Weapons of Mass Seduction

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  “I’m sure that’s all it is, Pia. Now, what time are you and the car picking me up to go to the shower?” Maizelle asked, changing the subject and hoping she hadn’t needlessly alarmed her daughter.

  “It starts at two, so I figured the car could pick us up at two-thirty. No need for the guest of honor to arrive before everyone else.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then. And Pia, don’t worry. The baby is fine.”

  Bothered by the suggestion, Pia hung up and immediately went to her computer and Googled the words “fetal movement.” The first entry she looked at did nothing to put her mind at ease: “A fetus that is not well will move less. Mothers should pay attention to their baby’s activity, particularly in the third trimester.” The article also suggested that the expectant mother lie down and if five pokes, kicks, or wiggles were not felt within two hours she should call the doctor.

  Pia promptly went back to bed, taking the burn of fear and helplessness with her. She stayed there all morning, watching television and catching up on her magazine reading, but it was difficult to focus, and Pia found herself begging both the baby and God to let her know things were okay.

  “Please, Pom, give Mommy a kick or a hiccup. Anything to let me know you’re well,” she pleaded. Pia tried not to panic, but intuitively she knew that something was terribly wrong and she felt powerless to fix it.

  Ninety minutes later, with still no movement, a quietly hysterical Pia first called Dr. Montrae, who insisted she get down to her office immediately, and then her mother, who promised to rush right over and meet her.

  Pia got dressed and went outside to hail a cab. She felt as if she were inside a bubble, totally oblivious and removed from the activities occurring on the street around her. She purposely tried to stay in this state in order to keep the frightful thoughts circling her head from swooping down and overtaking her.

  She and Dr. Montrae arrived within minutes of each other. Pia undressed and waited on the treatment table while her obstetrician quickly prepared for this unexpected examination.

  Please, God, let the baby be all right, she prayed frantically as Dr. Montrae spread the cold gel on her skin and moved the transducer over her belly. The concerned look on her face while she studied the screen was obvious, and Pia immediately started crying. She reluctantly looked over at the monitor and saw for herself flat lines where the baby’s vital signs should be.

  “I’m sorry, Pia. The baby died,” Dr. Montrae said, holding her patient’s hand while delivering the devastating news.

  “But how? Why? What did I do wrong?” Pia sobbed.

  “You did nothing wrong. But we won’t know for sure what happened until you deliver,” the doctor said, crossing the room to retrieve a box of tissues.

  “Deliver?” Pia screeched. The idea of going through labor and delivery to produce a dead child seemed unjustly cruel. “How does one deliver death into the world?”

  “I know, I know,” the doctor said, giving Pia a supportive hug. “But at this point we don’t have much choice. We can either induce labor or you can wait for it to occur naturally, which typically will happen within two weeks. I would not advise surgery.”

  “I can’t carry around my dead baby for two weeks. I just can’t. I can’t,” Pia said, sobbing on Dr. Montrae’s shoulder.

  “That’s perfectly understandable. We’ll schedule the procedure as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for something to help you relax. I’m so, so sorry, Pia. I know how much you wanted this child. Lie here for a few moments. I’ll be right back.”

  Dr. Montrae left the room, trying not to cry herself. This part of her job never got any easier. She walked into the waiting room, where Pia’s mother sat anxiously awaiting some report. She could tell by the doctor’s face that the news was not good.

  “She needs you right now. Take all the time you want.”

  Maizelle followed the doctor back to the examination room and found Pia curled up on the table, rocking gently and crying. She lifted herself into a sitting position as soon as her mother walked into the room and immediately collapsed into her arms. Maizelle said nothing but prayed to her God, asking for an explanation for this spirit-crushing event and for the strength and wisdom to guide her broken child through it.

  An hour later, Pia was back in her bed, resting, thanks to the prescribed sedative. Maizelle was there watching over her daughter when she called Valen Bellamy’s name. Pia had convinced her that he was not the baby’s father, but she had not been so convincing about the true nature of their relationship. Mai had suspected all along that there had been more between them than work, but whatever it was or wasn’t, it was apparently over.

  It wasn’t until nearly two o’clock that Mai remembered the baby shower. She called Dee’s cell phone and broke the sad news, asking her to discreetly inform the guests that the shower was canceled.

  “No details, Darlene,” Maizelle insisted. “Let’s protect Pia’s privacy. We’ll let her decide how to handle things when she’s ready.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Jamison. Please tell her I’ll call and check on her tomorrow. I’m so sorry,” Dee said, shedding sad tears for her friend. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “Maybe there is one thing,” Maizelle said. “Do you know how to reach Valen Bellamy?” A tear for her daughter rolled down Maizelle’s face. To be heartbroken twice in such a short period of time seemed so unfair.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  One week after delivering and cremating her stillborn son, Pia stood gently twisting the birthstone necklace her mother had given her. She, Maizelle, and Darlene, all dressed in white, stood barefoot in the surf, waiting for the late October sun to set over the Atlantic Ocean. In deference to Grand Nelson, Pia had chosen the Sag Harbor beach for their baby’s memorial service because eventually these waters would connect to Aruba’s—the place they’d met. As per their agreement, Pia never told him that she was pregnant, so there was no point in telling him that their child had died due to an undetected knot in his umbilical cord. But in this small way, Pia felt she was paying her respects to the man who had graciously and unselfishly tried to make her dream come true.

  With the cold ocean water rushing between her toes, Pia felt tinges of guilt and resignation interlaced with her grief. She had unfairly pinned so many high hopes on her child that she had to wonder had it all been too much for his little spirit to uphold. Pia had taken her lifelong desire for a child into her own hands and become a mother by any means necessary. But apparently God had other ideas. Motherhood was evidently not meant to be a destination on Pia’s road map.

  “The sun is setting. Are you ready?” her mother asked, giving her daughter a hip-to-hip hug. Maizelle was trying to stay strong for Pia, but the death of her grandchild had hit her much harder than she’d expected. Standing here in this grief-stricken moment, she felt a sense of shame for months of denying Pia and her child the unconditional love they deserved. She’d spent far too much time being caught up in her own shame and concern over what people would think of her because of Pia’s decisions. Because of her selfishness, Mai hadn’t properly celebrated and enjoyed what should have been one of the happiest times of Pia’s life.

  “To those of us who knew and loved my baby, he will always be known as Pomegranate or Pom, as we affectionately referred to him,” Pia said with a small smile to begin the memorial. “Dee named him that as a joke. At the time she said it was because he was like a little seed growing inside me, and since Gwyneth Paltrow already had dibs on the name Apple, we had to come up with another fruit. We laughed, and from then on referred to the baby by this sweet nickname.

  “But after…well, recently I decided to look up the word, and what I learned amazed and comforted me. The ancient Greeks associated the pomegranate with death and rebirth, while to modern Greeks it represents agatha, or the good things in life. It is also a Christian symbol of the Resurrection.

  “So I know we named him appropriately,”
Pia said, squeezing the hands of her mother and friend. “And I have to believe that Pom’s death will eventually cause some kind of positive rebirth in all of us.

  “Officially, my son’s name is Charles Nelson Jamison, named after my father and his. And I am trusting you, Daddy,” Pia said, looking up into the heavens, “to look after my…angel.” The words caught in her throat, causing her to pause, and Maizelle’s weeping, mixing with the gentle lapping of the ocean waves, filled the space.

  Pia motioned to Darlene and then watched stoically as the two women lit eight floating candles. Pia then followed by launching eight gardenias into the water—one for each month her baby had lived inside her. As the sun dipped into the horizon, she and the others watched the flowers and flickering flames head out to sea.

  “It is said that we all come into this world with a specific purpose. Some people arrive knowing exactly what their mission is and live their lives fulfilling that purpose. Most of us, though, arrive with some vague notion that may take us the better part of our lifetimes to understand. But even with this uncertainty, we still manage to touch others and change lives, usually unaware of just how much until something unexpected happens.

  “Pom’s life was short, his mission still unclear,” Pia continued. “He came and went in an instant, taking with him a lifetime of hopes and dreams. But his presence was felt, and without ever taking a breath he touched us and left a tiny, eternal imprint on our hearts. I love you, son.”

  Pia concluded her remarks, remaining eerily calm while the others wept openly. Pia held Darlene’s hand, handing her a fresh tissue to dab her eyes and blow her nose, and then rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, watching the lights float farther away from the shore.

  “That was beautiful, Pia,” her mother said, finally breaking the hush. Pia remained quiet as Maizelle shot Darlene a questioning glance.

  They were worried. When Pia had first learned of the baby’s demise she had broken down and for days was inconsolable. But following the induced labor and delivery, she’d settled into this unnaturally contained and unemotional state in which little seemed to touch her.

  The drive back into New York City was quiet and uneventful. Both Dee and Maizelle came upstairs to help Pia get settled in. Inside they found several new bouquets of flowers—including a Texas-size arrangement of white peonies and calla lilies from Florence and Becca. Tired from the long day, Pia decided to retire early. Dee volunteered to cook a light dinner while Mai kept her company.

  “It was a beautiful memorial,” Maizelle said, sitting at the breakfast counter and peeling an orange. “I was pushing her to have the service at the church, but I’m glad she didn’t. This was better and more meaningful for Pia than sitting in a church full of folks she didn’t know.”

  “It was touching and powerful. And it was important for Pia to say good-bye her way. I know she appreciated you understanding that,” Dee said as she gently seasoned the eggs to make omelets. “This has to be so sad for you too.”

  “There is nothing worse as a parent than knowing your child is hurting and you can’t kiss away the pain like you could when they were little.”

  “It also makes it hard to help when she’s so closed down,” Dee said. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but it’s like she’s in this unreachable zone where nobody can touch her.”

  “I’m very concerned. Best I can tell, Pia hasn’t shed a tear or expressed any kind of real emotion since the procedure. I’ve talked to her about getting grief counseling from Pastor Saxton, but she’s not interested. I wish she’d just open up and at least tell us what she’s feeling.”

  “I guess grief affects people in all kinds of ways.”

  “Pia has always been pretty private. She was five when her grandfather died and eighteen when her father passed, and she was the same way. She kept everything bottled up inside her, just like now.”

  “So how can we help her?” Dee asked as she served Maizelle’s omelet and toast with a supportive smile.

  “I’m not sure there is anything you or I can do.”

  “I agree with you. We’re not the one she craves comfort from.”

  “So what should we do?” Mai asked.

  “I know that you were planning to spend the night here with Pia, but you look exhausted. Why don’t you go home? I’ll stay with her. Maybe we’ll have a chance to chat,” Darlene replied with a wink in her voice.

  After Maizelle left, Dee looked in on Pia and found her asleep. She tidied up the kitchen and proceeded to make herself comfortable on the sofa in front of the television. But instead of paying attention to the program, she continued to worry about her friend. Ever since things had ended with Valen, Darlene had seen sutble signs of despair, which now had catapulted into full-fledged depression since the death of her baby. Pia barely ate, refused to speak to anyone other than Dee and her mother, and spent her days either sitting in her bedroom, staring out the window or sitting on the sofa mindlessly watching cable news. Sleep came only with the help of sedatives. Dee couldn’t be sure, but she guessed that Pia’s thoughts were typical of those who experience this kind of tragedy—alternating between wondering what she did wrong and why she was being punished.

  “You don’t have to stay and babysit me,” Pia said, emerging from her bedroom.

  “No problem, chica. Besides, your cable reception is better than mine,” Dee said, trying to keep things light. “Are you hungry? I can make you an omelet or something.”

  “I’m good,” Pia said, joining her on the couch with the coverlet Flo had made in memory of Pom. She’d asked Dee to send all of the baby clothes from the shower and had pieced together a beautiful one-of-a-kind quilt. It was heartbreakingly thoughtful, and it had become Pia’s security blanket of sorts. The blanket and ceramic baby shoes from the hospital, engraved “Charles Nelson,” were the only baby items that Pia kept as an open reminder that she’d once had a child.

  She and Darlene sat in comfortable silence, watching reruns of Sex and the City on TBS. Neither was paying much attention to the episode, as each was lost in her own thoughts—Pia going over the sad and touching events of the day and Dee wondering how to bring up the very delicate subject of Valen Bellamy.

  “That Carrie really loves her some Mr. Big,” Darlene said, easing her toes into the troubled waters.

  “I know. The sorry thing is that he really loves her too but is just too scared to admit it.”

  “There’s a lot of that going on,” Dee commented, wading farther out into the potential riptide.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that you should call Valen. There’s too much unfinished business between you, and…”

  “And you think by calling Valen somehow I’ll feel better about losing the baby? Or, worse, he may come back to me because I did,” Pia replied, her voice still flatlined.

  Pia couldn’t explain that because of the nagging guilt she felt, getting back with Valen would never be an option. It was her fault she’d engaged in the emotional tug-of-war of wanting her child and wanting Valen. Pia could only believe that her internalizing the disappointment of not being able to have both had somehow broken the spirit of her baby, causing her to lose him forever.

  “I really wasn’t thinking about it like that,” Dee said, totally lying. “I was thinking that you seem to be the only one around who can’t see how much you love him. And I was thinking that just because you lost one love doesn’t mean you have to lose both.”

  “You think too much.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s over. I’ve accepted it and I’m moving on. But there is one thing you can do for Valen.”

  “Name it.”

  Pia left the couch and went into her study, returning moments later holding a business envelope. “You can mail this for me tomorrow.”

  Darlene looked at the sealed envelope. It was addressed to the Board of Elections.

  “It’s my absentee ballot. The race is to
o close, and he needs every vote he can get.”

  Dee tried to contain her smile. The fact that Miss Liberal Lucy was crossing party lines for the first time in her voting life was all the convincing she needed. Pia had always counted on her to keep her life straight, so the way Dee saw it, getting her boss and Valen Bellamy reconnected was just one more thing to add to her to-do list.

  “Will you get that?” Pia asked, referring to the ringing phone. “Please take a message. I don’t really feel like talking to anyone.”

  Darlene picked up the phone. It was Florence Chase checking up on her friend.

  “Hi, Flo. Well, it was a tough day and she’s resting. But I’ll tell her you called…”

  “Wait, I’ll talk to her,” Pia said, taking the receiver from her surprised secretary. “Hey. Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers and the coverlet. It’s very special.”

  “You’re welcome. How you holdin’ up, sugar?”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna keep you. I just wanted to let you know that Becca and I are thinkin’ of you and sendin’ you lots of love. We’re lookin’ forward to seein’ you soon, but don’t you worry about pushin’ our reunion off until you’re feelin’ up to company.”

  “No, I’ve already postponed it once. And even though I look and feel like anything but a weapon of mass seduction, I don’t want to cancel. It’ll give me something to look forward to, because right now there’s not much going on in that department.”

  “I know, darlin’, and as much as you think you’ll never get over this hurt, while it won’t ever go away, it will fade to a dull ache over time.”

  “Maybe” was all the agreement Pia could commit to. “You’ll call Becca and let her know?”

  “I will. Now you go rest, and darlin’, you call me anytime, night or day. If you need to cry or bitch or moan, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks. See you in December.”

  Chapter Thirty-four