“Who is this?” I sat up in bed and checked the time and the call display: 2:00 AM and Dad’s number, but definitely not Dad.
“Julia.” The voice started to sound a bit impatient and slightly familiar now that I was waking up. “Wake up and get dressed. The baby’s coming and they want you here.”
“Maria?” I said. “The baby’s coming? Now?” As if babies only arrived in the daytime. I knew better.
She laughed. “Yeah, now. Everything’s fine, but I gotta run. Miki needs me. Your dad is—how can I say it—?”
“Useless?” I offered.
“Not useless, exactly.” Maria giggled. “Just...ansioso...in a dither. So grab a cab and get your butt over here. It’ll be fun.”
She hung up, and I pulled on my sweats and wrote a note to my mom. When I’d told her I was going to be attending the birth, she looked as if I’d punched her in the gut, but all she said was, “Don’t you find that...odd?” I didn’t want to upset her again, but she woke up as I tiptoed through the living room.
“Go back to sleep, Mom. Miki’s in labor. I’m heading over there.”
“What?” she mumbled. “Where?”
“I’m going to Dad’s. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
“How are you getting there?”
“I’ll call a cab—it’s okay.”
She sat up on the sofabed and reached for her robe. “I’ll drive you.” She slid her feet into her fluffy blue slippers, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
“You’re going like that?” I said. My mother never leaves the house looking anything but “put together” as Nana calls it. Never. She even wears makeup to her aerobics class, and I swear she irons her T-shirts.
“You want a ride or not?” she said as she fished her keys out of her bag. “It’s not like I’m getting out of the car, for heaven’s sake. It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
I followed her out to the elevator and we rode down to the parking garage in silence. As soon as we got in the car, she turned on the radio. I didn’t try to talk until we got close to Dad’s. For once I found the Christian soft rock soothing. Reassuring even.
“Mom?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thanks for doing this.”
“It’s okay. I don’t like you out alone at night.”
“I know it’s hard for you...” I began, but she reached over and patted my knee.
“Don’t, Julia. It’s okay.”
I could see this was going nowhere, but I really wished she’d say something—anything—about what she was feeling. She seemed calm, but she was always calm. She was calm when I broke my ankle falling off the monkey bars in grade three. She was calm when I had a temperature of 107 degrees and told her that Michael Jackson was dancing on my bed. She was calm when Ruth and I used her crystal wineglasses at our lemonade stand. But this was different. Her ex-husband’s new wife was having a baby. I was going to have a baby brother or sister. Was she angry? Sad? Resigned? Bitter? Envious? Or maybe she was just tired. Tired of being a single parent. Tired of worrying about money. Tired of her job. I knew there was no point asking—especially not at two in the morning on the way to Dad’s house.
When we got there, I gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll call you tomorrow—I mean today. When it’s over.”
She nodded. “Take care, Julia,” she said and as I shut the door she added, “Tell your dad I’m praying for Miki and the baby.”
I stood in the driveway as she backed out. Praying for Miki and the baby. But not for my dad. It was better than nothing.
When I got inside, the first thing I heard was Miki screaming “Sonofabitch” at the top of her lungs. I don’t remember reading about that being part of the labor routine, but then again, I didn’t go to the classes. I did remember something about the dreaded “transition stage” of labor, when women typically tell whoever got them pregnant to fuck off and die. I was really looking forward to Ruth’s transition. I’d be lucky to escape without needing medical attention myself.
I went upstairs to the birthing room, aka the guest bedroom, which had been tastefully outfitted with rubber sheets, piles of fluffy white towels and a table covered in a white cloth. On the table were the tools of Maria’s trade: Doppler, stethoscope, blood-pressure cuff, rubber gloves, plastic clamps for the umbilical cord, teensy bulb syringes, cotton balls, a tiny little white toque, some flannel blankets and a whole lot of other stuff I knew I’d never be able to get my hands on. Unless, of course, some of it made its way into my backpack while Miki was in labor. I just couldn’t see ordering that kind of stuff on eBay. There was an oxygen tank tucked away in the corner beside an IV pole. If Ruth needed either oxygen or an IV, we’d be on our way to the nearest hospital faster than beer turns into piss. Beside the IV pole was a camping cooler. I peeked inside and saw bottled water, lemonade, orange juice, ice packs and a bottle of champagne. Maria really covered all the bases.
The rest of the room was as un-clinical as possible. White candles flickered in wall sconces, and the scent of lavender and geranium—Miki’s favorite aromatherapy combo—filled the room. The mom-to-be was sitting up in the bed wearing a pink T-shirt that said Doctors Do It with Patience. Dad was holding her hand while she yelled at him. Maria was barefoot and smiling, as usual. She introduced me to a midwife named Lisa, who would be monitoring the baby while Maria looked after Miki. Standard practice for a home birth, Maria said. Nothing to worry about. Bossa nova music played on the portable stereo. Imagine hearing “The Girl From Ipanema” as you came into this world. You’d start life off feeling warm and relaxed and languorous. Just another day at the beach. Not for Miki, though, apparently.
“Hey, Julia,” Dad said. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s going great.”
“Maybe for you it is,” Miki snarled. “Some of us are in agony. Some of us are taking a vow of celibacy. Some of us are wishing we’d never met you.”
“I know, hon. Breathe with me, Miki.” Dad started to puff and pant like the Little Engine That Could, and Miki punched him in the nose. Which proves my point about happy families not being dull. Move over, Mr. Tolstoy.
“I’ll take over,” Maria said, prying Miki’s hand out of Dad’s. “Take a break, Dan. Put some ice on your nose. There’s ice packs in the cooler.”
For a second I thought he was going to refuse, but then Miki yelled, “Go, motherfucker!” and he went. Maria motioned to me to sit on the other side of the bed.
“Do the breathing with her, Julia. We’re getting close. It all went pretty fast—that’s why we didn’t call you earlier.” Maria wiped Miki’s face with a damp washcloth and murmured, “Little Seabiscuit’s on his way. Not too long now. Hang in there.”
Lisa put the Doppler on Miki’s belly. “Baby sounds good, really good.”
“Fuerte,” said Maria. “Strong—like his mother.”
Miki smiled at Maria and started to breathe with me. Hee-hee-who. Hee-hee-who. My dad stood at the end of the bed and did some massage thing on her feet. Amazingly, she didn’t kick him.
“Time the contractions for me, Julia,” Maria said, handing me a stopwatch. “I have to get ready.”
Miki groaned and said, “I wanna push. Now!”
“Not yet, mi querida. Soon. Tell Julia when the next one starts.”
I stared at the stopwatch and listened to Miki breathe. She squeezed my hand when a contraction started, and when I could move my hand again, I knew the contraction was over. After three contractions I was ready to tell her to push. Anything to get her to stop breaking the bones in my hand.
“Two minutes apart,” I said. “Ninety seconds long.”
“I have to push!”
“Soon, Miki,” Maria said. She positioned herself between Miki’s legs and motioned my dad down next to her. “Are you ready, Dan? ‘Cause your baby is.”
Dad nodded, and I continued to hold Miki’s hand as she pushed the baby out and Dad caught it. I don’t know how long it took—maybe ten mi
nutes, maybe more—but by the end we were all crying (my hand hurt like crazy, but that was only one of the reasons I was crying) and laughing. Dad clamped and cut the cord, and then he put the baby—my little brother—on Miki’s chest. He wasn’t a pretty sight, but boy, did he have some lungs on him. And balls. He rooted around on Miki’s breast, and Dad couldn’t stop crying and kissing Miki’s face and arms and neck. Maria finally gave him a job—massaging Miki’s back—and pretty soon she delivered the placenta, which was, in my opinion, pretty gross. Thank God no one suggested making stew. My stomach hurt just looking at it.
People talk about the miracle of birth, but, strictly speaking, it’s not miraculous. A miracle has something to do with divine intervention or is an event that’s extremely unusual. And let’s face it, giving birth is as common as dirt and, unless you’re one of those freaks who believe that sex is a religious experience, there’s nothing divine about any of it, which makes it pretty hard to explain why all of us—even Maria and Lisa, who’d seen it all before a zillion times—acted as if something greater than ourselves was present in the guest room. I have never felt closer to anybody than I did to Dad and Miki and the baby that night. Not to Jonah or Ruth or my mother. The candles, the scent of flowers, the music—it was like being in the perfect church, full of joy and laughter and the astonishing presence of a brand-new human being. For about five minutes I considered whether my mother might be right, that there really is a God and that He is good and worthy of praise. Then I looked at my baby brother and at the two people who created him, and I didn’t want to give the credit to anyone but them. For loving each other enough to go through this whole messy business.
I helped Maria and Lisa with the post-birth routine— weighing, measuring, counting fingers and toes, cleaning the baby with soft cloths, putting on his teensy diaper, his wee sleeper and his tiny hat. When he was wrapped snugly in a flannel blanket (“swaddled” is such an ugly word), Maria handed him to Dad and then Dad passed him to me and said, “Julia, may I present your brother, Timothy Boone Stevens-Riley.”
I took him in my arms—all seven pounds, seven ounces of him—and held him close to my chest. “Hey, little buddy,” I crooned down at him. “Glad to meet you. I’m your big sister Julia. And no little brother of mine is going to be called Timmy, so I guess you’re Boone.”
I looked over at Miki and Dad, half expecting them to argue with me, but all they did was gaze at the baby and nod and smile. I liked them that way. It wouldn’t last, so I was going to enjoy it while I could.
“We thought you might say that,” Dad said. “Boone it is, then. When he’s thirteen and he wants to change his name, he can take it up with you.”
“Cool,” I said as Boone’s tiny mouth puckered and a little mew escaped his lips. One skinny, wrinkled, little-old-man hand escaped the blanket and wandered toward my face. I kissed his translucent fingers and wondered how Ruth was ever going to give up the Spawn of Satan. I wanted to hold Boone forever, and he wasn’t even mine.
I MADE BREAKFAST for everybody the morning Boone was born: bacon, eggs, toast, hash browns, strong coffee, fresh-squeezed juice and blackberry jam. Miki was drowsy, but she devoured six slices of bacon before she nodded off. Boone lay on her chest making funky snuffling noises, and Dad sat on the edge of the bed and dripped jam on the blanket while he stared at his son. Lisa left to go home and sleep. Maria and I took our plates downstairs and ate at the kitchen table.
“You’re good at this,” she said between mouthfuls of egg. “Really good. Most kids are pretty squeamish at a birth. Hell, most adults can’t handle it.” She paused to take a swig of coffee. “It was nice having an extra pair of hands.”
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled. “I’m glad I was there.” And it was true. When they’d first asked me to attend the birth, I’d thought of it as research. Observe, take notes, ask questions, steal supplies. That kind of thing. I hadn’t reckoned on participating or enjoying myself or feeling profoundly changed by the appearance of my baby brother.
“Miki was lucky,” Maria said. “No complications, great support. I wish they were all like this.” She put her feet up on a chair and sighed.
“They’re not?” I asked, even though I knew they weren’t.
“Are you kidding? First births especially—lots of surprises.”
My anxiety must have showed on my face, because Maria reached over and patted my cheek.
“It’s okay, Julia. It’s all over. Miki’s fine. The baby’s beautiful and healthy. Your dad’s over the moon. Don’t worry.”
I nodded and mumbled something about being tired— which was true. I’d never been so tired. Or so wired. I put my head down on the table and started to shake. Maria leaned over and stroked my hair away from my face.
“It’s the adrenaline rush, sweetie. It’s wearing off and it leaves you all jittery and feeling like you have to cry, right?”
I nodded into the place mat. Almost jittery enough to blurt out that Ruth was six weeks away from having her first child and that I was going to be her midwife. Almost jittery enough to grab Maria and confess that I’d stolen an amni-hook and two cord clamps from her. Almost, but not quite.
Maria wrapped me in a fleece blanket, made me a cup of honey-sweetened herbal tea and said, “Stay warm, hon. Drink some tea. Get some sleep if you can. I’m going to check on Miki and Boone, and then I’ll be on my way. I’ll be back later today. Call me if you need me. Okay?”
“Okay,” I muttered from my fleece cocoon. “Thanks. Later.” I sat at the kitchen table for a long time. My heart finally slowed down, and I eventually stopped shaking. The house was quiet after Maria left. My brother was upstairs and everyone was fine. I wished I felt better. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Maria had said about first births and surprises. Ruth was always surprising me—why would she stop now?
Eight
When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning or in rain?
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Macbeth is my all-time favorite Shakespeare play. I still don’t understand why my classmates don’t love it too. Especially the guys, who can’t seem to get past what Stewart calls “the fruity language” to the sheer goriness of it all. Guys who will shell out ten bucks to see Uma Thurman decapitate her enemies are completely baffled by Macbeth. Lady Macbeth alone is worth slogging through any number of soliloquies about Scottish politics. I love it that the most ruthlessly ambitious, bloodthirsty, cruel and manipulative person in the play is a woman. Not that I approve of her behavior, but, let’s face it, she’s kind of Donald Trump in drag, with better hair and none of the opportunities. Like The Donald’s wives, the only way Lady M can get any power is through her husband, which is pretty sad in any century.
I wrote a paper about Lady Macbeth called “McMommie Dearest,” which my English teacher didn’t think was funny. She also didn’t appreciate my views on women and ambition, even though I went to great lengths to point out that killing people is an extremely ill-advised and risky method of personal advancement, as Lady M discovered. Having a career and being financially independent is a much better approach and involves far less sleepwalking and hand-washing. For this, I got a C, which for me is almost a failing grade. The whole “not of woman born” thing is all about a brutal caesarean section, by the way, just in case you were thinking that “untimely ripp’d” meant having a six-pack at the age of seven. So it’s no wonder that after I fell asleep at the kitchen table after Boone’s birth, I dreamt that Lady Macbeth (who looked like Cruella de Vil) was delivering Ruth’s baby by caesarean, assisted by three life-size Barbie dolls. Very scary. So much for sleep knitting up the “ravelled sleeve of care.”
When I woke up I had grooves on my cheek from the ridges on the place mat, a headache the size of Montana and—wouldn’t you know it—cramps. Which only confirmed that there really is no God, not a loving one anyway. A loving God wouldn’t allow a teenage girl to get pregnant the first time she has sex. A loving God w
ould make sure my mom, who prays to Him at least ten times a day, was as happy as my dad, who doesn’t even believe He exists. A loving God would not smite me with cramps five days early or make me solely responsible for the safe delivery of my best friend’s baby.
SCHOOL WAS ALMOST over for the year, and I was beginning to wonder if my plan was going to work. So far, no one had paid much attention to Ruth’s size—all they saw was a big girl getting a bit bigger—but that was part of the problem.
“I’m sick of hiding out at the library,” Ruth complained soon after Boone was born. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss going to school. I’m tired of making up lame excuses for being absent. I’m bored with signing my own notes. I’m missing all the cool end-of-year stuff. All the parties.”
“It’ll be over soon,” I said as soothingly as possible. That was my mantra when she started to whine. We were in my room, and I was making lists of things I had to get to prepare for the birth—things like diapers and blankets and rubber sheets. My babysitting money was dwindling by the second. Ruth, as usual, was lying on my bed reading a magazine—a magazine, I might add, bought and paid for by me. “And here’s a thought,” I muttered. “Maybe you could help out a bit with the preparations.”
“What did you say?” Ruth glared at me as if I had announced that I was going to sell tickets to the delivery. “You must be joking,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one who’s doing the important work— the gestating. Isn’t that what you like to call it? I’m the one who’s fat. I’m the one who can’t go out in public. I’m the one who has to eat lean protein and celery sticks. I’m the one who has to wear ugly clothes. I’m the one who’s going to have the contractions. And the leaky boobs and the post-baby fat.”
By this time Ruth was screaming and, even worse, clutching my Minnie Mouse alarm clock. I ducked just as it flew over my head and slammed into the wall behind me. I’d had that clock since I was six and my mom and I went to Disneyland. I picked it up and put it on my desk. Amazingly, it was still ticking. Like a bomb. Very appropriate, since Ruth seemed to have exploded, and I was about to.
The Lit Report Page 7
