Page 59 of Where the Roses Bloom
“Come in,” she said.
She was propped up on the bed in a faded t-shirt and leggings, her hair wrapped in a silk scarf, a cool cloth resting on her forehead. Her skin was ashen, with the faint sheen of someone who hadn’t slept well. She looked tired—but not afraid.
“You’re the doula?” she asked, studying me like she already knew the answer.
“I am,” I said, stepping inside. “Caleb said you’ve been feeling off.”
Her lips twitched. “I’m sure I’m fine, he’s just…paranoid. It’s more of an intuition, really. Like something’s in the air. Like a curse coming undone.”
That stopped me cold.
My hands froze over the clasp of my bag.
Jasmine didn’t look at me, just reached down and rubbed slow circles over her belly. “I don’t know what you’re doing up there at the Ward house…but we all feel it.”
What were we doing up at the Ward house…? Having a lot of sex, mostly.
She didn’t seem to miss the blush.
I sat down at the edge of the bed. “Let’s talk about what you’re feeling, Jasmine. And then, if you want…we’ll talk about what comes next.”
She nodded, adjusting the pillow behind her back with a wince. “I’m not in labor—not real labor. But my back hurts and I keep getting these cramps, and I just…don’t feel right in my skin. Like something’s shifting under the surface.”
I nodded, slipping into the familiar rhythm of the work. “Mind if I feel your belly?”
She lifted her shirt without hesitation, the fabric catchingjust under the curve of her belly. I warmed my hands against my thighs and placed them gently on her skin, letting them rest there before applying the lightest pressure. Jasmine exhaled.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “It just…feels better with a little pressure.”
“You’ve got a lot of tension in your lower back,” I said. “Could be the baby turning—sometimes they like to get in position earlier than we expect.”
“That a good sign?”
“It’s a normal one,” I said with a reassuring smile. “And I brought some herbs that might help loosen the tension. Raspberry leaf, nettle, cramp bark if the ache gets worse. I also have a blend for labor if you want to keep it on hand. No pressure—it’s just in case.”
Jasmine nodded, then reached over to her nightstand and opened a small notebook. She pulled a pen from the spine and jotted something down.
“You keeping track of everything?” I asked.
“Trying to,” she said. “I want to remember it later. Not just for me—for her.”
A little girl.
I smiled softly and lowered my gaze back to her belly, which twitched under my hand like the baby had heard her name before it was even spoken.
“You’ve got a strong girl in there,” I said.
“She kicks like it,” Jasmine muttered, then grew quiet for a moment. “My grandma used to say you could tell the strength of a woman by how she came into the world.”
“Your grandma sounds like my kind of woman.”
Jasmine let out a breath, then glanced at me with a kind of steel in her eyes I hadn’t quite expected—but respected immediately.
“Okay,” she said, shifting a little straighter against the pillows. “So what exactly do youdoas a doula? I mean—notin theory. Like, when the contractions start, when shit gets real…what’s your role?”
There it was. The woman under the fatigue. The one who wanted a plan. Who needed to knowwhowas coming into her space, what they were bringing, and whether they were strong enough to stand beside her when the storm hit.
I didn’t blame her. I admired her.
