Dear Carolina

by Kristy W Harvey

  I was skeptical at best. I could feel the tears of failure and frustration gathering in my eyes as I hung up, and Daniel, with a fresh sweet tea, said, “There’s no way anybody in this town could keep their weight under control knowing there’s a Pig in a Puppy right around the corner.” When he saw my face he paused. “Oh, I didn’t mean you, Fran. You’re a fox.”

  I smiled a little, and he put his hand on my arm and said, “See. I knew something was wrong with you.”

  I sighed and stood up, picking up my bag as I did to keep the chair from toppling over. “I’m having a hard time getting pregnant.”

  “Ohhhh.” He nodded. “I’m so sorry, shug.”

  “Shug. Y’all. We better get you home before you turn into a full-blown Southerner.”

  Daniel led me toward the door saying, “I read an article in the Times about how popular Indian surrogates are right now.” He took another sip of his tea. “But that would never work for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Fran, you can barely let me, a trained professional, pick out a piece of furniture by myself. No way you could let some woman you’ve never met carry your baby without being there to criticize everything she ate and make sure she was following your strict rules.”

  He was teasing me, of course. But it made me realize that I needed to let go a little. Flying back and forth between Kinston and New York had seemed fun at first, but with a child, a working farm, a household to run, aging parents, an antiques store, a design business, volunteer projects, blogging, and a new coffee table book on the way, sometimes the bi-state schedule felt daunting. The idea that I needed to unload something from my very full life, simplify a bit, lingered like a yellow jacket on a can of Cheerwine. I caught myself thinking, After all, I am about to be a mother again. And, for the first time in a while, I realized that I trusted my gut feeling more than what I read on WebMD.

  Jodi

  LETTING GO TOO EASY

  My whole life has been about putting up food and keeping it good and not wasting nothing. So it ain’t some big surprise that I’m not real big on change. When I heard some smart people at the garage talking about our “vanishing Americana,” it got me worrying. All them special things about America, like a roadside general store and an old Lucky Strike sign. A tobacco barn older than anyone livin’ and an album full of black-and-whites. All them stores is always updating, and I don’t think it’s right. We don’t have them fancy cathedrals and monuments or Stonehenge or nothing, but we’re letting our history run right down the tubes.

  “Seems to me like we need to hold on to our past,” I was telling Graham. We were sitting beside each other on the sofa, me all embarrassed because he and Khaki throwed me a surprise shower.

  Graham patted me on the arm. “I remember Khaki’s friend Stacey telling me that when she was pregnant she wanted to start a campaign to keep the polar ice caps from melting. And Khaki’s sister decided that she would raise the money to ensure that every person in the world had clean drinking water.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, “I think it’s normal when you’re creating the next generation to start thinking about what you’re going to do to make the world a better place.”

  Marlene, she slutted over with that teased, brassy head of hers and interrupted, smiling at Graham like she’d just as soon eat him as look at him.

  “You sure are looking good today,” she said, wiggling her fingers on Graham’s shoulder. He looked at her like she oughta be locked up and walked away. I swatted Marlene’s skinny leg and said, “My cousin is married, you tramp.”

  Her finger was working a poppy seed outta her teeth. “You don’t know if they’re happy.”

  That Marlene was always looking out for herself even if it meant killing you and then using your dead body to save hers.

  “Hey,” she said. “I know it was a long time ago, but have you given any more thought to selling that Shaklee mess?”

  I pointed to my stomach. “No. I’ve sorta had this going on.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, that’s good ’cause I think I’ve found something even better for us to do.”

  Jesus must’ve sent Buddy over right about then; He must’ve known I couldn’t stomach an hour of Marlene’s scheming.

  “Well, hey there,” she said to Buddy, scooting closer to him on the sofa.

  “Marlene,” I said, “could you please go get me some punch?”

  “Oh, I can get it,” Buddy said.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “Marlene really wants to.”

  I didn’t want Marlene sitting beside Buddy, sinking them long red nails into his thigh and putting ideas in his head. My belly might’ve reached dern near to Tennessee when I faced west, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t think a boy was cute. I might not’ve been in man-catching shape, but I still didn’t want her to have him.

  “That friend of yours is something,” Buddy said.

  My heart fell all the way to South Carolina. He musta liked Marlene with her push-up bras and cheap extensions.

  But then he added, “I bet she’s the kind of girl men get restraining orders against.”

  I laughed, putting my pink polka-dot napkin up to keep the cake in my teeth from showin’.

  “I know we don’t know each other real well,” Buddy said, “but I’m happy to help you out any way I can before the baby gets here or after.”

  I could feel that heat rising on up through me again. Buddy’s cheeks got a little pink, and I sure was hoping he was feeling that same thing.

  He cleared his throat and said, “You know, you being Graham’s cousin and me owing him so much.”

  Maybe it’s ’cause I was still right young and all, and I didn’t have the confidence I do now. But I couldn’t decide right then if Buddy might be being sweet to me over more than just him feeling loyal to Graham.

  “Buddy, you been nothing but nice to me through all this, and I think it’s a fine person who would treat a girl so good for no reason. You’re the kind of man my daddy woulda loved.”

  Thinking about my daddy like that made my head all woozy and my feet get to feeling numb and tingly. Ever since I been a youngen, when I get too scared or sad or worked up all my blood drains right outta my head and I like to keel over right there on the coffee table.

  “I didn’t know your daddy, but I knew Graham’s real good. And if those two brothers were anything alike, your daddy was a damn fine man.”

  They were more alike than collards and kale. Stubborn and hardheaded and prouder than one of them old Confederate soldiers. When Graham’s daddy started farming he begged my daddy to go into business with him. But Daddy wanted to make something of his own self. When the bank took back Daddy’s garage and he was back to being just a mechanic again while Graham’s daddy’s farm got all busy and moneymaking, that’s when it got bad between them brothers.

  Graham’s daddy begged my daddy to partner up with him on the farm. And my daddy quit talking to Graham’s daddy. I remember him stomping around outside the trailer, stem of wheat just a-going in his mouth. “Son of a bitch thinks he’s better than me now ’cause he’s made all this money and I ain’t. I’ll show him.”

  When my uncle died of a heart attack right there in his own field it damn near killed my daddy. I don’t have no business knowing why or how people get cancer. But I’d bet my last unemployment check that Daddy was so eat up with never making up with his big brother that it gave him the tumors. Holding in all that pain, keeping it bottled up like fizz in Pepsi, it’ll eat you alive just like the cancer did.

  That ain’t the kinda thing you say at a baby shower to some cute cowboy that’s got you dreaming of being thin again. But when Buddy looked at me sideways like, I knew I didn’t have to say nothing for him to understand.

  About that time, Marlene come back, smacking that gum, saying, “Sorry, I got c
aught up by the sweet potato ham biscuits.”

  Buddy, he patted my shoulder and said, “Just remember what I said,” and walked away to get food his own self.

  He like to have gotten down on one knee and asked me to marry him for how that hand felt. While a rainbow of Skittles with ponies jumping through it danced in my head, Marlene said, “So, Jo, I was thinking with you being pregnant and all that we should start a baby store.”

  I was still so lit up from talking to Buddy that I was right more patient than usual with Marlene. So I said, real sweet like, “Marlene, why don’t we talk about this later.”

  It was her worst damn idea yet. We couldn’t make hide nor hair of a bunch of numbers and, last time I checked, businesses had to have something we didn’t have one damn bit of: money.

  “I’m dating this new guy,” Marlene said, “and he’s gonna give us the first couple months’ rent for free while we get on our feet.”

  Marlene’s new man would be running around on her or smacking her up before I had time to even get to thinking on the idea of a store.

  So like she ain’t said nothing at all, I said, “Marlene, you think any man’s ever gonna love me now that I’m gonna have a kid and everything?”

  Crazy as she is, Marlene comes through every now and again with a little bit of wisdom. “Oh, honey,” she said. “If he’s as good a man as you deserve, he’ll see that little baby as a bonus.”

  Khaki

  EVERYONE ELSE’S BUSINESS

  When I went off to college, practically every person in Kinston told me that I should rethink my interior design major. “If she wants to learn how to move furniture around, you just send Khaki on down to the shop,” I remember one of my daddy’s friends chuckling.

  If you aren’t from a small town, you might not know how everyone is all up in everyone else’s business every minute of the day. So you have to have a thick skin. I loved design and persevered through the insults and snarky comments. But that small-town cynicism must have gotten in anyhow because I am one of the world’s most skeptical people. I believe in Jesus, but that’s about it. Ghosts: fake. Bigfoot: no way. The Loch Ness Monster: biggest crock of all. So going to see an herbalist whose “office” was a garage with a few braided throw rugs lying around, old floral bedsheets draped along the walls, and a ratty tan corduroy sofa that would have seemed more at home in your daddy’s old dorm room didn’t seem like an ace in the hole to me.

  We drove way out into the country—I mean, Graham and I live in the country, but this was the country—to a 1900s farmhouse that needed painting a decade ago with a condemned house with fourteen rusted-out cars as a neighbor. I looked at Graham and said, “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll take the knife.”

  He took my hand calmly and said, “Let’s just try it. If you get freaked out, we’ll leave. We have nothing to lose.”

  “Except our lives,” I muttered under my breath. He rolled his eyes. But, I mean, really, he set himself up for that response, didn’t he?

  So, the garage wasn’t Duke University’s Integrative Medicine Center, but it was at least clean. And Esther reminded me of Pauline—if Pauline wore floral-print tribal garb and talked with a thick Trinidadian accent. Esther’s warm smile, comforting Dove chocolate hands, and acknowledgment that “I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but give it time” softened me a touch.

  She helped me up onto a massage table that was soft, warm, and comfortable. I figured that, worst case, I’d at least get to rest for an hour or so.

  The soft, tinkling music, candlelight, and Esther’s waves-crashing-to-the-shore accent did make me feel a bit like I’d been to the islands. She wanted to “read my feet” first thing. As soon as she raised the sheet to check them out, the strangest thing happened.

  I rose up on my elbows, looked at Graham, then at Esther, and said, “Is it weird that I taste pickles? Am I having a stroke or something?”

  Esther laughed, the beads in her hair tinkling and said, “I put dill oil on the point on your feet that leads to your mouth.” She winked at me. “I wanted to show you that the points in the feet correspond to the organs of the body.”

  Graham smiled at me supportively, and I lowered back down as Esther continued the “foot treatment” that was definitely more deep tissue and less Swedish. “Less time at the computer,” she instructed as she kneaded away at my big toe, my body writhing in pain.

  So, yeah, I spent a lot of time at the computer, like every other person in the developed world. She moved on from that poor mangled toe and said, “Ah. I feel here that you had a lot of strep throat as a child. Many antibiotics can leave the door open for sickness.”

  She had her eyes closed as her fingers padded up and down the balls of my feet. “Your lungs weren’t fully developed when you were born, and your breathing has been difficult ever since,” she stated. “A thyme and honey syrup will help you when it’s cold out.”

  I was starting to feel a bit like that time I went to the psychic with my sister. Graham cleared his throat and, when I looked at him, he made a face like he was impressed.

  Esther opened her eyes and said, “Do you have pain in your thighs?”

  “Yes!” Graham exclaimed.

  I cut my eyes at him. Then I looked back at Esther. “Does that mean something’s wrong?”

  She nodded slowly and said, “Ah, yes. I feel some stagnation of the liver here.”

  That was all well and good, and I’m as into my health as the next person, but, honestly, I was here to get pregnant, plain and simple. If my liver was sad and my thyroid was slow, so be it. I wanted a baby. So, I said, “What does this have to do with my endometriosis?”

  Then Esther said something that made so much sense I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it on my own.

  “Ah, sweetness,” she said. “In our mind and in our body, either we’re sick or we’re well.”

  Jodi

  PREGNANT-GETTING HORMONES

  After you’ve picked corn, you got two hours to freeze, can, or pickle it before its sweet sugar gets right starchy. Khaki and me, we wore ourselves down to the quick that year putting away cans for the winter. It come fast, too. It don’t matter what the temperature is or what the Farmer’s Almanac say. When the corn turns good and brown, you can bet your best boots it’s fall. And we wasn’t wasting any a’ that yellow goodness.

  I craved that corn we canned like booze when I was carrying you. I weren’t working, so I’d cook stews, sauces, and dips all day, and, before I even got it all cleaned up good, it’d be darn near dark outside.

  I walked in Khaki’s house that day, setting my sights on the pantry and that corn. But I didn’t get real far ’fore my stomach right near turned over. “Oh, my Lord,” I said out loud.

  Alex ran through the foyer and said, “Momma’s cooking some sticks and leaves.”

  I nodded. “She’s cooking something unnatural, all right.”

  It was like she mixed cinnamon and mushrooms and burned the pot on up. But then I saw Pauline. Khaki, now she couldn’t cook a lick. But Pauline, I’d dare say, mighta been the best cook in the county—’sides me, of course. I heard Khaki complaining right loud, “I can’t imagine that this is right.”

  I held my nose. I ain’t been sick this whole dern pregnancy. My time might be coming.

  “What the woman say exactly, baby?” I heard Pauline ask.

  Khaki stood right up on her tiptoes and peeked in over that witch’s pot on the stove and said, “She said, ‘Your body will tell you what’s right. You make your own medicine.’” She put her hands on her hips. “What is that supposed to mean? I mean, honestly, just give me a piece of paper with some instructions on it, and I’ll boil it up and drink the amount you tell me to. I can’t go with the flow like this.”

  Pauline shrugged. “Maybe that’s the point, baby.”

  Khaki lifted the ladle out of the pot, h
eld it to Pauline, and said, “I mean, could you drink this?”

  “I couldn’t,” I said, by way of lettin’ ’em know I was standing there.

  “Oh, thank God,” Khaki exhaled. “Jodi, please come over here and rub some of your good, pregnant-getting hormones on me so I can stop all this nonsense.”

  I laughed and Pauline said, “I just never heard of no Trinidadian woman practicing Chinese medicine. Don’t make no sense.”

  Khaki shook her head. “She doesn’t only practice Chinese medicine. She does like everything. Indian medicine, Ayurvedic medicine, yoga therapy. She’s studied all over the world. She’s super brilliant.” Khaki paused to hug me. “She felt like this herb concoction was what my body was telling her it needed.”

  “Your who said what?” I said.

  Khaki shook her head. “I know. It’s insane.”

  I looked over into that brew on the stove and saw all sorts of ungodly sticks and leaves and whatnot just floating around in there. “I think you got taken,” I whispered. “That lady give you what the yard men didn’t get off the street.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Khaki said, turning the stove on.

  “What you doing, baby?” Pauline asked.

  “My body feels like this slop needs to boil down more.”

  My ankles and hips got to groanin’ and cracklin’ as I climbed up onto the stool at the counter. “What is that godforsaken potion?” I asked. It mighta looked like yard clippings, but it smelled worse than a plastic pie pan meltin’ in the oven.

  “It’s herbs.”

  “Herbs? Don’t them things come in a pill or something?”

  Khaki pointed at me like I hit the nail on the head and let her hand slap back on her skinny thigh. “Exactly.”

  Pauline laughed and leaned right on over beside me.