1
“I hate to ask you to do this on your weekend off, Renee, but we’re stuck here. This was supposed to be a quick overnight trip and then this ridiculous storm hit. We can’t leave until it passes over.”
“It’s okay,” I said, sounding unconvincing even to myself. I was supposed to be having lunch with my sisters. We planned some type of get-together every couple of weeks or at least every month as a form of sisterly bonding and a way to stay up on what was happening in each other’s lives, something that was especially hard to do with the way my sister, Angie, and her husband traveled for events or commercial shoots. Her being in town at all was a miracle, but on a Saturday? That was almost unheard of.
“No, it’s not, and I truly am sorry.”
“Look, I really do understand. It was your mother-in-law’s birthday. You guys needed to go see her. And no one was expecting all hell to break loose with the weather there. Am I disappointed to have to work today? Yes, but I’ll be fine. And you only had the one patient that was due, right?”
“Yes, and if it helps, she lives in a very nice house, has a supportive family. This should be a good experience.”
“I’m sure it will be. You know I love home births, anyway.”
“Yeah. Hey, thanks again, Renee. I’ll make this up to you. I’ll take your call next weekend.”
“Deal.”
I ended the call and quickly went about the business of changing into a pair of scrubs. My bag was pretty well stocked and still in the trunk of my car, so I didn’t have to worry about dropping by the birthing center to pick up any supplies.
As I was leaving, I peeked into the kitchen and told my mom I was heading out.
She looked up from the cookbook she was studying at the table. “Where you going?”
“Taking call for Cass. Got one in labor.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, I hope it goes well. Tell me all about it when you get back.”
I smiled and wondered to myself why she liked hearing these birthing stories. I’d shared a ton of them with her since moving back home over a year ago. “Okay, Mama.”
*****
I had known Cassandra Johnson since nursing school where we became fast friends, both opting to continue our educations and eventually becoming midwives, sharing that graduation as well. It’d been Cass’s idea to open the birthing center. We had both been working in hospitals and clinics and were both making good livings. The last thing on my mind was undertaking something as massive as opening our own medical facility, but Cass had this vision that I couldn’t help but get on board with. She was a teen mother, having two kids by the time she was eighteen, and shared with me how horribly she was treated, disrespected, and disregarded, not only because she was young and unwed, but because she was black, young, and unwed. She told me about how being poor and on Medicaid limited her birthing options at the time. She wanted to open a center where all women, especially women of color, would be respected and could make choices concerning their bodies and how they brought their children into the world regardless of their racial, social, or economic status.
Admittedly, Cass did most of the ground work, even getting her uncle, a practicing obstetrician, to sign on as our medical director, but I did my part financially and aided in most of the decision-making. And three years after she came to me with the idea, Genesis was born. “Affordable women’s health care with a personal touch” was our slogan. Genesis was a place where women of color could feel welcomed and empowered. And then there were the scholarships, for lack of a better word. We held fundraisers throughout the year and used the funds to assist our teen and low-income patients with purchasing things they needed for their babies—everything from car seats to cribs. In return, they pledged to finish high school. Mothers who had already finished high school pledged to enroll in a university or a community college. When funds allowed, we even assisted with child care costs.
We’d been friends for nearly nineteen years, and I’d never known her to be a liar, but when I plugged the address into my GPS and saw that the house was located in the Braxton edition, I knew at the very least she’d downplayed the house by describing it simply as “nice.” The Braxton edition was even more exclusive than the neighborhood my mother’s house was in, with huge homes protected by tall gates and high fences. The richest of the rich resided there. And with that wealth seemed to come a level of entitlement I hated to deal with. So as I backed out of my mother’s driveway, I sighed and braced myself for what I was about to face.