Christy doesn’t answer. Finally, after what seems like a long time, Mr. Calderon says, ‘Yes, Christina. You must put Jeff’s name on the certificate. The baby must have a father. It’s important for his baptism.”
Christy nods to the clerk, who then asks for the correct spelling of my name and writes it on the form.
“Name of baby?” the clerk asks.
Again, no one speaks. I can see that the clerk is getting annoyed.
“Christina, it is important for us to file your baby’s birth certificate, if for no other reason than that he can then begin to get Medi-Cal. The neonatal unit is extremely costly. And the baby needs a name anyway, so you can start thinking of him as a person and not just as the baby.”
“How about naming him Alfredo, after your father?” Mrs. Calderon asks.
“I don’t care,” Christy says.
God, my son is going to be named after one of the men I dislike most in the world. Not only that, I’ll be reminded of fettucini whenever I hear his name.
“How about Andrew?” I say. I don’t care all that much for the name Andrew either, but it’s the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s a thousand times better than Alfredo.
The clerk looks from me to Christy and back again.
“I’ll tell you what,” she says, taking a small paperback book from her pocket and handing it to Christy. “Let’s leave the mother and father alone for a few minutes. Have you grandparents seen your grandson yet this morning?”
Mr. and Mrs. Calderon both shake their heads no.
“Well, maybe now is a good time. And Christina and Jeffrey here can look through this little book of names and make a decision.”
So the Calderons leave, and so does the clerk, and Christy just lies there, flat on her back, staring out the window.
I take the book from her and begin reading names.
“Alexander—helper of men? Or Curtis—courteous? Or Eric—uncertain meaning? How about Ethelred—noble counsel?” I say, hoping for a laugh, a smile, a sign of life.
“I really don’t care,” she sighs.
“How about Luke? I like how that sounds.”
She turns on me, furious. “I said I don’t care! Name him whatever the hell you want!”
I feel everyone else in the room looking at us, other new mothers and visitors, and I can feel the back of my neck glowing. Christy turns her face to the window again and I continue reading, silently, from the book of names.
When the clerk comes back I tell her the baby’s name will be Ethan Calderon Browning. She looks at Christy, who says nothing, then writes the name on the form and hands it to Christy to sign. Christy doesn’t even bother to read the form. She just signs it and looks out the window again.
I don’t know why I chose Ethan, except that I like the sound, and it means strength, and I think he’s going to need a lot of strength to get through his life—even to get started. And it sure beats Alfredo. I gave Calderon for a middle name because I think his mother’s family name should be in there somewhere, but Browning should definitely be his last name.
It’s not until hours later that I think of Ethan Canin, the guy who wrote the story I would be using for Dramatic Interpretation in New Orleans this very day, if I’d made it to New Orleans. And I thought I didn’t want my son named after anyone. Oh well, it has a nice ring to it, anyway.
On the way home I tell Steve about how Christy acted.
“I was leaving the nursery just as her mom and dad were coming in,” he says. “I heard a nurse talking to them, telling them that new mothers, especially mothers of preemies, are likely to be depressed for a few days, maybe even weeks, after they give birth.”
“She acts like she doesn’t even want the baby now that she’s had him.”
Steve is quiet for a long time, then says, “Maybe now is the time to bring up the possibility of adoption again.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It seemed like a great idea a few months ago, but now . . .”
“Well, no hurry. You and Christy could decide on that months from now if you want. Of course, the sooner the easier for everyone, I suppose.”
I look over at Steve, trying to read him, but I can’t tell if he thinks it’s a good idea, or a rotten idea. I ask him.
“Just a plain old idea,” he says. “You’re at a place in life now where I can’t possibly think I know what’s right for you. I just know that somehow you’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so,” I say.
After dinner I try to call Jeremy at the hotel in New Orleans, but he’s out. I leave a message for him to call me, no matter how late it is when he gets in. It is after midnight when the phone rings.
“Hey, J.B. what’s the haps?”
I tell him all about the baby, and how Christy couldn’t even be bothered to name him.
“She’s a nut case,” was Jeremy’s considered opinion. “How’s New Orleans?”
“You’re missing out, Daddy-O. It’s like one big party on the streets at night—guys standing on the sidewalk, playing the sax or trombone, there’s this trio—a keyboard, bass, and woman singing very sultry songs who play all night long. It’s after two here now and they were still playing when I walked past them on my way to the hotel.”
“How about the tournament?”
“Rogers was all agitated when we got on the plane. He hardly spoke to me, as if it were my fault you were having a baby.”
“But how did you do in the competition today?”
“Hold your horses. I’m getting to that . . . As soon as the plane landed, before we even checked into the hotel, Rogers hurried over to the tournament headquarters and checked the national ratings to see who would be next in line. There was the girl from Sacramento who does the D.I. from ‘Six Degrees of Separation.’ Remember her?”
“Yeah. She always scares me when I have to compete against her. She’s really good.”
“Well, she was next in line after you, so the big chief organizer called to see if she could compete on such short notice. But her mom said the girl was white water rafting down the American River—no portable phones on the rafts I guess. Then they tried to reach the next guy, but he’s in Cancun. So guess who’s next?”
“How would I know? Who?”
“Guess.”
“One of those girls we hung around with at Disneyland?
“One of the ‘D’ girls?”
“No. Better than that. It’s a ‘D’ name, though.”
“Dashan?”
“Yes! Is that not magnificent? Rogers called right away, reached Dashan, bought an airplane ticket for him, and Dashan was banging on my door at midnight.”
“Rogers paid for Dashan’s ticket?”
“Well, Dashan will pay him back. He didn’t have the money right now is all. And your room and meal ticket is already paid for, so that’s no problem.”
I think about how I worked overtime to pay for my hotel and meals. Oh well, they wouldn’t have given me a refund. At least someone from Hamilton High gets to use it.
“So Dashan is taking my place in D.I., but what about the Policy Debate? He and Patrick didn’t even get into Finals at the qualifier.”
“I know. I thought I was absolutely knocked out of Policy Debate when you told me you weren’t going. Up shit creek without a paddle. But Rogers made this special appeal. At first it looked like Dashan couldn’t be my partner, but then someone found some seldom used rule somewhere and it’s going to work. Is that not the cat’s meow?”
“But Dashan doesn’t know how we work together. Will you have a chance to place without me?”
“I don’t know, but I’m happy to have a chance to try. I’m still up shit creek, but at least now I have a paddle.”
“How’s D.I. going?”
“Dashan made finals.”
“How about Trin?”
“She’s out of D.I., but still in with Extemporaneous.”
“How about Oratory?”
“I’m in, my man.”
“
Call me tomorrow night—let me know how Finals go.”
Here’s what happened in New Orleans. Dashan took third place in D.I. and he and Jeremy took third in Policy Debate. Jeremy said he was pretty sure we’d have won it if I’d been along, but who knows? Jeremy took first in Extemp and Trin took second in Oratory.
It was the first time in twenty-two years that a single school had walked off with five trophies in an NFL national tournament. It must have been exciting to be there . . . plus they did a bayou tour and now Jeremy’s in love with Cajun music.
Well, what can I say? I missed the chance of a lifetime, but I got to meet that crooked-fingered little baby when he was only an hour old. I chose right, but damn, I wish I could have had both experiences.
Chapter
19
By the time little Ethan is three weeks old he’s gained enough weight that he doesn’t look like a bag of bones. He opens his eyes a lot more than he did at first, and he can suck well enough to eat on his own. He doesn’t need the oxygen tube anymore. He’s still hooked up to a breathing monitor, but so far he hasn’t once forgotten to breathe.
Christy was in the hospital for five days because of having a cesarean birth instead of the regular kind. The first three days, the nurses practically forced Christy to go see the baby, and to touch him. Lots of times she’d just sit in the nursery and cry. But she likes Ethan better now that he looks more human.
She still seems kind of down, but the hospital social worker is setting Christy up with group counseling. I guess we both have a lot to work through, now that we’re parents. One thing is certain, neither of us considers the possibility of adoption for Ethan. He’s ours now, no matter what.
We’re bringing him home in two days if everything goes well. Christy’s dad painted her room and bought a cradle to put next to her bed. Her mom made new curtains, so everything looks bright and fresh in there. I saw it when I picked Christy up yesterday. Most days we’ve been going to the hospital together and staying through two feedings. Christy gives him one feeding and I do the next. The nurses taught us how to reach through the portholes to support his head while we feed him, and how to lean him forward to burp him after he eats.
Today Christy and her mother and I are going together to the hospital to take a baby CPR course—not just watch and take notes either. We have to show that we know how to do it before the hospital will let us take the baby home.
Because Christy had the baby in a hospital clear down near Disneyland, it’s been more of a big deal to get down there and back every day. Sometimes we’ve had to carpool. Her mom doesn’t drive, and Christy’s not supposed to drive yet because of her surgery, and her dad can’t get off work, so Christy and her mom often ride with me down to Anaheim. Sometimes my mom goes, too.
I think if Ethan had been born at Hamilton Heights Hospital, where he was supposed to be born, we might still not be talking to each other. But we’re learning to get along. Not like we all are best friends, but like we realize we all love the same little person, and that makes it possible for us to talk again.
Christy’s dad said hello to me yesterday evening when I brought over some undershirts and nightgowns for when Ethan gets home. One of the tiny nightgowns looks like a baseball uniform. Even Mr. Calderon had to smile when he saw it.
I can’t believe I’m buying baby clothes and getting all excited when a baby burps, but that’s how things are right now.
I go to the hospital in the morning and see the baby, then work the two to ten shift at the Fitness Club, then start over the next day. When I can, I work extra hours because I’m trying to save money for college and buy things for Ethan. Plus all of the gas to and from the hospital costs extra, too.
When we first get to N.I.C.U., Heather, a nurse who often takes care of Ethan, tells us he’s graduated. She says the unit where he’s been all along is the pre-school and now he’s advanced to kindergarten.
She leads us into another room where Ethan is in a little plastic crib, but not an incubator with a top on it. He’s wearing an undershirt instead of being shirtless the way I’ve always seen him, and he’s wrapped in a blanket.
Heather explains that they’ll keep a close eye on him to be certain he can maintain his body temperature outside the temperature-controlled incubator. It’s important to know he can do this before we take him from the hospital.
The three of us all pass the baby CPR requirement, although Mrs. Calderon is very nervous about it. Tomorrow Christy and her mom, who are designated as “primary caregivers,” are scheduled to go through “a day with baby.” Under Heather’s supervision they’ll give Ethan a bath, feed him, change him, clean his belly-button, the works. I’m not required to be here for this, but I want to, anyway. I think I should be able to take care of my son as well as anyone else can.
August first, Uncle Steve’s birthday, is Ethan’s first party. He’s five weeks old (Ethan, not my Uncle Steve) but really, considering when he should have been born it’s more like he’s one week old. Anyway, I go over to Christy’s, give him his bath and dress him in his baseball outfit. He throws up all over it, so I give him another bath and put him in a clean sleeper.
I strap the carseat into my car, and then I strap Ethan into the carseat. I pack his diaper bag with bottles of formula, diapers, blankets, clean clothes. It’s a major task. At the party, everyone makes cootchy-coo sounds over him. Babies make grown-ups look really stupid sometimes.
By September Ethan has learned to smile, make soft little cooing sounds, and examine his feet and hands. I’m not sure if he’s noticed his crooked fingers yet or not, but I keep showing them to him. Also, there’s a special spot right under his chin which is like a smile button. If I just barely touch him there he breaks into this wide, toothless smile.
He sort of looks like me—not just his fingers, but the dimple in his chin, and maybe the shape of his face. His skin is kind of dark, like Christy’s. I’m glad he’s got her skin. Maybe he won’t get acne like I did.
The evening of September eighth I stop by Christy’s to say good-bye. Jeremy and I are taking off around midnight, hoping to get a lot of desert driving out of the way before noon tomorrow. Ethan is awake and happy. I pick him up and hold him, stretched out on my legs, so I can see his face. “I’ll miss you, little twerp,” I tell him.
“Goo,” he says back, with a smile.
I hold him and watch him for a long time, then put him on a blanket on the floor in the living room. He likes to be around people and noise. Christy walks out to my car with me.
“My dad doesn’t want me to go back to school,” she says. “He thinks I should stay home and take care of the baby
“Your dad’s nuts, Christy. You know that.”
“But someone has to be responsible for the baby.”
“Ethan’s already got a spot reserved at the Infant Care Center,” I remind her. “He can stay there during school hours. What’s wrong with that?”
“Maybe they won’t take care of him right.”
“Christy, they’re professionals. They’ll probably take better care of him than we do.”
“I don’t know why I have to be the one to stay behind and take total responsibility. It’s not fair,” she says, beginning to cry.
“Lots isn’t fair,” I tell her. “It’s not fair that you let yourself get pregnant, either, god damn it!”
“I thought it would be different,” she says in that kind of gasping way she gets when she cries.
“Well, it’s not!”
“I know that!” she says, mad now. “I was so stupid! I thought you would love me more when I was pregnant with your baby, and that we’d live together at your house where people talk nice to each other. I know! I know! It was stupid! Why would I want to live with you anyway? You’re selfish and you think you know everything. And I’ll tell you something else, too, you don’t even know how to make love right. Dashan showed me how good that could be!”
I just stand there, looking at her. “Finished?” I
ask.
“I’m sorry you’re my baby’s father,” she says.
‘Yeah, well I’m not. I’m sorry I’m not older, so I could be a better father right now. But that’s my kid in there and nothing’s ever going to change that. Nothing. That was your decision in the beginning, and now you’re stuck with it,” I say, getting into my car.
I roll down the window and look straight into those green eyes that used to melt my heart. ‘You’re not so great in bed, either, and I bet the big scar across your belly’s not very attractive,” I say as I slam the car into reverse and peel out of her driveway.
I drive straight to Jeremy’s. “I’m ready to leave as soon as I pick up a few things back at the house,” I say. “How about you?”
“Sure. I’ll get my stuff. I’ve already delivered all living creatures but the snake to Stacy’s house.”
“What about the snake?”
“I sold Beatrice to the pet shop. Hated to do it, but I couldn’t find anyone to snake-sit for four years.”
We drive to my house and load up all my stuff. My mom and Steve and I went down to Barb and Edie’s last night and had our last, for a long time, garbageburger. We talked for a very long time until Edie kept hanging around and we realized we were the last people in there and she wanted us to leave.
My mom says she wants to bring Ethan to our house about once a week so he won’t forget her while I’m gone. And Steve says he’s going to stop by and see the baby, too. I hope so. Maybe Ethan’s so young it doesn’t matter, but I want him to have more influences than just the Calderon family.
By the time I say good-bye to my mom again, and run across the street to say good-bye to Stacy, it’s almost eleven. Mom and Stacy stand at the curb and wave to us as we head out for Texas. The trunk is filled with clothes, Jeremy’s computer, and some of his favorite reference books. The backseat is full of more clothes, an ice chest, my portable CD player and my collection of favorite CDs. I also have an album of Ethan’s baby pictures beginning with his first little preemie rat face up to the smiling, fat faced little guy in the polaroid picture I took earlier this evening at Christy’s, before the big blow-up.
Too Soon for Jeff Page 16