by Sonia Taitz
“No, Casey—I won’t take that comment. I’m a rabbit? I’m a—”
“I was asking Abby where she was. We got off topic. Let’s finish, OK?”
“I’m trying to,” said Abigail. “Yes, I missed a class or two. I was in Grenada, finding grounds to defend someone against a frivolous lawsuit.”
“You went on an airplane in your late seventh month?” Casey shouted. There was a hushed, shocked silence until Casey leapt to her feet, exulting, “that is so great! You gave your baby a vision of true dynamism, and I’m all for it. Class? Let’s hear it for Abby!”
They applauded, louder than before. All but Mara and now Toni, who folded her arms.
“What is it, Toni?” asked the teacher.
“She endangered her child,” said Toni. “We all know what happened. Timmy told me all the details.”
Timmy? “Abby” was bad enough, but “Timmy”? Abigail turned around. Her partner was flushed with nerves, and whispered, “I did call her; she was worried.”
“We were all worried,” said Toni, easily overhearing.
“Yeah, she set up a phone chain,” said Mara. “Because we actually care about one another. That’s what we do. We don’t simply—”
“And since when did I become everybody’s business?” Abigail interrupted. “I don’t even know any of you.”
“And whose fault is that?” said Mara.
“And we’re trying to know you,” said Toni, appeasing.
“We’re bonded in care for each other and for our babies, all our babies,” Casey patiently explained. “That’s the contract of this class. And I want you all to know, class, that what happened to Abigail can be a tremendous learning experience, not just for her but for all of us. Life is full of accidents and surprises. The Olympic runner trips on a pebble. Your water breaks on the bus. Who are we to judge what this mother-to-be was traveling for? What she meant to prove to her child? Maybe her karma is to fly, to be free, to express herself in the broadest strokes!”
Abigail nodded awkwardly. She had never heard herself described in such creative terms. How wonderful to be off the hook, and in the good graces of this birthing guru! But Casey wasn’t quite finished.
“Would you say, Abby, that you came here for that reason? To fly, to be free, to express some undiscovered side of yourself, and to share it with others?”
“Well, yes, maybe, but also it’s sort of what everyone does, and—”
“Yes? Can you go a little deeper?”
Abigail tried. “And I guess I wanted to, to kind of get used to the idea of being a mother, going in there one way and coming out another. . . .”
“Good rhyme,” said Casey thoughtfully. “Mother, another.”
“Purely accidental,” Abigail mumbled. But she was flattered, nonetheless. “I mean, I’m no poet or anything.”
“See, class, these categories, ‘corporate,’ ‘artist,’ ‘us’ and ‘them’—they do more harm than good. Abby doesn’t even know that she’s creative. We all are, we all have our inner poetry, class, and I want you to listen for it as you—
“IFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!”
Here, suddenly, Casey took in her trademark bellyful of air, and let it out with rapid, forceful puffs:
“HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH!”
After her initial surprise at observing an entire class of adults huff away like engines, Abigail tried to go along. Just as abruptly as she had started, however, Casey stopped. She put her finger to her lips.
“Shhhhhh. Shhhhh.”
Abigail did the same, lifting her finger and going “Shhh . . .” Then, appalled, she realized that Casey wasn’t doing another exercise. She was just asking the class to be quiet. Casey’s voice fell to just above a whisper.
“Today, class, in our continuing journey, we are going to do something exciting. Something we’ve never done before. Now, some of you may find the following exercise unfeminine and even ugly, but let me assure you, when it comes to having a natural baby, there is nothing so beautifully female and gorgeously strong as . . .”
She paused dramatically.
“Pushing! Uh! Uh! Uhhhh!” Casey made a few guttural sounds, as though she were having a torturous bowel movement. She squeezed her eyes tightly, pushing even harder. Her face grew round and red, as though she’d pop.
“Uh uh uh uh uh! OK. Try it.” Casey relaxed. Abigail waited until everyone else started. She didn’t want to be the only one again. Then she tried it.
“UH UH UH!” This was embarrassing. Tim looked at Abigail approvingly, but she knew she was actually holding back. It was worse to do this one if you didn’t really do it. Sillier, more pointless. Mara, meanwhile, was giving it all she had:
“UUUUHH! UHHHH! UHHHH!”
She looked up for a moment.
“Casey?” she panted.
“Yes, Mara?”
“I think I pushed something out of my butt. Is that good?”
“Excellent, Mara! Class, I should tell you that when you do this one, especially in the birthing room, there is a good chance that you will expel some amount of fecal matter.”
“What? You mean I’ll shit myself?” said Sheryl.
“Yes, and it will be great, because it will mean you’re really, really pushing. So let’s all give it another try.”
“UH! UHHH! UHHHH! Come on! Squeeze, tighten up, push from the belly, PUSHHHH!”
Toni shouted: “I think I peed!”
“Terrific!” said Casey, loping past Toni and over to Abigail.
“Hey, Abby—OK, you’re being too hung up here. Come on. Tim, move over a little. Let me in there; I’ll coach her. Now give me a big one, Abby.
“I’ll count to three, and then you hold your breath, and push, push, push for a full count of ten. Got it?”
“Umm, I think so,” said Abigail, mortified to see that the class had completely stopped to observe her. Bad enough that she’d been called a corporate monster and destroyer of the environment. Bad enough that she’d called some pregnant woman a rabbit. She did pee in her pants nowadays (very notably in Grenada, in Mrs. M’s drawing room), and had no desire to be doubly incontinent. Nevertheless, in her state, Abigail was in no position to argue with a professional birthing instructor. And part of her wanted to impress Casey with her strength. Tim patted her encouragingly on the shoulders. She’d do it for him, too.
So Abigail gave it everything she had, which was always a lot. Abigail pushed so hard that a little head began to emerge.
“I think it’s the baby!” she shouted in disbelief.
Casey, confirming, was too stunned to cheer.
19
Earlier than she had planned, Abigail had indeed given birth. It was a good thing that the birthing class took place at the hospital; they’d rushed her straight off to the delivery floor. She had to smile about it. Nothing, so far, had gone as intended. In a sense, she’d gotten off easily. She had come to expect childbirth to be a long, slow, arduous ordeal. But instead, she lay flat on her back on a gurney, filled with disbelief that it was all happening so fast.
Where did you come from? she found herself wondering as her clothes were removed and her legs were raised. (Vaguely, she sensed Tim being pushed around, given a yellow paper gown to wear, and disappearing behind her head as the doctor knelt before her.) Yes, she knew the technical sources of human reproduction. But how, really how, did a living, breathing, radiant being come into your life? (Exit your body and enter the birthing room—really, where had it come from?) It was as though an angel, a fairy-tale sprite, had perched on her windowsill, or a fluttering, upsidedown hummingbird. Wings beating so fast they seemed invisible.
So all of a sudden, she saw her baby, topsy-turvy, held in the air by a man’s huge hand. It was a girl, and her mouth was toothless, open, silent, shocked, then crying. A layer of wet, powdery wax covered her wrinkled skin. She was flailing, her toes splayed. Her cry was strong and rhythmic: “Aa, Aa, Aaaaa!”
Abigail’s body began shaking. She was not su
re if she herself was crying, too, an echo of her child’s immense arrival. She didn’t know if their voices blended, where she began and ended. A moment ago, they’d been together, fused, as one—and now they were strangers in a room who needed to reach for each other. The baby’s cry was meant for Abigail. She wanted her mother. Abigail heard herself ask for the child.
A moment later, the little girl was laid on Abigail’s stomach. She was weightless but wriggling, so new she seemed flawless. Abigail put her hand on the perfect little head, touching a black web of hair, soft as feathers, as silk. Putting the child to her breast, Abigail was amazed to see her root around, searching blindly, with clenched eyes, for her nipple.
“Here, here,” she whispered, guiding it into baby’s open mouth. The newborn latched on to her mother and sucked violently. She’d never tasted milk before, and this first milk, Abigail knew, was creamy. “Colostrum”: she had just learned the name of it in one of her books. But nothing prepared her for her daughter’s avidity. Tiny as she was, her bony gums were vises. She would thrive if given half the chance.
“Ouch!” Abigail yipped involuntarily. But she admired her daughter’s strength.
“You’ll get used it,” a nurse said. “You’ll toughen up in no time.” Inserting a finger, she eased the baby’s mouth off Abigail’s nipple. It seemed throbbing, outraged; nothing any lover had done with his mouth compared to this ardor. Abigail found herself stunned by a kind of joy. She was thrown by these powers outside her. She wanted to speak, but the words didn’t come to her. Her mouth hung open, as though she’d had some tasty colostrum as well. So this was manna, heaven-sent. Like the baby, this lovely gift from nowhere. This creamy, first mother’s milk.
“Let’s clean her up and take some measurements,” said the nurse after a moment, picking the baby up in one hand, like it was nothing, just a little handful, and taking it away. The baby began crying again, more loudly than ever before.
“Oh, she wants to come back,” said Abigail, her heart dilating with odd, responsive yearning. “She didn’t finish,” she pleaded.
“She’ll be all right. At first, they’re not so hungry.” Another nurse wiped Abigail’s face with a damp cloth, briskly. The mother was a patient, too. Tended by kind hands and hearts.
“Should I count her toes and fingers?” she said, a helpless worry quavering her voice.
“She’s perfect, don’t worry,” said the nurse who was rubbing her face clean. After that, she placed a new pair of socks on Abigail’s cold feet. Warm, woolly, thick socks.
“How much does she weigh?” asked Tim, suddenly stepping over to a cold metallic table where babies were dealt with, wiped, shod, hatted, and tagged.
There was a brief silence. The newborn was wheeled away, out of the room.
“Say—where are you going?” said Tim. His voice sounded worried, and Abigail picked her head up to see.
“How much did they say?” asked Abigail, hoarsely. What was happening?
“Well, that’s the thing,” said a nurse, bustling now to remove bloody pads from below Abigail. “She’s just a bit scrawny, five pounds ten, but that shouldn’t be too much trouble. I’ve seen much smaller. We’re just having Doctor Appleman take a look.”
“How was her score, you know that test they give them?” Abigail remembered something about that from another of her baby-care guides.
“The Apgar?” said the other nurse, who was scrubbing her hands somewhere behind Abigail’s head.
Apgar. Colostrum. Latching on. All these once theoretical words were real to her now.
“I think it was six.”
“Not too bad,” said the nurse closer by, who snapped a clean white sheet over Abigail’s legs, tucking it around her cozily. What with the warm socks and the crisp sheet, she felt almost ecstatically spoiled and beloved.
“But it goes up to ten, doesn’t it?” Was this like a bad grade? Did it “count”? She knew the nurses would know how to comfort her.
“Don’t worry, Abigail, she’s great,” said Tim. “I got a good look at her as they were wheeling her out. She was in this little plastic basket on wheels, and I think she saw me. They popped this pink beanie on her head.”
“They are pretty sweet, aren’t they,” agreed one of the nurses. “The boys get baby blue ones.”
“But I hardly got to hold her,” Abigail whimpered. “She’s probably missing me by now.” She had also read about how critical it was that the child bond with its mother during the first few hours. Didn’t the hospital know about these studies?
“You’ll get plenty of chances later, dear,” said the nurse who’d tucked her in.
“I’m just going to let you lie here for a while until things settle down.” She massaged Abigail’s deflated abdomen. “I know that hurts a bit. But it helps it go back to normal. Now go on. Shut your eyes and rest.”
Abigail dutifully shut her eyes. But even with her eyes shut, all she could see was her tiny little girl. Her heart nearly broke, thinking of that red, needy mouth with no words yet to ask for what she wanted. Despite herself, Abigail lost interest in these thoughts and yawned exhaustedly. A part of her was relieved to be given some respite.
Another nurse began wheeling a pile of messy laundry out of the room. “We’ll check on you in a little while.”
Abigail and Tim were finally alone.
“Hey, you total woman,” said Tim, stroking her face gently. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just really thirsty,” she said, with a cracked voice.
“I can run out and get you a milkshake.”
“No, just some water. With ice, if you can.”
“Anything.”
After he left, Abigail thought she could hear babies crying insistently. Imaginary, surely. She was on “birthing floor”—the maternity ward, they’d told her, was upstairs. Still, Abigail was sure she heard those cries. Soon, they dwindled and she could hear only one particular cry: it was the aching call of her own daughter, no less disturbing for being imagined. It seemed to come from some bottomless misery, some insatiable need. An agony of longing. Abigail’s breasts prickled. Her eyes filled, and her heart almost stopped with fear. What a responsibility. How could she, weaker and more confused than ever before, take care of someone else?
20
Tim was sorry to hear that the doctors thought it best to keep Abigail’s baby in the hospital for a few more weeks. Still, she was a little small, and they were just being extra careful; they wanted to observe her. During her stay she’d receive formula mixed with her mother’s milk. Though Abigail tried pumping her breasts, even buying the same apparatus that Rona DeWitt Miller used, she couldn’t squeeze out more than a few drops. One nurse would take her offering (the half ounce of grayish, watery liquid only a “top-off” to a hearty can of processed milk). Another nurse would feed the newborn baby. Different people came and went. As for herself, Abigail was free to go the next day.
With Tim by her side, Abigail stared into the transparent box in which her baby lay.
“She seems so alone, so fragile,” she said.
“No, she’s strong. She’s got your go-getter quality,” Tim said. “Poor us,” he had thought to add, but Abigail seemed too listless and wan for jokes.
She seemed almost as lost, at times, as she had down in Grenada, after hours of great sex. She had lain there, beneath him, limp and abandoned. Afterward, Tim thought he had even seen tears in her eyes. Abigail was sometimes so puzzling. So complicated. The very things that pleased almost everyone else (like his stellar lovemaking, like bearing an exquisite child) only made her travel off into solitary brooding. Was this a form of ingratitude? He thought it might well be.
However much he cared about her, and he cared so much it sometimes hurt, Abigail often seemed to take him for granted. Had she ever really thanked him for all he did for her? Maybe with words, now and then with her body, but Tim sensed she didn’t mean any of it that much. He’d hoped they’d be closer after the baby came home, when so
me of that tension drained away. But for now, he needed reassurance.
“Say, do you still feel up to us having Thanksgiving with your folks?” he asked her.
“It’s what we do every year—I mean, it’s expected.”
“Well first of all, this year, I’d be coming—you told them, right? And that’s a pretty big thing. And secondly, you look so weak right now. Will you be OK to travel, Abby? Can you sit through a long, rich meal with lots of noisy kids?” Tim needed to confirm his own plans. Did it even occur to Abigail that offering to be with her showed caring and commitment on his part?
“I—I think so. It’d be nice to be with family. Anyway, what are my choices? I can’t sit home alone on Thanksgiving with all the baby things around me and no baby.”
“You wouldn’t be alone. I would stay with you.”
“No, that’s really sweet of you, but you have you own mother and brother to see—”
“Only for about an hour; that’s my time limit—”
“And anyway Annie wants me to come. I mean, us.”
“There’s the magic word—‘us’,” said Tim, and grabbed her in a hug.
Thank god for Annie’s always open arms, Abigail thought. She was surprised to be so drawn to a sister she had never understood before. Without her, the family would have no center, no hearth fire. Abigail and her sister had talked on the phone for an hour the previous evening; Annie had asked all the right questions. She was hungry for details, and lavish with comfort and praise.
“I think this baby looks just like our mama,” Abigail had told her. No one else but Annie would have cared so much about bringing Clara back—in the form of a grandchild. Even her father, who’d loved their mother so much, seemed loathe to speak about his losses.
He had flown up from Florida with his girlfriend, Darlene Shanks. The girls knew that Owen had planned to spend two weeks at Annie’s house—the week before Thanksgiving and the week of. But Abigail had suddenly given birth, and her father had come on the first flight the next morning.
“Hey, kid,” Owen Thomas said when he raced into her room at the hospital. He sat down on the edge of the bed and talked softly into his daughter’s ear. “Ya did it, and no question.”
