How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [39]
I frowned at Poppy, whose cheeks were bright red. Nancy smiled down kindly at her—way, way down, because she was very tall, and not just tall for a woman. She took Poppy’s hand between both of hers and said, “I’m glad to meet you finally.”
“It feels like we’ve been talking for ages off and on, doesn’t it?”
Nancy still stood there for a minute, smiling like a statue of a saint, holding Poppy’s hands. Then she turned to look at the counter. “Sourdough?” she asked, lifting the towel over the bowl to sniff. “Mmm! Magnificent!”
“It’s my grandma’s mother dough,” I said, showing off what I had learned.
“No kidding.” She inhaled again, deeply, then pointed at the jar with its foamy mass bubbling against the glass. “May I?” she asked Poppy.
“Of course!” She relaxed a little. “You look like you know your way around bread.”
“I ran away to Paris as a young woman. Ended up in a boulangerie for a couple of years. The baker was old-fashioned, baked everything with traditional levains. It was a lot of work, but the bread was fantastic.”
Poppy inclined her head. “I’ve experimented with the old-style starters, but, as you say, it’s a lot of work, and most people wouldn’t appreciate the subtle differences.”
Feeling left out, I said, “What is that? A levain?”
“It’s a starter,” Poppy said. “Some are very stiff and intense. You really need a heavy mixer to work with them, and the risings are very long. It can take a couple of days to go from mixing to baking.”
“Days?”
Nancy smiled at me. “It’s worth it. There’s a bakery in Denver that sells old-world breads. I’ll bring some down next time I come and you can taste it.”
The baby kicked me in the kidney, hard, and I said, “Ulp!” and slapped a palm to the place, rubbing, then rubbing in front. It seemed like sometimes the baby would move a bit if I rubbed his back. Her back. Whatever.
It. Its back.
Nancy gave me a smile—not all toothy and false but calm and easy. I thought again of the statues of saints at our church; the one I thought of was St. Joseph, with babies in his arms. “Is the baby nudging things out of her way?” she asked.
“I guess. Hurts sometimes, like a little fist is punching me inside.”
She came over and stretched out a giant palm. “May I?” she asked, hovering over my tummy.
I don’t know why, but I nodded. It was like she carried a force field of quietness and, when she came close, it wrapped around me. Her hand was warm. “I’m a midwife, Ramona,” she said, moving her palm. “Do you know what that is?”
“I’m not stupid,” I said with a scowl. I had read about midwives in my books. “You deliver babies.”
“Right. Your mother and Poppy thought you might be most comfortable with a woman, somebody who has experience with very young women having babies.”
“Oh.” My heart sank. “Midwives deliver babies at home, right? I don’t want to have it at home. That would be gross.”
Nancy laughed softly. “It’s kinda gross no matter where you have it, honestly, but that’s fine. If you want to go to the hospital, I have privileges at all the area hospitals.” She straightened. “Do you think you’d be comfortable letting me examine you?”
I looked at Poppy, who nodded. “Okay,” I said. I hadn’t really thought about this part. “Like when?”
“How about now?” She gestured toward the door. “I brought my bag with me. We can go to your room or your aunt’s room, wherever you like.”
So that’s what we did. I went to my room and Nancy spread a plastic sheet over my bedspread, then covered it with a cotton one and asked me to lie down. She looked between my legs with a metal thing, which I thought would be terrible and wasn’t, because she told me everything she was doing, step by step. It felt weird and it was really