Wings of Glass

by Gina Holmes

  Callie Mae sighed. “You couldn’t tell my father that. When I was growing up, he was forever chiding me at dinnertime about those starving children in Africa.” She rolled her eyes. “As if that would encourage me to gluttony. One day, I couldn’t finish the five pounds of meatloaf my mother heaped onto my plate, so I put my leftovers in an envelope and asked him for Africa’s address.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He gave me a tail whooping I’ll never forget and sent me to bed.”

  I pictured a little blonde Callie Mae with pigtails, alone on her bed crying her eyes out. “That’s terrible. He thought you were being a smart aleck.”

  “I was.”

  Fatimah clicked her tongue. “You were a terrible child. He was a wise man to give you the rod. Being hungry is not joke.”

  Callie Mae’s smile faded. “No, it’s not. But how is a chubby American girl being forced to overeat affecting anyone in Africa or anywhere else for that matter? Every time I opened my mouth to ask a question or speak my mind, my folks shoved food down my throat to shut me up.”

  It was clear then that Callie Mae was more than just the church lady with the smart clothes and well-to-do late husband. She had her scars just like the rest of us. I wondered what others she bore and if we’d be friends long enough for me to find them all out. I hoped so.

  In one fluid motion, Fatimah ripped open the short end of the envelope and dumped the hot peppers onto her roast-beef sandwich. “On behalf of the great people of Africa, we thank you for your contribution. Feel better?”

  I choked on my salami sandwich.

  “Are you all right?” Callie Mae asked.

  I took a sip of root beer and nodded.

  “You know,” Callie Mae said, looking at Fatimah, “I liked you better when you didn’t have a bun in the oven. You used to be a lot more fun.”

  Fatimah clicked her tongue again and waved her hand like she was trying to shoo away a fly.

  “You’re pregnant?” I asked, surprised.

  Fatimah gave her flat belly a rub. “Two months tomorrow.”

  “How could you not know?” Callie Mae asked, scooping up bits of shredded lettuce and tomato off her plate and putting them back onto her sandwich. “Jiminy Crickets, that’s all the woman talks about.”

  I turned to Fatimah. “You didn’t say anything to me.”

  Fatimah shrugged like the conversation bored her and swallowed what was in her mouth. “I have baby, yes. We had other things to talk about, true?”

  “That’s why I wanted this meeting.” Callie Mae picked up the napkin from her lap and wiped her hands across it. “I was going to split you two back up after Penny’s training, but I think until Fatimah has her baby, I might keep you as a team. I’d rather not have her working with certain chemicals like bleach or ammonia if we can help it. And since Penny is now with us, we can.”

  As soon as she said it, I could almost smell the ammonia burning my nose. I hadn’t even considered that cleaning houses could be dangerous for you, Manny. It scared me to think of all the damage I could do to you just by being ignorant. “Do they hurt the baby?”

  Fatimah blurted with her mouth full of bread, “Pftt! She worries too much. She thinks sneezing hurts the baby.”

  Callie Mae raised an eyebrow. “Keep it up and I’m going to hurt you.”

  The sight of that mush in her mouth hit me right in the gut, and what little I had eaten started to push back up my throat. “I have to get up. Now.” The look on my face must have told Fatimah I meant business, because she jumped out of that booth so fast she almost fell onto the floor.

  I ran to the bathroom, making it just in time.

  After relieving my stomach of what little I’d eaten, I rinsed out my mouth and looked at myself in the mirror. My skin, which had been clear even in puberty, was now breaking out in small pimples around the bridge of my nose. I wasn’t sure if it was the fluorescent light or if my skin really was taking on a greenish hue, but at least I felt better now, even if I did look awful.

  When I was younger, I remember stuffing a pillow under my shirt and examining my profile to see how I might look pregnant, as if the only thing about my appearance that would change would be the shape of my stomach. Boy, was I unprepared for reality.

  I made my way back to the booth to explain, but the smiles both women wore told me they already knew.

  “You are with child too, Peeny?” Fatimah asked with a silly grin.

  “What?” Unsuccessfully trying to play coy, I was unable to force down my own smile.

  “She is!” Callie Mae exclaimed, slamming her drink down on the table, adding emphasis to her exclamation. “Well, I’ll be. Fatimah said she thought you might be, but I didn’t believe her.”

  Fatimah slid out and let me back into my seat. “You see? I am never wrong.”

  “Except when you are,” Callie Mae said.

  “How did you know?” My stomach was flat, and it’s not like I was going around wearing a T-shirt with the word baby and a down arrow.

  Fatimah held the round end of the spoon to her face and bared her teeth, I assumed checking for poppy seeds. After running her tongue across her mouth, she set the spoon back on her plate. “You have a girl inside you. She is stealing your beauty.”

  The smile left my face when my brain caught up with her mouth.

  Callie Mae gave Fatimah’s hand a motherly slap. “Now don’t you say that, Fati. She’s beautiful.” She squeezed my hand. “You’re beautiful, Penny. Don’t you listen to her.”

  I wanted to crawl under the table. “No, it’s okay. I know I’ve looked better.” I just didn’t know how Fatimah could know that, having just met me. For all she knew, I never had any beauty to steal.

  “I told Callie you have a fat pimple face,” Fatimah added, unaffected by Callie Mae’s reprimand or my frown. She took a gulp of sweet tea and spoke between crunches of ice. “I have a boy. See, my skin is still very good.” She touched her cheek as if to prove her point.

  Once I got my mind off my hideousness, I began to wonder if what she said about a girl stealing her mother’s beauty had any basis in truth, or if it was just an old Sudanese wives’ tale. It seemed I might have heard the same thing once from one of my mother’s friends. I certainly didn’t like the idea of my daughter stealing my beauty, but the thought of a baby girl was kind of nice.

  While Fatimah and Callie Mae chatted, Manny, I had a dozen pink dresses, ruffled rubber pants, and patent leather shoes picked out for you in my mind. I was picturing a cherub-faced little girl with ringlets and pink bows, and regardless of your sex, I fell more and more in love with you.

  In her delicate, Southern way, Callie Mae put her manicured fingertips in front of her face to hide her full mouth. “So, Penny, do you know when you’re due?”

  I broke off a piece of french fry I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to eat. “I think sometime in January.”

  “My Sara was a New Year’s baby. Who’s your OB?” she asked.

  Not having the slightest clue what she was talking about, I shrugged, feeling as stupid as I probably looked.

  Ironically, it was Fatimah who translated. “She asks to know who is your doctor.”

  My face must have turned scarlet as I looked down at my plate.

  “Ha-ha, she has same doctor as me!” Fatimah shouted, then bellowed that deep laugh of hers, bringing way too much attention to our table.

  Callie Mae’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “Don’t encourage stupidity. She needs a doctor.”

  Fatimah snapped off a bite of pickle. “I be your doctor, Penny. I deliver a hundred babies in my village. Maybe more.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. “You know how to do that?”

  Callie Mae shook her head. “This isn’t the boondocks, ladies. We do have hospitals here.”

  Fatimah shrugged as if she couldn’t care less what anyone thought. I wanted so badly to have that kind of confidence.

  Callie Mae set down wh
at was left of her sandwich. “And how many of those babies died, Doctor Fati?”

  Fatimah huffed. “I lost only three babies in two years.”

  Callie Mae nodded. “Oh, only three?” She turned to me. “And, Penny, you’re willing to risk your child’s life? Ninety-seven percent odds good enough for you?”

  My head was spinning with numbers and options. “I don’t have health insurance.” I didn’t like the idea of taking any kind of chance with your life, of course, but my options seemed limited. Fatimah at least knew what she was doing, which was better than leaving myself in Trent’s hands. He’d never delivered anything other than a litter of kittens and a stillborn calf.

  Sitting back, Callie Mae crossed her arms. “And how many of the mothers did you lose, hmm?”

  “Only two,” Callie Mae said proudly. “One from blood. One from the infection.” She looked to the side and twisted her mouth as though the memory tasted bad. “Her husband would not wait like I told him to. He was a filthy hog.”

  It took me a second to get what she was saying. “That’s disgusting,” I finally said. I stirred the straw around my soda, looking at it instead of them. “How long do you have to wait?” There was so much I didn’t know about taking care of you, Manny, and it terrified me.

  “A month at least.” Fatimah used her fingers this time to pluck out another ice cube from her glass. “Two is better.” She popped the cube into her mouth and crunched away.

  Callie Mae raised her hand in the waiter’s direction and mouthed she was ready for the check before turning back to us. “You’re both going to the clinic right after we leave here. My cousin is the office manager. I’ll ask her to fit you in. They work on a sliding scale, so it shouldn’t cost much at all. I’ll ask Michelle to clean your last house, which frees up the afternoon.”

  “You will not give my work away. That is food from my mouth!” Fatimah said.

  Callie Mae wagged a finger at her. “Yes, I certainly will, Miss Thing. You’ll just have to take one of her houses tomorrow.”

  Fatimah huffed and mumbled something in her native language that didn’t sound very nice.

  The tension made my stomach tight, but Callie Mae was content enough with the outcome to eat the last few bites of her sandwich. “You may get to see the baby on the ultrasound we talked about.” She wasn’t looking at either one of us, but since I knew she hadn’t talked to me about any ultrasound, I figured she must be speaking to Fatimah.

  “I will see the baby?” Fatimah grinned. “Seeing a baby inside his mother. Imagine!”

  “I thought they didn’t do that until you were further along,” I said.

  Callie Mae gave me a look that made it clear I was to shush.

  Picking up the check the waiter had set down, she threw me a glance. “And you, Penny, should get to hear your baby’s heartbeat.”

  I smiled, overjoyed with the fact I was going to be seeing a doctor and even more that I might actually hear your heart beating. “I want to see the doctor,” I said, hoping I didn’t make Fatimah mad. “I want to do everything I can for her—or him.”

  “I know you do,” Callie Mae said. “And you will.”

  TEN

  THE DOCTOR squeezed in a quick visit with me for Callie Mae’s sake in exchange for a promise I would set up an appointment for a full workup before I left. Fatimah got cold feet at the last minute and, despite Callie Mae’s threats and pleading, insisted she could and would doctor herself just fine. When she plugged a finger in each ear and started making a loud whooping sound, Callie Mae got embarrassed enough to let it go.

  The doctor squirted cold jelly on my stomach and kept sliding what she called a Doppler farther and farther down until I blushed; then she slid it back up, stopped several inches below my belly button, and smiled at the steady whoosh-whoosh sound she located. “That’s the baby’s heartbeat.”

  I closed my eyes and listened. I couldn’t believe that was your little heart beating inside of me. It made it all so real, so wonderful, and so scary.

  All I could think of as I drove home to Trent was that we were going to have a Christmas baby! Of course we both know now it didn’t work out quite that way. I drove home to your father, wanting to get there as fast as I could. It seemed like that fifteen-minute ride was two hours long. Finally, I pulled into the driveway. Carrying a glossy black-and-white picture of a blob the doctor assured me was you, I raced toward the house.

  When I opened the door, I knew right away he was drunk. There he sat, as usual, slouching on the couch with his eyes drooping into those telltale slits. The television was blaring, and there were half a dozen crushed beer cans at his feet, along with an empty whiskey bottle.

  The last thing I would have done is left that man alone with hard alcohol, so I knew one of his buddies or girlfriends had been over to supply him.

  His hair stuck straight up like a lunatic’s, and his white T-shirt had a mustard stain smeared across the shoulder like he had wiped his mouth on it, which, knowing him, he probably had.

  With one arm draped over the back of the couch, he turned toward the door and belched. It was all I could do not to run to the bathroom and get sick again.

  “Well, well, Mrs. Taylor. You finally decided to carry yourself home,” he slurred in my direction.

  I could smell the booze and cigarette smoke clear across the room. So much for not smoking in the house. The good news about your due date would have to wait until I had time to assess his mood. Trent could be a mean drunk just as soon as a friendly one. Only time and conversation would tell which way the wind blew that day.

  “I see you’ve been busy.” I made my way to the beer cans and started plucking them off the floor. When I picked up that glass whiskey bottle, I’m not proud to admit it, but the thought of smashing him over the head with it did cross my mind.

  He wiped his forearm across his mouth. “You don’t have a pair of lips for your loving husband?”

  I exhaled. Happy drunk today. Thank you, Jesus. “Hi, baby.” With my hands full of cans, I leaned down. Holding my breath, I kissed his scruffy cheek. He’d had so much to drink he was actually sweating alcohol. I wanted to fuss at him and tell him every six-pack he slammed down was a pack of diapers we could have bought. But he was happy, and so I was going to pretend to be happy too. Nothing mattered now except you, Manny. Over the following months it would be a constant battle to remember that around your father.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat the butt end of a hobby horse,” he said, making the whole sentence sound like one long word.

  I took the cans and bottle to the kitchen and let them clank down into an already-full trash can. I knew Trent couldn’t see, but the garbage can was right outside the back door. Surely if he could feel his way to the fridge to get a beer, he could find his way out there to empty the trash. How badly I wanted to say his loss of vision was not an excuse to lie around the house and do nothing. Why was it when he had worked I was expected to have the house clean and dinner made, but now that the shoe was on the other foot, he couldn’t even be bothered to pick up his own filth?

  “What are we having?” He pointed the remote at the TV, let out another belch, and kicked his feet onto the cocktail table.

  You don’t know how much I wanted to leave right then. Let him worry about his own stinking dinner and deal with the cockroaches sure to take over the place if I wasn’t there to clean. But what kind of woman would leave her blind husband?

  Rummaging through the cabinets, I eyed the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and called back to him. “What do you feel like?”

  Something slid across my waist and I screamed. I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen, but there he was, puffing his beer breath onto my neck. Apparently, he was getting around the house on his own pretty good. Just not enough to find his way to the trash can or kitchen sink.

  “Dag, One Cent, why are you hollering? You tryin’ to wake the dead?”

  Stumbling backward, he grabbed onto my shoulder for suppo
rt. The weight of him almost knocked me over. I hadn’t realized my nausea had subsided until it came back.

  “I was just coming in here to tell you I know what I’m in the mood for.” He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned so he caught my ear. This didn’t deter him one bit. He just started grabbing at me.

  Just coming from the doctor, I was in no mood to be groped. “Baby, leave me be so I can fix you some supper.”

  The familiar crease had found its way between his thick eyebrows, which told me a rant was finding its way to his lips. I backed away.

  “This job of yours has got you so high-and-mighty now you don’t even want your own man. What, are you turning gay now?”

  I sighed and grabbed the washcloth off the faucet. “Come on, don’t start. I love you. I don’t want no one but you.” No one, including you, I thought. “I’m just tired, is all.”

  He slapped the air, maybe intending to hit me, maybe not. He was too drunk and sloppy for me to tell which. “If this job is going to make you too tired to—”

  “It’s not the job making me tired. It’s your baby growing inside of me.”

  “So now it’s my fault?”

  I wet the rag and wrung it, then wiped the counter crumbs into the sink. While he stumbled back into the counter, trying to play it off like he meant to lean there instead of fall, I walked over to the freezer and yanked out a pack of hot dogs. If he wanted something better, let him cook it himself. “I saw a doctor today.”

  “We got a money tree growing out back now?”

  I had gotten good at rolling my eyes, now that he couldn’t see me. I wondered if he would like me asking that same question about his eye doctor’s visits if his job wasn’t picking up the tab.

  I slapped the hot dogs on the counter and grabbed a knife out of the drawer. “It only cost me five dollars. They work on a sliding scale. Since I don’t make much, they don’t charge much.” On the way home I’d prepared myself in case he started on the “Taylors ain’t no charity case” thing again. The way I figured it, a sliding scale arrangement wasn’t charity. It was just an even playing field for a change. I was prepared to put my foot down if he tried to insist I couldn’t go back, but my fears turned out to be unfounded.