“They’re often like that, the stillborns. The blood, pooling. Same with the nails.” The older midwife looked up. “Oh, goodness. Vicar, I’m afraid I must shoo you out. We’re bidding farewell to this poor little scrap.”

I said, “Mrs. Acton is my wife.”

That got their attention.

“Oh dear God,” said the older midwife.

“Please . . . can you clean her? Can you wrap her up, so that my wife can hold her?”

“Absolutely not. We never allow the mothers to see the babies, especially—”

“Wrap a cloth around her. Around her face too. Please. Let my wife hold her.”

When they were ready, I followed the midwives to Yvette’s new room, the baby in my arms. They had put a hat on her head in case the new white towel slipped, but I made sure that she was tightly scarved so that her gray face and stark near-black red lips were deeply shadowed. There was sunlight everywhere, a very intense slanting light that as good as blinded me. I delivered her to Yvette who looked up at me with disbelieving eyes. She held her daughter obediently, blinking. She made no sound when they took the baby away.

—

I sat with Yvette until the medication wore off. They pronounced her healthy, of all things. By which we understood that she was free to go.

I waited while she washed and dressed, and then we left. We went for a short drive before heading for home, a route that weaved along the coast, so that she could sit in peace in the car and watch the shoreline, the marshes and inlets and stretches of pebble beach. Then she said she was bleeding and needed to go home. When I reached our street and got out of the car I couldn’t work out if it was morning or evening. I realized I was in a different world now, a world of human love and tears and laughter. Of fields and cities and sunshine and seas. Where the earth was revolving, revolving, the sun was casting light on us all and would do so until the end of its lifespan as a star. And there was no God anywhere.

—

Philip is still occupied with drawing. A noisy artist, full of sighs and grunts and long strokes over the paper, murmurs of rubbing out.

“I gave you no warning,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Philip makes a noncommittal sigh. He’s not listening. I sit quietly, attentive only to the heaving in my chest.