The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  But Sylvia frowned, and her gaze over the rims of her bifocals was steely, as if she were already composing the lecture she would deliver to both men if they failed to follow the obviously correct and proper course.

  February arrived, cold and silver gray. As her due date approached, Sarah found herself ending every phone conversation with Matt with a pleading reminder that he needed to tie up any loose ends and prepare to return honor, the nursery was snug and cozy, and Sarah’s overnight bag was packed and waiting in the closet by the back door. All she needed was her husband.

  Her due date, February 3, came on a Monday. Early that morning she followed Matt out the back door of the manor, the brisk wind chilling her to the bone since she could no longer close her winter coat around herself. “Please don’t go,” she asked him, shivering and tucking her hands under her arms for warmth.

  Matt tossed his duffel bag onto the front passenger seat, hesitated, and studied her. “Are you feeling any contractions?”

  She was tempted to lie, but she couldn’t do it. “Not yet.”

  “Then you know I can’t stay, not when my dad’s expecting me.” He took her in his arms and kissed her on the cheek. “I promise, when the babies are really on the way, I’ll be here.”

  She couldn’t speak. Pressing her lips together, she waddled back to the manor without so much as a wave in farewell. The day passed with miserable slowness, although Gretchen, Sylvia, and Anna tried to distract her with books and quilting. That evening, Matt called to see if she had gone into labor yet, and in a surge of hormone-fueled distress, she burst into tears and yelled at him when he remarked that his father had been right after all; due dates were apparently mere estimates and it hadn’t been necessary for Matt to stay home as Sarah had insisted. “If you’re planning to wait until my water breaks and I’m eight centimeters dilated before you get in the truck, don’t bother coming at all,” she cried before slamming down the phone. She sobbed on Sylvia’s shoulder for nearly an hour afterward, while her friends patted her back and alternately soothed her and reproved Matt in absentia. Their words were little consolation. Why wouldn’t her husband come home when she wanted him so desperately?

  “He wants to get as much work done there as possible before the babies arrive, because he isn’t planning to go back,” Anna surmised. “You should take that as a good sign. I’d be more concerned if he left unfinished business behind.”

  Sarah thought Anna made good sense, so she dried her eyes and accepted the cup of herbal decaf organic tea her friend had brewed for her. She knew she ought to try harder to see the situation from Matt’s perspective. He didn’t want to let his father down, and he knew Sarah was surrounded by devoted, caring friends. Maybe he didn’t realize how much she needed him. Maybe he didn’t understand that she was worried and anxious, and that the distance between them left her feeling bereft and alone even among her dearest friends.

  Two nights later Sarah felt her first real contractions, and the long months of anticipation and excitement seemed suddenly to have flown by. She felt hopelessly ill prepared, despite the volumes of books she had studied, the classes she had taken, and the long conversations with Gretchen, who had proven to be an inexhaustible source of reassurance, patience, and wisdom. There was no turning back now. Ready or not, she was going to become a mother.

  But she knew it could be hours or even days yet. Knowing Matt would already be asleep, she texted him with the news and asked him to set out for home as soon as he woke up. She would try to sleep, and she’d update him on the progress of her contractions in the morning.

  After a restless night, she woke before dawn to strong contractions and the sensation that her bladder was about to burst. Huffing and puffing, she carefully climbed out of bed and tried to soothe away her worries with the thought that soon she wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. She certainly wouldn’t miss the waddle she had acquired or the frequent trips to the bathroom. She longed for a cup of real coffee, and she intended to celebrate her first day of motherhood with a piece of decadent dark chocolate and a glass of red wine.

  Making her way back to bed, she groped on the nightstand for her cell phone. It was only five o’clock, and Matt had not returned her text. Sighing, she climbed back under the covers and tried to drift off to sleep, but found herself blinking up at the ceiling, watching the pattern of shadows shift with the approach of dawn and mentally rehearsing the ordeal to come. At six o’clock, she decided to time her contractions. First they were ten minutes apart, then nine, then—eleven? She must have counted wrong. She tried again, using the stopwatch feature on her phone. Eleven minutes. She set down the phone and flung an arm over her eyes, frustrated. Her contractions were slowing down? Her due date had come and gone, and now her labor was going in reverse? Well, she wouldn’t tell Matt, whenever he finally got around to answering her text. He’d use that as an excuse to tile one more floor or install one more light fixture instead of coming home where he belonged.

  Her cell phone buzzed. She snatched it up and read Matt’s text: “Hope it doesn’t hurt too much. How far apart now? Thought I’d leave after lunch if ok.”

  “Not ok,” she immediately texted back. “Come home now.”

  She waited, but he didn’t respond.

  If Matt were awake to text her, he was awake enough to talk, so she called him. The phone rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. He was probably already in the truck driving, with his phone inaccessible in the back pocket of his jeans. “Hi, it’s me,” she said after the voice mail tone. “I hope you’re on your way home. Please call me as soon as you get this. I love you.”

  Fuming and worried, she lay down again and timed a few more contractions. Eleven minutes. Dr. Jamison had advised her not to go to the hospital until they were seven minutes apart, unless her water broke. She didn’t want to report to the hospital only to be sent home again. She could imagine Hank’s reaction if he thought Sarah had panicked and summoned Matt home for a false alarm.

  Carefully, gritting her teeth whenever a contraction seized her, she showered and dressed, then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Sylvia and Andrew were seated at one of the cozy booths sipping coffee and sharing a plate of buttered toast, while Joe sat at the old wooden table with the newspaper spread out before him, an empty bowl and spoon at his elbow, his weathered, calloused hands cupped around a steaming mug. Although she didn’t see any bacon, she caught a faint whiff of it in the air, and the odor nauseated her as it hadn’t since her first trimester. Holding her breath, she paused in the doorway and clung to the frame as she waited out a contraction.

  Gretchen glanced up from the eight-burner gas stove and smiled just as Sarah’s discomfort passed. “Good morning, sunshine. Are you hungry? I could make more oatmeal.”

  “That sounds wonderful, thanks.” She ought to eat something, since she wouldn’t be permitted anything but ice chips once labor really set in. She returned Sylvia and Andrew’s greetings with a pained smile and eased herself into the adjacent booth.

  “Whatever you do, don’t go into labor today,” Joe remarked cheerfully, turning the page and folding the local news section. “According to the paper, we’re supposed to get ten inches of snow by evening.”

  “Oh, yes, I saw the weather radar online.” Gretchen shook her head as she filled a measuring cup with oats and stirred them into a saucepan of boiling water. “A huge mass of white and blue is covering eastern Ohio and the entire western part of Pennsylvania, and it’s heading our way.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Sarah exclaimed. They had to be. She had not hidden her contraction in the doorway as well as she had thought, and they were teasing her. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  All eyes went to her face. “Oh, dear,” said Sylvia. “Are you having contractions?”

  “A few,” said Sarah weakly. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe they’ll go away.”

  “You should call Matt,” said Andrew.

  “You should call your mother,” said Sylvia
, at almost the same time.

  “I called Matt already, but I just got his voice mail.” Sarah shifted in her seat to retrieve her phone from the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. “It’s only seven. Maybe I should wait to call my mom. I wouldn’t want to wake her.”

  “Call her,” Sylvia and Gretchen said in unison. Gretchen added, “She’s probably awake already, and she’ll want to set out right away to beat the storm.”

  “As Matt should,” said Andrew, frowning. Though he usually kept his opinions to himself, especially when they were unfavorable, he hadn’t been very successful at concealing his disapproval of Matt’s recent choices. He appreciated filial loyalty as much as the next man, but he thought it irresponsible of Matt to leave Sarah during her pregnancy, since it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “It’s not like he’s in the service or something,” Sarah had overhead him tell Sylvia. He thought even less of Hank.

  Another contraction seized Sarah as she dialed her mother’s number, and she saw Sylvia and Gretchen exchange a knowing look. Her mother answered on the second ring. At Sarah’s news, she let out a gasp of delight and assured Sarah she would be there in an hour. “Is it snowing there yet?” Sarah asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  “A few flurries for now, but I heard on the radio that a bad storm is on the way.” Carol sounded breathless, and Sarah imagined her pinning the handset to her ear with her shoulder as she pulled on her heavy winter boots. If only Matt felt the need for such haste. “It’ll be all right. The snow tires are on the car and I packed enough clothing for two weeks in case I get snowbound at the manor.”

  Despite her worries, Sarah felt somewhat relieved, and she told her mother she’d see her soon. While Matt was two hours farther west than her mother, the weather couldn’t be too bad in Uniontown yet if only a few flakes were falling at her mother’s house. If Matt left soon, he should arrive in plenty of time. All the books said first-time mothers had longer labors anyway. Everything would be fine. Everything would almost certainly be fine.

  She dialed Matt’s number, but again the call went to voice mail. Her annoyance rising, she left another, more urgent message warning him about the approaching storm and begging him to call her as soon as he could. “He’s probably on his way,” she told her friends as she hung up the phone, then she gasped as the strongest contraction yet seized her.

  “Nine minutes,” said Gretchen, setting a steaming bowl of oatmeal on the table before her.

  Sarah had not noticed that Gretchen was timing her contractions. “I think if I just sit here and have a little breakfast, they might slow down.”

  Andrew’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  Gretchen seated herself in the booth opposite Sarah and patted her hand. “Why don’t you eat since you’re hungry, and afterward we’ll see where we are?”

  Sarah nodded and picked up her spoon, but her mouth was dry. Matt was surely on his way, and that’s why he couldn’t answer the phone. All that really mattered was that he arrived before the twins did. That’s what she told herself, but she couldn’t help thinking that if he had come home on her due date as she had asked, he could have spared her this unnecessary worry.

  She managed to finish some of her breakfast, and afterward, she gathered her iPod, already loaded with her favorite relaxing music, a small bag of handwork in case she felt up to quilting, and a novel she had received for Christmas and had saved for the occasion. She packed everything into a tote bag and rejoined her friends, who had evidently been discussing her circumstances as they tidied the kitchen.

  Sylvia spoke first. “Gretchen thought that perhaps, since you’re carrying twins, the nurses might bend their rules and admit you early.”

  “Especially with the storm coming,” said Andrew. He glanced out the window, and Sarah instinctively looked too. Her heart sank when she spied a flurry of white flakes whirling in the wind. “It wouldn’t hurt to be prudent.”

  “By the time we get there, they might not need to bend the rules to admit me,” Sarah managed to say, dropping her tote bag on the old wooden table and holding on to the edge for support. This wasn’t how she had imagined this day. She had envisioned holding Matt’s hand as they drove to the hospital, resting on the sofa in the birthing suite as Matt unpacked their bags, lying in bed as he stroked her forehead and murmured loving words of encouragement. But she refused to spoil the most important day of her life with disappointment. “You’re right. We should go. The worst they can do is send me home.”

  There was a mad scramble as her friends gathered up her belongings, checked and double-checked to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, and helped her out to the Elm Creek Quilts minivan. Andrew loaded her suitcase in the back, where a matching pair of infant car seats waited, still swathed in plastic. Matt was supposed to have installed them already, but Sarah supposed it was just as well, since the infant seats would have left no room for the white-haired crowd piling into the minivan. “Everyone’s coming?” she asked as she buckled herself into the front passenger seat.

  “You’d ask us to stay home and miss all the excitement?” protested Andrew. Sarah must have looked alarmed, for he quickly added, “Don’t worry. We’ll stay in the waiting room unless you invite us in. We just don’t want to be snowed in here and unable to come if you need us.”

  Nodding, Sarah gritted her teeth through a contraction before she remembered to breathe. As Joe steered the minivan out of the parking lot and over the bridge, she involuntarily imagined Matt stuck in a snowdrift on the shoulder of the interstate, unable to reach her. She shook her head to clear it. No, no, he was an excellent driver and the heavy four-wheel-drive pickup handled slippery roads well. With any luck, he was already a quarter of the way to Waterford.

  At the hospital, the admissions nurse raised her eyebrows in mild surprise at Sarah’s elderly entourage, but briskly took her vital signs, asked her a few questions, and agreed she should be admitted. Her contractions were becoming more painful by the moment, and although Sarah had been toying with the idea of attempting natural childbirth, on the teeth-rattling drive through the woods surrounding the Bergstrom estate, she had come down firmly on the side of narcotics. Sitting in the waiting room while the orderlies prepared an available suite, with Gretchen on one side rubbing her back and Sylvia on the other holding her hand, she waited in vain for her cell phone to ring and Matt’s welcome and reassuring voice on the other end of the line.

  At last they were shown upstairs, Sarah traveling via wheelchair, her friends trailing along carrying her bags and coat. “Grandparents?” the young orderly pushing her along guessed as they waited for the elevator. “Great-grandparents?”

  Breathing through a contraction, Sarah managed something halfway between a shrug and a nod, glad that she wasn’t obliged to speak. At the moment she couldn’t remember the hospital’s policies, and she was afraid that if she explained they weren’t related, they wouldn’t be allowed to stay.

  The birthing suite was spacious for a hospital room, with a bed for her, a futon sofa for visitors that Matt could sleep on at night, a couple of armchairs, a bathroom, and a small closet into which Sylvia and Andrew promptly stowed her things. The orderly helped Sarah from the wheelchair onto the sofa as two nurses bustled about checking instruments. After wishing her good luck, Andrew and Joe escaped for the waiting room. On their way out, they passed a tall, attractive woman who couldn’t have been much more than thirty. She wore a long white coat over her tweed skirt and blouse, and her raven hair was pulled back into a smooth chignon. “The doctor will want to check how you’re progressing,” explained one of the nurses, plump and matronly. “Let’s get you up into bed, dear.”

  “Wait,” said Sarah as the nurses helped her into the high hospital bed. “Where’s Dr. Jamison?”

  The doctor, for that was who she must have been, pulled a rueful face. “She was on her way back from vacation, but her flight was grounded at O’Hare this morning thanks to the storm. I’m the ob-gyn on c
all, Dr. Susan Granger.”

  Sarah heard Sylvia gasp in recognition as she numbly shook the doctor’s hand, her dismay at her usual doctor’s sudden absence warring with astonishment at hearing the familiar name completely out of its expected context. “You’re Dr. Granger?” she echoed. “Are you related to Jonathan Granger?”

  “If you mean the ophthalmologist at Hershey Medical Center,” the doctor replied as she turned to the sink to wash her hands, “then the answer is yes. He’s my brother.”

  “No, I mean the Jonathan Granger who was a doctor in the Elm Creek Valley back in the Civil War era.”

  Dr. Granger shot her a look of surprise as she dried her hands. “That Jonathan Granger was my great-grandfather. How in the world do you know about him?”

  “Oh, my goodness, do we have some stories to share with you,” exclaimed Sylvia, just as Sarah cried out in pain from the worst contraction yet. “But I suppose they’ll have to wait for another occasion.”

  Before she knew it, Sarah was on her back with her feet in stirrups. Her momentary delight at the novelty of being treated by a descendant of the physician who had tended and befriended Sylvia’s Bergstrom ancestors vanished with the crushing squeeze of another contraction. She mourned the absence of Dr. Jamison, whose brisk efficiency had earned Sarah’s respect and confidence throughout her pregnancy. While she was not particularly warm or maternal, she possessed an aura of reassuring competency that only years of experience could give. This young doctor did not.

  “Dr. Granger,” she gasped, her uncertainty augmented by the strangeness of addressing a young woman by that name, “forgive me for asking, but have you ever delivered a baby before? No offense, but you look—” The rest of her words were swallowed up in a wave of pain.

  “No offense taken. I’ve delivered hundreds of healthy babies both as an attendee and a resident. Well, Sarah—may I call you Sarah?” Sarah quickly nodded, breathing in rhythm. “You’re dilated to six centimeters, and the babies’ heartbeats are strong and steady. Sometime today, you’re going to become a mother.”