Page 9 of Lady and the Butcher
A dog barked in the distance.
And the tiniest shiver ran down my spine.
Because something had changed tonight.
Something I couldn’t name yet.
It was coming.
And I didn’t know if I was going to rise with it—or burn.
Either way, I was ready.
My phone buzzed the second I finished my rosé. Of course, it did.
On-call ringtone—gentle chimes that lied about how chaotic birth could be.
“Hey, Simone? It’s Talia Graham.” Her voice was breathy, excited, a little terrified. “Um … my waves are five minutes apart. I didn’t want to bother you if it’s false labor, but?—”
“It’s not false,” I said, already on my feet, already knotting my robe back around my waist as if modesty mattered to the moon. “Full moon babies love to make a point. How long has it been like that?”
“An hour? Maybe more? I … I lost track.”
“Good,” I said, pacing for no reason, brain flipping the doula switch I keep next to my heart. “Drink some water. Pee. Slow dance with the doorframe if that feels good. I’m throwing on clothes and I’ll meet you at Palmetto Birth Center.”
“Should I wait or?—”
“If your body says move, you move. If not, wait for me.” I softened. “You’ve got this, Talia. Tonight’s a good night to be born.”
I hung up, stared at the scattered remnants of the ceremony—the half-burned sage, the sticky cacao bowl, the Moon Mist—and muttered, “Should’ve known.”
Every doula knows the full moon is part myth, part mischief. There’s no research that satisfies the internet warriors, but my text log says otherwise. Babies love drama. The moon is drama. Ergo: here we go.
I swapped the robe for leggings and an oversized tee that said BREATHE, grabbed my on-call bag (rebozo, honey sticks, tennis balls, essential oils, electrolyte packets, snacks, spare scrunchies), and slid into sandals.
On my way out, I tossed the spent tea lights in a bowl of water and whispered, “Thanks for the vibes. Please don’t burn the house down.”
4
Buzzing with energy, I locked the back gate, jogged around to my car, and tried not to think about how satisfying it would be if a certain brutal stranger stepped out of the shadows right now and told me I wasn’t going anywhere.
Instead, I got in the car and my Honda wheezed to life.
The drive across town was muscle memory. King to Calhoun to Rutledge, the city’s bones shining under gas lanterns and Spanish moss. I passed a cluster of tipsy ghost-tour people pointing at a brick wall like it owed them an apparition. A couple kissed sloppily under a live oak. Somewhere, a bar cheer rose and fell, the tides of other people’s nights reaching me through cracked windows.
As the Medical University of South Carolina complex came into view, I felt that familiar click inside me. Another life is coming.
My life, for the next unknown hours, will orbit someone else’s body. It’s the best and strangest job on earth. You prepare for chaos and then you bow to it.
Palmetto Birth Center sat two blocks away, tucked inside a renovated brick building with soft lighting and a porch swingno one actually used during labor but everyone took pictures on afterward. There’s a regulation about proximity—birth centers have to be within a quick dash of a hospital. As if any mother in transition has time to admire zoning maps. Still, it looked comforting in the glow, a lighthouse for the soft revolt of unmedicated birth.
I parked, textedI’m here, and hustled up the steps. The lobby was dim. A salt lamp pooled peachy light. I heard the low murmur of water—the big tub in Suite B filling—and the deeper music of a woman finding her sound.
“Simone,” called Lexie Scott, one of the midwives, from the hall. She was five foot nothing and made of steel wool and honey. “She’s active. Bloody show, good swell, baby’s lively. BP fine. You’re on counter-pressure and comic relief.”
“My specialities,” I said, dumping my bag and scrubbing my hands. “Any requests?”
“She likes peppermint oil and affirmations that aren’t corny.” Lexie’s mouth twitched. “Which is to say … do your Simone thing.”
