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floor, Allison leads the way down the hall to the last door, which is ajar, held open by a white New Balance cross-trainer.
    â€œHello, hello,” Allison calls, stepping into the apartment without knocking.
    Peyton hesitates only a moment before following her.
    A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy are seated in a tiny living room. Norah Jones is playing on the stereo, candles are flickering, and a large platter of nachos is on the coffee table.
    â€œGuys, this is Peyton,” Allison announces, her coat already draped over a chair and her hand reaching for a chip.
    Introductions are made. It turns out this is only the group’s second meeting, but Peyton can’t help feeling like an outsider. The others seem so comfortable with each other already.
    Julie Bernard is the hostess. Long, kinky blond hair, wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses, no makeup, seven months pregnant.
    Wanda Jones is a stunning, statuesque African-American woman, well into her first trimester but still barely showing.
    The slightly aloof, redheaded Kate Dunham is in the throes of Braxton Hix contractions but says the midwife claims she’s still a week away from delivery.
    All three women are single, although Kate has a live-in boyfriend and a diamond engagement ring. Only Allison has been through this before, with two teenagers at home, the products of a disastrous early marriage.
    Despite her reservations, Peyton finds herself drawn into the conversation as it bounces from nursing pads to epidurals to home delivery.
    â€œNo way,” Wanda declares, munching a tortilla. “I want to be in the hospital and as medicated as legally possible.”
    Julie’s mouth tightens. “You should at least consider other options, Wanda.”
    â€œUh-uh. I’m not good with pain.”
    â€œOh, come on, who is?” Allison asks. “At this point, I say, bring it on.”
    â€œWhere are you going to deliver?” Julie asks, turning to Peyton.
    â€œThe hospital, definitely.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I guess whichever one Dr. Lombardo sends me to.”
    â€œYou really need to be more proactive,” Allison tells her. “Take charge of your pregnancy from the beginning.”
    Peyton protests defensively, “I am in charge. I just . . . I haven’t had a chance to ask all of my questions yet. That’s all.”
    â€œToo bad Rita couldn’t make it to our meeting tonight. She was going to talk to us about cardinal movement and delivery empowerment.”
    â€œRita?” Cardinal movement? Delivery empowerment? Peyton feels like she did as a high school freshman who boldly joined the Spanish club despite barely knowing what hola meant. That tiny detail couldn’t hold her back. She had made up her mind to be in the Spanish Club the moment she found out about the biennial trip to Acapulco.
    Mexico was wonderful, but it can’t hold a candle to motherhood, she thinks now, smiling inwardly at the preposterous comparison.
    Then again, maybe not so preposterous. For the second time in her life, she’s learning to speak a whole new language, one that she’ll carry to a foreign destination.
    Cardinal movement. Delivery empowerment. And now . . . doula?
    That’s the term Allison just used to define the Rita she mentioned.
    â€œActually, Rita isn’t a doula. She’s technically a midwife,” Julie contradicts. “We met her last month, at our first meeting.”
    â€œDoula, midwife . . . same thing,” is Allison’s laid-back response, but Julie begs to differ. According to her, a midwife is certified to do everything a doctor does, but in the comfort of the patient’s own home.
    â€œ Anyway, ” Allison says pointedly, making it abundantly clear that she isn’t someone who enjoys nit-picking over technical details, “none of that really matters because what Rita really is, is a guardian angel. That’s what I