The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  49

  Mid-November, two months before her due date, Anne could barely fit out the door to her deck. Even so, she was feeling pretty good. Clouds hovered above. Just like in Sylvia’s garden, the mint had taken over Anne’s own garden. She peeked underneath the mint in search of fall strawberries, but there weren’t any. The antioxidant blueberries she had planted a few months earlier for healthy smoothies had never taken hold.

  A big surprise was the volunteer blackberry bush. Its prickly leaves curled up; the stems twisted under and over each other, spreading out like giants’ hands. A ripe berry sprang off into her fingers, and she plopped it in her mouth. Delicious.

  She filled an empty pot with the blackberries. There were tons of them. Maybe she’d even make jam. She could watch a YouTube video to figure out how. Wait. Was she becoming domestic now? Inside, she rinsed her hands and the berries, made a smoothie, and put the extra in the fridge.

  The residency had ended a few days before. The Freddy project had become a hit; museum visitors had lined up to adhere pieces. Mr. Willingsby had insisted the buck stay on display at least through the holidays and maybe longer. Anne could now concentrate on adding to her art inventory before the baby came. Her mom wanted her to go home for Thanksgiving, but Anne didn’t want to fly back in her condition and had decided to spend the holiday at Bay Breeze. She would see her mother when she came for the baby’s birth.

  Scanning the knickknack shelf, Anne’s eyes landed on a Lladrólike Madonna. If it were authentic, she couldn’t have bought it for only a dollar.

  She held it up to her stomach and said to the baby, “This is Our Lady of the Garden.”

  She glued the statue in the center of a silver tray ready on the table and slipped a toy tea-set plate behind her head for a halo. She selected and added a ceramic Scottie dog, a rabbit, and a snail at the lady’s feet and two angels above her shoulders. In and out, Anne breathed, getting into the zone.

  She dumped found objects from a baggie onto the table and searched for assorted flower earrings and brooches. She removed their backs and placed them all over the tray, then added broken dishes and florist gems throughout the empty spaces. When the pieces dried, she’d squish glue in the cracks and sprinkle in seed beads.

  Waddling down the stairs, she unlocked Mrs. Landenheim’s door. Thai meowed and ran to his bowl. There was no sign of the kitty.

  “Zorra,” Anne called, filling the food and water bowls.

  She followed the sound of soft mewing to the bedroom. Anne carefully crawled down and peeked under the bed. “Zorra, there you are.”

  The kitty wouldn’t come, so Anne grasped a hanger from the floor nearby and gently coaxed Zorra to her. Anne held her on her lap and caressed her. “You’re okay, sweetie. You must be lonely.”

  Anne got up with Zorra in her arms and went down to the kitchen. Thai was eating from the kitty’s bowl. “Scat!” Anne shouted.

  Thai hissed. Anne swept up the bowl and carried Zorra and the bowl up to her own apartment. Zorra jumped on Anne’s bed.

  “You rest now, sweetie.” Anne stroked her back until Zorra fell asleep.

  Anne moved Our Lady of the Garden to the counter, placed the finally clean hubcap on the kitchen table, and sorted through her found treasures for the right focal point, searching with her heart and not her mind. Settling on a turquoise-haired doll, she glued it in the hubcap’s center.

  Since the hubcap was round like the sun, she wanted to create a sense of sunrays. She encircled the doll with a conch belt and glued down the pieces. On top of those, she added stars she had made at a clay workshop, and blue florist gems. For reflection, she added rectangular mirrors, and for inspiration, she glued word magnets on top of them: breathe, happy, honey, alluring, flame, compassion, star, light.

  She added colorful bottle caps she’d collected from the Flagstaff bed-and-breakfast. Then dumped out milagros she’d purchased at El Santuario de Chimayó, north of Santa Fe, onto a tray, and the tiny vial of holy dirt fell out too. She thought about her visit to the National Historic Landmark pilgrimage site.

  The sanctuary there was gorgeous, with pointed caps on the towers and a metal pitched roof. Folk art decorated the walls. A separate building displayed photographs, discarded crutches, and testimonials of those who claimed to have been healed. She had knelt down into a round pit and into the vial scraped up dirt believed to have healing powers. Seekers of cures rubbed themselves with the dirt. Anne hadn’t planned to do that. But life was unpredictable, and she set the vial on the coffee table by the bed.

  Breathing deeply, she fastened milagros along the hubcap’s edge: a head, a heart, eyes, a rose, a leg like the one she’d given Mrs. Landenheim, a key, an angel, a cabin, and more.

  Anne stepped back to inspect what she’d done. The combination of color, texture, and repetition was perfect. She eyed the centerpiece doll and said, “You go, girl.”

  Oh, wait, she had a better title: You Glow, Girl! If that wasn’t a positive affirmation for her daughter, she didn’t know what was.

  She picked up Zorra and put her in front of the bowl, where the kitty nibbled a few bites. Anne picked out a bowl from her art stash, filled it with water, and put it in front of Zorra, who lapped it right up.

  Anne carried her back to the daybed and cuddled her until they fell asleep. Thai’s scratching outside on the door woke Anne up. Zorra slept at her feet. Anne rolled over onto her back, propped herself up on some pillows, and picked up the vial, ignoring that bully until he gave up.

  She spun the vial in her fingers, pulled up her shirt, popped off the vial’s top, poured the dirt onto her giant belly, and caressed it in. “Here’s to a healthy, happy baby.”

  She opened her journal to the chart where she’d been recording kick counts for week twenty-eight and added, Thursday, 9:00 p.m.

  She lay on her left side, bare feet resting on Zorra, set her phone’s stopwatch, and put her hand on her stomach. “Come on, sweetheart, you can do it.” Anne closed her eyes and waited. Soon the flutterings in her stomach began, feeling like Calder’s Flea Circus, which she’d seen at the Whitney. With a contented smile and love, she patiently counted ten kicks, marking an X on the chart after each one. If this wasn’t heaven, she didn’t know what was.

  50

  At dusk six weeks later, Anne dragged herself to the bay-window table at the Coffee Cup Café. She’d been up off and on all night with some kind of false labor and planned to order a Lyft. But because it was New Year’s Eve, the cost had been prohibitive. She’d thought about canceling on Fay but wanted to see her friend, so she’d put up her umbrella and hailed a cab.

  The baby wasn’t due for another two weeks. She felt the cramp again, but this time it was in her back. She held on to the edge of her chair until the pain passed.

  A couple at a nearby table held hands and smooched. The woman seemed a lot younger than the tuxedoed man, but it was hard to tell. Given his dark Groucho Marx eyebrows, Anne expected him to hold a cigar to his mouth and crack a joke at any moment. Another gentleman, in a red bow tie and sport coat, typed on an iPad.

  Anne waved at Fay as she walked in, wearing a purple pageboy and a smashing silver jumpsuit. She wandered over through the crowded café. “Hey, mate. Did you order?”

  “Sorry. Too beat. Would you please get me some water?”

  “I’ve got you, sister.” Fay put her hand on Anne’s shoulder and got in line.

  Anne felt a cramp again, put her head on the table, and closed her eyes until it passed. At the table behind her, she overheard some women talking.

  “When are you due?”

  “Six months.”

  “Have you fixed up the nursery yet?”

  “Oh, yes—it’s green and orange. No pink for my girl. It’s all about owls. She’s going to be wise. Maybe a scientist or doctor or something.”

  Anne’s daughter would be whatever she wanted to be. But she would wear a lot of pink. She thought about her apartment. Where was she going to put the bas
sinet George was bringing over from Bay Breeze? Diana had already graduated to a larger crib. She’d better straighten up her place tonight to make room.

  “Here you go.” Fay handed Anne a glass of water.

  Thanks for meeting me. New Year’s Eve and all.”

  “No problem; it’s on my way home from work anyway. How’re you feeling?”

  Anne groaned. “I’m glad Sergio and my mom are coming in next week. I’m done being alone for a while. I can’t believe I still have another two weeks to go.”

  “She’ll be here before you know it.”

  Anne felt another twinge and leaned over.

  “What’s wrong?” Fay put her hand on Anne’s arm.

  “Give me a moment.” She tried to catch her breath.

  Fay eyed her, then added cream to her tea and stirred.

  “Something’s wrong.” Anne stood, and a pool of liquid spilled down her legs and over her flip-flops.

  “Blimey! Your water broke.”

  The man in the bow tie and the teens and women at the table behind them stared. Fay grabbed Anne’s backpack and escorted her to the sidewalk. Standing under the café awning, trying to get a Lyft in the rain, was a nightmare.

  Finally, a clunky van pulled up to the curb. “Are you Lyle?” Fay asked.

  “Yep.”

  She helped Anne get in and climbed beside her.

  The van swam slowly back into the dense Sutter Street traffic.

  Fay called the hospital. “I’m with Anne McFarland. Her water just broke, and we’re on our way there.”

  Anne moaned as another contraction hit her.

  Fay grasped Anne’s hands. “Look at me and breathe.” She exhaled short gusts. Breathe, breathe, pant, pant.

  Anne joined in, and soon the pain subsided. “Gawd, Fay, you sounded like a monkey.”

  “Can you drive any faster?” Fay yelled at the driver. “For bloody sake, I might be delivering the baby right here.”

  Lyle turned around with wide eyes, revved the engine, and sped up. “Don’t be having a rug-burn baby in the back of my Chevy!”

  “Get my phone,” Anne cried.

  Fay rustled in the backpack. Anne seized it from her, found the phone and punched a number. “Mom! My water broke, and I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “But, dear, I’m not even there yet.”

  “I know. Change your flight ASAP. Come now!”

  Anne hung up and punched again. “Sergio! You’re gonna be a daddy sooner than later.”

  She screamed as another contraction hit, and she handed her phone to Fay. Lyle turned up his music.

  “Oh my God. Anne, Anne!” Sergio was yelling.

  “Hi, Sergio, it’s Fay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Call you later.”

  “Take a left here, beside the carpark,” Fay hollered.

  Lyle flew into the hospital’s emergency lane and screeched to a stop.

  “Where’s the bloody wheelchair?” Fay hollered.

  Lyle honked his horn. “Okay! Get out!”

  Fay helped Anne down out of the van.

  “Thanks for taking Lyft,” Lyle yelled, and sped away.

  Fay guided Anne to the entrance as an orderly rushed out the door with a wheelchair.

  Anne woke up groggy, as if she’d slept forever. The last she remembered was holding the gooey-faced doll right after the birth. She opened her eyes and tried to sit up.

  “Where’s the baby? Is she okay?”

  “She’s just fine. The pediatrician said she’s perfect. See?” Fay put the lavender-scented bundle in Anne’s arms. She gazed at the little miracle.

  “Drink some water?” Fay held up a straw in a plastic cup, and Anne took a sip.

  “You’re the best friend ever.” Anne smiled at Fay.

  Paul hobbled in on his walker with an IT’S A GIRL mylar balloon tied to it. He leaned over and kissed Anne and then the baby on their foreheads. “What a cutie.” He chuckled.

  George handed her a bouquet of pink roses. “Congratulations!”

  “I’ll put them in a vase.” Fay picked up the flowers.

  “Have you decided on a name yet?” Paul asked.

  Anne scanned the faces of her San Francisco friends. Her eyes landed back on Paul and teared up as she said, “Sylvia. I want to call her Sylvia.”

  Paul’s blue eyes filled with tears too. “She’d like that. How about Sylvie for short?”

  “Ideal.” Anne brushed her fingers across the baby’s peach-fuzz hair.

  Paul touched Sylvie’s tiny hand. “I wish she was here to meet her namesake and enjoy this moment.”

  Anne looked up to the ceiling. “She is. I know she is.”

  51

  How could anything be so beautiful? Anne rocked her three-day-old baby, ran a finger over Sylvie’s soft cheeks, finished nursing, and moved her onto her shoulder.

  Anne’s apartment felt even smaller than usual; besides the art materials, it was crammed with a secondhand rocking chair, the bassinet, and a futon rolled out on the floor, where her mom had slept last night after flying in on a red-eye.

  She came out of the bathroom wearing Anne’s kimono and drying her hair with a towel. “I brought some more gifts. Do you want them now?”

  The door buzzer rang.

  “Later. That’s probably Sergio. Please buzz him up.” Anne couldn’t wait for him to see the baby.

  “How?” her mom asked.

  “Push that button by the door.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” She pressed it, grabbed some clothes from her giant suitcase on the floor beside the futon, and headed toward the bathroom. “I’d better make myself decent.”

  “Where is she?” Sergio bounded through the door, put his bags down, and tossed his fedora on the top of the fridge.

  “Hello to you too.” Despite all their spats and separations, seeing him always made her heart full. No matter what, she’d love him forever.

  He redid his ponytail and kissed her cheeks. She was a god-awful mess. In the mirror that morning, her hair had been a frizzy jumble, her unibrow had grown back in, and mascara had smeared her eyes. She had on sweatpants and a humungous SUPER MOTHER T-shirt her mom had given her that morning. She was so tired and happy that she didn’t care. The two people—no, three people—she loved most in the world were here with her.

  Sergio stared at the baby and watched as Anne patted Sylvie on the back.

  Her mother exited the bathroom in a pink velour sweatsuit, her wet hair up in a scrunchie, and full makeup. Sergio hugged and kissed her.

  “Congratulations to us!” she said. “Want a pop?”

  He didn’t understand her mom’s joke. “Want to hold her?” Anne offered.

  He removed his leather coat, put it on the back of a kitchen chair, sat down, and reached out his arms. When Anne placed the baby in them, his face lit up, but then Sylvie howled.

  He held the baby toward Anne again.

  “Try jiggling her up and down.”

  “Like this.” Her mom crossed her arms and wiggled them.

  He jiggled Sylvie, but she kept crying.

  “Sing to her.” Anne loved it when he sang.

  “Alexa, play ‘’O sole mio,’” he commanded.

  He started singing along with Pavarotti, and Sylvie quieted down.

  He will be a good father after all. Anne moved to the daybed, picked up a scrunchie from the coffee table, and put her hair up. After the song, Sylvie howled again, this time with a high screech.

  With a scared look, Sergio tried to hand her back to Anne, but her mom swooped in and expertly rocked the baby in the chair until she settled again. “Look at those long fingers and toes,” she said, bouncing Sylvie’s feet. “These are enormous for a baby’s. She’ll grow into them like a puppy. She’s going to be tall like you, Anne.”

  “Maybe she’ll be a model,” Sergio said.

  “Or a ballerina,” her mom offered.

  “She’s got the wardrobe for it.” Anne found the pink tutu Sergio had sent
after he’d found out the baby was a girl. Anne put it on her head and wiggled it. “She’ll wear pink but will be whatever she wants to be. I’ll make certain of that.”

  Sergio walked over and pulled a box from his bag and gave it to her. “Speaking of pink . . . Open, amore mio.”

  She tore into the wrapped box and held up a miniature hat with a scarf to match.

  “There’s more; look under the tissue paper,” Sergio said.

  She lifted a pair of booties in the air. “These are adorable.”

  “I designed them myself.”

  Anne handed them to her mom, who read the label: LITTLE FOOT BOOTIES.

  Sergio and Anne laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” her mom asked.

  “It’s a private joke. Sergio calls me Bigfoot, so it’s a take-off on that.”

  “You’ve always been so sensitive about your feet.”

  “I know, but I’m over it now.” Anne and Sergio gazed at each other.

  “That’s nice, dear. Do you want to hold her again, Sergio? Let’s lower our voices. She’s asleep.”

  “Alexa, off,” Sergio said, and traded places with her mom, who gently put the baby in his arms. “Bellissima bambina,” he whispered.

  Anne’s mother handed her wrapped items from her suitcase. Quietly, Anne opened each one individually. Everything was pink: onesies, bibs, socks, footed pajamas. There was also Avon’s Calming Lavender lotion and baby wash and shampoo. Anne opened the lotion, squirted some into her hand, and rubbed it in. Sylvia’s scent.

  “I’m glad you wanted to name her Sylvia.” Sergio rocked the tiny baby, who fit snugly in his arms. “What about her middle name?”

  Anne picked up her journal. “How about after your grandmother? Nonna.”

  “Sylvia Nonna McFarland?” her mother asked.