Goodnight, Brian

by Steven Manchester

  Joan tried to sit again, this time ignoring the pain in trade for some relief from her desert-chapped throat.

  “How do you feel?” the smiling nurse asked.

  “Huh?”

  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Mauretti?”

  “My baby?” Both words came out in a rasp between sips.

  “He’s fine, Mrs. Mauretti. You have a healthy baby boy.”

  Joan smiled. “My husband? Has anyone..?”

  “Yes. I believe he’s in the waiting room handing out cigars to anyone who will take one. I’ll send him in.”

  “And my baby?”

  “He’s with the pediatrician now. I’ll bring him in just as soon as they’re done.”

  “Thank you.” She took another sip and gagged.

  At two hours old, Brian Francis Mauretti was wheeled into Joan’s room. He wore a light blue knit cap and was wrapped tightly in a white receiving blanket with alternating pink and blue stripes. The nun lifted him out of the glass bassinette and gently placed him into his mother’s arms. Joan felt overwhelmed with joy. “Good morning, Brian,” she whispered and removed his soft cap. He had his dad’s black hair and plenty of it, but his head was cone-shaped. Before the nun left the two alone to bond, Joan looked up for an explanation.

  “Oh, he’s fine…stubborn, but fine,” the nun teased. “Your son liked it so much in the birth canal that he stayed there for as long as he could. The doctor had to use forceps. His head will return to a normal shape within a day or two. No need to worry.”

  “Thank you,” Joan said and kissed Brian on the point of his head.

  As the kind woman departed, Joan unwrapped the tight swaddling and counted ten fingers and ten toes. She kissed each one. “Mommy’s been waiting a long time to meet you, Brian,” she whispered. The baby squinted to look at his mom. “And you have your brother’s chocolate brown eyes,” she said, excited over the new discovery.

  The white curtain parted and her husband walked in, wearing a giant smile. “How’s my new boy?” Frank asked, swollen with pride.

  “Perfect, Daddy.” She kissed Brian’s tiny face again. “Just perfect.” She patted the bed for Frank to sit. “Come meet your son.” Together, they smothered the newborn in hugs and sobs of joy.

  Allowing his wife to rest, Frank cradled the boy in his arms and took a seat in the chair beside Joan’s bed. Searching his new son’s eyes, he told him, “Just wait ‘til your brother gets a look at you. We’re gonna go fishing together and play baseball and…”

  It felt like seconds had passed when one of the meaner looking nuns entered the room to escort Frank out. “It’s time for you to go, Dad,” she announced. “Mom needs to feed your son and they need time to get to know each other.”

  Frank’s puppy dog eyes pled for more time, but he had no shot. He was dealing with the maternity warden. Shrugging, he turned to Joan. “I’ll be back this afternoon,” he promised, and smiled. “Great job today, Mommy. I love you.”

  Joan kissed him. “I love you, too. Can you please call my mom and let her know that she’s going to have to wait a little while longer for another little girl?”

  He laughed. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I plan to go by the cottage just as soon as I leave here and let her know in person,” he said with a grin, and headed for the door. As he reached it, he turned and smiled at the nun. She never smiled back.

  Under the warden’s eye, Joan tried several times to get the baby to latch onto her nipple. He had difficulty, losing his grip each time. She shifted to get comfortable. It was no use. Her body throbbed in pain. Finally, the little one got the nipple positioned to where he wanted it and began to suckle. While he fed, Joan sighed in relief and rocked him back and forth. The nun continued her watch. Brian fed for three full minutes, but Joan was unsure whether he’d gotten enough. She questioned the old nun.

  “Trust me, he’ll let you know if he’s still hungry. Is he your first?” the woman asked.

  “No. We have another boy at home.”

  “You didn’t nurse your first?”

  “I did, but it’s been a while. I just want to make sure that I’m doing it right.”

  “Give it a few feedings. It’ll come back to you. It’s been shown by many studies that breastfed infants are healthier. They can get the occasional cold, but they generally stay healthier.” For the first time, the woman smiled. And with an approving nod, she left Joan and Brian to figure out the rest together.

  When Brian finished suckling, Joan placed him in her lap, unwrapped the receiving blanket again and took another inventory. Thrilled with the results, she quickly wrapped him back up and lifted him up until they were face-to-face. “I can’t wait to show you everything, Brian,” she whispered into the newborn’s ear. “You’re going to love it.” She kissed his plump, rosy cheek and then placed him on her chest to sing him his first lullaby.

  Chapter 2

  Spring 1977

  Mama sang completely out of tune, “A, you’re adorable, B, you’re so beautiful, C, you’re a cutie full of charms. D, you’re a darling and E, you’re exciting. F, you’re a feather in my arms.”

  Dressed in a white satin baptism gown, Brian cooed. Joan and Bev fussed over the baby, tying the shiny ribbon on his little white boots.

  “G, you look good to me, H, you’re so heavenly, I, you’re the one I idolize. J, we’re like Jack and Jill, K, you’re so kissable, L is the love-light in your eyes. M, N, O, P…you could go on all day. Q, R, S, T…alphabetically speaking, you’re okay. U made my life complete, V means you’re very sweet – W, X, Y, Z. It’s fun to wander through… the alphabet with you…to tell you what you mean to me.”

  Frank stepped into the room and looked at his son lying on the bed. Grinning, he shook his head. “I’m letting you ladies know right now that this is the last time my son wears a dress.”

  Bob, Brian’s godfather, placed his hand on Frank’s shoulder and shrugged. “You never know,” he teased.

  Everyone laughed – except Frank.

  At four months old, Brian Francis Mauretti was welcomed into the Catholic Church through the sacrament of baptism. As the late April rain promised a season of new beginnings, the entire family converged on Mama’s cottage to take part in the usual overindulgent celebration.

  Many of Mama’s famous dishes lined a long rectangular table, camouflaged in her mother’s lacy table cloth: There was an enormous antipasto salad; roasted red peppers marinated in extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, fresh herbs, capers and kalamata olives; a crock pot of homemade meatballs and another crock pot filled with sweet Italian sausage and onions, with a basket of fresh rolls between them. There were also dozens of warm spinach pies; a tray of her heavenly white pizza squares; and a giant bowl of ziti in a red gravy – with tomatoes, fresh basil, and her secret spices – that had simmered all day. For the kids, a sweating pitcher of sun-brewed sweet tea sat beside a stack of plastic tumblers. For the adults, there were two pitchers of Sangria, slices of fresh apples and oranges floating at each brim.

  While Bob and Uncle Sal filled their cups, they talked politics. “Well, hopefully Jimmy Carter will make a difference. I couldn’t stand Ford, the clumsy oaf,” Bob said.

  Sipping his Sangria, Uncle Sal shrugged. “They’re talking about opening the Alaskan pipeline this year. I hope that helps with gas prices. Sixty-five cents a gallon is ridiculous! If it keeps going, I might have to trade in the Cadillac.”

  Bob chuckled. “So I may actually witness the day that hell freezes over then?”

  Uncle Sal grinned. “You might.”

  Throughout the day, cousins of cousins and friends from long ago dropped in to welcome the little one into the family. As if she were performing miracles, Mama kept the food hot and replenished. A dozen different conversations competed with scratchy, old Italian albums. The combination was deafening and chaotic – glorious.

  Mama hurried into the kitchen to refill the meatballs when she noticed Joan at the stove, heating a baby bott
le in a saucepan of water. “What’s this?” Mama asked, scooping meatballs out of a giant pan into the crockpot.

  “I stopped breastfeeding a few days ago. It’s been four months, so I figure Brian’s gotten the colostrum he needs to boost his immune system,” Joan explained. “I don’t know if it’s a growth spurt, but he’s been feeding eight to twelve times a day…about every two to three hours.” She stared at baby Brian in her arms. “I hope he’s getting enough,” she worried aloud. “I’m afraid he’s…”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Mama said, tending to her food. “He’ll let you know if he’s still hungry.” She abandoned her chore, plucked the baby out of Joan’s hands, picked him up to eye level and inspected him. “Isn’t that right, big boy?” She looked back at Joan. “How much has he gained?”

  “Last weigh in…just over six pounds.”

  “That’s my boy,” Mama said, and gave the baby’s belly a nibble. But Joan shook her head and Mama caught it. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know…maybe nothing. It’s just that since I put Brian on the formula, he’s been irritable and even cries sometimes after feedings. And that’s not like him.”

  “His tummy’s probably just getting used to the change in diet. Just watch it and…”

  “He threw up this morning after I fed him, Ma.”

  “Babies throw up, Joan. Your brother cost me half my wardrobe because he couldn’t keep anything down,” she said, handing the baby over.

  Joan laughed. “I guess,” she mumbled, adjusting the tiny boy in her arms. “Frank says to stop worrying, too.”

  “Give it a few more days and if it doesn’t change, call the pediatrician and bring him in,” Mama advised, placing one hand on her daughter’s shoulder, while juggling the crock pot in the other.

  “Thanks, Mom.” Joan tested the temperature of the formula on her forearm and began feeding Brian.

  Joan did give it a few more days. In fact, she gave it nearly a week, but each day proved worse than the one before. Brian exercised his lungs and screamed louder than any baby should have been able to. After each feeding, he vomited and then wailed until he physically exhausted himself. It didn’t take long before everyone’s nerves were frayed.

  “Why did you ever stop breastfeeding?” Frank asked after dinner one night. He popped the top on another can of beer and awaited the answer.

  “Whaaa!” Brian screamed from his infant seat.

  “I told you why!” Joan exploded. “It was time…that’s why!” She lifted Brian out of his seat and began swaying with him. “Do you want to try to breastfeed him, Frank?”

  “Whaaa!” Brian added.

  Frank shook his head, got up from the table and headed for the living room. “I’ll look after Ross,” he mumbled and left the room.

  “Whaaa!” Brian added.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” Joan told the baby, standing at the sink and filling a bottle with lukewarm tap water. “Mommy’s going to figure out what’s wrong.”

  “Whaaa…”

  Joan thought about Frank’s question – the very same question she’d been asking herself since she’d stopped nursing – and felt the stinging bite of guilt.

  The following night, Brian was asleep in his infant seat, giving Joan a few precious moments to straighten up the house. The telephone rang. Oh, God, she thought. Her heart jumped into her throat and she hurried for the phone. The phone rang again.

  “Whaaa…” Brian wailed.

  Damn it, she thought, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Whaaa!”

  There was a brief pause. “Someone doesn’t sound happy over there,” Mama said.

  Joan rolled her eyes, but decided not to tell her mother that she was the cause. Instead, she buried the telephone into the crook of her neck, picked up Brian and began to rock him in her arms. “It’s been hell, Ma. For the last week, he’s thrown up after each feeding and then he starts crying. And I mean, really sobbing.”

  “Whaaaa!” Brian added for effect.

  “Maybe he gets scared from vomiting?” Mama suggested.

  Joan shook her head, while tears welled in her eyes.

  “Whaaa!”

  “I don’t think that’s it, Ma. I think…” Joan said, dancing the baby around the kitchen. “I think it’s because he’s starving.” She paused. Putting the thought into words made every fiber of her maternal being wince in pain.

  “Whaaa!”

  Frank stomped into the room and startled Joan. He looked at Brian screaming and then at Joan on the phone, and shook his head.

  “Ma, I gotta go and try to figure out how to quiet this baby,” she said, glaring at Frank. “God forbid he bothers his father anymore.”

  There was quiet on the phone, Mama picturing her son-in-law standing there, staring down her daughter. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m here, if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” Joan mumbled and slammed the phone into its cradle. As she walked past Frank, he said, “I’m sorry, but…”

  “But nothing, Frank!” she snapped. “You’re not the only one suffering, you know,” she added, and brushed past him like an icy wind.

  On Friday afternoon, Frank took two hours off from work to drive Joan and Brian to the doctor’s. Although he wasn’t happy about having to take the time off, he knew they were lucky to get the last minute appointment.

  After they dropped Ross off at Mama’s cottage, he thought about his young son. Ross had been caught trying to feed chocolate pudding to his baby brother. When he’d scolded him for it, the little boy’s reply shocked him. “Brian’s hungry!” he yelled, furious. “Mom says it all the time.”

  Frank pulled into the parking lot and shook his head at the lunacy. I’d take a month off, if I knew it would stop the crying, he thought and turned off the ignition.

  After Joan grabbed the sleeping baby from the car seat, he lounged back and closed his eyes, hoping to reclaim some of the sleep he’d lost during the week. Take your time, he thought and could feel his mind slip into its own pool of warm pudding.

  Joan sat in the pediatrician’s crowded waiting room. Careful not to wake Brian in her arms, she tried to calm her nerves by flipping through one of the parenting magazines. On page ten, there was an ad for a new soy milk formula called Neo Mulsoy. She read: Perfect for sensitive tummies that cannot tolerate a milk based formula, Earth’s Best Organic Infant Soy Formula with DHA & ARA is made with high-quality protein, carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals and essential fatty acids, including DHA & ARA – special nutrients found in breast milk that are critical to baby’s mental and visual development. Easy to digest, this formula meets all FDA requirements for infant nutrition with the added benefit of being organic.

  “Brian Mauretti,” the nurse announced, holding a blue folder.

  Joan put the magazine down and adjusted Brian in order to stand without waking him.

  The nurse smiled. “The doctor will see you now.”

  Doctor Carvalho, the pediatrician, hurried into the room as if he didn’t have a moment to lose. He was a scarecrow of a man with a pronounced beak and round spectacles. His off-white coat was faded with years of baby deliveries and unnecessarily worried moms. He studied Brian’s thin folder and looked at Joan. “So why are we here today?”

  For whatever reason, at that moment, Joan felt silly for wasting the busy man’s time. “Well, I stopped breast feeding a week or so ago and I think my son’s having some trouble digesting the formula.”

  Doctor Carvalho placed both hands on the side of Brian’s neck and pressed.

  “Whaaaa!” the baby cried out, angry over the rude awakening.

  “What kind of trouble?” the scarecrow asked, as he continued to prod the squirming boy.

  “Whaaaaa!”

  “He throws up…after I feed him, and he never did that when he was breast feeding. He cries a lot now and he’s…well…he’s just not himself.”

  The man looked up at her like she’d just passed wind. “Not himself, huh?” He place
d his cold stethoscope to Brian’s midsection and listened.

  “Whaaaaa!”

  “You have him on a milk-based formula?” he asked over the screaming.

  “Yes,” Joan answered, completely intimidated.

  He pressed on Brian’s belly and the baby wailed even louder. “Any diarrhea?”

  “No,” she answered, swallowing hard.

  He pressed on Brian’s belly again, making Joan squirm with anxiety. He finally stood, handed the baby back to her and shook his head. “A lot of babies have digestive issues, but I guess we can try him on a soy-based formula. I’ll have the nurse send you home with some samples.” He scribbled something into Brian’s folder and muttered, “He’ll be fine.” And in a flash, he was gone.

  The smiling nurse returned with two cans of Neo Mulsoy formula. One can was blue and the other was orange. Both had the word improved on the label, with a picture of a cute little yellow duck.

  “Whaaaaa!” Brian complained.

  Joan rocked him back and forth in her arms, trying desperately to soothe him. “The doctor’s going to make you feel better, sweetheart,” she promised. “No more belly aches.”

  Joan pounded on the station wagon’s passenger window. Frank jumped out of his sleep. Dazed, he wiped the drool from his face. “Help me get him in the car,” she yelled, struggling to balance two cans of formula and their screaming infant.

  Frank jumped out, ran around the car and fastened Brian into his seat. “How’d he do?” he asked, as he took his position back behind the steering wheel.

  “Whaaa!” Brian wailed.

  “Well, he’s not happy, but the doctor thinks that he’s lactose intolerant.”

  Frank’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “He can’t have milk or anything made from milk,” she explained.

  “Whaaa….whaaa…” Brian cried, his volume winding down from sheer fatigue.

  “So what does that mean?”

  She lifted one of the cans of formula. “It means that he’s on a new soy-based formula.”