The Midwife’s Mistake

THE MIDWIFE’S MISTAKE ANYA MORA CONTENTS About Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Epilogue Also by: About the Author ABOUT THE MIDWIFE’S MISTAKE Anya Mora The power is out. A rainstorm has hit the island. My husband hasn’t made it home. And I go into labor. Trained as a midwife, I’m confident I can deliver my daughter. After the birth, I fall asleep with her in my arms. When I wake, my husband is home, the lights are back on—but the baby he’s holding—it’s not mine. My husband, friends, and colleagues think I’ve had another psychotic break. I’m not crazy. I gave birth to a girl, and that baby is a boy. Someone stole my child, and I’ll stop at nothing to find her, even if it means learning my entire life was a lie. 1 My water isn’t supposed to break while a storm rages, when my husband isn’t on the island, and as the power flickers from on to off. Darkness covers the cabin as I cling to my belly. I never imagined it happening like this. But the last sixteen months have taught me that nothing in life goes according to plan. This isn’t me being negative—I’m a realist. At least I am now. Before, I was the epitome of optimism. Worry washes over me as I consider what kind of mother this will make me. Ready or not, I’ll find out soon enough. Another contraction barrels through me, leaving me gripping the butcher-block countertop in the kitchen. “Oh God,” I cry out. The pain is not entirely unfamiliar, but I had forgotten how bad it would be. I hate that I am alone. That was not a part of the birthing plan. I wanted a calming playlist on, my acupuncturist on hand, and a water birth as I ease my child into the world. My cell phone is just out of grasp, but I reach for it across the kitchen counter, desperate to hear my husband’s soothing voice. Ivan. I need Ivan. Now, more than ever. Once the pain of the contraction passes, I tap on my husband’s name on the phone screen, calling him, and praying for a clear cell connection. There are many reasons to love living in the San Juan Islands. But Shaw Island has a population of two hundred, which means maintaining our cell towers isn’t a priority. And in our cabin in the woods, near the rocky coast, our reception is shoddy even on clear days. “Maggie?” Ivan answers my call in a chipper tone, oblivious to the situation. Which makes sense. He’s been hosting a yoga retreat on Lopez Island the last three days and is probably zenned out of his mind. Completely unaware of the situation I am facing. “I’m in labor,” I whisper, putting the call on speaker. “How far in?” he asks. He is married to a midwife; he knows the right questions to ask. “I just checked,” I gasp. “An eight, at least. I’m so close.” Tears prick my eyes and fall down my cheeks. Why am I alone right now? “Too close.” “Oh, Mags, it’s going to be okay. I’m checking ferry times now. I wish you would have called earlier.” I press my hand to my belly as the baby moves, deeper, lower, and closer. The agony bites through my thoughts, and I moan as I look for words. Finally, I gasp out, “I thought it was a false alarm. It’s three weeks early. I took a bath and a nap and woke up in...” My words are lost as my body writhes, the phone slips through my fingers, hitting the floor, and I drop to my knees. “Magnolia? Mags!” Ivan’s voice cuts through the contraction. “Babe, you can do this. You can handle anything.” I wish that were true, but he and I both know that isn't the case. The last time I gave birth, it ended in disaster, heartache, and pain I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Yes, I got through it, but it didn't make me stronger. It's made me scared, weak, and fragile. Not the woman I used to be. Not the woman I want to be. Before I was a confident midwife, able to hold my own with my patients, myself, and my marriage. And now? I groan as another contraction competes for my attention, forcing me to crawl across the hardwood floors, on my hands and knees, toward my bed. The cabin is small with two bedrooms and one bath. Cozy. Now I’m grateful for the tidy size as I move toward my bedroom, wanting to reach my supplies before I give birth. Gripping the edge of my mattress, on my knees, I bury my head against the cotton duvet. In the distance, I hear Ivan on speakerphone. "Maggie, I'll be there as soon as I can. As soon as the ferries are back up and running, I'll be there. I'll call..." His voice cuts out. The call drops, and I'm alone. Utterly alone in our windblown home on the shore of Shaw Island. The lights are still out, and the room is dark. I have only one neighbor. Rooney is at least seventy years old, has limited mobility, and his memory has been half shot due to the flask that is always in his flannel shirt pocket. He's not someone I can call right now for help. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this alone. And God, of course. I am doing this. It is all I want. To be the mother of a healthy, living child. Tears fill my eyes as the pain threatens to break me whole. But I've helped hundreds of other women through this. That fact gives me confidence that I can do this for myself too. Earlier, after my bath, I