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“Thanks.” My voice is small and watery. “I’m sorry for unloading all my troubles on you. I’ve been such an emotional wreck.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Hon, no apologies needed. It comes with the territory. Pregnancy does that to you. Wreaks havoc on your hormones. Plus, you’re suffering from PGP, edema, and now preeclampsia.”
My tears subsiding, I finally ask, “How do you know so much about pregnancy?”
“I’m an NCS—a trained newborn care specialist. More specifically, I’m a night nanny, specializing in helping new mothers take care of their newborns at night so that they can get rest and get back on their feet.” She reaches inside her bag and hands me a business card.
“Nurse Marley Manners,” I mutter, holding it to my eyes. “Certified NCS.” Below her name is her contact info—both her cell number and email address—as well as her website. I study the information as if I want to commit it to memory.
“I can provide wonderful references should you want to check me out. They will all tell you that I have a genuine love of babies, an exceptional nurturing quality, and a sincere desire to help support new parents. Your condition may worsen after your cesarean and you may not be able to handle the demands of a newborn.”
Either because I’ve been in so much pain or in a brain fog, I haven’t given much thought to motherhood. Especially what it’ll be like to have an infant in our house and be part of our lives. Can things get any worse?
Marley’s gaze stays on me as I file away the card in my wallet. We finish our drinks and I say, “Well, I should get going.”
“I hope you didn’t drive here in your condition.”
I laugh a sad laugh. “I can barely get in and out of a car let alone behind a steering wheel.” I clutch my behemoth baby bump to make my point. “I took an Uber.”
“Is your husband picking you up?”
“He can’t. He’s in New York on a business trip.” One of the many.
I intake a slow, deep breath, my shoulders rising. “I’ll just call another Uber.”
“Why don’t you let me take you home?”
“You sure you don’t mind? You’ve already been so kind and I surely don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“It’s not a problem. Where do you live?”
I tell her the Hollywood Hills.
“Great. That’s on the way to my place.”
Five minutes later we’re in her roomy four-door Subaru, heading toward Sunset Boulevard, passing by the beautiful pink house my husband grew up in. Michael Bublé is playing on the stereo. “Forever Now,” a song he wrote about his love for his children.
At a stop sign, Marley tells me, “Do you know fussy babies love Bublé? His soothing voice calms them down.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Sometimes I’ve had to take them for a drive and play some Bublé because nothing else works.”
Another Bublé track comes on and the next thing I know, we’re driving up the winding road to our house. The crooner must have put me to sleep. Did I give Marley our address? With my pregnancy fog, I honestly don’t remember.
Our house is at the very top. When she reaches the massive gate outside it, I tell her the security code and instantly regret doing that as she punches it in. I should have had her press the intercom and let our housekeeper let us in. Oh, well. What is done is done. Plus, she hardly seems the gun-wielding home-invader type.
The gate slides open, and she drives to the entrance of the sprawling contemporary residence. A glass and concrete architectural masterpiece.
“Your house is stunning,” she says, taking it in. “Do you need help getting out?”
Though I’m stiff, achy, and groggy from the drive, I tell her I’m good. She helps me out anyway and hands me my crutches from the back seat.
“Thanks so much for the lift,” I tell her before limping to the front door.
She smiles. “Take care, Ava. And call me if you need me. You have my card.”
TWO
