Times when she clung like a little girl, when she seemed to need them linked physically. Nights she talked for hours straight about anything and everything, details and musings he marveled at and remembered with pleasure while on long trips in other countries.
The word mystery had a lesser-known meaning: one’s occupation or profession, one’s calling. That’s what Lynnie was to him.
He picked up a fallen branch and hit the birch’s trunk hard. The force when it hit the trunk jolted him to the roots of his teeth. He stepped back and swung again. Harder, teeth set, until he cleaved the heavy branch in two.
The forest inhaled and exhaled, insects buzzed, and somewhere hidden deep in camouflage the likes of which he tried to emulate but never quite managed to such a perfect degree, the wildlife tracked circles around him. The crazy hurting bastard who had it in for that fifty-year old birch tree.
He headed back to the truck and drove on. Beside him the glimmer of the weeping rocks that hugged the curves. Mountains drew the truth out of him.
He put both windows down and focused. The truck responded to his coaxings, gas, brake, steering. Every loose joint in that machine made itself known, assorted creaks and engine chirps blended with the calls of birds.
There were no turnarounds.
Every time he drove through a tunnel he left a little of himself behind. The bad old stuff. He felt the loss of the tiny weight. The newfound lightness made him want to turn around and do it again.
End of the day he secured a campsite and pitched his tent. The ranger on duty when he went to buy firewood was a woman. She flirted when she took his money. He noted the muscle in her forearm. In a different country this would have led to something, but he said thank you and left.
On the way back, a grassy spot beneath a massive oak tree beckoned. He put the wood aside and sat. Took in the cooler air. In the evenings the mountains inhaled. The low-lying clouds crept in on the strength of the inhalation and lengthened into hollows. This reminded him of dreams. Wisdom he couldn’t touch.
To his left a waxing moon rose above the mountain. The three-quarter circle of white was pale and wispy, but gained depth as the sun set to his right. The sky to that side was pink and orange.
He took in these phenomena with more than the usual awe.
The past twenty-odd years he had taken on nothing, and nothing was what he’d ended up with.
He loved his daughter, but it was possible to love someone with all your heart while at the same time remaining distant. His chest tightened.
Lynnie had anchored him. Now she was telling him to let go.
The sun set as the waxing moon rose. A growing thing, not yet fully formed. Mysterious and luminous.
Something not yet his to have.
They all love me for the wrong reasons.
Jessie because of what I’ve given up. Scott because I wait for him, not asking for anything. I’ve never pushed him to be different, to make a deeper commitment.
This is wrong. They should love me because of what I DO, who I AM. I plan to change this, after the baby is born. I plan to DO THINGS.
The last month of the pregnancy is rough. My blood pressure is high. I’m swelling, retaining fluid, and they’ve put me on bed rest, pre-eclampsia they call it. Scott is home with me, thank god, and he sits with me for hours a day, going crazy because he’s not at work, but trying hard to mask that.
He is obsessed suddenly with making sketches. He has sealed envelopes all over the house. He makes sketches and then opens the envelopes. Something to do with work, he says, and I let it go because that’s what I do. With Scott I let things go. And now I’m too distracted by my body to really care about his job.
It’s impossible to get comfortable. Every part of me feels tight, skin stretched beyond its capacity. Everything feels pushed to the limit.
Scott has to take me in every week for tests, to monitor the blood pressure. This trip the doctor says it’s time. “We need to induce labor,” he says. “We need to get this baby out.”
Scott talks to him in the hallway and the doctor says my body can’t get well until the baby is born. That my baby, little Wendell, is almost toxic to me right now.
This feels like nonsense. She is not what’s making me sick. But I’m ready for her to be here. I’m ready to have her in my arms.
A young doctor breaks my water with something that looks eerily like a buttonhook. It’s barbaric, and I resist for several minutes while Scott talks me into it. “They need to do this, Lynnie. She’ll be fine. He won’t touch her with the instrument.”
All I can imagine is that thing poking into her space, her private, safe little place. What if he screws up and pokes her in the eye?
But he doesn’t. He does admit that he nicked her scalp and I get angry, but it could have been so much worse. Scott hurries him away from the bed.
The IV is a nightmare. The nurse can’t get the needle in a vein, I’m so swollen. She tries so many times I start to cry, and Scott tells her to find someone more experienced. “It’s going to be okay.” His voice is low and melodic, like he’s singing to me.
“How do you know so much about all this?” It has struck me that he understands what they’re doing, and he knows some of the language the doctors speak. I have the irrational idea suddenly that all along Scott has been a doctor, secretly, and I’ve just never known it.
“We learn some basic medic stuff for work.” It’s all he says, and of course I don’t ask for more.
Why don’t I ask for more? Why have I never asked him for more?
Just when I’m getting ready to, a new needle person walks in and gets it in, first try. I’m so relieved. My face is itchy from all the tears that have dried on my cheeks.
We are waiting now, they started a drip with the IV. Medicine that will make the contractions begin. She’s on her way.
When they start, I’m determined to manage the birth, to ease her out, but it doesn’t work. The contractions are terrible, and I can’t keep control. I fall apart in the middle of each one. The nurse shakes her head at Scott.
The doctor comes in and convinces me to do an epidural. I immediately start crying. “I can’t take another needle.” Scott rubs my arm with his fingers.
“It will be fine. I’ll talk you through it.”
One more contraction is all it takes to convince me. “Fine,” I say when it’s over. “Do the epidural.”
Scott holds my hand and it occurs to me how weak I am compared to him. He must have seen so many terrible things. I can’t make it through the birth of our baby without falling apart.
But then he pulls away, when I say the words. “This must be nothing compared to what you’ve done.” He looks alarmed, closes himself away for a minute. And I know he isn’t as strong as I give him credit for.
The thing is, and suddenly it is so clear, is that my job since marrying Scott, the real reason I couldn’t finish school and work, has been to be there for him, an anchor, the thing that brings him home. I don’t know science well but I’m the force that keeps him on his right path. He veers away but me being here has always brought him back. I keep him on his right path.
I need the blue notebook, this needs to go in the notebook.
They assure me that now the contractions will be totally manageable. “It won’t be long now,” the nurse says, and I feel like smacking her. She keeps looking at Scott and I’ve been watching to see if he looks back. But he doesn’t.
When the next contraction begins I almost smile. They have promised it will be easy now. But then it starts, and I realize something is terribly wrong. It’s like a wall of fire, literal flame, is rolling down my body, from head to toe, but slowly, painfully, as the contraction unfolds.
In between yelling and the nurse telling me to be quiet, Scott seems confused. He is shaken, things aren’t going the way they’re supposed to. It surprises me, that in between the contractions and the chaos of pain, there’s this space of clarity. This quiet, clear space, like what I
think of as zen.
If I go, who will anchor him? He has to be here for the baby, because she will live through this. I feel that. She needs him to take care of her.
The doctor comes back, with yet another doctor, who says they’ve never seen anything like this before. They decide to remove the epidural. “You must be having some rare reaction to the drug we use.”
I don’t know. I just want her to be born. I want her home, where I can hold her. I don’t want to be in the hospital.
Scott takes my hand. He has little beads of sweat on his forehead. I want to wipe them off for him but I can’t reach that far.
Another contraction starts and this time the doctor helps. Scott’s eyes are wide, all I can think of is how much he sees. Too much. He has always seen more than one man can hold. And yet he goes looking for more.
When I look down there is a baby, but there is blood. So much blood. Too much blood.
If only I could talk to Scott. I can’t get the words out. Nothing comes out.
Grayson floated beside her, his belly rising above the water like Buddha’s might. His skin was smooth and the ends of his hair fanned out around his head in the cold, cold water.
She had discovered Barton Springs on her own, and Grayson agreed to meet there even though it was dangerous. People he knew could show up, he said, which made her feel lucky, like he was picking her over what might happen. He was risking something.
They bobbed happily next to one another, a little giddy after the break since their two days together. After a few minutes his hand found hers and braided fingers beneath the water’s surface while the sun warmed their faces. In the center of the pool, in full view of half of Austin, they pretended they were strangers who just happened to be floating side by side.
She kept looking at his body, which almost anyone would find laughable, because it wasn’t lean or muscled. It was in fact nothing spectacular.
But for some reason he was tantalizing and not-quite-hers, a man she had to lure from his domestic un-bliss, like handling explosives, dangerous and addictive.
They changed from bathing suits to dry clothing but remained damp underneath the cool cotton. She wore an aubergine T-shirt and a denim skirt. He was dressed in more L.L. Bean attire, terra cotta and stone, which suited his brown hair and warm russet skin. Sitting in Grayson’s car in the parking lot, both smitten with the thought of what came next. He caressed her fingers, licked the blue-green veins on her wrist.
“Would you kiss me, for god’s sake, and then take me to a hotel or something?”
He relaxed, his head fell back against the headrest. He was making her pursue him, after two hours of holding hands under the water. Grayson was the kind of man who could kiss for hours without taking a breath or rushing to the next thing. He was in no hurry.
He tasted of pepper. She thought briefly of Cruella De Ville in 101 Dalmatians, a favorite childhood book. The sharp hot taste was good, something to flavor the foreplay, something to file away for later, the full-bodied Grayson and his peppery kiss.
In the hotel room he poured two glasses of scotch, the 20-year old Laphroaig they had stopped to buy on the way. That he took things so slow was part of what pulled her to him, the deliberate yet decadent way he moved, lazy smile, the ever-so-intricate way he played out his line.
He brought her the scotch and they sipped from a distance of about twelve inches, face to face.
“You are a sight for sore eyes.” He stepped back and took her in, head to toe. Before he could blink she set the glass down on the coffee table and peeled away her shirt. Grayson went soft around the edges, backed up and sat on the little sofa, waited.
“Not so fast, darlin’.”
She brought her hands around again, let the green lace bra stay put, lifted her arms and stretched tall like a tree so the muscles in her abdomen showed to full advantage. The waistband of her skirt slid down a little, below the navel. He took another sip from his glass and made one low sound.
Let loose, the skirt fell to the floor.
“Come over here, girl.”
When Grayson dropped her back at her car, she was tempted all over again by Barton Springs. Grabbed her still wet suit from the back of the passenger seat and headed to the dressing room to change.
The water was cool and deep; she went under straight as an arrow. When her feet touched the edge of rock near the bottom, she fixed them briefly and pushed off. Looking up, light through water, cleansed and made pure as she broke through, back to air and the warmth of the sun, back to the surface.
She treaded water slowly, eyes closed, until her legs got tired. Rolled into a back float, vulnerable to the water lapping and the occasional splash from the middle school boys playing nearby.
Rolled and swam, the strong, steady stroke her father had taught her many years ago. The two of them swimming mini-laps in the local pool where she’d learned. The moms in the chairs by the snack bar, all watching from behind their sunglasses, whispering and giggling when he did something silly. She knew even at that young age that women wanted him. Wendell loved walking past them on their way to his truck, her hand in his, sure that he was hers, that he would never go for women like that.
When her swimming got stronger he took her to lakes and they set goals, built endurance, tested themselves against increasing distance in waters of varying temperatures. He taught her water safety and rescue techniques. He dove beneath the murky surface and grabbed her ankles to make her scream and laugh, then held her close. She remembered the feel of his wet muscled skin.
An early September when she was 20, at the ocean off Duck, North Carolina. She was skipping two days of class at UV to spend time with her father before he left the country.
Her friend Pam had gone along and flirted with him shamelessly from the moment they arrived, telling Wendell on the sly how handsome he was.
Pam joined them in the cold waist-deep water and proceeded to splash him until he lured her further out and dove for her ankles. When he came up for air, face slick with salt water and then splitting into a big grin, Pam lunged at him. For a moment there was too much contact between them, her breasts crushed against his chest, his face inches away from hers. Something was happening, and neither of them did a thing to stop it.
Wendell struck out for deeper water and slid forward into a long lap, parallel to shore. He called out for her to wait and caught up to her in moments. The sun had been blinding when she glanced back toward his voice. He pulled alongside and then cut into her path. Suddenly she and her father were both treading water, facing off.
“Why’d you take off like that?”
She wasn’t sure he could tell she was crying; the salt water tears mixed with the ocean, the cure for anything, Isak Dinesen said, was salt water, sweat, tears, or the sea.
“You and Pam.”
“Pam’s a child.”
“She’s the same age as me.”
“You’re a child, too.”
“I’m a woman.”
As if for emphasis, the swell of the sea pushed them close. Her body grazed his, and almost imperceptibly, they both stiffened against the fickle sea that suddenly seemed determined to pull them apart.
It happened quickly, too powerful to be named, even in thought. They slipped into motion, side by side, swimming to the point of exhaustion, and they allowed the tide to wash them in to shore.
She dove down into the Texas spring, deep, came up slowly through the water. Blew bubbles that rose, her own breath captured inside, and once again, opened her eyes to the light above, the muted shimmer of sun, the feeling of being washed clean, of weightlessness. Whatever she needed to she had left below, on the craggy rock bottom of Barton Springs.
What she needed was a dig, from the beginning: the moving of stones and debris, the layers of earth, peeling away the years. The tiny gestures of hands held very still. Uncovering old things and dead things. No words, no feelings, no hearts involved.
She settled on the top step out back and d
id her usual scan for the armadillo. She had decided it was a she, and that sometime, whenever armadillos gave birth, she would have four identical babies close by and Wendell would watch as they paraded in armadillo formation through the back yard.
The armadillo didn’t come. It was too early still. The cup of Prince of Wales tea, Tristan’s personal favorite, steamed on the steps. If she hadn’t been out of vanilla soymilk, Wendell would have added that to it. Sacrilege, Tris would have announced. And she would have smirked while he drank his plain.
The tea was perfect. She let the screen door flap behind her, checked email. Nothing from her dad or Grayson. She had called Grayson three times in the past hour, with no success. He seemed to have disappeared.
One from Aunt Jessie.
Has your dad called? He was in town but now he seems to be gone and I need to ask him something. I can’t get him on his cell. How are you? When are you coming home? You are so vague in your notes, Wendell, I want a definite answer. J
Aunt Jessie loved the little emoticons and used them frequently. She’d stopped using all caps awhile back, after someone told her it was rude.
Aunt Jessie, I love you, and no, I haven’t heard from Daddy. I’m not sure when I’m coming back. It’s been so good getting out of Virginia, you should try it yourself.
Paused, sipped some tea.
Maybe you’d meet a nice man, someplace else. You should find one, you’re so beautiful. There just aren’t that many options in Culpeper.
Her father flashed into her thoughts, the way he’d always avoided the women in Culpeper when she was growing up. The men who called Aunt Jessie but she never accepted their invitations.
Have you ever listened to the Cowboy Junkies? I think you’d like them. Maybe an alternative to the Dixie Chicks. Hugs, Wendell
There was nothing to do, so she grabbed fifty dollars and headed to town in search of thrift store décor for her bedroom.
The Meaning of Isolated Objects Page 10
