by Judy Baer
“Let’s go with the chicken pot pie. I have some papers we have to fill out while they’re baking.” He reached for his briefcase, pulled out a few papers and spread them on the table. “The lawyer asked for a little more information before he can finish our wills. I know you wanted more time to think about this, but we need to decide who to name as guardian for our baby. Just in case—”
“What is with you?” I was surprised at the anger in my voice, and more amazed still at the illogical frisson of fear I felt. “You keep bringing this up, and it’s beginning to creep me out!”
“Be logical, Whitney,” he said with a spark of exasperation. “If we get this done, then we won’t have to think about it anymore.”
“I don’t think about it anyway. I don’t like thinking about it.” Even though he’s right, his persistence annoys me. I know it’s irrational, but I am pregnant. Who says I have to be rational every minute of the day?
My mother and dad say the secret of a happy marriage is never to go to bed on an argument. “Kiss and make up,” Mom insists. “You’ll sleep much better.”
Although we definitely kissed, we went to bed with something unresolved hanging between us.
Monday, December 20
If in doubt, clean it out.
If it’s torn, send it round the Horn.
If it’s broken, don’t keep it as a token.
If it’s…
I am a compulsive cleaning machine. I thought the nesting instinct would pass, but it’s like an infection raging out of control. I can’t help myself.
The baby’s room has been sterilized, sanitized, deodorized and disinfected. Chase says he’s done surgery in messier places than our nursery. I’ve sewed curtains, made quilts, cross-stitched and needlepointed pictures for the walls. According to Chase, the only thing I haven’t done is rewire the room for the new lighting, and that’s already on my to-do list.
This nesting thing is dangerous. I’ve raged at Chase for splashing water in the bathroom sink, forced him to fold the end of the toilet paper roll in a little V as they do in fancy hotels and made him fold his dirty towels before he throws them into the laundry basket. He’s very sweet about everything, but he’s notified me that if within six weeks after this baby is born I have not calmed down and quit bleaching his shirts, he will have me sent to some lovely place with bars on the windows and maid service.
Frankly, that sounds pretty good, because I have no idea how to stop myself from cleaning every vent in our house with Q-tips and dental floss.
Tuesday, December 21
Even doing last-minute Christmas shopping with the girls didn’t lift me from the strange mood I’ve been in since my disconcerting conversation with Chase. I’d filled out the forms as he’d asked, with much emotion and crying on my part. Maybe I’ve blown this all out of proportion. Chase is a responsible man. Why wouldn’t he want everything in order? It’s no doubt my hormones acting up.
What else should I expect while I’m pregnant? Mitzi, for example, is a walking hormone right now.
Technically, tonight she was a riding hormone. Rather than depend on Kim and me to keep her from losing her center of balance and pitching into a rack of Christmas tree ornaments or a display of the kitschy paste jewelry that always pops up at Christmastime, she’d signed out one of those little riding carts, making our shopping trip into a mix of motocross, soapbox derby and raid on the television shopping channel.
Mitzi’s aggressive tendencies hovered near the surface as she nearly clipped a fellow ambling along chatting on his cell phone. If she’d had a horn, she would have honked it.
Not quite shopped out after dinner, we wandered in the mall. Mostly Mitzi and I just put our faces to the windows of the shops and drooled over normal-sized clothing.
“What if I’m this way forever?” Mitzi asked mournfully, looking down at her monstrous circumference. “What if I’m so stretched out that my skin hangs around my knees after the babies are born? These things happen, you know. What if—”
“Quit awfulizing, Mitzi. Bodies bounce back. You’ll look great in no time.”
Then I looked at her, really looked at her.
She’s still beautiful, of course, but she does look like someone who’s joined the circus as “Globe Girl, Big as Life, Big as Earth.”
She rubbed the small of her back with her hands. “The doctor says I should anticipate going on bed rest soon.”
Ouch. Harry’s going to love that. I’ve already lined up temps for the office. Each will work for three months. That should carry us over the maternity leaves nicely, but he’s still in denial about the fact that Kim, Mitzi and I aren’t going to be showing up for work every day. I’ve suggested that I start interviewing full-time replacements just in case one of us decides to stay home permanently, but he insists that unless one of us demands to quit, we’ll make do for the time being.
I’m chalking this all up to feeling twenty-nine months pregnant, but my anxiety level is very high. I know God is with me and will get me through what’s coming next, but the edginess still comes and goes.
I’ve got to buy my mother a really nice Christmas gift. Until now, I had no idea how much she went through for me.
Mr. Tibble here.
Something is dreadfully wrong with my pet.
She is cranky. Sometimes I expect her to hiss and spit. She’s not declawed, but has so far not tried to gouge me in the nose like that idiot Scram. I’ve had to teach him painful—painful for him, that is, but vaguely enjoyable for me—lessons about respect and deference. My lineage stems from the lion, the king of the jungle. His heritage is plebeian. Some days I suspect that he is merely a mutant rat. I have no solid proof, but I did see my pet feed him cheese once, and he ate it. Blech.
Her mate is not acting like himself, either. He is acting more like a cat, and sleeping longer hours every day.
This worry is disturbing my rest. Yesterday I was only able to sleep sixteen hours. These creatures and sleep deprivation will be the death of me yet. Next time I get a pet, I will choose birds.
Yum.
Mr. Tibble, signing off.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday, December 24
They shall name him Emmanuel, which means, “God is with us.”
I love Christmas.
Christmas Eve for my family is a time of anticipation, of bringing to full awareness the enormity of the events surrounding Christ’s birth. God is with us. God is with us. God is with us. God is with us. Any way you say it, it is astonishing, magnificent and miraculous.
Mom and Dad came to our place after five-o’clock services at church.
Dad always reads the Christmas story with great drama and tears in his eyes.
While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
When I was young, we shared Christmas with numerous aunts, uncles and cousins. With the encouragement of our mothers, who thought we should have a more experiential celebration, we decked ourselves out in bathrobes, sheets and dish towels to create a pageant of the Christmas story. I, for some reason, always ended up as Joseph, the one who, apart from leading the donkey—usually my father—was relegated to the background.
My cousin Louise, a spoiled and demanding child, was always Mary. Frankly, those are the only times I ever saw Louise sweet, docile and tender—a brief relief for the entire family during our amateur productions. She is now a partner in a large law firm in Chicago and is aggressive, obnoxious, insufferable and confrontational for a living.
Louise’s little brother Randy, because he was the youngest, did his stint as Jesus until he outgrew Louise’s lap. His last Christmas as the infant Jesus, Randy’s arms and legs nearly reached the floor as he lay back in Louise’s arms. Recalling it now, I realize what a vulnerable position Randy put himself in for the sake of the pageant. I’ll bet Mary never dropped Je
sus, but Louise landed Randy on his head more than once.
The Christmas spirit overtook me even then, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to be jealous of any of them—Mary, the shepherds, the wise men, and especially not the angel who announced Christ’s birth. One year he fell off the back of the couch during his big proclamation and broke his arm.
The next year, our angel was earthbound.
Tonight, there was no reenactment, but the sweet memories resurfaced nonetheless.
Christmas Eve dinner has always been a bit of an adventure in my family. When we’d visit my aunts’ and uncles’ homes, I could count on meatballs, mashed potatoes and gravy, and perhaps even ham. My grandparents on my father’s side were an entirely different story. Grandma, a Scandinavian who still sounds as though she’s just vacated a Viking ship, insists that Christmas Eve is meant for lutefisk and lefse and, on the odd occasion, oyster stew.
Now, anyone who knows anything about lutefisk knows that it is the famously revered food of the Scandinavian countries of Norway, Denmark and Sweden and their adopted state, Minnesota. People from these parts of the world have developed an emotional attachment to lutefisk that cannot be explained. For my grandmother, not serving lutefisk on Christmas Eve—“Just a taste, dear”—is tantamount to showing outright disrespect to her mother country.
Lutefisk is disquieting for the uninitiated. First, most sane people do not realize that whitefish soaked in lye is edible. Yes, lye, the stuff of drain cleaner. Some people, once they have eaten lutefisk, still say it is not edible. Just don’t tell that to my grandmother.
Grandma’s traditional meal includes lutefisk (boiled), potatoes (boiled) and green peas (also boiled). Scandinavians are fond of beige and gray foods. Though not many realize this, one can actually cook the green off a pea. I was taught to mash this combination together on my plate while watching for one of the bazillion bones in the fish, sprinkle it with salt and pepper and flood it with melted butter. I’ve never really minded this meal. Of course, if I poured enough melted butter on an overshoe, I’d probably like that, too.
Texture is a big deal with lutefisk. It is a jellied fish, so its texture can range from the firm quality of grape jelly with pectin to the consistency of applesauce. I’m always wary of gray applesauce. I take a whiff first. If it’s fishy, rather than fruity, I put it back.
But tonight, Grandma is in Florida, cooking lutefisk for her friends in her retirement village, and we’re having lasagna.
Chase came into the kitchen and buried his nose in my hair as I arranged crudités in a crystal dish. “How’s my love?”
I turned to face him and bumped him with my belly. I bump everything with my belly these days. Fortunately, I don’t do much damage with mine. Mitzi can turn around and knock people over like bowling pins with hers.
“I’ve got a little something I’d like you to open.” He took a small flat box from his pocket and laid it on the counter.
“Don’t you want to do it later, when we exchange gifts?”
“I want you to have this now. Go ahead, open it.”
He looked down at me with such a loving expression that I felt my chest tighten. The baby fluttered and kicked inside me as if he/she sensed Chase’s love, too. He treats me as if I’m as fragile and beautiful as a hummingbird these days. His tenderness overwhelms me sometimes. I raised my hand to his cheek and stroked it.
“Aren’t you curious?” He prodded. “Open the package.”
I lifted the lid of a jeweler’s box. Inside, on a bed of navy velvet, rested a gold pendant with three individual diamonds separated by several smaller diamonds in a channel setting.
“Chase, it’s spectacular.” My voice sounded strangely breathless to my ears.
“Pick it up and look at the back.”
I lifted the treasure out of the box and turned it over in my hand. There were two more diamonds on the back, separating three engraved words—Past, Present, Future.
“I saw it and thought of us, Whitney, of what we’ve shared and what we have to look forward to. I had to buy it for you.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing ever.” I handed it to him and lifted the thick blanket of my hair so he could put it around my neck. Then I touched it lightly, hardly believing this beautiful thing was mine. “I had no idea….”
“It represents our past, our present and our future.” He gently placed his hand on my stomach, and I felt the baby move, as if attracted to the warmth of his hand. “We have so much to look forward to, the three of us.”
So very, very much.
“Lord, thank You for this food, this family and this opportunity to share this meal. You’re all we can think of tonight as we remember how You came to earth in human form to save us from ourselves and our sin. May our lives honor You. Thank You, Lord, for the baby in the manger who saved us all.”
My father looked up from his prayerful pose and winked at me, just as he has every Christmas Eve since I was a child. “Now let’s eat. We have another birthday party to go to later, you know.” We return to church for the midnight candlelight service. After all, what’s a birthday party without candles?
“I wonder if your grandmother has poisoned anyone with that lutefisk of hers yet,” Mom said as she dished up seconds of lasagna. “The woman should come with a health warning stamped on her forehead.”
“A little lutefisk never hurt anyone,” Dad said, in a weak attempt to defend his mother. “I ate it every year, and look at me.”
“Exactly my point,” Mother muttered.
“If lutefisk is so great, why do you eat it so seldom? Grandma never cooked it more than once or twice a year. If it’s that delicious, shouldn’t you eat it at least once a week?”
Both Mom and Dad looked a little green at the idea, and Chase, who had first been introduced to lutefisk when he met me, turned a lot green and disappeared into our bedroom and likely into the bathroom beyond.
When I brought dessert, a baked Alaska, from the kitchen, he still hadn’t returned to the table.
“Did Chase go outside?”
“No. He hasn’t come out of your bedroom. Want me to go check on him?” Dad offered.
“No. You guys have done enough harm already. If we hadn’t gotten into this lutefisk conversation, we’d all feel a lot better right now.”
But when Chase hadn’t returned by the time I’d cut the dessert, I decided to look for him myself.
Smiling, I touched my fingers to my throat and felt the warm, smooth gold and diamond necklace against my throat. My sweet, sweet man…
“Honey, dessert is ready,” I called at the bedroom door. “Are you coming? I made fresh coffee, too. Hurry up, will you? Now that Mom’s seen my necklace, she’s itching to open her present from Dad. Dad’s looking a little nervous. I hope he learned his lesson last year and didn’t buy her something like a pressure washer again.”
The silence in our darkened bedroom was deafening.
“Chase?” I hurried into the bathroom. Empty. Where on earth had he gone?
Outside, probably, and Dad had just missed seeing him. But when I turned to head for the garage, I saw Chase lying on our bed.
“Honey, I…” As I neared him, I realized that his hair was dark with sweat and his shirt…his damp shirt was plastered to his body. I reached out and touched his cheek. Clammy.
“Chase?” I took his face in my hands. Something was very, very wrong.
“Whit,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “I think you’d better get me to the hospital.”
I didn’t have time to be afraid. I lumbered into the living room. “Mom, Dad, Chase is sick. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Should I drive him? Maybe that would be faster.” But after one look at Chase, Dad shook his head. “Get on the phone, Whitney.”
In what seemed like hours but was, in fact, less than five minutes, the ambulance pulled up, its lights cutting sharp swaths in the darkness of the night.
Dad let them into the house, and I, wh
o hadn’t left Chase’s side, moved out of the way so the crew could work. Chase, his voice weak, mumbled something to them that I couldn’t hear. When they moved him from the bed to the gurney, he gave a sharp cry of pain that sliced through me like a knife.
I gasped and sat down heavily—the only way I can sit down these days. One of the EMTs glanced at me and then looked at my father. “Maybe you’d better bring her with you in the car to the hospital. We’ll have someone look at her, too. She’s not ready to go into labor yet.”
Instinctively, I clutched the dome of my belly. The baby was flailing around in there like an Olympic speed swimmer out for the gold. “Shh,” I whispered, rubbing my hand across my abdomen as I might across a baby’s back. “Shh.”
Then the room commenced to tip and whirl, and I hoped Chase wouldn’t fall off the gurney when the floor and the ceiling changed places. I must have blacked out for a moment. When I came to, Mr. Tibble, who had been sitting on the bed with Chase, began to yowl, a keening sound that sent shivers down my spine.
For once, on the ride to the hospital, I didn’t hear my mother tell my father to slow down. I gazed dully at the lighted houses as we sped by and remembered that we’d left every light in our house on when we made our exit. The coffeepot was on, the dessert was melting on the dining-room table, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if I’d turned off the oven after I browned the meringue on the baked Alaska.
When I mumbled as much to my mother, she took out her cell phone. “I’m going to call Kim. They’re home tonight, aren’t they?”
She and Kurt were scheduled to be at our house for dinner tomorrow. Tonight they’d planned to spend alone with Wesley, reading him the Christmas story and wrapping gifts for their new baby. Wesley has accepted the idea of a new baby, in theory at least. Kim is trying to embed the concept in his mind that once this child arrives, it is here to stay, not to be traded in for a bike with training wheels or a big-boy bed that looks like a race car.
New baby. Mine lurched and reeled inside my belly.
What if Chase dies? What if he leaves the two of us here alone?
