Baby Chronicles

by Judy Baer

  “Not now. Later. When Uncle Chase feels better, okay?”

  “Unca Chase sick?”

  “He has been, sweetie, but he’s feeling better now.”

  I tipped my head upward. Thanks.

  “Did you give them a proper send-off?” Chase was sitting up when I arrived at the house. The cats have been hanging on him like moss on a tree since he’s come home from the hospital, but he never shoos them away.

  He has a new appreciation for every living thing, he says, including the antic pair trying to swallow the fringe on the blanket throw on his lap.

  I have a new appreciation, too. I take nothing for granted—especially not Chase.

  “Kim was giddy, and Kurt couldn’t quit smiling. Even Wesley didn’t act up when they left.”

  “A good sign.”

  “He still doesn’t get what’s going on. He talks about his new baby in the same tone he discusses his new Duplo set.”

  “I imagine the baby will upset his world slightly more than the Duplo’s,” Chase said drily.

  “Speaking of ‘upsets,’ how are you feeling this afternoon?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a street sweeper, thank you very much.” He gave a frustrated little sound. “I’m going to have much more compassion for my patients after this.”

  “You’ve always been compassionate.”

  “Not nearly enough.” He reached for my hand. “I thought I was a goner, Whit.”

  I swallowed the tears that threatened. “I know.”

  “Life takes on new meaning when you think you might be at the end of it. For one thing, it turns your priority list on its head.”

  We’ve had several conversations like this as Chase has processed what happened to him. To his credit, he hasn’t taken a “Why me?” attitude about his illness. Instead, he’s trying to find the good in what transpired.

  “For one thing,” he said, a grin breaking across his face, “I decided to hire someone to do the yard work this year—and someone to paint the basement, too. I’m not wasting anymore time on things that don’t involve you, our family, friends, my patients or God. It’s the relationships that count, not things.

  “And I will never again leave my feelings for people unspoken.” His inky blue eyes bored into mine. “I love you, Whitney. I’ll try to show you that for the rest of our lives, but I doubt you’ll ever really know how much.”

  He laid his hand on my abdomen, and our baby decided to do a head-butt into his hand. “I love you, too, little one. Don’t be jealous.”

  Chapter Forty

  Wednesday, January 26

  If it’s not one sort of crisis, it’s another.

  Bryan, who has been gaining weight right along with Mitzi and me, has otherwise settled down on the pregnancy front. He did, however, come to work this morning looking as though he’d caught his head in a blender. His hair was mussed and he had at least a dozen nicks from shaving. His shirt was misbuttoned so that there was one buttonhole hanging loose at the neck, and his tie was draped around his collar as if he’d forgotten to knot it.

  The new temp taking Mitzi’s place is a girl named Lisa. She doesn’t say too much, but she’s always observing the goings-on in the office. When Mitzi returns, Lisa will probably leave, quit her job, write a book about us and make a million bucks. It would have to be fiction, of course, because nobody in his right mind would believe what goes on in our office is anything but fiction.

  I also have floaters coming in to pick up the slack in the office. I think Innova will be just fine.

  “Something wrong?” I inquired of Bryan as I observed Lisa out of the corner of one eye.

  “How much weight do pregnant women usually gain?” Bryan asked.

  “I can’t answer that. I don’t believe anyone has admitted their true poundage outside a doctor’s office, and physicians are sworn to confidentiality. Why?”

  “Jennilee says that if I don’t quite gaining weight I’ll never fit into a tuxedo.”

  Lisa’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

  We have got to get these babies delivered soon—if not for our own sakes, for Bryan’s.

  “Tuxedo? Are you going to a wedding?”

  “Mine.” He sounded so despondent that the word didn’t quite register at first.

  “Yours? As in your very own wedding?”

  “That’s the one.” Prisoners on death row have sounded happier.

  “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you. I’ll tell Kim next time she calls. That’s great news.” I studied his expression. “Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me if I get married, Whitney. What if we get pregnant? I don’t think I can handle another pregnancy right now. A guy can’t take too many pregnancies in a row, you know. It’s not healthy.”

  Lisa’s jaw slackened, and her fingers slowed on the computer keys.

  “Second pregnancies are usually easier than the first, they say, Bryan. I’m sure you won’t have nearly as much morning sickness the second time around.”

  “Could you ask Chase about it for me? Jennilee wants kids right away, and I don’t know if I’m up to it.”

  “Sure. If the doctor gives you the go-ahead, when’s the wedding?”

  “Sometime in May.”

  “Cool. I’ll see what Chase has to say about your pregnancy. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with for the wedding.”

  Lisa’s mouth fell open, and her hands dropped into her lap.

  I’ll have to talk to her later. She’s never going to get any work done around here if she spends her time eavesdropping.

  “I talked to Kim today. Everything is going really well,” I told Chase over dinner. “Today they toured with some other families who have come to pick up their children. They went to the Great Wall and Tiananmen Square. They’re spending a lot of time with the baby and say she is ‘perfect.’”

  “When will they be back?”

  “She didn’t say. When all the paperwork is done, I suppose.”

  He looked at my astounding shape, all bulges and protruding parts. “Think you can last that long?”

  Harry checks on me every day, asking if I’ve felt any pains or if I need to go to the hospital. The relief on his face when I say “no” is palpable. If I can only hold off until Kim gets back, we may not have to close the office or check Harry into an institution. Otherwise, it’s iffy. Business has been good—too good—for a place as short staffed as ours.

  I’ve been racking my brain but I haven’t come up with a way to keep everyone happy about our work situation. That’s like putting toothpaste back in the tube once it’s been squeezed out—messy and nigh on impossible.

  Mitzi called today. She’s got way too much time on her hands.

  “Whitney, have you hired your doula yet?”

  “No. I don’t even know what a doula is.”

  “A birthing coach, of course. It’s very popular right now. All the stars have one. It’s the in thing.”

  “Nose rings are in, too, Mitzi. I’m not getting one of those, either.”

  “It’s not like that. Women who help other women through labor and delivery have been around forever.”

  “Why didn’t you say that was what you were talking about in the first place?”

  “You don’t ever read any of those women’s magazines I send you, do you? Otherwise you’d know all this. By the way, how’s work?”

  “Bryan is feeling bloated, the temps are dropping like flies, Harry’s having a nervous breakdown. Otherwise, things are great. Oh, yes, and Kim called. They should be home soon.”

  “Maybe she will make it back in time to save Harry’s sanity.”

  “It will be touch and go.” I sighed. “I’m not sure I enjoy being indispensable.”

  “Well, I certainly know about that. In my experience, it’s a burden.”

  There’s no way I’m going to ask Mitzi who had ever labeled her “indispensable” in the workplace.

  “I
’ll be in to see you all tomorrow,” she said brightly. “I have a doctor’s appointment, and Arch said he’d drive me by the office to see you.”

  “No more bed rest?”

  “Yes, but he said it wouldn’t hurt if I took a few minutes to say hello. I’ll be wearing a new dress I designed. You’ll love it.”

  “Hey, baby, what’s new?” Chase greeted me cheerfully when I arrived home from work. He’s caught up on reading his medical journals, read all the books he had piled by our bed and even—under duress—put our photos in albums. Recuperation is wearing on him, and he’s getting restless. It’s a good sign, but Dr. Steele says he isn’t ready to return to work quite yet.

  “I wish I could send you to work in my place. My feet are killing me.”

  He gave me a once-over. “Looks like the baby is dropping. Maybe you’ll deliver early.”

  I snuggled against him on the couch. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll be pregnant forever. I’ve come to grips with waddling through life. Don’t offer me any false hope. By the way, Mitzi’s coming by the office tomorrow afternoon. She has a doctor’s appointment at four o’clock.”

  “So do I.” Chase smiled into my eyes. “I’m hoping for permission to do something other than be a couch potato and a scratching post for the cats.”

  “I’ll come home and pick you up.”

  “Nah, you might miss Mitzi. I’ll take a cab.”

  “Then I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Great. I’ll be in my office.” He warded off my protest. “I won’t be working. I am strong enough to read my mail, however. Take your time.”

  Thursday, January 27

  Mitzi appeared at our office on her own two feet and dressed in a black-and-white polka-dot muumuu.

  “That’s a moo-moo? Looks more like a Holstein to me.” Harry has been cranky ever since Mitzi and Kim have been absent from the office. It hasn’t helped that the stress has caused more of his hair to fall out. The poor guy must spend twenty minutes a day artfully arranging the hairs on his head for maximum coverage. I jabbed him in the side to keep him quiet.

  “You’re walking under your own steam! That’s great.”

  “Arch said I could, just this once. Besides, the wheelchair is very tight.”

  So this is what our little group of Innova mamas has come to. Outgrowing wheelchairs, zipping off to the Orient to pick up a beautiful China doll, and me, permanently pregnant me.

  “You look fabulous, Mitzi,” I told her, and I meant it. Her eyes glisten with happiness, and she radiates joy. Between God and these babies, Mitzi is a changed woman. After they’re born, all we can do is hope and pray she doesn’t change back.

  Harry disappeared into his office, and Bryan and Lisa took off for a meeting with a prospective client. That left Arch, Mitzi, Betty and me alone in the office.

  I was showing her the changes we’d made to the break room when Mitzi suddenly froze. Her head came up, and her hands went to the sides of her dress.

  “We finally replaced the coffeemaker when Harry dropped the pot on the floor and broke it. It was so old, the man at the store said I’d have to look in an antique shop to find another like it…. Mitzi, what is it?”

  “I…I don’t know.” Her eyes darted from side to side, and she pulled at her dress. Then she screamed. “What’s going on?”

  Arch grabbed for her and eased her into a chair. “Where does it hurt, honey?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I cleared my throat. “Arch, I think Mitzi’s water may just have broken.”

  He looked wide-eyed at me, and then at the telltale dampness around them. “Honey, she’s right. We’re going to have our babies today!”

  “Babies? Now?” Even with all these months to get used to the idea, Mitzi sounded shocked that it might actually happen.

  “Are you feeling any contractions?”

  “No. Just a little backache, that’s all.”

  “We’d better get you to the hospital, honey. It’s time.”

  So Mitzi did the most efficient and prudent thing a mother in labor could do. She fainted. Arch and I tried to rouse her so she could get to the car under her own steam, but she refused to be roused.

  She came to in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

  “What’s that awful noise?” she mumbled irritably when she awoke.

  “The siren. We’re almost to the hospital.” Arch looked worse than Mitzi. He had begged me to ride to the hospital with them.

  “Why didn’t you just drive me there?” Mitzi demanded.

  I let Arch tell her that she’d been too heavy to carry to the car.

  “This is ridiculous. I don’t need to be on a stretcher, tearing down the freeway at a hundred miles an hour. Honestly, Arch, you are just too—Ow!” Her eyes got big. “Owww!”

  Arch glanced at his watch. “Tell me when the next contraction starts and I’ll time you. We’ll see how far apart they are.”

  “I’m not going to have anymore. The babies will do better if they’re not born for another week or two. Owww…”

  “Good luck, Mitzi. Stopping contractions is like trying to stop the tide.”

  “Maybe if I held my breath…” She puffed out her cheeks like a chipmunk.

  I counted to ten. Mitzi let out a scream that curdled milk in every dairy case within two miles. “Noooo…”

  By the time we got to the hospital, the distinguished and elegant Dr. Jekyll side of Mitzi’s personality had been fully replaced by the despicable Mr. Hyde.

  Chapter Forty-One

  As she was rolled into the emergency room, Mitzi had another contraction and emitted a scream the likes of which I’ve never heard except on large roller coasters. Her wail crescendoed and trailed off, masterful, operatic and terrifying to the other young mother who was being admitted at the same time. “If that’s what I’m in for, get me out of here, I’ve changed my mind,” her face said.

  I leaned toward the woman. “Don’t worry, she’s always this dramatic. You should see her with a toothache.”

  While Arch was filling out forms, Mitzi was insisting to whoever would listen, “I’m dying, you know, and none of you are paying any attention. After I’m gone, my husband will sue this hospital. Won’t you, Arch? Owww…”

  At least the contractions distracted her from her legal machinations and reminded her that she wasn’t dead yet.

  She reached out and clutched my arm with such force I thought it might snap. “You’re my friend, you believe me, don’t you, Whitney?”

  “I believe…”

  I was going to say, “I believe you think you’re dying, but it’s not likely,” but I didn’t get that out before Mitzi grasped it as if it was her last hope.

  “I knew you would. I want you to come into the birthing room with me. I need someone who believes me at my side.” She glared at the nurse until the woman took a step backward.

  “I’ll be there with you, honey,” Arch assured her. “And you aren’t dying, you’re just in labor.”

  Now that was the wrong thing to say.

  “‘Just in labor’? Is that like ‘just’ having bamboo stuck under my fingernails?” She gave him a glare that could freeze water. “This is all your fault and I’m not speaking to you anymore.”

  I pictured Mitzi and Arch cooing over each other the last time I’d seen them together. How quickly they forget.

  “Now, honey…”

  The nurse moved to Mitzi’s wheelchair and started toward a birthing room.

  “Whitney, you come with me,” Mitzi ordered.

  “Me? You’ve got Arch and your doula….”

  She turned to glower at her husband. “You did call her, didn’t you?”

  For the first time, Arch looked worried. “I…uh…forgot.”

  “How can she help me give birth if she doesn’t know I’m doing it? Go call her. Whitney, come with me.”

  I must have hesitated, because she added, “Now.” />
  We set off down the hall, with me swept helplessly along in Mitzi’s torrent.

  “How do I look? Is my makeup smudged? There’s a compact in my purse. Owww.”

  And so it went for the next hour. Mitzi alternated between vocalizations and worrying about her hair, her makeup and the ugly hospital gown the nurse and Arch had forced her to wear.

  Then Arch made another fatherly faux pas that almost got him kicked out of the room. He started to take pictures.

  At first, Mitzi, absorbed in a contraction and paying no attention to anyone in the outside world, didn’t realize what he was doing. By the time she saw him, he already had enough blackmail photos to last a lifetime—Mitzi with her eyes shut and her mouth wide open, Mitzi stuffing her arm into her mouth, Mitzi stuffing my arm into her mouth, Mitzi’s belly rising above the bed like Mt. Rainier over Seattle. Arch, of course, was blissfully unaware that he was committing marital suicide.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Put that thing down. I don’t want anyone seeing me like…Owww…”

  “It’s okay, honey. You’re doing great.” He took one hand off the camera and stroked her hair. “You are doing just fine. The nurse says you’re moving right along.”

  “Don’t touch my hair.” Mitzi’s tone was low and dangerous, like that of a suspicious Rottweiler.

  “Don’t be silly, honey. You love it when I stroke your hair.”

  “Don’t touch my hair.”

  I can’t believe how oblivious men can be. Arch still didn’t get it.

  Then Mitzi bared her fangs.

  “Don’t touch my hair!”

  Arch stepped back, puzzled.

  “Women get a little sensitive sometimes, Arch.” I said. “This is one of them. Apparently it bothers Mitzi when you pat her hair.”

  “At least you understand me, Whitney. Arch, you are no help at all,” Mitzi said through gritted teeth.

  He looked baffled. “But hair is a dead protein, Mitzi. It doesn’t have any feeling. I can’t see why…”

  Don’t go there, Arch. Quit being a doctor. Keep quiet. You’re in big enough trouble as it is.