"A People Person"

Ira was one of my favourite students. Do you know, I remember her first shift? She was under my supervision. A woman had come in via ambulance. Gail, her name was. She'd been planning to give birth at home, but everything had gone on too long, and she was exhausted. After I'd introduced us to Gail, Ira stepped up to the bedside and took her hand.

"Hello, Gail," she said, warmly. "I'm going to be helping to deliver your baby today." She smiled, showing her neat little white teeth, her eyes soft. Gail smiled right back.

I wasn't sure it was a good idea to say that. The baby might not arrive during her shift, or Gail might need surgery. These things might even be likely, given that labour seemed to have stalled, and the mother was struggling.

It might've been coincidence, but Gail gave birth soon after, and hardly needed any help at all.

When I visited her on the ward the next day, and helped her get to grips with feeding her son, that's what stood out to her.

"She smiled at me." There was a tinge of wonder in her voice, that something so small had made such a difference.

Ira was good. The mothers liked her. We had started pairing her with mothers who were panicked, anxious, or wary of medical intervention. She had a knack for bringing a blanket of quiet and confidence with her. When she smiled, they smiled back, tension melting out of their faces and shoulders.

Several times, I witnessed mothers who had laboured for a long time, sometimes for days, relax in her presence and subsequently push out their babies. Just like Gail.

"You're shaping up to be a real labour whisperer, Ira!" we'd say to her. Or, when we were doing a handover, we'd reassure whichever woman Ira was attending. Some of them were unsure about students. They seem to feel like it's lesser service somehow, that they won't be safe, or that they are being practised on. "You're in very good hands with Ira!" I'd say. "She's born to do this, she really is a natural. We call her the labour whisperer!"

Shortly after she completed her training, she took a couple of days off sick. I thought nothing of it. She'd always been sensible, and worked hard. It was difficult of course, because it left us short-staffed, but it's always difficult. We're always short-staffed.

On her return, I saw she certainly had been ill. Honestly, she still looked peaky, if you ask me. Pale, you know. Shadows under her eyes. She'd not been big to start with, but now she looked thin, the angles of her face stark, and her lips bloodless. There was something else, although I didn't notice it straight away. Her smile was gone.

Perhaps she was still recovering from being unwell. Constantly taking night shifts must be draining her even further. I called her into my office to discuss.

"Is there a problem?" She frowned. All prickles, now, where before she'd been soft.

"Not at all," I tried to reassure her. Her scowl only deepened.

"Then why am I here?" Maybe she thought I was wasting her time. Her attitude was defensive and impatient.

"You've been unwell-"

She interrupted me. "Only two days. I've never missed a shift before that. Or since."

"No, you don't understand," I laughed a little, nervously, "I just want-" What did I want, exactly? I was so sure, before she walked in. I'd thought it all out. "I just want to make sure you're alright. That everything is OK."

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, in clipped tones. "Can I get to work now?"

"Well," I said, rallying feebly, "You only take night shifts these days, and that can really take it out of you, and you being poorly as well and everything..." I was babbling, I knew it, and by her narrowed eyes and pinched-looking mouth, I knew she knew it as well.

"Has my performance suffered?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Do you question anyone else who is on nights?" she asked.

"I would," I said, "If they hadn't been well. You're still ever so pale."

"I've always been pale," she shrugged, impatience bouncing off those spiky shoulders.

That spark that made women warm to her had been snuffed out. I experienced it first-hand, but I thought I'd done something to offend her. Then I saw it with other women, too. She was still able to help those under her care to relax. I don't know how, when she was so cold and aloof, but she managed it.

I found excuses to pair with her on shifts, like we had when she was still training and I was mentoring her. She glared at me, demanded in a hiss to know whether there had been any complaints about her work, did I think she needed supervision?

"Of course not," I said. "I always enjoyed working with you, you know that."

She turned her back and focused on her work. She hardly touches them anymore. Some prefer that, but for many, touch is the best way to bring comfort and encourage things along. Instead she squints at them, as if she is peering at a strange insect under a rock. And she listens.

Everything always seemed to unfold smoothly under her care, and her work was impeccable. I was almost (almost!) disappointed about this, because my dislike grew with each passing day. I wanted to be rid of her before her probationary period was up.

The only time she seemed anything like her old self, was after a birth. It wrung the rest of us out, but it seemed to rejuvenate her.

It occurred to me I hadn't seen her use a doppler, or even a pinard, in quite a long time, yet the foetal heart rate was always recorded in the notes, exactly as it should be. I had a plan.

It was a few days until I could set it in motion. I arrived at work early, and took the doppler out of Room 5, the room I intended to assign Ira to when she arrived.

When I checked, the heartrate was still recorded. When I popped my head into Room 5, the little handheld device was nowhere to be seen. If she was lying... If she was making it up... Well, that was terrible of course, but we could be rid of her, couldn't we? I just had to prove it.

I couldn't keep just "popping in". She was already suspicious, and that would only make her more careful. I had to choose my moment, and catch her in the act. Or else question her, and back her into a corner. Something in me shrank from doing that.

A video, then. Something like a nanny-cam. This was distasteful to me, given that it would capture intimate moments, and the mother wouldn't be consenting.

I shouldn't. I mustn't. How could I justify it? Not a single woman or infant had died or been injured under her care, even. What if it did show anything, what exactly could I do I do about it? How would I answer for it if anyone found it? If she found it? My heart thudded painfully, and I realised, I'm afraid of her.

I bought one anyway, and concealed it in Room 2. After I'd told her that's where she was working today, I practically fled, unable to stand being near her.

Watching that footage back did nothing to ease my fear. She did everything right, but still something seemed wrong. I was right about one thing: she never did listen to the baby's heartbeat. Not with any equipment anyway. She did look as if she were listening intently, but who can hear a heartbeat just by being near a person? It's not possible.

I would have to confront her. I couldn't think of any way around it.

I put it off, and put it off. I scolded myself every day. What if something happens because she lied? It'll be your fault. But what can I say? I can't admit to that camera... I should never have used it...

This litany kept going in my head, but I still avoided her. I'm not a coward. I just need to figure out how to handle it.

I saw her emerge from one of the delivery rooms a few nights later, walking swiftly down the corridor.

Now! Do it now, before you lose your nerve!

I followed her, but hesitated when she took a left turn and ducked into a storage room. Is she lost? What is she doing in there?

That moment was enough for the courage I'd grappled with to start leaking away. I dithered some more.

The woman in Room 3 is struggling a bit, could you pop in there and work your magic? That's what I'll say. And, "So glad I saw you walking down here, she could really use your support." Or maybe, "Goodness, what are you doing in here?"

I drew a breath, reached for the handle, and put my best brisk face on.

It was gloomy in there, and Ira seemed to be eating something. Had she not had a break? Perhaps she felt faint. Her blood sugar might have been low-

Ira turned, her pale face alight, and eyes glassy. A placenta was gripped in both hands, her fingers digging into it, and blood oozing out. A swirly blue cord trailed from it to her red-smeared lips. It fell, and dangled, dripping dark red blood on to the floor by her flat shoes.

She looked horrified for a moment, eyes wide and features fixed in an expression of oh shit! I've been caught! Then it melted into a wide, beaming smile, long white fangs gleaming, and a low chuckle coming from her throat.

So I caught her, so what? What can I do with that information? Who am I going to tell? Who is going to believe me?