by Sue Grafton
That set Patrick off again. “Here’s the kicker as far as I’m concerned. Shelly doesn’t like vegetables. The only vegetable she’ll eat is beans. She doesn’t like fruit either. She says bananas are disgusting and apples make her teeth hurt. She’s got a list of food no-no’s that includes just about everything known to man. Except quinoa, whatever the hell that is.”
Kip was shaking his head. “Why do you put up with her?” Deborah said, “She’s carrying our grandchild. How can we turn our backs on her without rejecting an innocent child? Would you do that?”
“I guess not,” he said. “Well, I might, but Annabelle would have my hide.”
There was a pause while they studied their menus and decided what to have. Salads, rare New York strips, and baked potatoes with sour cream, green onion, and grated cheese.
Once the waitress took their order, Patrick returned to the subject. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t so opinionated and superior. She looks down her nose at us. We’re materialistic and shallow. Everything we do is ‘bourgeois.’ She talks about the proletariat. God save the Queen.”
Annabelle made a face. “And Greg goes along with it?”
“She’s got him under her thumb. He sits there with his mouth hanging open, acting like she’s reciting from the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” Patrick said. “And you know what else? She smells. She doesn’t brush her teeth. She doesn’t believe in shaving under her arms, or anywhere else. She’s got leg hair that looks like beaver pelts. I don’t see how he can stand being in the bus with her. Every time she leaves the room, we have to spray.”
Kip and Annabelle were both laughing by then. She said, “Oh, Patrick. You’re terrible.”
“I kid you not. Ask Deborah if you don’t believe me.”
Kip lifted an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “I hate to say this, kids, but I think your mistake was giving Greg too much. How else did he come up with this attitude of entitlement?”
Patrick held a hand up. “You’re right. You’re right. Deborah and I have talked about that.”
He paused, looking up, as the waitress arrived at the table with the wine. She turned the bottle so Kip could read the label, and once he approved, she proceeded to open it. Kip sampled it, nodded, and said, “Very nice.”
Annabelle covered her glass and once the other three were filled, Patrick picked up where he’d left off. “We both worked our way through college. Deborah’s family didn’t have the money and mine thought I wouldn’t appreciate the value of an education unless I’d earned it myself. Frankly, the whole thing was a grind. I carried a full load, plus working twenty hours a week. We wanted Greg to focus on his classes so we told him we’d pick up the tab as long as he kept his grades up. So much for that. Two years of college and now he’s a dropout and a bum.”
Annabelle said, “What are they living on? I hope you’re not giving them money along with everything else.”
“Not so far, though I wouldn’t put it past Greg to expect financial support.”
Deborah said, “Which they get in any event. They don’t pay rent and we’re providing food and all utilities. They don’t drive the bus because they can’t afford the gas.”
“Dollars to doughnuts, he’s selling grass,” Kip said.
Patrick looked at him. “You think? Well, that’s worrisome.”
Deborah said, “They’re certainly smoking it. I can smell it halfway across the yard.”
Annabelle made a face. “They smoke dope in front of the little boy?”
“Why not? They do everything else in front of him,” Deborah said. “Shelly wants him in the delivery room with her so he can experience the miracle of childbirth.”
“That’ll be a cheery scene.”
“What if they’re busted selling pot?” Kip asked, harking back to his point.
Deborah smacked at Kip’s hand. “Would you stop that?”
“No, I’m serious,” he said. “Suppose the cops get wind of it? I’m just pointing out the kind of trouble you’d be in. For one thing, Child Protective Services would step in and yank that little kid right out of there.”
“He’s not Greg’s. Shelly made that clear,” Patrick said.
Deborah said, “None of this is his fault. He can be a pill, but it still breaks my heart watching the neglect. She has no concept of parenting.”
“Isn’t he in school?” Annabelle asked.
“She doesn’t believe in the public school system. She feels that’s just one more form of government propaganda so she’s teaching him herself.”
Patrick said, “Jesus. We can’t keep talking about this. It’s ruining my appetite.”
Annabelle held up her water glass. “Let’s look at the bright side. I propose a toast to the baby.”
“Hear, hear,” Patrick said. The four clinked their glasses together.
“May all your surprises be little ones,” Kip added.
But the surprise was Shelly’s. The baby was born two weeks before her due date. Neither Greg nor Shelly told his parents she’d gone into labor. When her water broke, he took her to the emergency room at Santa Teresa Hospital and settled Shawn in the waiting room with a pad of paper and a box of crayons. Initially, there was some confusion because Shelly didn’t have an attending physician, medical records, or health insurance. The nurse asked Greg a series of questions, including his occupation, employer, and work address. Once she found out he was unemployed, she pressed him on the issue of who would be responsible for the hospital charges. Shelly was incensed and kicked up such a fuss that the nurse threatened to call security.
The two were left alone in the patient bay with the curtain pulled around it for privacy. Greg didn’t see that they had any choice but to call his parents and ask for help. Shelly pitched the same fit she always pitched. Greg tuned her out. The hospital notified the obstetrician on call and he was there within the hour. There was a murmured conference at the nurses’ station before the doctor came into the cubicle. He introduced himself as Dr. Frantz. Greg was asked to wait in the hall while he did a pelvic exam.
Greg went back to the waiting room to check on Shawn, who was watching television, an activity ordinarily forbidden. Greg returned to the admissions desk and asked to use the phone. He called his parents and told them what was going on. Patrick asked to speak to the admissions clerk and he apparently convinced her that all charges would be covered, saying he and his wife were on their way down. Greg returned to the curtained cubicle where he could hear Shelly shrieking at the doctor, telling him where he could stick his fucking finger in his fucking rubber glove. A nurse at the far end of the hall turned and gave him a look. Greg closed his eyes. He wished, just once, she’d act like a normal human being. Everything was a fight. Everything was a major uproar. He was exhausted by the strain of trying to soothe and contain her fury.
The doctor pulled the curtain aside and asked Greg to come in. Shelly’s feet were out of the stirrups by then and she was sitting on the gurney with the sheet pulled around her and tucked under her arms, so furious she refused to look at either one of them. The nurse busied herself, studiously avoiding Greg as well. Dr. Frantz told them the presentation was breech, buttocks first, legs folded in front. He suggested a C-section, but Shelly was vehement about a vaginal birth. It was her right. Nobody could tell her what to do. The doctor was carefully neutral, his face blank. He acceded to her wishes “for the moment,” as he put it. Shelly said, “Ha ha ha!” to his back. Greg thought the guy would turn around and punch her, but he continued down the hall, his heels clicking smartly on the polished tile floor.
She was admitted. After the nurse attached her hospital band she put Shelly in a wheelchair to take her upstairs to the labor and delivery unit. Greg accompanied them as far as the elevator and waited until the door closed before he returned to the waiting room. The quiet was a blessing. Deborah and Patrick arrived. By then, Shawn was curled up asleep on a plastic chair in one corner. Patrick took him back to the house while Deborah we
nt up the elevator with Greg and sat with Shelly for the next four hours. Twice the doctor managed to turn the baby, but the baby flipped right back. Deborah had to give Shelly credit for the fact that she endured hard labor without uttering a peep. Of course, she was putting both herself and the baby at risk.
After thirteen hours, when little or no progress had been made, Dr. Frantz laid down the law. Deborah was allowed to remain in the room while he explained the impasse. If the fetus was born bottom first, there was a possibility the body would fit through the mother’s pelvis, but the baby’s head would most likely get stuck at the level of the chin. With this condition, known as a trapped head, the possibility of injury was high. Once the baby’s body emerged, the umbilical cord would cease to pulsate, which would cut off the oxygen supply. With the baby’s head still inside, the infant wouldn’t breathe on its own. Without surgical intervention, there was a better than even chance the baby would die.
It seemed clear to Deborah there was only one choice. She wanted to shake Shelly until her head rattled, the answer was so obvious. Even Greg was in favor, urging Shelly to consent. By then, she was too worn down to protest. They prepped her for surgery and rolled her into the delivery room. Patricia Lorraine Unruh was born on July 14, 1963: six pounds, four ounces; twenty inches long; and bald as an egg. Greg and Shelly called her Rain.
Deborah went home and had a stiff drink.
Shelly and the baby were in the hospital three days. Greg spent most of that time at her side while Deborah was left to cope with Shawn. At first, whatever Deborah suggested, he would voice the doctrine according to his mother, reciting her tenets as an article of faith. It was nearly comical hearing Shelly’s sentiments coming from a six-year-old. Deborah moved ahead without argument and soon Shawn was sharing lunch with her. The two of them had adventures—the botanical garden, the beach, the Museum of Natural History. The boy was not only bright but interested and quick to learn. Deborah revised her view of him and began to enjoy his company, especially once he went back to wearing clothes. He had a sense of whimsy she hadn’t seen before.
Shelly came home, still in pain, incapacitated in the aftermath of the cesarean. Deborah offered her the use of the guest room while she recovered. Shelly was fragile and her defenses were down. She moved into the house without putting up a fight while Greg and Shawn remained in the yellow school bus. She withdrew, staying under the covers with the curtains in the room pulled shut. She seemed to be suffering postpartum depression, but Deborah realized it was something else altogether. She was humiliated, not angry so much as silenced now that Nature had betrayed her and she had nothing to boast about. How could she espouse her many closely held convictions when she’d failed something as elementary as the natural delivery she’d anticipated with such confidence? She’d had the wind knocked out of her sails. In the absence of dogma, she was strangely deflated. Deborah looked on from the sidelines, wanting to reach out but not daring to do so. Any gesture on her part would signal a compassion that Shelly was ill equipped to receive.
Contributing to the edgy cease-fire was the fact that Rain showed very little interest in nursing. Shelly had breast-fed Shawn until he was three, so she was an old hand at the process. Rain wouldn’t cooperate. She’d whip her head back and forth, mouth barely brushing the nipple. If she finally managed to latch on, she became agitated, arching her back and screaming, red-faced, her fists flailing. After a few days, Shelly had no patience for the feedings. At the first sign of trouble, she’d thrust the baby back at Deborah and turn her face to the wall. Rain went from being fussy to crying nonstop. Deborah knew she wasn’t getting enough to eat, but she wasn’t sure what to do.
Greg appeared at one point. “Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine. We have a few wrinkles to iron out, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Keep Shawn occupied, if you would.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said. “Any suggestions about how?”
Deborah had to bite her tongue. She already had her hands full and couldn’t stop to educate Greg about amusing a child. “Let me give you a few bucks and you can take him to the zoo.”
Greg frowned. “Did Shelly say it was okay?”
“She’s asleep. I’m sure she won’t object. You might also try the kiddy pool at the beach. He likes to wallow in the water playing hippopotamus. There are lots of other children. He’ll have fun.”
She put in a call to Dr. Erbe, a pediatrician she’d met at a cocktail party welcoming new members to the country club. She apologized for the imposition, not wanting to take advantage of their acquaintanceship to ask for free medical advice. She explained the problem as succinctly as she could. Dr. Erbe suggested waiting for a couple of more feedings before supplementing with formula. Maybe the baby would get the hang of it and all would be well. By then, Rain’s crying was relentless, pitched at a level that would drive any ordinary mortal insane.
With Shelly in such a vulnerable psychological state, Deborah was afraid she’d take out her frustrations on the baby. She finally made up four ounces of formula and fed Rain herself. Rain settled in to eat, taking the entire four ounces before falling asleep. She put the baby in her crib, which they moved into the sewing room down the hall so Shelly could rest undisturbed if the baby fretted in her sleep. Deborah could remember how attuned she’d been to Greg as a newborn, when any slight sound from the crib would have her on her feet and standing over him.
She peered into the guest room where she saw that Shelly was awake. “You can try the breast again when she wakes up. Dr. Erbe says some babies take a little longer catching on.”
“Who gives a shit?” Shelly said, and turned over on her side.
Deborah waited for a moment and when it was clear Shelly wasn’t going to volunteer another word, she went downstairs and cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Twenty minutes later, the baby started crying again. Deborah heard Shelly’s bare feet hit the floor and thump down the hall. Deborah dropped the flatware she was putting in the dishwasher and headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Shelly was leaning over the crib. “Goddamn it, shut the fuck up!”
She was just reaching for the baby when Deborah blocked her arm. “I’ll take care of her. You rest. Everything will be fine.”
“What do you know, you fuckin’ Pollyanna.”
Deborah knew better than to respond. Shelly had reverted to her old ways and any reassurances would be met with hostility.
Shelly stared at her darkly and finally turned on her heel. “Have at it, Deborah. You think you’re so smart, you do it.”
She went back into the guest room and shut the door.
Deborah picked up the baby and took her downstairs. She settled in the rocker, put a diaper across her shoulder, and laid the baby up against her, patting her gently until she erupted in a satisfying burp. Rain was quiet then. Deborah continued to pat her, humming, until the baby drifted off to sleep. She debated about returning her to her crib and thought better of it.
Still holding her, Deborah crossed to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen and lifted the handset. She called Annabelle and gave her a brief account of what was going on. “I need a cradle so I can keep the baby downstairs with me during the day. Do you still have Michael’s on hand?”
“Sure. I set aside all the baby paraphernalia for the next garage sale. I’ve been letting it sit until I was sure I wasn’t going to opt for one more. Let me haul it out and dust it off. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
“Don’t ring the bell. Come around to the kitchen door and I’ll let you in.”
Fifteen minutes later Annabelle pulled into the driveway with Michael in his infant seat next to her, David, Ryan, and Diana in the backseat. She got the kids out of the car, opened the back of the station wagon, and grabbed the cradle by one end. She herded everyone up the drive and around to the back. Deborah was waiting and opened the door before she had a chance to knock. She put a finger to her
lips. “Thank you so much,” she whispered.
“Not a problem. Anything else I can do to help?”
“This is fine. I’ll call later. You’re an angel.”
Annabelle blew her a kiss and ushered her brood of kidlets back to the car. There was a delay while she got everyone settled.
Deborah heard the car start and caught a glimpse of Annabelle pulling out of the drive. She jiggled the sleeping baby on one arm, using her free hand to carry the cradle into the living room. The thick drapes and wall-to-wall carpeting would muffle Rain’s cries if she woke. Maybe with rest Shelly would feel better able to handle the child. Annabelle had not only dusted the cradle, she’d tucked a crib sheet over the mattress and added a pile of flannel baby blankets at one end. Deborah lowered Rain into the cradle, shook out one of the blankets, and covered her. These were blankets Annabelle made by hand as gifts for the newborns among her friends. She also donated blankets to the nursery at St. Terry’s, along with knitted booties and caps, so every new mom, even those without money to spare, would have something warm for her infant to wear home.
Deborah returned to her dishes, troubled by the conflict she could see looming on the horizon. She had never understood child abuse. She’d read occasional accounts of babies being shaken to death, babies being beaten and smothered by parents who lacked the patience or maturity to deal with their screaming infants. She’d even read of one young father who took his baby by the feet and swung her against the wall. Now she could see how such atrocities occurred, tempers simmering to a boil. She had no intention of leaving Shelly alone with the child, but she’d have a battle on her hands. Shelly hated interference, hated any action or comment on anyone’s part that suggested she was falling short. She also hated being mothered and hated being perceived as needy, which didn’t leave many options.
Midafternoon, Deborah knocked on the guest room door and then opened it a crack. “Would you like some lunch? I can make you a sandwich.”
Shelly’s refusal was scarcely audible.
