by Ros Baxter
Every time he patted my hand awkwardly and told me I was going great, I would spit things at him like ‘I have half a baby sticking out of me. Don’t humor me.’
But he remained good-natured because he was very excited about the baby, despite the facts that: one, we were broken up; two, it wouldn’t be great for his blooming political career; and three, his parents had offered him all kinds of inducements to deny paternity.
He’d made a valiant effort to get me to reconsider breaking up once he found out about the baby, but he’s also a surprisingly practical person. He could see my mind was made up. As far as I was concerned, a child on your own was bad enough. A child in a doomed relationship was just asking for trouble.
Anyway, so while I wanted Clark there, I wasn’t so thrilled about the hangers-on. My parents, for a start — seemed like a good idea when they had suggested being involved. My sister, of course, and her husband. Heidi and Steve. Luke. For some reason, he’d become all interested in babies and was keen to participate as well.
Given his propensity for turning up when the heat was on, I half expected to see Wayne sashaying through as my entire body tried to turn itself inside out to expel the invading organism. But he didn’t. Small mercies and all that.
It wasn’t just the numbers that were the problem either. It was that everyone was being so irritating. I love them all, but man, I have a self-absorbed family. Ever since I had Eve, every time I see a disaster movie, where the world’s ending and the people are all pulling together to sort stuff out, I was always think: My God, if that was my family, the world would be screwed. It’d be everyone for themselves, whingeing and bitching and moaning and wondering if everyone else was getting more of the action. How the hell they could ever collectively build an escape pod, or figure out how to stop zombies from killing everyone, I have no idea. ‘Cause they couldn’t even focus on me when I was the one giving birth in the middle of them.
Mom, in some weird kind of effort at empathy, was sitting beside me, and kept coming up with new analogies for how much it hurt. ‘Oh darling, I know, I know,’ she’d croon. ‘It feels like you’re shitting out a microwave oven.’ I was keening like a wounded animal at this point, unable to speak. ‘Not those new ones, either, all the smooth lines and touch-pads. No way. One of those old ones with the knobs and dial thingys.’ When Dad would try to intervene, sensing this may not be helping so much, she would bark, ‘What would you know, Peter? She feels alone. She needs to know I know how it feels.’
I, of course, couldn’t care less about what she knew or felt.
Emmy was a disaster too, completely grossed out.
I would never have expected my sister-of-steel would be so squeamish. I couldn’t work out why she didn’t just leave the room, and I was too tired to ask. But she looked determined to stay through every harrowing scream. Her panic wasn’t helping. She was grasping a paper bag because she was hyperventilating, and asking anyone who would listen, in this stage whisper that she thought I couldn’t hear, ‘Why aren’t they doing something? Fucking HMOs. I’m gonna go kick someone’s ass. I’m sure something’s wrong. Can’t they just pull it out? I think she’s dying, for God’s sake.’
Luke, on the other hand, had come over all hippy. He’d brought candles and rainforest music and kept singing songs and rubbing my back. I kicked his CD player off its precarious perch on a shelf during one awful contraction. It hadn’t been intentional but I was really glad I did it when the unbearable chirruping of crickets finally stopped. And as for massage, the mere thought of anyone touching me made my skin crawl. Luke tried it once and, although I was too exhausted to speak, I made two very eloquent hand gestures through which I conveyed my meaning.
One: a kneading gesture simulating massage.
Two: the universally understood finger drawn across throat. He stopped after that.
As for Heidi and Steve, I don’t know what the hell they thought they were doing. Comic relief, I think. In between contractions, Heidi would lurch forward with a glass of water, and try to tell me funny stories. Heidi’s not the best storyteller at the best of times. In these circumstances, she was tragic. I just wanted her to be there, not be trying to amuse me. It was not physically possible for me to be amused in that situation.
Steve seemed utterly confused about his role and shifted between helping Emmy each time she swooned, and pressing the alarm button any time I cried out — which was like every two minutes. In the end, he broke it — the alarm — and the nurse yelled at him. This was when I grabbed Clark and demanded that he make them all disappear.
That’s the thing about Clark. He does a great line in rescue.
Anyway, I think Eve was just waiting for them all to leave, because moments later, she emerged into the world, wet and slippery and screaming her tiny lungs off.
I’ve never felt such a vast sense of relief. It was like my whole body shuddered and went thank you god thank you god thank you god. I was so utterly spent, and entirely focused on being allowed to crawl into a hole somewhere and sleep for a thousand years, that I didn’t even think to ask what we had. I was just glad it was out, whatever it was.
So, after a few minutes, when I tried to act interested enough to turn around and hold her, I was completely surprised to be hit over the head with a sledgehammer of immediate, scary love. She was beautiful, and she was all mine. I didn’t feel zen, and peaceful, and connected to the world. I felt possessive. I even wished for a tiny, ungrateful, small-minded second, that she didn’t have a father, that I’d gotten knocked up in some one-night stand, so I didn’t have to share her with him.
I wanted to stare at her forever and not have anyone else get in the way.
I didn’t know all the things that were to come, but I did know that she was here, finally, and that she was perfect, and I wanted the world to melt away and leave us to look at each other. Because she seemed pretty bewitched by me too.
Party girl — Back at Che’s
Eve made her way back to me, with chocolate froth on her top lip and a question written all over her face. ‘Mommy?’
‘Yes, sweetie?’ Oh no, most difficult questions begin that way.
‘Grandma said Aunty Emmy’s having a party for you tomorrow night.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I admitted, cagily. ‘Just a little dinner party.’
‘Is Heidi going?’
Heidi nodded.
‘Are Uncle Luke and The Dick going?’
I almost choked on my cupcake. ‘Eve,’ I corrected her. ‘Dick. Uncle Luke’s boyfriend is called Dick. Not The Dick.’
She pouted. ‘But you call him The Dick.’
‘No I don’t,’ I lied.
Man, where had she heard that? You had to be so careful. Ears like sonar.
‘Well, anyway. Can I come?’
‘Oh, sweetie,’ I feigned disappointment. This one was going to be reasonably easy. ‘I wish you could, but remember, you promised Grandpa you’d watch the Chess Championships with him. He’s even bought the Oreos already.’
‘Oh,’ Eve slapped her forehead fetchingly. ‘God. I forgot.’
‘Don’t say God, Evie, it doesn’t sound nice.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she agreed. ‘Mommy, will you save me some cake?’
‘Cake?’ I was confused.
‘There’s always cake at parties,’ she reminded me.
‘Oh, you’re right. Of course I will.’ And then the cold fear grabbed me again.
Because between now and then I had to go to court.
***
Talking to the Dead — Woodside, Queens; October, 2006
Eve’s idea of a great time wasn’t eating mountains of sweets and going to one of those dreadful indoor play centers. Oh, no. Her tastes are a little more eccentric. I know it sounds kind of weird, but she’s really into cemeteries. It’s a little known fact, but there are some great cemeteries on the island. She likes taking a picnic lunch and going and looking at all the inscriptions. It used to horrify me, especially during the really d
ark time. The last place I wanted to be was a cemetery. But they made her so happy. Who was I to resist? She was an unstoppable force.
So after leaving Che’s, we headed off to take in a couple of her favorites. We started with the smallest cemetery in Brooklyn, the Revolutionary Cemetery in Bay Ridge, then moved onto her absolute favorite, Moore-Jackson Cemetery, on 54th Street near 31st Avenue in Woodside, Queens. We’d just laid out the blanket when Eve began her ritual.
‘Mommy,’ she began. ‘Did you know who’s buried at the Revolutionary Cemetery? The Barkaloo family. And this one used to be next to the farmhouse of the Moore family on Bowery Bay Road.’ She said the name of the road very carefully, making sure she got each syllable right. ‘That’s what 51st Street used to be called. That farmhouse was built over 300 years ago. Isn’t that amazing? And see that gravestone over there…’ She pointed airily with one jelly doughnut covered hand. ‘…Well, it is from 1769. It’s the oldest one you can actually read. But they think some of the others are older. It’s for a girl named Augustine. Apparently, Augustine was only 17 when she died. Isn’t that sad?’
I clucked in agreement.
She went on. ‘You know, if I ever have a baby, I think I’ll called her Augustine.’
‘Huh, nice,’ I confirmed. ‘But what if you have a boy?’
‘Oh no,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t think so. Boys smell.’
‘No, they don’t, darling,’ I disagreed. But then I started thinking about poor old Brent Smith, the guy whose shoes I vomited on. ‘Not all of them.’
‘Anyway, Mommy, there’s more. Did you know this beautiful cemetery actually got forgotten, and it was all covered with garbage? People used to use it as a tip. I think that was before dumpsters. Anyway, some workers from a local factory cleaned it up.’
‘Hooray for the workers,’ I cheered, thinking about those people in the factory.
‘Yes,’ she sniffed sadly. ‘But then it got all yucky again. It only got totally fixed up a few years ago. But I’m so glad.’
She paused for a moment. ‘Do you think there’s time to go visit Preserved Fish?’
There are two Marble Cemeteries on the Lower East Side. The one on 2nd St is the one Eve liked the best. She’s a little bit impressed that President James Monroe was briefly interred there. But the bit that really impresses her is that there is a vault owned by one Preserved Fish. ‘Preserved’ is a venerable Quaker name, and apparently — now I sound like Eve again — there are a lot of Fishes in New York State. The whole idea sent Eve into spasms of mirth every time we went there. And she never tired of the joke.
Hey, other kids get cracked up by knock-knocks. Mine likes tombstones.
No big deal.
‘Hmm…’ I looked at my watch. ‘I’m not sure, honey. I have to get you to Grandma and Grandpa’s soon.’
‘Oh.’ Her little face fell, and I caved.
‘Okay, then,’ I conceded. ‘Let’s go see Mr Fish. But we might have to move fast. We’re due at Grandma and Grandpa’s for dinner. And you know what Grandpa’s like if his supper’s late…’
‘Yessiree,’ she agreed. ‘Like a bear with a sore head.’
I laughed. She can be so grown up it terrifies me. Eve started to pack up the food, then she went around and did one final circuit, patting all the headstones and reassuring the long-dead that she would be back to visit them some time soon. She was so tender with them that I had to look away. I felt like I was encroaching on an intimate moment.
This whole bizarre cemetery thing started when Luke took her to a military cemetery one day when she was two and a half years old. Even though she came back flushed with excitement and stories, I wanted to scream his head off. No one wants their tiny little daughter glorifying death. Even worse, death in war. I knew I should never have let a marine take my daughter on an outing. Anyway, I didn’t need to do the screaming in the end because Emmy had been visiting and she did a neat job for me.
‘Luke, you macabre idiot,’ she screeched at him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Thank God you’re gay and will probably never have children of your own —’ she ploughed on, oblivious to the distress in her brother’s eyes, ‘— because God knows where you’d take them. Little light entertainment at the emergency room? Go watch some gunshot victims get stitched up? Jesus. And you know this is even worse. You’ve probably cursed her. I’ve always worried death is kind of catching.’
Luke looked horrified, like he hadn’t thought of that. ‘I — I didn’t think. She just seemed really interested and I find it hard to say no to her.’
‘Yeah, well, nice one, GI Brainless.’
Luke turned to me. ‘Lolly, I’m sorry.’ And, unspoken in the rabbit-in-the-headlights look on his face, were all of our worst fears.
You see, Eve was sick.
How it happened — The hospital; August, 2002
We were still at the hospital after the delivery. Eve was okay at first, but within hours she’d totally crashed, had trouble breathing and started to look really blue and wrong. They whisked her away to the special care units, and the next time I saw her, she was all wired up inside this horrible glass fish-tanky looking thing. It was the worst moment of my life. I was so afraid she was going to die, and I’d only just discovered her.
I couldn’t believe the world could be so cruel.
Except that I knew about a lot of bad things and so I knew it could be.
I spent hours, days, at her bedside, expressing milk that they fed to her through horrible tubes. I stroked her tiny little body with one finger at first, then as she got stronger, I was allowed to hold her, and I told her endless stories about me and about all the people who already loved her, and just wanted her to get strong and grow up and see the world they wanted to show her. I made everyone sound much nicer than they really were, hoping it might encourage her to hang on, and get well, and just be with me. When I felt really scared I’d hold her and whisper ‘don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me’.
When she got better, I thought it was all over. Relief coursed through me with a high like how I imagine it feels to be on heroin. I wanted to kiss every single staff member in the hospital, even the freaky little orderly who hung around way too much and I suspected had stolen some of my underwear. I charged down the corridors with my baby in my arms ready to take her away somewhere where white sheets and disinfectant would never touch her again. But then they gave me the bad news: that this probably wasn’t an isolated episode; that she may experience recurring respiratory problems.
That she may never get better.
When they felt in the mood to share some hope, they told me that some kids grow out of these problems, with time and the help of good therapies. But for others, life becomes a constant merry-go-round of stints in the hospital and episodes of extreme sickness. They told me to prepare for the worst.
But I couldn’t. Even though I am the most pessimistic person on the planet, I simply could not allow myself to believe that she would always be sick. I had to believe that she would get better. And so, despite the frequent spates of illness, despite the long periods in the hospital, despite the fact that Eve and I knew every doctor, nurse and assorted hanger-on in that place by name, birthday and star sign, I kept thinking this will pass.
The thing is, I had never expected to love my child so much.
I think I’d worried, in some deep, secret place, that I’d be the only mother ever who was kind of not that impressed by their kid. I wasn’t one of those baby-mad women who go all soft focus at the mere sight of a tiny little pink booty. I’d always found babies kind of irritating, and self-centered. Like mini-versions of my family, come to think of it. And who needed more of that?
Anyway, it came as a total shock that not only did I like Eve, but I adored her.
I loved the tiny perfect ‘K’ shape her mouth made when she was suckling. And the whole, wonderful feeding concerto — little snuffling, grumpy hurry-up-milk noises that reminded me of a documentary I’d
seen of a pig hunting for truffles. And the little, sensual coo-ing noises of relief and worship when the milk came down. And then slow, sleepy sighs as she started to drop off at the breast. I loved how she’d be fast asleep, and I would start to move to transfer her, and automatically her clever little mouth would do some quick sucks to convince me she was still feeding and I shouldn’t put her down just yet. I bought it every time.
I kept sniffing her — putting my nose really close to her face and gulping in great big lungfuls of her baby-ness. My favorite bit was when she’d been feeding, and I could smell her milky breath. Sometimes I would shove my nose almost right inside her mouth. I just couldn’t get enough of that sweet, milky smell.
I’d run my nose across her downy hair over and over, smelling the sunshine in it and feeling its softness. Steve caught me once and said he wondered if snorting your baby was kosher. But I loved her so much, and I was so afraid. I just could not get enough of her.
There were some awful, awful moments; times the staff looked so bleak, and fretted about her little lungs, and her immune system, and her strength.
But ever so gradually, year by year, month by month, she went to the hospital less. They built her up with drugs and other treatments. And I did everything I could think of. Completely dismissing all the superior crap I’d ever said about the stuff being basically snake oil, I supplemented medical interventions with every reasonable-sounding naturopathic remedy I could find. In the trenches, everyone’s a true believer.
In between the hospital, and being sick, I tried to make life as normal as possible. There were a lot of things she couldn’t do, but we did the things she could. I didn’t let anyone talk to her about being sick, or let on even for a moment that there was anything less than completely normal about her life. I told her she was strong. I took her to class with me sometimes, and she loved to be amongst the action, and watch all the students. I told her someday she might go to NYU too. And I thought, someday you will be well.
