I can’t believe that FBI guy knew my name. ‘Morgan le Fay, Morgan Le Fay,’ the teasing cry of my childhood school mates echoed in my head. That was their nickname for me; all because I had been a thin, lanky child. At least I had some meat on my bones now, but it didn’t hide my lankiness. My mother always told me I was an ethereal beauty; whatever that means.
I watch as people get off the bus. No one comes to me. I’m grateful, yet disappointed. Why? Because I never have the courage to speak to anyone. I need help. I need a friend.
A guy over there, he’s fine talking with the two women leaning against him. And that other one. He’s got no problem helping the pregnant girl. Maybe I should go see if I can help. She was last off the bus. I should have helped her. She has to be near her estimated due date.
I stop leaning against the car. Go, I tell myself, you can check the child. I take a deep breath. I know about childbirth and pregnancy, my mom was a midwife. I can do this.
Breathe and step. Breathe and step.
I stand before them. The young man’s chatting with her amicably. I stare at her belly protruding from under her colorful poncho. I can feel them look at me curiously. I take one last deep breath and look into the young woman's eyes.
“May I?” my hand reaches out hesitantly. I don't want to touch her belly without permission. “My mother was a midwife,” I hastily explain, “She taught me all I know.”
I can't believe I just spoke that many words to a stranger.