I tell him that I’d really like to continue this discussion, but I need to locate the patient, Valerina Gomez, whose twins’ births he just praised. I add that with the current missing baby crisis, nothing unusual can pass unnoticed.

“A wise objective on your part. However, I can put your mind at ease. I thought your patient would be better off in the Addiction Recovery Center. I suggested that to your man, Troy.”

I explode.

“Let’s start with this. Troy is not my man. He is a trusted and professional midwife. Further, you should not even have made that suggestion. It was not a wrong decision. But it was none of your business. It should have been my decision.”

The guy smiles at me. Yes, I could spit.

“Enough,” I say. “Now that you’ve put my mind at ease about Val, I’ve got to get over to Neonatal ICU and see how the second twin is doing.”

Sarkar takes a small step and moves to his side. He stands very close and directly opposite me. “There’s no need for you to go to the ICU,” he says.

“What have you done? Transferred Gomez Baby Number Two to another unit, the way you did with her mother?” I am all-out angry.

Then he hits me with it.

“Please, Ms. Ryuan. Listen to me. Your visit is unnecessary for the saddest of reasons. Gomez Baby Number Two died within minutes of being taken to Neonatal.”

“No!” I yell, and it takes a few seconds to realize that Rudi Sarkar is holding both my hands in his. Then I do what I can’t help but do. I begin to cry.

I look away from the doctor. He speaks.

“Do not be ashamed to cry, Lucy. It’s a sign that you are a very good midwife.”

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

YOU KNOW HOW WHEN you’re tired and the tiredness is so tremendous, so achy, that all your mind’s eye can see is…a bed? A big bed, a soft bed, any freaking bed in the world? That’s the tiredness I’m feeling when I walk into my apartment at six o’clock.

The sight of Willie, and a big hug from Willie, revives me for a few seconds. Well, it doesn’t quite revive me; it just really, really comforts me. But it also reminds me that I’ve got to fix some supper for the boy.

Yeah, I could send him downstairs to Sabryna’s for a meal. But how many variations on Jamaican goat stew can a kid handle? He loves Sabryna, but her cooking is sometimes another matter.

“What’s for dinner, Mom?” he asks. I do notice that his question sounds a little too formal, a little too staged. He’s been practicing that question, and he’s up to something.

“Oh, the usual,” I say. “Lobster, roast beef, and Baked Alaska.”