The Best of Friends

by Sara James

  “Mom,” I moaned, “do you think you could make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you—?”

  I shook my head. “Not a chance. Just a bug.”

  “You never know. You’re the same age Grannykins was when she had your Uncle Tony,” Mom smiled.

  “Actually, skip the sandwich. I just want to go to bed.”

  When I called the doctor’s office for the blood test result the following morning, the nurse was using her extra calm voice. “Are you ready for a surprise?”

  “Good or bad?”

  “You’re pregnant. Very pregnant, from the numbers, probably six to eight weeks. You’d better come in as soon as you get back from your trip.”

  I put down the phone. I counted to ten. I counted to ten again. And then I screamed. “MOM!!!!!!!!!!” Then I picked up the phone to call Andrew.

  ANDREW WAS AS excited as I was. My symptoms were exactly the same as they had been with Sophie, which I regarded as a positive sign. But given my history, not to mention the weird phenomenon of the conflicting pregnancy tests, caution was the only sensible option.

  “Told you we’d get two,” Andrew said complacently.

  I called Ginger. “That’s fantastic! I have a good feeling about this, Sara.”

  “I hope so. I’m still scared about amnio.” The statistics, which had been sobering at forty, were now gloomy. Compared with a thirty-two-year-old woman’s 1-in-725 chance of having a baby born with Down syndrome, my chance was 1 in 53. And the risk of other genetic abnormalities increased as well.

  But this time the wait for results was shared. My youngest sister, Susan, had gotten married to her grad school sweetheart, Danny, and they were expecting their first child. Susan and I spoke endlessly about our pregnancies, and were indulged by our middle sister, Elizabeth. Both babies were due in late September, and when both amnios were normal, we finally relaxed.

  I felt well but was busier than ever. Sophie was a bright, inquisitive, delightful three-year-old. Andrew and I were busy apartment hunting, as we’d decided our current home was too small for two children. And I was trying to finish my work assignments, including an hour-long segment with producer Geraldine Moriba-Meadows called the “Dateline Bridal Diet Challenge.” As the brides’ waistlines trimmed down, mine expanded, and I couldn’t wait to go on maternity leave. One day I arrived to narrate a script and the producer looked at my flushed face with alarm. “You should go home, Sara. You look beat.”

  There never seemed to be time to sleep.

  But in May, six months pregnant and feeling both enormous and exhausted, I was about to get a break. Ginger and Kimber were on their way over for a lengthy summer vacation. Sophie and I would meet them at her parents’ new home in Virginia, and Andrew would join us for the weekend. I couldn’t wait to pack.

  31

  GINGER (2004)

  SARA, YOU AND Sophie can have this room. Is that okay with you, Soph?”

  Sophie climbed onto the high four-poster bed, kicked up her heels, and looked around the bedroom in my parents’ new home. An early American pie safe in one corner, a maple chest of drawers, an old quilt at the end of the bed, a houseful of antiques I remembered from our home in Richmond, but the outside of their new house had beautiful views across the water near the Chesapeake Bay. It was a restful, personal place, and I’d immediately felt at home.

  “This is great,” chimed Sophie, “but where is Kimber sleeping?”

  “Next door with me.”

  “Good, that’s wonderful! Kimber, Kimber! Where’s Kimber?”

  “He’s outside.”

  “Me too. I’m going to find him right now!”

  “Okay, but be careful going down the steps.” Sara shook her head. “Watch out, Kimber.”

  Sara’s beautiful little girl was a bundle of energy, all motion all the time. At three years old, she had a vocabulary that rivaled many adults’, bright eyes, and an infectious smile.

  “She’s got a thing for older men,” I laughed.

  “She doesn’t get that from her mother.”

  We could hear Sophie chatting away as she walked down the steps. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to my parents, our cat Millie, or herself. It didn’t seem to matter. As she told us, “I only talk when I have something important to say. And I have a lot of important things to say.”

  When her voice faded, I turned to Sara and laughed. “I can’t stand it any longer.”

  “What?” Sara looked at me quizzically.

  “You’re fat!”

  “Gin, that’s not fair.”

  “I’ve been wanting to get you back all these years since I was pregnant with Kimber. I still can’t believe that I never saw you pregnant with Sophie. And you sent me one—yes, one—picture of you taken in glorious profile at a baby shower, but that was it.”

  “Not the prettiest picture, I’m sure.”

  “No, I love seeing you fat.”

  “Gin!”

  “I mean pregnant.”

  “It feels wonderful, most of the time. But then again, nothing fits! I hate all my clothes.”

  “Mom’s got a pretty skirt that would look great—”

  “Gin, are you out of your mind? Your mom is a tennis player. Nothing she wears will fit me now!”

  “It has an elastic waist! Come try it on.”

  “She’s gonna kill you.”

  Later that day my sister Dona and her husband, John, plus their two children, my beautiful niece and nephew Maggie and Zan, came down from Richmond for the weekend. As always, Dona’s arms were laden with homemade cookies, bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a sinfully delicious shrimp dip. Of the four girls in my family, Dona was our family’s keeper, the one who lovingly helped Mom look after elderly relatives, the one who could fix any problem with an embrace, the one who held us all together.

  Later that day, taking any excuse to flee the city, Andrew joined us at the river for a few days. Together we cooked, we laughed, we fished, we ate too much, we woke up late, lounging around in our pajamas, we read the newspaper at the breakfast table, we played cards, we talked politics and sports, we patted Sara’s belly and talked about babies. We were a family, by love and by choice. Andrew slipped into the mix as easily now as he had nine years before when we first met him at my wedding, and the weekend passed all too quickly.

  On Sunday morning, after saying a sad good-bye to Dona and her family, we took Kimber and Sophie to the docks in Urbanna to see the boats bringing in the season’s first soft-shell crabs. Two sisters, who were also Virginia’s first women licensed crabbers, were hoisting buckets of crabs off the boats and tossing their catch into shallow tanks. These two women had been working together on the water for sixty years. I looked at Sara, who was guiding Sophie around the crab tanks. We were both forty-four years old. We’d been friends for thirty-two years, and I could easily imagine at least thirty more years of friendship, with her family and mine all mixed up in one wonderful bundle.

  “Sophie, come look at this one,” Kimber called out. “He’s missing a pincer.”

  Sophie ran to his side. “Be careful, Kimber. They bite!”

  Sara and I smiled at each other. Andrew shook his head.

  Back at my parents’, we stayed outside with the kids. It was hot and sticky and the mosquitoes dove and bit, but Sophie and Kimber were undaunted. They poked for crabs in the brook, swam in the gentle breakers off a sandy island, and then hopped in a battery-powered Jeep, Kimber at the wheel. As they drove off through a pine glade without a backward glance, I put my arm around Sara’s shoulder.

  “Riding off into the sunset,” I laughed. “Wouldn’t it be great if they wound up together?”

  “Can’t you just see it?” Sara grinned.

  Andrew scoffed. “Give it a rest, will you? Don’t you know Nad and I will be the ones choosing their husband and wife.” He smiled, because he knew we never would. It was too good a plan.

  Later we joined my m
om and dad at the kitchen table. From there we could see Kimber and Sophie playing outside in the sand. I unrolled a long sheet of paper on the farm table.

  “These are the house plans. It’s hard to tell on paper, but it will flow down the hill with the natural slope of the mountains to the east of Windhoek, so there are three separate levels and beautiful views from every room.”

  “Gin, it is hard to picture you living in a real house in a real town,” laughed Sara.

  “I’m not sure I can see it either, Sara.” After fourteen years and as much as she loved Nad, my mother was still coming to terms with my choice to stay in Namibia. Kimber’s arrival had added to her contradictory feelings, making it harder for her because she desperately missed seeing him grow up, and yet easier because he was clearly so happy.

  “If Kimber needs to go to school, there are plenty of good schools right here. I know that Christchurch School loves to have boys from other countries. Kimber could stay with us and Ginger and Nad could stay in the bush.”

  “Mom’s got it all figured out.” I smiled at Sara. “Maybe one day, Mom, but not now. St. Paul’s is just a few miles from our house site, and it’s a good school, too. Nad can fly out of Windhoek and I’ll find something to do.”

  Mom put her glasses back on and focused on our house plans, ignoring the fact that she’d lost this round, but, not, as far as she was concerned, the fight. Never. “Well, how many bedrooms do you have?”

  “Three. The master, Kimber’s, and a guest room, which means everyone must come visit.”

  “So you’ll need at least three beds. Let’s go and see what we can find. At least your move will help us clear out the garage.”

  Dad, a patient, devoted grandfather adored by Kimber, Maggie, Zan, and now little Sophie, drew his eyes away from the kids playing outside in the sand and started to stand up. With four daughters and a wife passionate about antiques, moving furniture had become one of his fortes. I patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, Dad, there’s a nice golf course in Windhoek.”

  Sara darted past us, practically singing, “I love a Mauney move!”

  Sara and Andrew’s country home was full of treasures gleaned from the antiques my parents had sold when they moved to the river. A linen press from my old bedroom was now in theirs. A long, elegant dining room table where Civil War generals had once gathered went from my parents’ dining room to Sara’s. Whenever I knew she was having guests in the country, I loved picturing Sara, Andrew, and their friends sharing special occasions around that table just as my family had.

  “I’ve already got my eye on a few things. Come on, this should be fun!”

  But the fun never lasted long enough. We’d enjoyed fleeting visits with Beth, Danny, my godson Trent, and his lovely sister Elisa. Tish had spent a few weekends with us, lavishing candy and attention on her niece and two nephews, whom she so truly adored and who adored her, too. Then Mom, Kimber, and I had driven to Tennessee to see Kristy, Gordon, and Gordy, and to finally meet Emma and the latest addition to the Davenport clan, a crackerjack just like her mother named Carter. We also spent a wonderful few days with my sister Marsha and her boyfriend John in Nashville, antiquing, dining out, and cruising Music Row. I thought back to when we were children, when I had tried so hard to peer into Marsha’s dark eyes to where her dreams lay. Now I knew. After years of changing so many children’s lives for the better as a special education teacher, Marsha was finally pursuing her dream, writing and singing country music. Sitting in her stylish living room, we tapped our feet to the beat while she strummed her guitar and sang her most recent songs for us. Her lyrics touched a core, resounding with feelings for Granddaddy and his love of the land, and of our love for each other. Then, all too quickly, we were gone, on the road again, heading back to the river.

  It didn’t matter if I had one week, two months, or six months at home, in the end there was never enough time to see everyone, go everywhere, and do everything I wanted to do. Work had been a relatively short part of this trip home. Before Born Wild aired on Mother’s Day, Sara had met me at National Geographic in Washington, D.C., for a public screening. We packed a great deal of fun into one night in D.C. and now with this trip to the river, it seemed like Sara, Sophie, and Andrew had only just arrived and they were packing up to leave. But before that, Sara and I had promised to take Kimber and Sophie for ice cream.

  Once we’d buckled the kids into their car seats, Sara and I climbed in the front for the fifteen-mile drive into Kilmarnock.

  I looked at Sara’s expanding tummy. “Is this ice cream treat for the kids or you?”

  Before Sara could speak, Sophie chimed in, “My mommy loves ice cream. She eats it every day.” And she didn’t stop. For the next fifteen miles, Sophie gave us a running commentary on the buildings we passed, the games she normally played to pass the time in the car, what she wanted to eat for dinner, what she planned to tell her father when they drove back to New York later that day. Every vibrant thought that popped into her mind popped out of her little rosebud mouth.

  Sara smiled. “Forget about Andrew and Nad. Those two seem to be getting along so well. Maybe there’s hope yet. We really could end up related by marriage.”

  I looked in the rearview mirror. Kimber had his fingers in his ears, shaking his head. My bush boy and her big-city girl.

  “I’m not sure, Sara. I’d love it, but right now I’m just glad they’re friends.”

  Sara squeezed my hand. “There’s nothing better.”

  32

  SARA (2004)

  WHEN I LOOK back to the late summer and early fall of 2004, time feels both elongated and compressed, recollections alternately intensely singular and dizzyingly blurred. At times it almost felt as if I’d fallen asleep to awaken with neither peripheral vision nor perspective, trying to chart a course with only a ripped fragment from a map I didn’t recognize.

  And yet, I’d felt so clear and confident when Andrew, Sophie, and I moved into our new apartment on a 93-degree day in late July. I look around, wishing Ginger could see the place now, as it had been under renovation when she’d helped me apartment-hunt just a few months before. But even through the dust and debris, she’d been able to tell that it would be spacious and full of light, and had adored the wide terrace. I imagined planting orange trees and jasmine, the scent wafting through the bedroom. Sophie had other ideas. “Mommy, this is big enough for my trike!”

  I was so excited to finally move that, despite Andrew’s admonition not to lift anything, I picked up a heavy box and promptly bumped my enormous stomach. I kept forgetting that I was seven months pregnant, not to mention forty-three years old. Panicked, I scheduled an ultrasound for the next day. But everything was okay—our baby still frolicking like a manatee in its watery world. I envied the baby. I had boxes to unpack. Baby items to wash and buy. Sophie’s room to organize. Not to mention my work at Dateline.

  I had recently met Wendy Kopp, the founder of Teach for America, an organization that places top college graduates in the nation’s worst public schools for a two-year teaching commitment. Impressed by further research on Kopp and the extraordinary corps she’d created, I’d written a brief proposal, or “pitch,” for a possible story. I’d suggested we follow one teacher during her first year in the classroom—a story of drama in its own right, but also a prism through which we could examine public education in America. Dateline’s senior producers and executive producer agreed, and I was scheduled to fly to Atlanta to interview the young teacher we’d selected on the weekend of August 7. I wasn’t worried. Sophie had been two weeks late, so by my reckoning, the baby wouldn’t arrive until early October.

  But my sensible obstetrician was unimpressed. “You can’t know when any baby is going to be born, Sara,” Dr. Kessler told me. “If anything happens, you’ll be giving birth in Atlanta.”

  So instead I spent that weekend relaxing in the country with Andrew and Sophie. It was a decision for which I would thank God hundreds of times in the weeks that followe
d, because on Monday morning, August 9, I discovered to my horror that I was leaking. Except I couldn’t be. It was impossible. Our baby wasn’t due for another two months.

  Andrew and I rushed to the hospital, where Dr. Kessler’s partner met us. “As you guessed, your waters have broken, so we’ll start an antibiotic drip to prevent your baby from getting an infection,” Dr. Edersheim explained, and her kind, competent manner acted as a tonic. “We’ll hope to keep you here on bedrest for the next few weeks. But when the membranes rupture, usually a mom will deliver in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  I swallowed hard. “How big is our baby?”

  She paused. “Probably about four pounds.”

  I closed my eyes, which were suddenly leaking, too. To think what I had almost done.

  Andrew patted my arm. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  But the baby wasn’t born that night, or the next, or the next.

  “Do you feel any contractions?” a nurse asked, tightening the blood pressure cuff.

  Instead I felt bizarrely fine, as if nothing had happened. “Nope. Not one.”

  “Good. And your temperature is normal, so no infection. Keep it up! If we can keep you here a month, your baby will be a good size.”

  After several days of being allowed out of bed only to use the bathroom, I earned a daily two-minute shower, and found to my surprise that I was settling in. I was at a first-rate hospital and I trusted my doctors. Andrew brought my computer, a stack of movies, and, best of all, Sophie. The first night her lip quivered. “Daddy will sing ‘Twinkle,’ Soph.” She gave a watery nod, but for once said nothing. But before long she’d met the entire floor and made her own rounds, checking up on her favorite nurses and patients as well as “Dr. Kess-a-ler” before finally coming to my room to fiddle with the levers on my bed and draw pictures to decorate the stark walls.