Heartbeat

by Sharon Creech

  pff, pff, pff

  you made it

  pff, pff, pff.

  Run check on Grandpa

  pff, pff, pff

  see if he’ll be okay with Mrs. Cobber

  pff, pff, pff.

  Grandpa is sitting in his blue chair

  eyeing Mrs. Cobber warily

  as she pulls up a chair across from him.

  Annie, who is this woman?

  he asks me.

  Grandpa, you know her—

  that’s Mrs. Cobber

  and she’s going to stay with you

  while I go with Mom—

  she’s having the baby!

  A hint of recognition in Grandpa’s eyes.

  Yes, he says to Mrs. Cobber

  we’re having a baby today!

  Mrs. Cobber pulls a deck of cards

  from her pocket.

  Do you like cards?

  she asks Grandpa.

  Yes, he says, I do

  and then he turns to me

  and says

  too loudly

  Tell her not to talk too much, okay?

  Mrs. Cobber smiles.

  Don’t you worry

  she says.

  I am a woman of few words.

  Okay, then

  Grandpa says

  and I leave them there

  and race downstairs

  and Mom is making her way

  to the front door

  pff, pff, pff.

  Dad and I help her down the steps

  and off we go

  and my eyes are glued to my mother

  whose eyes are closed

  and my dad is trying to drive

  while glancing from the road to my mother

  back and forth

  and it’s all happening too fast

  and I can’t think

  and I’m excited

  and I’m terrified.

  And what about Max?

  Is he in his black mood

  throwing his shoes in the river?

  LABOR

  The manuals have taught me

  that it can take a long, long time

  for a baby to be born

  and so we have brought

  books and magazines and playing cards

  and enough food for ten people

  but when the midwife examines my mother

  she says

  Hmm. You’re pretty far along already.

  My mom attempts a weak smile.

  The midwife ushers her straight to

  the whirlpool tub.

  I hear her get in and sigh heavily.

  Dad is with her.

  I look around the Colonial room:

  at the bed with its blue sheets

  the blue-curtained windows

  the soft lighting

  and I feel the quietness of the room

  the readiness for the baby.

  I hear Dad saying:

  Breathe in, breathe out

  relax your brow

  breathe in, breathe out.

  I sit on the blue bed

  surprised at how I feel

  as if I am immersed in the water, too

  and there is a rhythm to living and breathing

  and birthing a baby

  and one moment I feel alone

  and apart

  no longer my mother’s only child

  no longer a center of her world

  and the next moment I feel

  completely bound to my mother

  as if I am her

  or she is me

  and I feel as if I will bawl like a baby.

  Breathe in, breathe out

  relax your brow.

  I think of all the mothers

  all over the world

  and all the babies

  and I was one of those babies

  and this is my mother

  and maybe this will be me one day

  breathing in, breathing out.

  PUSHING

  Labor is the right word:

  it is work, hard work

  for the mother’s body

  but the whirlpool tub has helped

  and when Mom is resettled in the bed

  the midwife says

  Okay, now we push.

  My mother seems to be in a trance

  somewhere else

  and we have to call to her

  bring her back from far away

  so that she can push, pause, push.

  I am on one side of her

  Dad on the other.

  Mom is gripping our hands22

  but I am not really sure

  that she knows we are there

  so deep in her trance is she.

  When the midwife announces

  that she sees the baby’s head

  my father and I stare at each other

  The head! The head of the baby!

  This seems astounding

  even though it is what we all have been

  preparing for.

  An assistant enters and checks

  the baby’s heart rate

  whispers to the midwife

  and there is new urgency now

  as the midwife says

  I want you to push NOW

  I want you to push very strongly NOW

  We have to get this baby out NOW!

  And I feel everything crumbling

  so fragile and tentative and precarious

  but we must give calm to my mother

  and so we mop her brow

  and grip her hands and tell her

  she is doing great

  and the baby is coming

  and Push, push NOW!

  The midwife’s face is sober, serious

  her hands working rapidly

  her voice tight, saying

  something about the shoulder

  and something about pushing

  but my mother seems not to hear

  and we have to speak loudly to her

  Push, push NOW!

  The baby comes out

  just like that

  in a sudden rush

  into the midwife’s gloved hands

  and the next instant

  the baby is lying there

  on the blue sheet

  and the baby is not moving.

  ETERNITY

  My father and I stare at the baby

  grayish and motionless.

  We avert our eyes, turn to my mother

  whose face is full of expectancy.

  The baby’s out! I say

  trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.

  I feel as if I have to will the baby to live:

  live, live, live

  breathe, breathe, breathe.

  The midwife and the assistant

  work rapidly

  clearing the baby’s nose and mouth

  and I am thinking

  How can the baby not be alive

  when it was moving

  and its heart was beating

  just minutes ago?

  And how can all of this—

  all the morning sickness and the backaches

  and the growing belly

  and the dreaming

  and the labor

  and the pushing—

  how could it NOT all end with a

  living, breathing baby?

  How could we bear it?

  The midwife says

  Just a couple puffs of oxygen

  is all we need.

  Her voice sounds strained.

  I see the oxygen tube

  hear a soft noise

  a pfft, pfft

  as the air goes into the baby

  and maybe it has only been a minute

  since the baby came out

  but it seems as if it has been an eternity

  as if it has been hours and a lifetime.

  I turn to my mother

  not wanting to betray my fear

  but needing to see her face
<
br />   and as I do so

  we all hear

  Wahh, wahh

  and there is the baby

  squirming

  and crying

  and breathing

  and the relief rustles

  through the room—

  you can see it, feel it, hear it.

  Everyone bursts into tears

  mother, father, me, midwife

  and it is only then that my father and I

  look again at the baby

  to see whether it is a boy or a girl

  and my father proudly announces to my mother

  that they have a son

  and I have a brother.

  The midwife lifts the baby to my mother’s chest

  and my mother says

  Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

  and she is laughing and crying

  and I cannot take my eyes off the baby

  whose own eyes are open

  and who gazes directly into my mother’s eyes.

  The baby has perfect hands and feet and

  fingers and toes and ears

  and eyes and nose

  (and it is a human baby

  which is a great relief)

  and I know that everyone else says this

  but I don’t know how else to say it:

  it is a miracle—

  a marvel—

  an astonishing

  astounding

  fabulous

  incredible

  phenomenal

  prodigious

  stupendous

  wondrous

  miracle.

  WATCHING

  I phone Grandpa and tell him the news.

  He cries a little

  and then he says

  Everyone okay? Your mom? The baby?

  Your dad? You?

  Yes, yes, yes, we’re all okay.

  It is the middle of the dark night

  and Mom has nursed the baby

  and now she and my dad are asleep

  on the bed

  and I am sitting in the overstuffed chair

  in the calm blue room

  holding my new brother.

  All I can do is stare at him

  as he sleeps.

  I stare hard and listen

  to be sure he is breathing

  and I touch his small fingers

  so perfect and long

  and I touch his cheek so warm so soft

  and I whisper to him:

  I tell him he is a miracle

  and that he is perfect in every way

  and that we will love him and take care of him

  always.

  The midwife says that after my mom

  gets a good sleep

  and eats a good meal

  we can all go home.

  This is frightening

  because it seems too soon

  and the baby seems so fragile

  and what if we don’t know what to do

  and what if there is an emergency?

  What if he stops breathing

  and needs more puffs of air?

  INFINITELY JOEY

  I do not know how babies—

  so small, so fragile—

  ever grow up—

  how their hearts can beat strongly enough

  and how they continue to breathe

  and how they do not perish

  from the endless dangers

  all around:

  what if someone drops him?

  what if he doesn’t eat?

  what if he gets sick?

  Our baby relies on us for everything:

  warmth and food and clothing

  protection and safety

  and love.

  He needs us to love him

  and it makes me worry

  about all the babies in the world

  who might not be warm or fed

  or protected or loved.

  He seems infinitely delicate

  and yet infinitely whole

  already a person.

  I stare at him for hours

  wondering who he is

  and what he will look like

  as he grows

  and what he will think and do.

  The answers seem all bound up

  in the small bundle of this baby

  answers already there

  waiting to unfurl

  like a bud on a tree.

  I wish that every baby everywhere

  could land in a family

  that wanted that baby

  as much as we want ours.

  I do not know how I—

  once a baby this small—

  became me

  nor how my mother or father

  or grandfather or Max

  all once so small and fragile

  became who they are

  nor if—

  even when we were all alien babies—

  if we already were

  so much of who we are.

  The baby will not remember

  that we change his diapers

  a thousand, thousand times

  nor that we sing to him

  and hold him

  and bathe him

  and mop his blurps

  just as I do not remember

  my parents and my grandparents

  doing these many small things for me.

  This bundle is our baby

  my brother.

  This is Joey.

  SLEEPING

  Grandpa is lying on his bed

  with the baby asleep on his chest

  the two of them curled together

  peacefully.

  I lie beside them

  sneaking one arm over them

  making sure they are both breathing

  thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP

  and I feel infinitely happy

  that this miracle baby

  has come to us

  and infinitely

  infinitely

  infinitely

  sad

  that my grandpa

  does not have a whole

  long

  life

  ahead

  of

  him.

  A SECRET

  I am running

  down the path

  up the hill.

  Hey, Annie-banany! How’s that baby?

  Fine, Mrs. Cobber-obber! Perfect!

  It feels so good to run

  to fill up with air

  where everything looks green and lush

  everything in harmony.

  Hey, Annie—

  Max’s voice is sour

  not in harmony.

  Hey, Max—

  He runs with his head down

  not speaking

  sullen

  tense.

  I can’t help myself:

  We have a new baby!

  It’s a boy and his name is Joseph—Joey—

  after my grandpa—

  and he is beautiful and—

  That’s great, just great

  Max mutters

  interrupting me

  chopping off my words

  letting them fall onto the path

  like dead leaves.

  I take it you didn’t see the race?

  he asks.

  I try to tell him that I was there

  but was called away by Mrs. Cobber

  because the baby was coming,

  but he chops my words again:

  Well, I didn’t win.

  He says it roughly

  accusingly

  as if it was my fault.

  We run past the birches23

  l-e-a-p over the creek

  past the barn24

  round the pasture.

  We reach the bench

  and stretch and flop

  and I check the soles of my feet

  searching for words

  but there is still no help on my feet

  and finally I sayr />
  Did you feel bad?

  His answer is a hiss:

  Yessss!

  Was I supposed to feel good?

  It was only one race—

  I try, but he chop-chops my words.

  I had to win that race.

  I had to.

  I don’t ask why.

  We start back down the path

  retracing our steps

  black black black

  Max-mood all around us

  but when we reach the place

  where we normally part

  I grab his arm

  and ask him to come with me.

  He tries to pull away.

  You want me to see the baby,

  don’t you?

  I don’t want to see the—

  But I chop his words

  chop-chop:

  Max, you are coming with me.

  This will only take five minutes

  and you are not going to argue with me.

  I pull him along

  until I feel him give in

  and when we reach our house

  I tug him inside and upstairs

  where Mom is leaning in the doorway

  of Grandpa’s room

  smiling at Grandpa

  sitting in his chair

  with the baby curled against his chest.

  Grandpa is humming a little melody

  to the baby

  and when he sees us

  he pulls the baby a little closer

  to him.

  It’s okay, Grandpa, this is Max.