Meredith

MEREDITH

11 YEARS BEFORE

March

In the middle of the night, my cell phone pings. It’s been four days since I’ve received a threatening text. Somehow, I’ve put them out of my mind. Since nothing bad has happened to me, I’ve convinced myself they’re some stupid teenage prank. Some kids must’ve gotten ahold of my name and number and are having a field day messing with me.

When the text comes, my first thought isn’t that it’s a threat. My first thought is that it’s a client in labor. I have two women due soon. I never go to bed with the guarantee that I’ll be able to sleep the night through without having to go to a birth. It’s a hazard of the job.

Beside me, Josh stirs at the sound of the phone. It’s a preprogrammed response; he’s gotten used to this. He rolls away from me. He pulls the covers over his head.

I reach for the phone. I glance down at it, the light from the screen burning my eyes.

I’m scared,it reads.

The text comes from Shelby Tebow. I sigh. I prop myself on my elbows to reply. Shelby is scared of giving birth. Many women are. I was, too, for both Delilah and Leo. It’s a fear that doesn’t necessarily go away, even after your first. With Delilah everything went right. With Leo it all went wrong. If I was to have a third, I’d still be scared.

But the middle of the night is not the ideal time for a pep talk. Some clients don’t toe the line. They think that because they’re paying for my services, they have access to me around the clock. Such is not the case. My rules are laid out in the contract. If they’re in labor, then I’m at their beck and call. But if they have cold feet, they’ll still have cold feet during normal business hours. This is something I’d be glad to talk about tomorrow.

I write back, All first-time mothers get scared. It’s normal. Try to sleep. You need your rest. Let’s talk tomorrow. xo.

It’s an empathetic response, but one that hopefully puts the kibosh on a lengthy discussion. I’ll call her tomorrow, ask if she wants to meet for coffee and discuss. We’ll make a list of her fears and tackle them one by one.

Shelby doesn’t write back at first. It’s three in the morning. She took the hint and went to bed.

But just as I’m about to return my phone to the nightstand, it pings.

I’m scared of my husband,it says this time.

I stare at those words. I read them through twice. I haven’t met Shelby’s husband. I don’t know who he is. I do know that his name is Jason, and the few things Shelby told me about him.

I don’t wake Josh. Josh would tell me to drop this client. He’d say that I don’t need to be getting myself involved in some sort of domestic dispute.

But I’m already involved, aren’t I? Shelby paid her deposit. She and I both signed the contract. I put a copy in the mail for her yesterday.

That said, the check still sits on the kitchen counter. It’s waiting to be deposited. I suppose I could just give it back. I could say I’ve bitten off more than I can chew and can’t take on another client. I have another eight women due next month, same month that Shelby is due. The odds of two of them going into labor at the same time is good. I could apologize, recommend another doula. Shelby might leave me a bad Yelp review. But that would likely be the end of it. That’s the worst she could do. I don’t think she could sue.

That said, the last thing I want to do is make someone else shoulder the burden. Besides, it’s women like Shelby who need me the most. Women like Shelby are the reason I got into this career, to be there for women with no or unsupportive partners.

I take a deep breath. I peek at Josh to be certain the covers are still over his head.

Did he hurt you?I ask. I remember the sunglasses the last time I saw her. She was hiding something, either red, swollen eyes from crying, or a black eye.

I think of all the things that she could say in reply. She could tell me that yes, he hurt her. That he hit her. That he has a temper. That he screams and throws things.

But abuse isn’t always physical. It can be emotional, too. Name-calling, throwing insults, controlling her behavior, monitoring her whereabouts at all times, asserting financial control. Shelby used to work. She no longer does. She no longer has her own source of income. We think that victims of abuse should leave their spouses. We judge them for not leaving but choosing to stay in abusive relationships. But with no job and a baby on the way, what are women like Shelby to do? She’s reliant on Jason.

Physical abuse worries me more than emotional abuse. But the fact that Shelby doesn’t reply is most disconcerting of all.

I think the worst: that he saw her texting and now he’s mad.

Is everything okay, Shelby?I ask.

When again she doesn’t reply, I consider going to her house to see if she’s all right. The Tebows’ address is on the contract. They don’t live far. They live quite close actually, in our neighborhood. It might be how Shelby heard of me.

Now that I think of it, I don’t know how Shelby heard of me. Sometimes OBGYNs recommend me. But Shelby’s is leery of doulas. I haven’t worked with him before, but his reputation precedes him. He wouldn’t have recommended me or anyone else in my line of work.

I have a website. There is a database of doulas where she could have found me. The fact that I can walk to her house may only be coincidental.

But it would be rash for me to go to the Tebow house now, by myself. It’s the middle of the night. And what would I do when I got there? Just knock on the front door? If her husband isn’t mad now—if he doesn’t know what Shelby told me—he would be.

Besides, how am I to know he wouldn’t answer the door with a shotgun? People have them. I am a mother. I have my own kids. I can’t put myself in harm’s way for Shelby’s sake.

I could call the police then, ask them to do a welfare check. But what if that would only make things worse for her? Her husband would be angry if the police showed up. He’d want to know why they were there. There would be backlash.

And besides, not long ago a woman called in a welfare check on a neighbor whose door was left open overnight. When police arrived, they got spooked. They inadvertently shot the neighbor in her own home. She died as a result. I wouldn’t want something like that on me.

In the end I do nothing. Indecision paralyzes me. I go back to bed, clutching the phone to my chest in case, later on, she needs me.