Stretch Marks

by Kimberly Stuart

  Mia glanced at the couples and saw mostly shock registering on their faces. Canoodling and hushed reverence for the act of childbirth were not easily paired with the woman with wild blonde curls standing before them. The cross-legged pair huddled closer together and clasped hands in a united front.

  “My name is Tillie Lawrence and I’ve been teaching slacker childbirth education for twelve years here at St. Jude.” She looked around the room in mock embarrassment. “Did I just say slacker? I’m so sorry. I meant to say the abbreviated, efficient childbirth preparation class.” She winked. “I’m sure none of you are slackers.”

  The entwined couple next to Mia looked offended. The man patted his wife on the back and whispered into her ear. Flor, by comparison, leaned over to Mia and said, “I like this chick.”

  “Just a bit about me,” Tillie said while unloading a few items from a cart at the front of the room. “I’m a nurse by training and still moonlight in the ER when the need arises. Most of my time, however, is now dedicated to being a grandmother of an exceptionally beautiful two-year-old, Betsy, and performing in community theater productions in the area.” She swept the room with a glance. “Anyone see me in Sister Act last spring? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller?” A laugh tumbled out of her throat. “Better for you. It was not my best performance. Even so—” and she broke into a loud alto chorus of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.”

  Flor chuckled, shaking her head when Tillie did a jazz square. Mia didn’t know whether to stay where she was and hope Tillie’s twelve years of experience would kick in any minute, or if she should escape to the information desk and report the woman.

  “To begin, I like to show a video of the birth process, just so we’re all on the same page. You know,” Tillie said, tilting her head to the side in thought, “giving birth is a lot like doing a belly flop off the high dive. It’s intimidating, certainly not something you’d want to do every day, and it will very likely leave some physical and emotional scarring. But”—she held up one finger in dramatic pause—“you will never, ever regret it, if only to be able to say you’ve done it and done it with panache.”

  Tillie busied herself with the DVD player, not bothering to lower her voice when she cursed at its unwillingness to cooperate. Mia looked to her side and saw what appeared to be trouble brewing in Pretzel Couple’s paradise. The woman relinquished her grip on her husband’s hand and nodded toward the door. Her husband seemed to be placating her long enough for the video to start.

  “Is this going to be like those creepy videos we had to watch in biology class?” Flor asked quietly. “There was one that showed a bloody, gooped-up baby with the umbilical cord hanging from its stomach.” Flor shuddered. “They should have at least washed him off first.”

  The creepy health-class videos turned out to pale in comparison with Tillie’s introduction to childbirth. Mia watched, transfixed, as woman after woman in labor flashed onto the screen, many emitting sounds more commonly heard in the animal kingdom. The narrator of the video, in an inexplicably calm British accent, assured his audience that childbirth was a natural and beautiful part of the human experience and nothing to be feared. Mia felt strong opposition to this advice, particularly during a portion of the video that focused, literally, on the exit of a child from the birth canal.

  “Oh, dear God,” Flor said. Mia saw the blood had drained from the girl’s face.

  All cultures had birthing rituals, the narrator droned on, and we Westerners would do well to pay attention to women like those in the Amazon, who merely dropped into a squatting position on the rainforest floor and unceremoniously pushed out their babies with nature’s help of gravitational pull.

  “I am not having a baby in the same position I use to poop,” Flor said, her voice getting louder with each comment. Mia thought to ask her to keep it down, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the television screen.

  By the end of the film, Mia swore she’d heard some pockets of sniffling within the room. Pretzel Couple was newly entwined, both faces exhibiting a fresh wave of horror.

  “Well,” Tillie sang out, punching several buttons on the remote before the screen went fuzzy first and then black. “Any questions?”

  Someone snickered at the back of the room.

  “Great,” Tillie said and clapped her hands once. “Let’s talk about what we can do to make it through the whole ordeal. We’ll start with breathing techniques.”

  Flor and Mia obeyed each of Tillie’s instructions, working their way through overviews of Lamaze, the Bradley Method, home, and water births. At one point, when the couples paired off to practice the method of their choice, Tillie floated over to them, humming “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  “I see you two are flying solo?” she said, crouching down to be eye level. Her eyes sparked with warmth.

  Mia nodded. “We came together but we’re—”

  “Single unwed mothers,” Flor finished. She smiled at Tillie. “You’re making this class way more interesting than I thought it would be.”

  Tillie patted Flor on the knee. “That’s very kind of you to say. There are always two camps in my classes: those who are happy to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth, like yourself, and those who would rather think childbirth is like it is on TV, where the woman is barely breaking a sweat and still has lipstick on when the baby is placed on her chest.” She nodded quickly toward the Pretzels. “Better to know the full story, I say.” She stood and sang quietly, “Dun. Dun. Dun. Another one bites the dust.” She’d walked two steps before saying over her shoulder, “I was a single mom too. You’ll do just fine.”

  Two hours later, after a deluge of information dumped on them in the form of Xeroxed handouts, some of them the light purple color of a mimeograph machine, Flor and Mia left the classroom, shuffling slowly behind the other couples.

  “Have a wonderful birth experience,” Tillie called after them. “Remember to breathe deeply, to ask for drugs unless you’re hell-bent on not doing so, and to think of your birth plan as a suggestion, not the Ten Commandments.” Mia looked back at Tillie, who smiled knowingly. “Things don’t always go as planned.”

  Tell me about it, Mia thought to herself as Tillie serenaded them one last time, her voice rising and falling in wild vibrato to the strains “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”

  Mia said good-bye to Flor at the bus stop near the hospital. “Thanks for doing this with me. I don’t think I would have come on my own.”

  Flor put her hands on Mia’s shoulders and took on a serious face. “We social outcasts have to stick together.” She raised both hands for Mia to slap ten. The bus groaned to a slow stop in front of them.

  “I’ll see you,” Mia said as Flor climbed up the steps to the bus driver. Mia waved as they drove off, but Flor sat on the opposite side and didn’t see her friend through the dust-caked window.

  23

  Modern Convenience

  It was one in the morning and Mia should have been dreaming, but sleep was winning at the game of hide-and-seek they’d been playing all night. Her belly was big enough to prevent most reclined positions from being comfortable. She needed a pillow stuck between her knees at all times, lest her lower back ache and hips stiffen to an octogenarian’s pace the following day. She’d done a prenatal version of tossing and turning for two full hours, twisting her torso around to one side, grabbing the sheets with both hands to help flip herself over to the other. After multiple rounds of this charade, Mia wriggled to an upright position against her headboard and sighed into the silence.

  “This is ridiculous.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the darkened room. She sat for a moment, watching the street lights outside her window cast an eerie orange on the pavement below. The air conditioner grunted its cyclical roar to life. Her bedroom’s chill belied the oppressive heat outside. Summer held on with a tenacious grip, thou
gh the end of August would arrive the following day. Mia dangled her swollen feet over the side of the bed. The wood floor complained under her tread as she moved to the living room to retrieve her laptop.

  Tucking a blanket under her belly and draping the rest over her legs and feet, Mia booted up the computer and waited as the screen welcomed her back. She logged onto her e-mail account and held her breath as it retrieved new mail.

  “Two new messages,” she said, triumphant. She clicked on the icon that led her to the messages and felt her heart pick up speed when she saw one was from Lars.

  Phone conversations since he’d visited had become more wearying than communicative. They’d tried, really they had. She’d call him, he’d call her, and sometimes they’d even reach each other in person instead of colliding with voice mail. Perhaps Mia was reading too much into their calls, but she’d become frustrated with the lack of real connection. While on the phone, they spent an imbalanced amount of time on Lars’s work issues, her weekend plans, and other such fluff before one of them would need to cut the conversation short and return to his or her life and obligations. One evening, when Mia had tried without success to get Lars on the phone for two hours, she’d thrown her cell on the couch and resorted to writing an e-mail instead. She’d been surprised to find the words had come easily, unfettered by the fear of saying the wrong thing, unhurried to get to what she needed to say before the conversation ended. To her delight, Lars had written a lengthy and thoughtful reply, weighing in on her concerns and sharing some questions he had about her pregnancy and the baby, none of which he’d ever uttered in person.

  Mia opened the new mail and found Lars had sent the message only a half hour before. She forced herself to open the other message first. It was from her brother and the subject heading read “Extreme Times.”

  Mimi,

  I can’t believe she is still there. Are you okay? Have you resorted to cutting yourself? Wearing ashes as a subtle hint? Singing dirges as friendly greetings?

  I have to tell you, I didn’t know you had this in you, this patience of Job. Certainly the whole ordeal is wearing on you: It can’t be good for a pregnancy to have such elevated stress levels, even if she is renting the apartment downstairs.

  Should I be doing something? Rescuing you in some way? I’d offer to have her come stay with me, but, well, I don’t think I’ve reached your level of nirvana yet.

  Is this a by-product of yoga? If so, I need to sign up for down dog ASAP.

  Love you,

  John

  Mia laughed as she wrote a quick reply, assuring her brother that she had not yet felt the need for bodily harm and that Babs was so busy with the Ladies’ Auxiliary from Ebenezer, she’d had less and less time to plague Mia. In fact, she dared to write, the visit from her mother had been a positive one. Dr. Finkelstein had even left a voice mail from the South Florida Terrier Invitational that she was proud of Mia’s conscientious inner work and that she’d love to hear a victory report when she returned.

  She clicked to send John’s message and opened the one from Lars.

  M—

  Thanks for writing this morning. You’re always so encouraging to me, and this was a day I was in dire need of a verbal pat on the back. The poor saps with whom I work on a daily basis have great passion for what they do and believe, but they do not know good writing from a hole in the ground. This had to and did come to a head this morning when my editor asked me to rewrite a piece due this afternoon, griping, in effect, over my usage of polysyllabic words and “highfalutin social theory” (his phrase) the average reader would neither appreciate nor understand. After a prolonged discourse during which I stated my position with brilliance and unparalleled patience while he played with the bobblehead of Napoleon Dynamite he keeps on his desk, we decided to agree to disagree, which meant I had to start over and dumb the blasted thing down to a third-grade reading level.

  So thanks for your e-mail. You were the only decent human being in my life today.

  Decent may not have been first on the list of adjectives Mia wanted to hear from Lars, but it was late, she was sleep-deprived, and she took it as a compliment.

  The story about your mother being the only white woman getting her nails filled at Leila’s was priceless. Do you think she’d mind if I wrote it up as a comedic piece for the paper? I’d change the names if she wanted. It would be such a fantastic glimpse into twenty-first–century race relations in Middle America.

  Yes, I definitely want to see the ultrasound video. I’m thinking of coming out to see you again, maybe sometime in September? When is your due date again? I’m thinking you said October, so I could always wait until then, but maybe it would be good to have another visit before the pressure of the Big Day, particularly since needles make me pass out. I’m sure you’re planning on a drug-free birth, but just in case …

  It was true. Lars had some bizarre condition that caused him to pass out cold at the sight of needles. Mia had seen it in action during a blood drive their senior year. She’d stopped to talk with a friend on the periphery of the room where students were donating pints for the local blood bank, and when she turned to Lars, he’d dropped to the floor. Her friend had summoned medical help and after a generous supply of juice and cookies on hand for the real donors, he’d been able to lean on Mia and walk back to his apartment off campus. Mia had once tried to rib him about the incident, but he’d become very defensive and had thrown out lots of eager explanations of “vasovagal syncope” and his “involuntary response syndrome.” Thinking of Lars on the floor of the delivery room made her roll her eyes, another reason e-mail was an appropriate medium for the two of them at that point.

  I’ll call you soon. Not tomorrow because my friend Kate (remember I told you about her? The environmental lawyer who lives in my building?) is making me go on a hike that sounds like it may kill me. She’s super intense, very athletic. Apparently she’s climbed a few fourteeners, though tomorrow’s hike, she’s assured me, isn’t supposed to be as arduous. Still, I’m packing extra energy bars and Gatorade. I think that when faced with heat exhaustion or consuming glucose-fructose syrup, I’m within good sense to choose the latter.

  Off to bed now, where you are already sleeping peacefully. Give the belly a rub for me.

  Lars

  Mia shut down her computer slowly, staring at the blinking mouse arrow until it faded. The room went black in the absence of the glow from the screen.

  Athletic? Super intense? Mia turned his words about Kate over in her head as she waddled back to her bedroom. For the life of her, she could not imagine Lars strapping on his hiking boots and heading up a mountain. God had blessed him with a wiry frame that remained unchanged regardless of activity level or calories consumed. His interests, however, had never ventured into the athletic realm. When living in Chicago, Lars’s idea of a good workout had been walking to a restaurant instead of taking a cab.

  Climbing a mountain? By choice? Mia lowered her body onto the sheets once more, turning onto her side and tucking a pillow between her knees. She closed her eyes and tried not to imagine what Kate the Super Intense looked like in hiking shorts. Images of perfectly toned abs and arms floated in and out of her mind’s eye before she’d push them out with deliberate speed. She fell asleep, pursued all night by dreams of mountains, breathless steps, and elusive summits.

  24

  Labor Pains

  “I completely agree, Tom. But try telling that to Madge and Bill from Poughkeepsie.” Babs took a dainty bite of her hot fudge sundae. “They’ve been waiting for their Caribbean cruise for months and they’re not going to skip the day excursion into Nassau just because I think it’s overrated.”

  The man behind the ice-cream counter shook his head at the tragedy. “Well, we can do so much, right, Ms. Rathbun?” He shrugged and handed her change from a five. “You enjoy your ice cream now and don’t
worry that beautiful head of yours over what we cannot control.”

  Mia had to giggle when Babs winked at Tom and patted his hand affectionately. The woman was shameless, but for the first time in her life, Mia was feeling more amused by her mother’s antics than irritated. Perhaps it was the inescapable presence of the child within her that was nudging Mia to cut her mother some slack, to look at her as she was wired instead of how Mia wished she would behave. If the old adage was true—that a daughter received a kind of circular justice in the way her own child treated her—then she’d need to start climbing out of the naughty hole in quick order. She pushed out the chair opposite hers when Babs approached.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Babs said, sitting carefully on the black wrought iron. “Tom and I were just discussing the perils of tourist traps. Did you know that he and his wife have been on thirty-two cruises? Thirty-two! I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before.” She shook her head and dipped into a bite of fudge muddied with whipped cream.

  Mia took a lick of double-dip rainbow sherbet. “Do you miss being on the ship?”

  “Oh, sure, I do,” Babs said. Huge gold hoops swung in her earlobes as she nodded. “I miss the water, the people, the food.” She shrugged. “But it’s nice to be on land again for a longer period of time. If I were on the ship, I wouldn’t be able to see you and see my grandbaby growing.” She reached out and patted Mia’s belly. “This is time I won’t be able to get back. My job can wait.”

  “They’ve been very understanding.” Mia had been surprised and impressed with how much latitude Crown Caribe Cruises had given her mother. Apparently the cruise business was more liberal than the rest of the working world in terms of grandparent maternity leave.