Tucker filled in my stupefied silence. "Mike was obsessed with Laura. He came to the first meeting because his doctor made him, but once Laura started heading it, he never missed a Monday. He started reading up on borderline personality and suggesting group activities. When that didn't work, he moved to asking her out directly. She told him she didn't date patients. He dropped out of the group shortly thereafter. But you know those calls Mrs. Lee said Laura was getting? I bet it was him."
It was certainly new information, but it went against my own hypothesis. So I challenged him. "How'd you get all that? I bet he didn't tell you."
"Dr. Ven. Laura told him someone was harassing her, but refused to give the details. He didn't piece it together until afterward."
I pushed the pillow aside to lean against the wall while I contemplated this. Tucker blew on his knuckles and pretended to polish them on his shirt. I'd forgotten that move from kindergarten. I tossed the pillow at him. "Why would he decide to kill her?"
"Isn't it classic? 'If I can't have you, no one can.'"
I chewed my lip. "He didn't strike me that way."
"You probably felt sorry for him."
I straightened, stung. But it was true. Part of me had somehow sympathized with him.
Tucker frowned. "Don't get sucked in. That's what happened to Laura."
I didn't like the implication that soft-hearted women like us got run over by men who "loved" them. "I can look after myself."
"I'm sure."
The speaker behind the bed crackled to life, making me jump. "Dr. Zee? Are you there?"
Tucker gestured at me to press a red button below the speaker. I fumbled for it. "Yes."
"Just checking. Dr. Zahrad called again."
It wasn't my fault switchboard hadn't been able to find me, but Dr. Zahrad, the staff on call, obviously wasn't amused. "Okay." I fluttered my eyelids at the ceiling and Tucker grinned.
The speaker blared again, "He said he'll be in when the patient is at nine centimeters and that you should keep him posted."
"Thank you."
A burst of static replied. After it died down, Tucker shook his head. "They keep you on a short leash."
"No kidding. I gotta get back and show my face." I did want to get back to Mrs. Valdez, but I also wanted to figure out all this stuff with Michael Martinez, and I knew that if she got close to delivering, they'd page me stat.
I tried to think. Was Tucker right? Mike had some sort of motive and had at least contributed to the means. But whose blond hair was in the car? Or was that a red herring?
Tucker said, "I'm going to call the police. They can talk to Dr. Ven about it and check Laura's phone records for Michael's old phone number. There's just one more thing I got from Dr. Ven that I have to give back to him—well, Tori was the one who sweet-talked it out of him." Tucker reached for his clipboard and slid something out from under his sheaf of notes.
It was a group photo, taken outside on a sunny day much like this one. I sucked in my break when I saw Laura in a white coat. On her right, at the edge of the group, I noted a balding, South Indian man with glasses, no doubt Dr. Ven. On her left, Mike Martinez flashed his teeth in a practiced smile. He was standing a little close to Laura. She had her arms crossed and her smile looked slightly forced. I felt a pang of sympathy for her. But I felt relieved that it was the same guy I'd met tonight. At least Mrs. Lee hadn't shelled out her money to an imposter.
I scanned the group until I found Reena kneeling in the front row. She smiled with her lips still covering her teeth. Her eyes were uncertain. Her face was younger and rounder and she wore more eye makeup than a K-pop star. More importantly, she'd bleached her hair. Even as my heart seized up, I noticed her spiky blond hair was cut too short for her heavy jaw.
I could hardly speak for a minute. A lot of things were coming together. All I could say was, "She bleached her hair."
"Yeah, I noticed that, too. It's funny. We think of Reena as such a pain in the ass, but Dr. Ven remembered her as more a dependent personality. He laughed when he saw the picture because he called Reena and Jodi 'the twins.' Soon after Jodi joined the group, Reena bleached her hair and imitated her makeup and looked pretty godawful."
Bleach.
I said, "We need a DNA sample from Reena Schuster."
"You don't think—"
"I've got my suspicions." I looked at him. "I mean, we have plenty of samples from her—blood, urine, maybe even sputum. But I doubt it's legal to use them."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Especially on your say-so."
I ignored that. "I remember a forensic pathology case. They gave the suspect a piece of gum and he spit it in the toilet afterward. They collected it and ran it. The judge ruled it was allowed, not entrapment, because he'd thrown it away."
"Uh uh. You can't go through her garbage, Hope. There's the whole chain of evidence thing, remember?"
Damn. I did remember, from rape kit talks, how important it was to get consent, label, and store everything so it would stand up in a court of law. The police would have to do it.
Tucker narrowed his eyes at me. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"
"How could I? I have a baby to deliver."
"Uh huh." I wore my most innocent expression, à la Paddington Bear, but I could practically see him swearing to keep a close eye on me.
I could live with that.
I glanced back down at the picture. Jodi stood in the second row directly above Reena. Jodi's head was turned aside as if someone had called her name while the shutter clicked. From what I saw of her face, she looked startlingly young, narrow-faced like a kitten, pretty in a sulky sort of way. She was wearing a beret low on her forehead. Kind of an odd choice on a summer's day.
My eyes moved back to Laura's image. Her posture was impeccable. She looked directly at the camera with no hint of coyness or shyness. Here was a woman with nothing to hide and, I would have guessed, little to fear in her life. Until she got mixed up with this group. And, once again, studying her heart-shaped face and the determined lift of her chin, I saw that she looked uncomfortably like me in that Brownie photo.
I put it down. "I gotta get back to my patient."
***
Mrs. Valdez's moans shifted to a high-pitched keen.
"Hold your breath," said the nurse. "Use it to push." She hoisted Mrs. Valdez's leg in the air and gestured at the husband to grab the other. "Push! Push! You can do it!"
Mrs. Valdez strained, red-faced, with her eyes screwed shut. The baby's scalp descended toward me, a few centimeters from the perineum, but soon its dark, wet hair retreated.
"Don't stop now! You've still got some left! Come on!"
"You're doing a great job," I chimed in, but Mrs. Valdez shook her head and groaned. Her hair was knotted and matted to her face temples with sweat.
Her leg flopped. The nurse shoved it back in the stirrup and said, "Okay. We'll try the next time. Don't worry. There's a reason they call it labour."
True dat. I wasn't sure how much Mrs. Valdez could understand, even if we spoke Spanish or Portuguese. From her glazed eyes, she was orbiting Planet Exhaustion right about now. TV tends to focus on the glory of the baby, without all the pain and pushing. Not to mention the poop. Before going into medicine, I hadn't realized that they used to give women enemas so it would be nicer for the staff. Fortunately, I only witnessed a log once. The nurse instantly swept the stool into a towel and from there into a tray so we didn't have to watch it or smell it.
Dr. Zahrad passed by. He was a short, peppy man, with prematurely gray hair. He examined Mrs. Valdez, conferred with me and the nurse, and buggered off to watch TV.
My own montage was running through my head. If only we could get DNA samples, we could implicate Reena in the vehicle. If only she would give them voluntarily. If only we had enough evidence to bring to the police.
If only she confessed.
Beep-beep-beep said the baby's heart on the monitor. The heart rate dipped to ninety. We all eyed the monitor, but the red numbers hesitated before they blinked back up to one-thirty.
The nurse and I sighed with relief and shared brief smile.
Reena was still at the hospital. What if I were to pass by her room tonight, after delivering this baby?
"Here we go again," said the nurse. "Come on!" She gestured at the husband. Simultaneously, they each lifted Mrs. Valdez's legs. She closed her eyes. The fat on her thighs jiggled.
Mrs. Valdez gritted her teeth. The tendons in her neck and the veins on her forehead bulged. "Uhhhh!" Tears leaked from her eyes.
"Come on, you're great, it's fine, let's go. The baby's almost ready to come out. Come on, baby. Say hello! Say hello to your mommy!"
"Hi, baby!" I chimed in. I really didn't know what to say.
Mr. Valdez spoke in Spanish.
Slowly, excruciatingly, the baby made progress. At some magic moment, the nurse called Dr. Zahrad and unfolded the delivery cart, revealing stainless steel instruments and bowls, blue paper drapes, and cloth gowns.
For a moment, I felt nostalgic for the OR. I have always loved the surgical dance. The sterile gown, where you twirl around and the nurse holds the gown's tie, wrapping it around you. The ritual of saying what size gloves you wear and plunging your hands into each one while the nurse snaps the cuff over your wrists. The metal instruments on the tray. The beam of lights angled just so. Painting the patient's skin with iodine or chlorhexidine and draping the surrounding area. Picking up the scalpel to make the first incision.
In another life, a life where I could always put my career first, where I could press snooze on my biological clock without worrying about the consequences, where my back didn't freak out after standing with a retractor for two hours—in that life, I would be a surgeon.
I snapped back to reality as the baby's head began to bulge the perineum. It wasn't crowning yet, but it was close. Dr. Zahrad pushed open the door. "Massage her!" he snapped to me as the nurse gowned him up.
I fumbled for the packet of Muco gel.
"Not that! You're sterile! Wait, I'll get it for you," said the nurse before I made contact. "Just stand there for a minute. Don't push," she said to Mrs. Valdez, and then to Mr. Valdez, "Tell her not to push!" She tore open the packet and squeezed a blob onto my fingers. "Go!"
Gingerly, I daubed it on the vaginal opening.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you?" snapped Dr. Zahrad, reaching around me to pull at the lips of the vagina.
I shook my head.
"Where did you do your medical school?"
"Western."
He rolled his eyes at the nurse. "Western."
Mrs. Valdez groaned and clutched her husband's arm.
"PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!" they chorused. I joined in.
"Come here," Dr. Zahrad said, grabbing my hand. "See how the skin is blanching? There is too much pressure. I don't want to have to do an episiotomy. Massage, massage, massage! You don't want her to have a tear!"
The nurse squeezed two more packets of Muco. Imitating Dr. Zahrad, I hooked two fingers inside her vagina and pulled at the skin closest to her anus, trying to stretch it out.
"The baby's coming!" called the nurse. "Tell her the baby's coming any minute!"
And then, in a gush of blood and more salty-smelling amniotic fluid, the baby's head pushed at the rim of her vagina.
"Stop pushing! Stop pushing!" they chanted.
"Control it," Dr. Zahrad muttered at me. "Push back. No tearing. No tearing."
The baby's head eased out, slippery with white vernix. I spotted little black curls. Its squashed little face pointed toward the floor. Then it rotated slightly and its arms dangled. I grabbed the chest and held the baby's body as its hips and legs came into the world.
I swooped it onto the mother's stomach gently. I heard a roar in my ears.
Mrs. Valdez reached toward her warm, pink-brown-white baby. Its eyes were open. Its mouth smacked once as the nurse swabbed it dry and wrapped it in a warm blanket.
"Just a minute," said Dr. Zahrad, handing me a clamp.
I clamped the umbilical cord where he pointed with his finger. Dr. Zahrad clamped it again, about an inch away, after milking a bit of the blood out in between. Then the father cut the cord and we all stared at the folds between the baby's legs.
"It's a girl," said Dr. Zahrad.
Mrs. Valdez burst into tears and scooped her daughter close, kissing her. Her husband watched both of them, laying his hand tentatively on his new baby's back. The nurse snugged a hat on her.
I blinked back tears.
When all was said and done, this was a miracle. I felt privileged to be in the room. This was life. This was creation. This was love. This was motherhood and fatherhood and daughterhood.
I had to do what I could to honour that sentiment.
Dr. Zahrad nudged me, pointing to a bloody gash in Mrs. Valdez's perineum at six o'clock. "She has a second-degree tear. We will need to repair it after she delivers the placenta."
I nodded and stepped between her legs to apply gentle pressure to the dangling end of the umbilical cord.
Mrs. Lee had lost a daughter. Mrs. Valdez had gained one.
When I was finished here, I would pay Reena a visit.