Alice offers me an opportunity to explain my behavior, which, given the way I yelled at her and pounded on her door, seems like more than I maybe deserve right away. “I’m so frightened, Alice.”
She walks around the desk and reaches for me. I rise to hug her, and as soon as I have my arms around her, I feel so much better. She’s solid and real and as I hold her, I begin to think that maybe this can eventually be ok. “I’m here, Tim,” she whispers. “I’m scared, too.” She starts to cry softly against my chest and I stroke her hair.
We hold each other like this for awhile until Alice says, “I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’d like it if you came with me for my first prenatal appointment later today.”
“Of course! Alice, I want to be at every appointment. You need to understand that this is my top priority. You are my top priority. That’s why I panicked the other day.”
She squeezes my hand. “Tim, I know you panicked. But you have to know that there aren’t going to be one-sided decisions here. You’re not, like, the king who hands out the laws for me to obey.”
“I know that, Alice. I know. God, I’m such a fool.” I pound my fist against the desk, stirring the papers. I turn to the window again, looking out at the river. “I don’t know what the hell to do, Alice.”
“Do you have to decide today? Can you talk to me, Tim? What are you thinking about right now?”
I gesture to my desk. “This...Cleveland...the Cavs. I’ve been chasing this client for almost a year, Alice. A year. This is a signed retainer contract and right now I don’t feel like I can accept it.” She sits and I explain how I don’t want the travel anymore. I don’t want to spend half the week heading to Cleveland and miss ultrasounds or birthing classes. I want to assemble the crib and just be present. “Alice, I want to be all in for this.”
“Tim, neither of us has to give up our dreams because I’m pregnant. You know it’s not just the two of us, right? Like, you understand that my family is going to be very, very involved in this baby’s life? That’s not negotiable for me. And I’d really like Baby Stag to have some Uncle Stags around, too.”
Fuck me. Uncle Stag. I hadn’t even thought about my family’s response. I try to imagine Thatcher holding a baby and realize I can’t even picture myself holding a baby. Alice stands up. “One day at a time, ok? Just meet me in the lobby at 2 to head over to my appointment.” She walks out of my office and I can tell this round of Deep Discussion is over.
After lunch, where I try not to bother Alice in her element, I call for Joe. I realize I’m not sure where we are heading exactly, so I tell him to hold tight on our destination. She stands by the elevator waiting. I don’t even stop to think about it, but I walk right up and kiss her on the cheek. She blushes and looks around to see if anyone is watching. “I don’t care who sees, Alice. Things are different now.”
We ride down to the lobby in companionable silence and Joe is parked right out front with the town car. “Where to, Miss Peterson?” She smiles at him and fires off an address I don’t recognize.
A short ride later, Joe pulls up beside some nondescript building near an industrial complex. There’s murals of women painted all over the outside. Alice climbs out of the car and walks toward the door. I follow, skeptical. “Alice, what the hell is this? Did you cancel the appointment I made with the obstetrician?”
She turns to face me. “Tim. First of all, you never graced me with the name of this fancy obstetrician you keep talking about. And second, I told you. No unilateral decisions. I’d like you to come and meet the midwives who worked with my mother and sister.”
I follow her up the stairs, past the wall of photographs of babies and their half-naked mothers. Midwives? “Tim!” she shouts at me and I catch up to where she’s signing in at the registration desk. This isn’t going well.
The receptionist smiles at me. “Congratulations, Dad! We’ve got paperwork for you, too. Just your basic family history stuff.” She slides me a clipboard. I start sweating. Alice plunks down on an armchair. This place looks like someone’s living room. I walk over to her. “Alice, I really would prefer a medical provider.”
She doesn’t look up at me. She starts scratching away at her forms until a woman comes out the doorway. She has gray hair tied back in a loose ponytail. “Welcome to the Midwife Center, Alice!” First names? She’s not even wearing scrubs. I really want to drag Alice out of here, but she grabs my arm and pulls me over. “And this must be Timber. Right?”
I grit my teeth, but return her handshake. “Tim.”
I try my best to hold an open mind while she chats with Alice about being present for her birth. Ok, so it’s obvious this woman has been around awhile. She catches me staring at her and says, “We get a lot of nervous dads here, Tim. What questions can I answer for you today?” I shake my head and stare away toward the wall. “Let me see if I can guess.” She puts the clipboard on the desk and stands, rummages through a filing cabinet and sits back down on the padded chair. “You’re thinking we’re a bunch of witches with cauldrons cackling over herbs and smoke. Am I getting close?”
I scoff at her. “Your words, not mine.”
She laughs. “You hate that this isn’t some sterile examining room and you’re thinking your baby would be better off under the care of a skilled surgeon. Am I there yet?” I shrug. She throws me a pamphlet. Midwifery 101: A Guide for Nervous Partners
“Is this a joke?”
She turns serious. “No, Mr. Stag. Prenatal care is serious work. For the record, I, and many of my colleagues, received advanced training from Yale and the University of Pennsylvania. I’ve caught over 4,000 babies, including your partner. I’m happy to discuss the advantages of midwifery care for healthy women with normal pregnancies. You clearly have reservations about our facility, and I’m offering you an opportunity to discuss them before we begin Alice’s examination.”
I’m taken aback by her tone, overwhelmed by all of this. I’m not sure what possesses me, but before I’ve made a conscious decision, I stand and storm out of the office. I stomp down the stairs toward the street, trying not to notice the photographs along the wall.
Until I see it.
Near the middle of the staircase, beaming in a black and white photograph, is my mother. She holds a tiny child, face contorted in its first wail. My mother. My mother was a patient here, too.