The Reluctant Midwife by Patricia Harman Page B

getme my change. It takes him five minutes. Damn, now he will think I’m a moneybags.
    Just because I feel bad, I tip him two dimes, but then I feel worse. In a couple of weeks, I’ll need those coins.
Looking Up
    I am surprised when I enter the Bittman’s Grocery to find more shoppers than last time. Two women and a man move up the three aisles in slow motion, probably trying, like me, to maximize the nutrition they can get with their meager cash. One woman carries a pale thin child with a cleft lip on one side, and I shiver remembering the first baby I delivered. The little boy reaches out when they pass the pickle barrel, but doesn’t make a sound and the mother pulls his hand back.
    I step up to the counter. No point looking at things we can’t afford. B.K. Bittman greets me in his brown apron. His short dark hair sticks up like he forgot to comb it and his hazel eyes have a worried, haunted look.
    â€œMiss Becky, how can I help you?” he says in a monotone.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Bittman.” I fumble in my jacket pocket, looking for my short list. “How’s Lilly?”
    B.K. holds my gaze. “Poorly. Did you know she’s in the family way?”
    â€œYes. The midwife told me.” I don’t need to explain which midwife; there’s only one, since Mrs. Potts passed away and Bitsy moved to Philadelphia.
    â€œCould I see Lilly? I told Patience I would stop by.” I set my little leather nurse’s bag on the counter as if this makes my visit official.
    â€œYes, sure. We’d appreciate it, but just so you know, I can’t afford to pay. Can I gather the things on your list while you visit?”
    The grocer opens a door to the rear and shows me up a set of steep wooden stairs that lead to the couple’s apartment.
    â€œLilly, honey,” he yells, “Miss Becky, the home nurse, is on her way up.”
    â€œHello,” I call, entering a kitchen with a sink full of dishes, leftovers still on the table, and a back door that leads down another set of stairs to the alley.
    â€œI’m in here.” Lilly’s voice draws me toward a bedroom where a pale young redhead sits up in bed, a book on her lap and three books on the bedside table. The startling thing is her eyes, aqua blue. She turns in my direction, though I know she can’t see me. The books are in Braille.
    â€œMiss Becky. It’s so nice to have you back.” She reaches out for my hand and her soft fingers run up and down my wrist, her way of connecting since she can’t meet my eyes.
    â€œThank you,” I answer formally. “Most everyone has been very nice, but it’s been a hard landing. I thought the economy was bad near Charlottesville, but it’s much worse here. I can see people are really suffering. Anyway, enough about me! How are you ? Patience said you’re pregnant again. I take it this is a good thing?” Here I raise my eyebrows waiting for her response and glance at her small protruding abdomen. It’s strange to use my face to convey concern when Lilly cannot see it.
    â€œYes, we were very happy. It took five years to get pregnant last time, four years this time and we were wondering if it would ever happen again. Now I’m not sure. I mean, we still want the baby very much, but you heard about the cramping. I’m afraid I’m going to lose it.
    â€œB.K. and Patience insist I stay in bed and they’re probably right, but there’s so much to do. Did you see the kitchen? The housework has gone to the devil, and B.K. needs help in the store . . .” She shrugs. “And . . . and if I’m going to lose the baby anyway, I might as well get up.”
    â€œHave you been to the doctor’s in Torrington?”
    â€œYes, I went there a few weeks ago to see the specialist, Dr. Seymour. He wanted to admit me, but Boone Hospital has become a rat hole. There’s no money for upkeep. You even have to bring your