Just Once

by Lori Handeland

  ‘Most of them are hardly used. Babies grow like grass. Besides, it was fun to talk to people. Listen to their stories about their kids.’ She smoothed her hand over a blanket with purple pastel kittens, then set the top back on the tub and closed it with a click. ‘I wanted you to see that – except for the crib – I’m ready.’

  He wasn’t. Would he ever be?

  ‘Have you thought of names?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. He’d tried not to think of it at all.

  Sadness flitted through her eyes, but she forced a smile. ‘I have a few, but we’ll wait and see what he or she looks like first. Something might occur to us.’

  She started to shove the plastic tubs back into the closet, but he shouldered her away again so that he could. By the time he finished, she was hauling the pieces of the crib into the center of the room.

  ‘Fancy, come on!’

  ‘What?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘You gotta quit lifting stuff.’

  ‘Where is that written?’

  ‘Didn’t your doctor tell you to take it easy?’

  Who was her doctor? How could he not know that?

  ‘No. He said I should do what I usually do.’

  ‘You usually carry big pieces of wood, haul heavy tubs of crap …’ She frowned and seemed a little hurt, so he hurried on. ‘Paint a bedroom? Weed the garden?’

  ‘Yeah. Every damn day.’

  He suddenly caught a clue. Her feelings weren’t hurt; she was pissed.

  ‘I’ll put together the crib,’ he said. ‘You should lie down.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie down!’ She threw up her hands. ‘I want to put the crib together before the baby comes.’

  ‘I think we’ve got time.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Don’t we? Are you feeling …?’

  What would she feel? How would she feel?

  Why hadn’t he gone to the birthing classes with her? Because he wasn’t here. He was never here.

  Charley started grabbing random pieces of the crib and hoping they fit together. They did not.

  ‘You never read the instructions.’ Frankie waved them around.

  ‘I hate instructions.’

  ‘You also hate putting things together.’

  ‘Things never go together right.’

  ‘Because you don’t read the instructions.’ She opened the booklet. ‘Find part A.’

  He stared at the jumble of parts. ‘How?’

  Frankie threw the booklet at him. Since it was paper, it fell harmlessly on the pile of parts between them.

  ‘You should probably calm down.’

  The glare she gave him … Shit, why had he said that?

  She clenched her fists, closed her eyes. Her face had turned an alarming shade of fuchsia. ‘I feel like I’m going to explode.’

  ‘Baby …’ he began.

  Her eyes opened. She glanced down. Her shorts were wet; so were her legs and the carpet too. Had she exploded?

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Baby. Now. We should probably go.’ She started for the door.

  ‘Go?’ he echoed, hurrying after.

  ‘To the hospital. It’ll be hours yet, but Dr Creviet said to come in right away if my water broke.’

  Her water had broken, so kind of an explosion, though it had been more of a trickle. He’d always thought when a woman’s water broke it was like a tidal wave.

  Frankie started down the stairs, waddling precariously.

  ‘Whoa, hold on. I’ll—’ He tried to figure out how he could pick her up.

  She waved him off. ‘I outweigh you now. Forget it.’ Then she doubled over. ‘Ouch.’

  Panicked, Charley dived forward to break her fall.

  She didn’t fall. She sat on the step, put her head between her knees and breathed. A minute later she straightened. ‘I should have some time before the next one.’

  Then she went down the rest of the stairs on her butt while Charley hovered helplessly at her side.

  ‘My bag’s in the front closet.’

  He retrieved it, snatching his cameras along the way.

  Frankie picked up her purse, tossed him the car keys. ‘You drive.’

  He opened the door. ‘What would you have done if I wasn’t here?’

  ‘Same thing I always do, Charley.’

  He opened the passenger door of the Dodge Caravan in the driveway.

  ‘I handle it.’ She plopped into the seat.

  He closed the door. Since when did they have a mini-van?

  The drive to St Michael Hospital on Villard Avenue was a blur, as was checking in and registration. He walked alongside Frankie’s wheelchair, biting his lip every time she experienced a contraction.

  The room was so white – walls, tile, sheets, pillows – he felt like they were in a Stanley Kubrick movie. The only color in the place was Frankie. The only color in any place was always Frankie.

  He stood around feeling helpless while a nurse assisted his wife into a hospital gown, also white, then peeked beneath it. ‘You’re at four,’ she announced. ‘I’ll be back to check on you. Use the call button if you need me sooner.’

  Charley wanted to beg her to stay. He had no idea what he was doing.

  ‘Where’s the doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘On a gorgeous day like today, probably playing golf.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’

  ‘Not when I’m at four.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘My cervix is dilated to four centimeters.’

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Yeah. I can’t wait to find out what ten feels like.’

  ‘It’s going to keep happening?’

  ‘How do you think I get this basketball out of me without something …’ She illustrated a widening circle with her hands.

  Charley gulped at the thought of any part of him widening that much so something that big could come out. Why on earth did women give birth? And after they did it once, what nut job did it again?

  Another contraction came and Frankie closed her eyes, breathing slowly until it was over.

  ‘Does that help?’

  ‘Nope. But it gives me something to do.’

  ‘How long will this take?’

  ‘Hours.’

  He’d known that; he’d just hoped he was wrong.

  ‘This is going to get worse before it gets better. Maybe you want to …’

  ‘Yeah!’ He jumped up, headed for the door. ‘You’re right. Thanks.’

  He snatched his camera bag, found his favorite Nikon body and a wide-angle lens. He made sure he had color film in it – though with all this white … maybe he should shoot black and white. He pulled out a second camera, added a portrait lens, then loaded it with black and white film.

  When he returned to the bed, Frankie stared at him oddly. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought …’ Her eyes lowered. ‘Never mind.’

  He glanced at his bag, sitting right next to the exit, and knew what she’d thought. That he was going to keep going straight out that door. She had every right to and he felt like a slug.

  ‘I promised I’d be here for this,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  ‘Because you promised.’ Her disappointment was obvious.

  She wanted him to say he was there because he wanted to be, because he was as excited about the baby as she was. But he couldn’t lie. However, there was one truth he could give her.

  ‘Because I love you, Fancy. I will always love you. Nothing will change that.’ He kissed her. ‘Nothing … As long as we both shall live, right?’

  She peered into his face for a long time and he started to get scared. Then she smiled, though it was still sadder than he liked, and she took his hand. ‘Right.’

  The nurse returned and announced, ‘Still at four.’

  Hours passed that seemed like days.

  A different nurse arrived and announced, ‘Five!’

  He thought Frankie might eat the woman alive.

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nbsp; He helped her walk.

  She called him names.

  They played some cards.

  He wished he hadn’t quit smoking.

  Through it all, he took pictures. He couldn’t help it. Pictures were what he did.

  The third nurse peered between Frankie’s legs and announced, ‘Six. One more and I’ll call the doctor.’ Then she frowned at Charley and said, ‘You need to put away the cameras. No one wants to see this.’ She waved her hand in the general direction of Frankie.

  ‘No,’ Charley said, and kept shooting. He’d been told to put away his cameras by bigger, badder, crazier people than her.

  He continued shooting right through the next few announcements.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Nine!’

  ‘Time to push.’

  Another nurse said, ‘You need to be coaching your wife, not playing with your new toy.’

  He glanced at Frankie, who rolled her eyes and said, ‘I can handle this. Do your thing.’

  God, he loved her.

  ‘We’ll see what Dr Creviet has to say about this.’ The nurse stalked off.

  Dr Creviet merely gloved up and moved to the end of the delivery table. ‘Just stay out of my way.’

  Bleeding, sweating, cursing, straining. His wife was a goddess.

  Charley recorded all of it. He couldn’t stop.

  But when the tiny dark head emerged from between her legs, then the equally tiny body slid out too, he was stunned into inertia. All he could do was stare.

  ‘You have a daughter.’ Dr Creviet plopped the baby on to Frankie’s belly.

  Charley had thought he’d seen beauty before. He hadn’t been impressed. Now he understood why.

  He’d never seen beauty until right now.

  ‘Lisa,’ Frankie said. She was crying.

  Strangely, the baby looked like a Lisa.

  Frankie stared at the child as if she’d never be able to stop.

  Charley’s finger, poised on the trigger, twitched, fired.

  He hadn’t thought beauty could change anything. But in that moment, beauty changed him.

  Hannah

  Washington DC. Summer, 1991

  ‘I miss being touched. I miss being kissed.’ Heath’s blue eyes were suspiciously shiny.

  With tears, or with fever? Could be either one or both these days.

  Hannah sat on the sofa at his side and took his hand. ‘I touch you.’ She kissed him on his dry, cracked lips. ‘I kiss you.’

  ‘I miss sex.’

  She sat back. ‘You’re on your own there.’

  He laughed and her heart jumped. It had been so long since he’d laughed.

  Once he’d been diagnosed with AIDS, Heath’s days of being the life of the party were over. Kent not only stopped seeing him, he’d fled DC. Heath’s multitude of friends waned. He tried to make new ones; however, in 1991, if you were gay and emaciated, with a few leprosy lesions, no one wanted to talk to you let alone hang out.

  He wasn’t sick yet, or at least not really sick. The kind of sick that would only get sicker. The kind of sick so many gay men were all over the country, all over the world. They said things were getting better, but so far, Hannah wasn’t convinced.

  The doorbell rang.

  Hannah’s heart stuttered, then began to race.

  ‘Charley!’ Heath hurried to let him in, giving Hannah time to smooth her hair, blow into her palm and see if her breath was OK. Generally be the pathetic idiot she always was when Charley came to call.

  He wasn’t calling for her but for Heath. Still, he was here. Woo-hoo!

  ‘Hey!’ Charley clapped his big hands on Heath’s shoulders and gave him a hug. ‘A good one’ as Heath called them – tight and long with a little shoulder rubbing at the end.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Charley smiled in her direction and she stood, hoping her white chinos didn’t have a stain on them, not that Charley would notice.

  He didn’t notice things like that. In truth, he barely noticed her.

  She picked up her purse and followed the two of them, already talking about some pitcher who’d had a perfect game. Charley had gotten Heath interested in baseball – Lord knew how. But it had been a good thing. There were baseball games on TV all the time. Heath could watch a game instead of going out with friends. Only Hannah knew that no one had called and asked.

  Heath had a check-up today. Charley had asked to go along and take some shots. Whenever he was in town between assignments, he met up with them and recorded whatever was happening in Heath’s ‘Battle with AIDS’. So far it hadn’t been much of one. She knew that wouldn’t last.

  Charley had gone into You with Heath, taken photos of him in the infamous bathroom, at his desk, talking with co-workers. When she’d seen the slides of that day, she’d had to go into her room afterward and fight not to cry. Was she the only one who noticed how Heath seemed to have an invisible bubble around him that no one would step past?

  Same thing happened when Charley accompanied Heath to a club. The photo of her brother sitting at the bar with his drink – so thin and pale – while others danced in the background and the two seats on either side of him remained empty was excruciating to contemplate.

  And it should be.

  Charley wanted to record the truth. He wanted the world to see, to know, to understand and maybe to change, which wouldn’t happen without pictures that made people squirm.

  In the cab on the way to the physician’s office, Charley asked Hannah how work was going.

  ‘The same. Busy. Always something happening at National Geographic.’

  His blue eyes narrowed. Sometimes she felt like she was being recorded and he hadn’t even lifted his camera.

  ‘Did you tell Charley how you plan to be editor-in-chief?’ Heath gave her a soft arm-punch.

  Hannah shrugged, embarrassed. Right now, that aim seemed impossibly high.

  ‘Then you should probably transfer to another part of the magazine soon,’ Charley said. ‘The longer you stay in the photography department the harder it’ll be to get out of the photography department.’

  ‘I like my job.’ And she certainly wasn’t going to start a new one while all this was going on.

  ‘You don’t have to put your life on hold until I die.’

  Hannah straightened as if she’d been poked in the butt with a stick. ‘You’re not going to die.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Heath turned his head and stared out the window.

  Charley took a picture.

  For the first time ever, Hannah wanted to smack him.

  ‘What the hell?’ Heath murmured.

  In front of the doctor’s office, people marched back and forth with signs.

  God Sent AIDS to Punish Gays.

  Homos are Possessed by Demons!

  Gay is NOT OK.

  AIDS is Not a Disease; It’s a Cure!

  ‘You getting out?’ the cab driver asked.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ Heath said.

  Charley set his hand on Heath’s shoulder. ‘Up to you, pal.’

  ‘Take us back to the apartment,’ Heath said.

  ‘No.’

  Charley and Heath stared at Hannah as if a dog had sat up and spoken.

  ‘Why should we leave? They should leave.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re going to,’ Charley said. ‘And no one’s going to make them. Right to assembly and all that crap.’

  Heath’s laugh sounded a bit cackly.

  Hannah got out of the car.

  Heath tried to grab her but he wasn’t fast enough.

  Hannah approached the demonstrators. If she thought her heart had pounded when Charley arrived, that was nothing compared to how it was thundering now. Was it because she was scared, or because she was so damn mad?

  Yes.

  When they saw her coming, they formed a line, men, women and – really? – a child, a young boy, perhaps ten years old. That almost made her as ill as the signs.

 
The man in the center, big all over – biceps, legs, gut, chin – jutted that chin out. ‘Do you have AIDS?’

  ‘Not your business.’

  The woman next to him – as tiny as he was large – seemed dwarfed by her huge HOMO Sex is a SIN sign. ‘IV drug use is a sin too,’ she said.

  ‘Good to know.’ Hannah tried to walk past her.

  Another woman – Olive Oyl skinny – stepped in her way. ‘Sex outside of marriage is a sin too.’

  Instead of backing up, Hannah got in her space. She was more mad now than scared and she liked it. ‘What about a transfusion? Is that a sin?’

  The woman exchanged an uneasy glance with the others.

  ‘Because hemophiliacs – who are born that way and therefore made that way by God, right? – need transfusions to live. And almost all of them have AIDS now.’

  More uneasy glances were exchanged.

  ‘What about sex with a husband who fucked someone with HIV?’

  The teeny woman gasped, dropped her sign and covered the ears of the ten-year-old, whose eyes were so wide Hannah thought they might pop out of his head.

  ‘Watch your language!’ the protestor said.

  ‘You first.’

  Every one of the demonstrators appeared confused.

  ‘In that scenario I just described, no one’s gay. I suppose the husband might be a closet gay, screwing—’ She winked at the woman who’d told her to watch her language; the woman pushed the boy behind her. ‘The closet gay is screwing a man and he gets HIV, though he could just as easily have slept with a woman who’d been infected through no fault of her own either.’

  ‘Adultery is a sin,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Gotcha. But the wife hasn’t done anything wrong. Why would God punish the only one in that situation who is blameless?’

  Silence met her question.

  ‘Seriously. I really want to know.’

  The big guy peered down his huge chin at her. ‘It’s not for us to decipher God’s plan.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Hannah marched up to an elderly man who held the AIDS is God’s Punishment sign and before he figured out what she meant to do – before she figured out what she meant to do – she snatched it out of his hand. ‘So this one needs to go.’

  Hannah ripped it in two. The shriek of the cardboard was so satisfying she nearly had a very sinful orgasm.