The following is the first chapter from my first novel Remembrance.

None of Maggie’s patients suspected she hated her work. She had long since learned to wear a mask of cheerful competence and knew her patients accepted it. Even old Dr. Mobley accepted her mask. Mrs. Preston and her mother had no idea that being closed up in a room with them on a humid night was a waking nightmare. Maggie smiled and murmured bland responses to every attempt by Mrs. Preston’s mother to gossip.

Tonight, though, Maggie couldn’t stop her happiness from breaking through. Her future had changed; it was no longer an endless stretch of days all the same.

While Mrs. Preston dozed between contractions, Maggie stared out the window at the lightening sky. Night had shifted to dawn. Birds sang. She tried to pick out birds by their song. Her brother, Henry, had tried to teach her each bird’s song, but she never had the ear for it.

Spring made Maggie wish she were anywhere but in the town she’d always lived in, the town she’d likely die in without ever really leaving. But she knew now she could choose to leave or stay.

A low moan from Mrs. Preston called Maggie back. Maggie wiped sweat from Mrs. Preston’s face, smoothing back strands of hair that had caught in her mouth. Mrs. Preston gazed up at Maggie with tired eyes; exhaustion had taken away her words. Maggie squeezed Mrs. Preston’s damp hand. “You’re doing so well!” she said. “We’ll have that baby out soon!” Maggie silently prayed she was right.

Maggie yearned for cool water to wash the sweat from her skin. She wanted to clear her nose of the smell of blood and stale sweat. She wanted to put her bare feet into new grass.

“So, Maggie, I hear you’re keeping company with the youngest Cunningham boy,” Mrs. Preston’s mother said over her daughter’s indistinct whimpers.

Maggie bit back the smile that came with any thought of Don. “He’s hardly a boy, Mrs. Yorke.”

Mrs. Yorke waved this off and picked up her knitting. Over the evening, she had completed a dress for the new baby and was very nearly finished a pair of booties. “You’re all boys and girls to me. I can’t believe no one’s snatched him up before this. Has he asked you to marry him yet?”

Maggie couldn’t control her blood. She sighed at the blush that rose up from her collar, and, in short order, reached her forehead. Before she could answer, someone knocked on the door. Maggie rushed to answer it before Mrs. Yorke could hoist herself to her feet.

“Is it Mark?” Mrs. Preston asked in a weak voice, struggling to sit up. Maggie turned to see Mrs. Yorke gently guiding her daughter back down to her soaked pillow.

Maggie opened the door, ready to shoo an anxious husband away.

“Are you going to tell me to go away, nurse?” Dr. John Mobley asked, laughter edging around his words.

“Doctor Mobley,” Maggie said, emphasizing his title, “I didn’t expect you back. She’s close, no baby yet.”

“Well, let’s take a look,” John said. He came into the room and set his bag down on a chair. He rolled up his sleeves and bent down to examine his patient. “You’re right, it’ll be soon. Mrs. Preston, Mrs. Yorke, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to wash up and speak with Mrs. Lancaster for a moment. Mrs. Yorke, could you get a basin of warm water? I think we’ll be washing a baby soon.”

John took Maggie by the arm and guided her down the hall to the washroom. “Thought you could use a break,” he said. “Sorry to leave you alone. Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Maggie shook her head. “She’s progressing nicely, if a little slow. And Mrs. Yorke filled me in on all the doings of everybody and her thoughts on same. She approves of Don, so there’s a weight off my mind.” They both laughed.

“Well, people love romance. And you’re giving it to them. Don’t argue. You’re a beautiful young widow,” John paused. Maggie rolled her eyes. “You are! And Don’s a handsome war hero. Of course people are interested. And, if you got married, I could hire a nurse who actually likes her job.” Maggie shoved him with her shoulder and he winked at her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “How did it go with Bill Ward?”

John turned away. “Dead. Nothing I could do.” His voice was flat. Maggie put her hand on his back. His shirt was soaked through. It was hot for spring.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She felt him shrug beneath her palm.

“Let’s deliver a baby,” he said, turning back to her with a smile. The full light of sunrise filled the small room, covering everything in rose and gold. John’s skin glowed, but dark shadows ringed his eyes. Maggie heard him wheeze slightly as she leaned closer to him. He looked gaunt. They were both too old to go without sleep and not wear it on their faces. She avoided her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

John had come back not because he didn’t trust her to handle the birth on her own, but because he needed it. He loved delivering babies. Maggie liked to watch him do it, to see his joy.