friendship with my ex-husband, and in that moment, the world felt right and full of hope.

26

Tara

Wilmington, North Carolina

Now that I was sitting in my van in front of Rebecca Baker’s house, I was having second thoughts about the plan we’d come up with. Emerson and I must have exchanged a dozen emails trying to figure out what to say to the two women we’d agreed to contact.

I thought we should come as close to the truth as we could without revealing what we knew. We would tell the women that we were Noelle’s closest friends and that we were devastated by her suicide. We knew she’d had some personal problems around the time their children were born, and since they’d had intimate contact with her, maybe they could help us figure out what had been going on with her. We’d say that we just wanted to understand Noelle better. That was certainly the truth. Hopefully, we’d each be able to see photographs of the women’s daughters and, like magic, some utter lack of resemblance would give them away.

That hadn’t happened in Denise Abernathy’s case, though.

Emerson said it had taken all her courage to walk up to the Abernathy’s front door, but when she told Denise why she’d come, Denise invited her in and talked her ear off, raving about Noelle.

I don’t think she’s it, Emerson emailed me after her visit. There are four kids and they’re all green-eyed blonds, like their mother. Denise said Noelle had been wonderful and made it a great experience. Noelle also delivered her older daughter and she said she was upset when she found out Noelle was no longer practicing when she had her last two kids. I bet it’s going to be your Rebecca.

My Rebecca.

I could have used Sam’s guidance as an attorney. Was what we were doing legal? It was certainly unethical, but what choice did we have? Even if Sam were alive, I wouldn’t have been able to talk to him about it and I certainly couldn’t ask Ian. Emerson and I were on our own with this burden.

So now I sat in front of Rebecca Baker’s house, reminding myself I was an
actress.
I could do this.

I’d dawdled as much as I could since leaving school a few hours ago. Suzanne’s birthday party was only three days away and I’d met with the caterer to iron out a few last-minute details and stopped at the party store to order several dozen helium balloons. I had no more excuses to get in the way of seeing this woman. I stepped out of my van and started walking up the long driveway, hoping no one was home.

I’d had a bigger challenge finding Rebecca Baker than Emerson had had finding Denise, who still lived at the address Noelle had for her in her record book. Rebecca’s address had been blacked out along with her name. Emerson finally found her for me on the LinkedIn professional website. Rebecca Baker was an accountant. There was nothing about a husband or children in her profile, but her age and location fit the woman we were looking for.

On the front porch, I pressed the doorbell and heard a protracted chime from inside the house. Someone was home. I could hear a dog barking. Footsteps. In a moment, a girl a few years younger than Grace opened the door.

“Hey,” she said. She was pixyish, athletic, dark-haired. Her eyebrows were raised in a question.
And you are?
they asked.

“Hey,” I said back. “I’m Tara Vincent. I’m looking for Rebecca Baker.”

“Hold on.” She pivoted on her heel and headed down the central hall toward a kitchen. I could hear the clang of pots and pans. “Mom!” she called. “It’s someone for you.”

A woman walked toward me dressed in sweats. She raised her eyebrows in the same motion as her daughter, yet she looked nothing like her. Her hair was white-blond. Her eyes a vibrant blue. Nothing like her daughter at all.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your evening,” I said. “And I know this will sound kind of strange and intrusive, but my name is Tara Vincent and I was a close friend of Noelle Downie.”

She frowned as if trying to follow me. I couldn’t blame her. “I heard Noelle killed herself,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “And I…I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes if you have time. I could come back on a different day if—”

“What about?” she asked.

“Do you have some time now?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Well, you’ll be taking me away from cleaning the kitchen and I don’t mind that sort of interruption.” She pointed to the rockers on the porch. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” We moved to the rockers. They were dusty. A little grimy. My cardigan was white and I had to fight the urge to clean the chair with a tissue before I sat down.

“I have to say, I wasn’t surprised to hear that Noelle killed herself,” Rebecca said as she lowered herself into the rocker. “I mean, you were her friend and I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m not surprised.”

Her words jarred me. Those of us close to Noelle had been surprised. What did this stranger know that we didn’t? “Really?” I asked. “How come?”

“She was such a mess the last time I saw her.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, a long time ago. She was my midwife for my first two kids. My son and the girl you met at the door. Petra. Though she didn’t actually deliver Petra. Long story. So what did you want to talk about?”

My mind spun. Noelle didn’t deliver Petra? How did that fit the puzzle we were trying to put together?

“My friends and I
were
shocked that Noelle killed herself,” I said. “It sounds like you knew her better than we did in a way. We’re really trying to understand why Noelle did what she did. She stopped being a midwife more than ten years ago and we wondered if something happened around then to start her downfall.” The downfall we hadn’t recognized. “So we’re trying to talk to some of Noelle’s last patients to see if we can understand why she became so depressed.” The explanation sounded ridiculously hokey to me, but Rebecca was nodding as though it made perfect sense.

“Well, first I have to tell you that she was great when she delivered my son. I loved her. I couldn’t wait for a repeat performance with Petra. But when she showed up when I went into labor with Petra, she was a mess, like I said. So was I at the time.” She smiled. “I’d been having back labor for days and was not in a good place. So I wouldn’t have realized it if she’d shown up with two heads, but my husband did.”

“What do you mean, ‘she was a mess’?”

“Spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” I repeated. My head felt thick and stupid.

“She was on something and she was very, very loopy. With my son, she was totally in charge and calm and I knew I was in good hands with her.” I nodded.

“Well, that was not the woman who showed up when I went into labor with Petra,” she said. “She was stumbling over her own feet. Her eyes were glassy. If I hadn’t been so worried about myself, I would have been worried about her. I honestly wasn’t sure what to do. It was about 3:00 a.m. and I thought maybe she was still groggy from waking up suddenly, so I just rolled with it for an hour or so, but she didn’t get any better. Finally, my husband said she had to go. I knew he was right, but I was terrified. I figured I’d have to go to the hospital and give birth with a doctor I didn’t know. I heard my husband talking to her in the hall outside my room. He was totally frank, saying that she seemed drugged and he wasn’t comfortable with her taking care of me and he was going to take me to the hospital.”

“What did Noelle say?” I asked.

“Her voice was really quiet and I couldn’t hear, but my husband said she didn’t put up a fight. Almost like she agreed with him. She apologized and said she was having back pain and had probably taken too many pills. She was really upset and apologetic and my husband ended up comforting
her
. Noelle called this other midwife, Jane Rogers, and said she was sick and could Jane take over. Jane came right away and she was great.”

“She sometimes did need to take pain medication,” I said.

“I’m sorry it had such an impact on you.”

“My husband thought maybe she was an addict.”

“I don’t think she was an addict,” I said, though what did I know? Our theory about the blacked-out name belonging to the woman whose baby had been replaced was crumbling. She was blacked out because Noelle didn’t deliver her baby at all. Still, Petra didn’t look like she came out of the body of this svelte blonde. Might something have happened when
Jane
delivered the baby and Noelle helped cover it up? I wanted to ask her what she remembered of the delivery. Was the baby out of her sight for a while? Could Noelle have come back? But the questions would make no sense in light of what I’d given as my reason for coming.

“At least Noelle had the good sense to let someone else take over,” I said.

“That’s true,” Rebecca said. “I was angry at the time. My husband thought we should file a complaint against her, but she did the right thing by bringing in someone else and we had a beautiful healthy little girl and that’s what we focused on.”

“She’s adorable,” I said. “I have a teenage daughter, too.”

Rebecca smiled. “You know the challenge, then.”

I felt so comforted by those words. I was not the only mother trying to cope with a teenager. Emerson had so few problems with Jenny that we couldn’t really commiserate.

“Definitely,” I said. I got to my feet. “Thanks so much for taking the time to speak with me.”

“Did I help?” she asked.

“Yes, I think you did. We all missed something going on with her that you picked up on. I feel bad about it.”

“I know,” she said. “One of Petra’s friends killed herself last year and she’s been feeling guilty about it ever since, but everybody missed the signs. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”