by Ulf Wolf
Melissa, stroking the little downy head of her daughter, didn’t even know where her husband was.
:
Though not for long.
For here he comes, flurried, flustered, flowered.
Melissa looks up, startled by the commotion. And after him, the nurse, “Sir, sir,” which Charles, of course, being Charles, ignores.
“Oh, honey,” he almost shouts from just inside the door, in that voice that made it sound like: why didn’t you tell me?—ever so subtly shifting blame her way. “I am so sorry, so sorry.”
She doesn’t answer. She has nothing to answer him with.
“I am so sorry,” he repeats. “It wasn’t due until next week. I had to go to San Francisco for the day. I had to.”
Still, she says nothing.
“How are you, honey? How did it go?”
Finally, she says, choosing perhaps to misinterpret, “It?”
“What?”
“It?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ruth is not an it.”
“Who said she is an it?”
“You just did, Charles.”
“No, honey, I didn’t.”
Suddenly Melissa wants him out of the room, wants his shiny face and perfect teeth and oily hair and stocky frame as far away from her, and her daughter, as possible. He had promised, on his bloody heart, hope to die, and, again—such bloody par for the course—he had not kept his promise.
Had it been about something else, perhaps she could have forgiven him, but this was different. So she says, with a measured voice, one precise word after another:
“I want you to leave.”
“I just got here.”
“Really. I want you to leave.”
“I want to see the baby.”
“It?”
“Ruth.” He says, now getting a little agitated.
Melissa cradles her daughter a little tighter, as if to protect her from her father. “Later,” she says. “I need to rest. Come back later.”
“I want to see her, now. She’s my daughter, too. I want to hold her. I have a right to.”
“Later,” she says again. Loud enough this time to engage the nurse, alert by the door, and now approaching the bed:
“Look, sir. She needs to rest now.”
He turns to her. “Don’t you ‘look, sir’ me,” he says, loudly. “I am the father.”
With observable effort, the nurse bites her tongue. There are many things she can say at this point, but she says none of them. Instead, she repeats, “She needs to rest now. You will have to come back later.”
“This is my wife, this is my child,” he says, raising his voice further. “I have a right.”
“She, too, has a right,” says the nurse, now raising her voice as well. “And right now, after going through what she has, and alone at that,” stressing alone, “She has the right to rest.” There is an edge to her voice, sharp enough to cut and do some damage.
Charles, uncertain at this point, looks around for somewhere to toss the flowers he still holds out in from of him like a sword. Finally, he flings them onto the chair.
“I’ll be back later,” he says to Melissa. “Be sure to get some rest,” as if leaving had been his idea all along.
“You okay?” asks the nurse once Charles had left.
“Yes.”
The nurse almost says something about Charles, but the professional in her takes over, and instead only asks Melissa if she needs anything.
“No, I’m fine,” says Melissa, still cradling Ruth. Then adds, “He can be a real piece of work, that one.”
:: 21 :: (Pasadena)
Taking possession of a human body is not unlike working your way into a wet suit that’s a little too small. Every inch feels a little tight. Stretches a little. Constricts. Does let you in, but barely. Does let me in, and I settle—filling the little body, sort of strapping myself in. I think briefly of a Formula One driver, slipping into his car, built to his very dimensions and not leaving an inch to spare: all the controls within immediate reach.
Settling, harnessing, flexing, adjusting, and then: ready.
I find the lungs—the first thing you need to make your very own—and the muscles I need to fill them, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and echoes of earlier lungs arise and there is a strange comfort in a rhythm that for me is still only two beats old, then three, then four.
And again, five.
My little fist-like heart, fresh and eager, rushes blood to my lungs and seizes its fill of oxygen to rush again to everywhere delivering. The little heart is proud, it is strong, and it knows precisely what to do.
Other parts, waking up to responsibilities mostly worn by Melissa during gestation, rub their eyes to the new day and get with the program: liver, thyroid, pancreas, stomach, eyes, and ears, all stretching and flexing and synchronizing, each taking on their role, setting out to do.
I am aware of all this, of course, for I am aware. Period.
I am aware of the room, aware of Melissa’s warm breast, and of the strong—still youthful—heart beneath calmly sending her blood on its way, a lot more and a lot farther (as hearts go) than mine.
And I am aware of Melissa herself, of her wondering—seriously now—how to go on living with a man who did not even keep his promise to be with her at my birth. I see—no, it’s more than see, I live—I live her pictures, as she imagines a life without him, seeing herself and me in a different, Charles-less world. I’m four or five years old in this projection, happily uncaring about my father. She, too, is happy. Glad she made the decision to leave him.
Then reality—in the form of a nurse—arrives and her dream disperses, evaporating fragments into mist into nothing. Melissa opens her eyes and, after a moment, answers, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
The nurse answers, “Okay, Sweetie,” and leaves.
Melissa is left with the dream-less fact of Charles the promise-breaker. Her heart, besieged, finds no other outlet than driving blood along a little harder. For she does not know what to do about this. Dreaming will not help, she reminds herself, dreaming is fine, but it really doesn’t accomplish anything. She dreams too much, she tells herself, and then she sighs so deeply my head rises as upon a cloud, and then sinks again, against warm skin and a soft, Charles-driven despair.
:: 22 :: (Pasadena)
Charles did not have the right change for the hospital parking attendant. Or rather, he did not have enough change, and the obstinate woman could not break a twenty. Who’s ever heard of a parking lot unable to break a twenty?
“So, what do you suggest?” he said, demanding, but not really expecting, an answer, not from these kind of people; these are the best jobs they can get. And what money they do make, they then money-order south of the border instead of spending it here where it was earned and where it belongs.
At first she said nothing, just looked at him with very dark and not exactly demure eyes, and for so long that Charles took a deep breath as a prelude to repeating the question.
Which apparently was her cue:
“I suggest you come up with the exact change,” she said, brown finger pointing at the sign which spelled out how much the company appreciated exact change, the word exact underlined twice, and in red.
“There’s a car behind me,” said Charles. “You had better let me through.”
“Not without paying,” said the woman. “I can lose my job.”
“I am paying. I can give you a twenty.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t have change for a twenty.”
“Well that’s your damn problem, isn’t it?”
“Sir,” she began.
But Charles would have none it. “That’s your responsibility. That’s your job. To provide change.”
“Look, sir,” she said. Loudly now. “I’ve had a lot of customers handing me twenties. I gave them all the change I had. Now I’m out of change.”
“Well, I’m another one,” said Charles, “and you’d better come up with something better than that.”
The car behind him honked now, twice, irritably. Charles looked behind him. Guy his age. None too pleased. In a hurry, by the honk of it. Another car was pulling up behind him, but then backed up and headed for a second payment booth, now opening for business.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have the change.”
“Why don’t you ask him,” said Charles, meaning the second booth.
“I can’t leave here,” she said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Charles and scrambled out of the car. Strode over to the second booth. Waited while the man—boy, really—inside finished handling his customer, then broke in: “Could you split a twenty for me?” he asked.
When the boy—all pimples and grease; do these people never shower?—looked at him blankly, Charles added, “She doesn’t have any change.”
Without answering, or even giving any sign that he had heard, the boy took the offered twenty and returned a ten and two fives.
Charles, back in his car, sweating now from the exertion and the unbelievable stupidity of some women and kids, handed her one of the fives, expecting two dollars back.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t have any singles.”
It may be that for the barest moment he had some choice, perhaps the choice not to erupt, but on some level he took great pleasure in letting anger boil over into outrage, and so: “Look here, you stupid, stupid cow. How stupid do you have to be to work here, anyway? You sure as hell passed whatever test they give you for that with flying colors. Why don’t you just go back to where the hell you came from. Jesus.”
“I am calling security, sir.”
“Oh, forget it. Keep the goddamn change.”
“Fine,” said the woman—and damn if he could not detect a smile, or at least a hint of one, a smug one, in that south-of-the-border face—and pressed whatever button they press in these booths to raise the boom, letting him out.
He gunned the car, burning tire in an attempt at angry smoke, and almost rear-ended a car suddenly in front of him from the other lane. Oh, Christ, as he stepped on the breaks, and squealed the tires again. He could see the driver stare in his rearview mirror. Glare. Well fuck him.
Finally, out on the street. The traffic was light this time of day. He just made the light, which always pleased him. And the next one as well. He began to calm down, a little.
Shook his head. Women. And Melissa, too. Throwing him out of the hospital room. That was it, wasn’t it? She threw him out. She and that nurse. He should file a complaint. Really. An official complaint, on firm letterhead, that’d get their attention. He was the father of the child for heaven’s sake. You can’t throw a father out of his wife’s room, out of his daughter’s room.
How was he to have known? She wasn’t due until next week. They’d even marked it on the calendar. Well, Melissa had marked it. She should have known. She should have told him it was due today, before he left this morning. She was the one having the thing—the girl, he corrected, glad Melissa hadn’t listened in.
How was he to know, for crying out loud? And now, this was all his fault, that he had to fly up to San Francisco, and then, like an absolute idiot excuse himself to fly back down when the call came from his firm that his wife was having a baby, as in right now.
Talk about embarrassing. Talk about seeming out of control. You can’t be out of control in this job—and if you are, you sure as hell must not give that impression. He could hear his father—the great lawyer—holding forth on the subject of control between bites of whatever fish he was savoring that day. Always fish. Best thing you can eat, son.
He almost missed the turn, but not quite. Then almost ran a light.
Pulling in to his driveway he noticed he was still sweating. The nerve of that woman. Of women.
He had remembered to buy flowers, though. That was the right thing, the fatherly thing to do. So why was she mad at him? How could it be his fault? Shook his head again, then got out of the car.
He’d better check in with his office.
:: 23 :: (Pasadena)
Melissa woke into a sunny, and a little stuffy, Tuesday. For several heartbeats she had no idea where she was.
The odd smells were unfamiliar, the atmosphere a little too metallic.
Then she woke all the way, and looked up at what must have stirred her. “How’re you feeling?” the nurse said again. Melissa couldn’t quite make out her face, in shadow against the bright window.
“Where’s Ruth?” said Melissa.
“She’s in the nursery,” said the nurse. “Sleeping.”
“She’s fine?”
“She’s just fine.” Then, “Do you want some breakfast?”
“What is it? The breakfast, I mean.”
“What do you want?”
“Coffee and toast.”
“Coming right up.”
“Has my husband called?”
“Twice. You were sleeping.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“No. Only that he’ll call back. You want to speak to him when he does?”
Good question. He had brought flowers, and he had seemed about as contrite as he’ll ever be. But he had not kept his word, he had not been there, that was the not-getting-away-from bottom line. Flowers don’t make up for broken promises.
“No,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” said the nurse.
For he had not come back. She had expected him to. By the evening at least. What was wrong with him?
In his defense, Melissa had to concede, Ruth had not been due for a week, and his firm does send him to San Francisco for what seems no good reason at all, and often. Mostly without warning. They had probably sprung it on him when he arrived in the morning.
Oh, damn it. Even so, he should have been here. He had promised.
“Here you go, honey,” said the nurse, sailing in with a tray in one hand, while swinging the little table across with the other.
“Oh, thanks,” said Melissa.
“You’re welcome.” The nurse smiled, then squeaked her way across the floor and out of the room. Must be very polished, that floor, thought Melissa.
She should have asked for Ruth.
Taking a small sip of the steaming coffee, and looking out through the window at a clear blue sky, she decided to not stay angry with him. At the least she would talk to him when he called back.
She buzzed for the nurse and then told her as much.
The nurse nodded. No problem.
:: 24 :: (Still River)
No, he told the switchboard, he was not family. Bu the was a close friend.
“And your name, sir?”
“Ananda Wolf.”
“Just a second.”
A few clicks later Melissa came on the line. “Ananda.”
“Yes.”
“I was early,” she said.
“Doctor Ross told me,”
“She called you?”
“No, I called her.”
“It just happened. Out of the blue,” she said. Then added, “I wish you could have been here.”
“I would very much have liked to,” said Ananda.
“Ruth was in a hurry,” she said.
“How are you? And how is Ruth?”
“I feel good. I feel more than good, I feel blessed. But,” she added as if an afterthought. “Charles didn’t make it.”
“What happened?”
“He was in San Francisco.”
Ananda didn’t quite know how to answer that. He was not particularly surprised that Charles had managed to miss the birth of his own daughter, but it was quite unpardonable.
“I’m so sorry,” is what he said.
“Well, so am I.”
“And how is Ruth?” he asked again.
“She is perfection,” said Melissa, and Ananda could picture her smile.
“I’m sure she is,” he s
aid.
“Are you coming down?”
“Perhaps in a few weeks,” he said.
“You have to meet,” said Melissa. “You and your project.”
Ananda had to smile. She didn’t realize how accurately she had put it.
“Yes, we do,” he said. “Soon.”
“She is the most perfect, most amazing, most miraculous thing you’ve ever seen,” she said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”
“I’ve decided to forgive Charles,” she said then. “I can’t stay angry with him, though God knows he deserves it.”
“You’re a good person,” said Ananda, and meant it.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” he said.
:: 25 :: (Pasadena)
They remind me a little of the wet leather strips they used to secure me to that donkey—these tendons and muscles and arteries and lungs. This head, these arms, these legs, these toes, these fingers. Tightening as they dry, solidifying as you settle in and they grow, for now you are no longer boundless. No longer shapeless and airy.
Nor as expansive as in Tusita, where your body feels more like cloud than prison.
For once again I have solid form, the always present pressure of outline, capable of hurting. Mass permeates me, or I it, as if to remind me: I have struck a bargain, I have made an agreement.
It is mine. This thing. All of it. For a lifetime.
Though the truth is that this it, this little life we call Ruth—nearly two weeks old now—is perfectly capable of living without me, without my supervision, without an inhabitant. Lots of life here going on without me adding to it. All that metabolism, all those endocrine glands, sensing, sampling, testing, measuring and secreting—to keep at optimum levels—all those little hormones. There is a city—nay, a country—nay, a world—of life rushing hither and yon, busy, busy, busy, with little or no thought of anyone or anything directing it all, this congregation. Busy just keeping alive: cells forming, dividing, dying, forming again.
