Beauty from Ashes

by Alana Terry

  “I made you some chicken soup.” I force humility into my tone, reminding myself of my resolve to finally become the person God would want me to be. The kind of person Sandy would be proud to call her daughter. I give Patricia a smile.

  A real, literal smile.

  I can tell Jake’s on edge because he’s shifting from foot to foot like he expects me to turn myself into that attack bunny from Monty Python, jump across the room, and sink my teeth into my mother-in-law’s neck. Before long, he’ll be used to the new me. We’ll look back on our first few months of marriage, realize all our problems were due to hormones and all that anxiety over Natalie, and we’ll laugh about it, thanking God those days are over.

  We’ll be regular churchgoers too. And not just the kind who show up every so often on Sundays. When I set my mind to do something, I do it all the way. I’m talking about prayer meetings, Bible studies, the works. Heck, people can even come here for a home group if they don’t mind being cramped. Patricia’s scrubbed the trailer spotless, so when she leaves it won’t be too hard keeping it presentable.

  I serve up the soup and take the bowls to my husband and mother-in-law at the table. I smile at my daughter, who’s asleep in her bouncy chair and doing fine now that her throat is clear. I steel a quick glance at the ceiling, hoping God notices how good I’ve been. Hoping he sees how hard I’m trying.

  Hoping it will be enough for him to overlook all the mistakes I made in the past and choose to save my daughter.

  CHAPTER 39

  Patricia goes right back to bed after we eat, but she thanks me for lunch first. And even though I detect what I think is a hint of criticism when she tells me how interesting the soup tasted, I don’t let it get to me.

  Jake helps me clear the table, which I haven’t seen him voluntarily do the entire time we’ve been together. Maybe my positive attitude is contagious.

  Maybe we do have what it takes to make this marriage work.

  “That was nice of you to get lunch ready,” he says.

  I start loading up the dishwasher. “I don’t mind. I kind of enjoyed it.”

  If Jake’s going to think I’m ready to take care of Natalie by myself, I’ve really got to sell it.

  “You enjoyed it?”

  I shoot him another smile, certain my cheeks will be sore by the end of the day. “Yeah.”

  We don’t say much after that. Once his dishes are cleared, Jake goes to the couch, but even the stupid music from his Candy Zapper game doesn’t bother me like usual. He needs a way to unwind. We all do.

  Natalie’s making noise in her sleep. It’s not quite snoring. It’s more like gurgling, like some of that drool’s getting stuck in the back of her throat but she’s breathing right through it.

  “Aren’t you going to suction her?” Jake asks from the couch.

  I try to ignore how accusing his tone sounds and remind myself it’s good that he worries about our daughter just as much as I do.

  “It’s not that bad.” I figure if I show him how confident I am, he won’t be so anxious. I grab a rag and wipe the table, inwardly gloating when I find a single grain of rice Patricia dropped onto her chair.

  Jake’s still frowning at our daughter. “I really think she needs to be suctioned.”

  I turn my back so he won’t see me roll my eyes. “She’s fine.” I walk by the bouncy seat to prove to him I’m being attentive. “That’s just the way she sounds sometimes when she sleeps.”

  I toss the empty cans of soup into the trash and rummage around in search of the Tupperware. Patricia’s moved things around since she took over the kitchen, and I have to open four different drawers before I find them.

  I start to load the dishes, wondering what I should do when I’m done with the kitchen. It won’t be that long until Natalie needs another feeding. I’m glad Dr. Bell switched her to a three-hour schedule. It gives me more to do throughout the day. More ways to be productive.

  More ways to prove I’m mom enough to care for my own child.

  I spill Jake’s half-filled coffee cup from this morning while I’m reaching for the soap brush. It makes a mess all over the counter. I grit my teeth. If I can get through an eighty-six-hour labor, I can take care of a sink full of dishes.

  I take a deep breath. I read on this self-help website once that at least nine-tenths of your daily stress can be relieved by breathing. Don’t ask me how it works. I’m not even sure I believe it, but at least the action gives me something to focus on besides the old coffee dripping onto my kitchen floor and the cold stain soaking through the front of my maternity pants.

  I make it through the first half of the dishes without further incident, but I stop when I hear a loud droning from the living room. Jake’s bending over the bouncy chair, Yankauer tube in hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  Of course, he can’t hear me with his ear right next to that stupid suction machine. I wonder if we need to worry about Natalie’s hearing. It can’t be good for her having that thing go off three or four times every hour so close to her little ears.

  I’m in the living room now. I guess you could say I stomped over here, but that’s because I’m worried about Natalie. Jake hasn’t suctioned her once in her life, not as far as I remember. I turn off the machine as he’s sticking the tube in Natalie’s mouth.

  “What the heck?” he demands, straightening up.

  I square my shoulders, hands on hips, and face him.

  “What was that for?” he whines.

  “I told you she’s fine.” I grab the Yankauer out of his hand.

  “She needs to be suctioned.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Except now that I’m closer to her, I can hear it too. That wet noise in her throat.

  Jake tries to snatch the Yankauer back. We’re like two little kids playing keep away from each other. Except neither of us is laughing.

  “Listen to that.” Jake thrusts a finger down at our daughter.

  I try not to wince at the sound. It’s not snoring, really. More like a cat purring or water percolating in an old-fashioned coffee maker. Not the noise you ever want to hear coming from your own child’s lungs. It reminds me of this foster brother I once had, Eliot Jamison, and his horrible asthma I used to tease him about. Man, I was merciless too.

  “She needs to be suctioned.” Jake’s voice is softer now. More subdued. I can tell he’s trying to keep the peace. He doesn’t want to fight. Neither do I.

  “I guess you’re right.” I hate to say the words. It’s like they’re physically painful creeping up from my throat. But they don’t kill me, and I turn on the machine.

  “I’ll do it,” Jake says and crowds into my space.

  “I got it.” I try to elbow him out of the way without it coming across like I’m manhandling him.

  “I said I’d do it.” He yanks the tube out of my hand. I swallow the curses I want to shout at him. It’s not worth a big blowup. I should be glad he wants to be involved. Another week, as soon as Christmas is over, it will just be Jake and me taking care of all these things. We may as well learn to share responsibility now.

  I sigh and head back to the kitchen. Apparently, this is my place for the time being. I’ve got to watch out or resentment’s going to grow and fester until we have a major eruption. That’s why I prefer one or two smaller skirmishes a day. Otherwise you’re just saving all that negative energy up for the really big ones.

  But I’m going to learn. God’s going to help me. I’ll be the kind of woman I always pictured I’d grow up to be when I was at those youth retreats.

  I realize now that even if the Grandma Lucy lady wasn’t specifically telling me the future, she still inspired me. Made me realize that my daughter’s beautiful and that she deserves a mom who loves her. A mom who’s willing to work hard to protect her.

  A mom who’s not about to roll over and let her die without putting up the fight of her life.

  CHAPTER 40

  Patricia’s still under the weather, but she dragg
ed herself out of bed at five in the afternoon like a stinking martyr, hellbent on making us our daily casserole. It took Jake and me a full ten minutes to convince her to go lie down some more.

  We decided to work together to make spaghetti for dinner. Jake’s watching the pasta, and I’m browning the hamburger meat for the sauce. It’s nice, just the two of us in here. Our kitchen’s small. I’ve seen walk-in closets on TV with more space that this, but Jake’s not that big of a guy, and we work comfortably side by side.

  It’s been a quiet afternoon. While Patricia napped, I spent some time online and Jake did his phone thing, but it felt different. Like we were more connected even though we weren’t actually talking. It reminded me of the lunch we had as soon as we signed the marriage license. We decided to walk to this little seafood stand just a few blocks from the courthouse.

  It’s hard to describe how peaceful everything felt. It was one of the only perfectly clear days we had that entire six weeks in Seattle. The seagulls were out, and man were they loud. Jake held up a French fry, and one swooped down and grabbed it right out of his hand.

  We stayed there for a little over an hour, just munching on our food and sometimes sharing a little with the gulls. I thought about what it would be like in a few years if we brought Natalie here, went for a walk like this, the three of us.

  “I can’t believe we really did it,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, I know.” We both laughed. We laughed a lot that day, like two kids who finally mustered up the guts to go doorbell ditching at the grumpy old neighbor’s house and couldn’t stop giggling afterward. Like they couldn’t seriously believe how audacious they’d been.

  “I’m so in love,” Jake said.

  “Me, too.” And I don’t know if you get this way, but every time I get too happy, like too many good things seem to happen all at once, it turns everything bittersweet. Like I can’t fully enjoy the fact that life is so stinking perfect because I know eventually it has to get worse. Eventually, I’d have to go back to the NICU and confront the fact that my month-old daughter might never leave that place alive. That she might never know who her mommy and daddy are or how much we love her.

  “What are you thinking about?” Jake asked, and I didn’t want to spoil everything so I said I was thinking about Sandy and how she’d gush and be so surprised when I shared the good news.

  “I’m really glad you have someone like that in your life,” he said.

  “What about you? Did you tell anyone yet?”

  Jake shook his head, and I thought I could detect a hint of that melancholy I’d just been feeling in his posture.

  “Not even your mom?”

  I didn’t know much about Patricia at the time. Jake’s so full of daddy issues he’s like a walking cliché, but he’d never said anything against his mom, so I figured they must be on decent enough terms.

  “Nope.”

  “What do you think she’ll say?”

  Another shrug. I could sense some kind of cloud passing over the sunshine of our joy, so I shut up. Didn’t push it anymore. What and how Jake told his mother was his own business.

  At least that’s what I thought.

  That evening at the hospital, Jake’s phone rang while we were enjoying our first dinner as husband and wife.

  “Please don’t tell me you just eloped with some drug queen you hardly even know.” The voice was so shrill and loud I could hear it from across the cafeteria table.

  Jake turned the same color as a Santa Claus hat and stood up. “Hi, Mom. Now’s not really a good time.” He shot me an apologetic glance. I don’t think he knew I had heard every word.

  The stupid thing is Jake blamed me for it all. I was so excited to tell everyone I posted it online as soon as we got back to the hospital that afternoon. He said I should have waited until he had a chance to tell his mom himself. We had a big fight about it in the cafeteria, and we were both still fuming hours later when I got back to the Ronald McDonald house after spending the evening in the NICU.

  “How was I supposed to know you didn’t want it public?” I demanded after he went on moping about it.

  “You should have asked.”

  “So what was I supposed to do? Wait a few weeks for you to find the courage to tell you mom you’d gotten married?” Except I didn’t use the word courage. In fact, I may have included an anatomical reference that questioned Jake’s manhood.

  “I can’t believe how selfish you are,” he exploded. “Was that the only reason you wanted to get married? So you could see how many likes and stickers and OMG, I’m so happy for you comments you can get? Are you really that much of an attention whore?”

  I could tell he regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but I slapped him anyway. Call it reflex if you want. I didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Not on my stinking wedding night.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” I told him, waving my finger in his face as he rubbed his cheek. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” Jake’s such an expert at apologizing, it’s a good thing he’s not abusive. I could see a lot of immature girls running back to him and forgiving him over and over just because he sounds so stinking humble when he says he’s sorry.

  I was tired and ready to be done with the fight. None of it was my fault, but if he was ready to kiss and make up, I wasn’t going to stop him.

  “Next time, just tell me if there’s something you don’t want your mom to find out so I can be more careful.”

  “Ok.” Jake gave a sheepish grin. “Next time we get married, I’ll be sure to remember that.” He patted the spot beside him on the bed. “I’m sorry we had a fight.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said and sat down next to him. “Every couple does it.”

  “Yeah, but I think a lot of them wait until they’ve been married a week or two.”

  We both smiled. Jake’s got a really nice jawline. It’s kind of square and angular. He gets that from his dad, but he’s got Patricia’s smooth, tanned skin. And his hair’s gorgeous. I don’t remember if I mentioned that yet or not. He doesn’t wear it too long, just long enough that you can detect a hint of curls. You should see him in his high-school graduation photo. He wore his hair down past his shoulders, and oh man. I don’t know a single girl — white, black, Asian, or otherwise — who wouldn’t die for hair like that.

  I started playing with it while we were sitting next to each other, running my fingers through those loose curls.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Just enjoying your hair. I think you should grow it out long again.”

  “No, why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  Jake gets embarrassed about stupid things. Sometimes it’s annoying, but sometimes it’s cute and endearing. He let out a little giggle before I kissed him, right on the spot below his ear.

  “What are you doing?” he asked again.

  I kept one hand on his hair and ran the other up his leg. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I kissed him again on the neck, that little indent right by his shoulder.

  He grabbed one of my hands. “We shouldn’t. We can’t.”

  “It’s ok,” I tell him. “We’re married now, remember?”

  “Yeah, but don’t we need to wait a few more weeks? I don’t want to hurt you or anything.”

  I freed my hand and let it creep up his shirt. My lips traveled down his jaw to his chin. “It’ll be fine,” I mumbled. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m always going to worry about you.”

  That melancholy feeling came back then. Squeezed my heart until I felt so full I literally hurt. Times like that make me think that God had to be as loving and gracious as Sandy always said he is because there’s no way I’d done anything to deserve a husband like Jake.

  CHAPTER 41

  I’m sitting here staring at my phone, except I’m not paying attention to anything online. I don’t
even have any browsers or apps open. I’m just staring.

  I know I don’t deserve to be happy. It makes sense that these past few months were as horrific as they’ve been. I’ve got to do my penance, face my consequences, reap what I’ve sown, all those stinking clichés.

  I’m thinking about right after Jake and I got married, how gentle he was, how scared he was of hurting me, how he promised to take care of me. We didn’t talk about Natalie that night, but I think once we got married we started loving her even more. I know I did. Because we were a family now. She wasn’t just this little sick girl who popped out of my body. She was my own flesh and blood, the tangible result of my relationship with my husband. So maybe we didn’t do things in the right order. Maybe I was as tainted as those abstinence cheerleaders said I was. Maybe all I had to give Jake that night in the Ronald McDonald house was hand-me-down love, but you know what?

  It was beautiful.

  The problem is I know it’s not going to last. I’m not talking about sabotage or anything like that anymore. I know that’s my tendency, but this is something different. It’s not false guilt, either, and no self-help guru or psychologist can convince me otherwise.

  I’ve done such a good job fighting these memories whenever they try to surface. I’ve done such a good job ignoring the shame that will probably suffocate me if I ever let it take full rein of my emotions. I’ve stuffed that guilt into such a small hole in the center of my soul that I hoped I might lose it there forever.

  But there it sits, and I can feel it getting bigger. Pressing against the constraints of my conscience. It takes an iron will to contain it. Keep it buried where it belongs. And I’m so tired. I’ve been up since 4:30 and cleaning or cooking or suctioning out my daughter the entire day. I’m not used to this kind of schedule.