He sighs. “Mebbe. But what, you’re gonna get in your little red city slicker car and drive out to my homestead? I’m fifteen minutes in a four-by-four to the closest electrical grid. Your little car wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way to where I am, lady.”
My car being the only one outside the clinic, it’s obvious it’s mine, I suppose. And for someone like Mr. Crenshaw, it says everything he thinks he needs to know about me.
“You’d be surprised the kinds of roads my little Audi can handle. It has world-class all-wheel drive, as a matter of fact.”
A snort. “There’s ruts your car could disappear into, and that’s just my driveway.”
“My husband has a pickup, if you must know.” I smile at him. “I already have a handful of clients for whom I do house calls. Once a quarter, meaning every three months, I will come to where you live with antibiotics and vaccines and painkillers—a veritable pharmacy, as well as a whole medical kit. And I’ll treat you, and your whole family.”
“And charge a mint for it too, I bet.”
“I’ve been known to accept value in trade.” I widen my grin. “Eggs, sides of ham, quarters of beef, bushels of fruit and vegetables, things like that.”
He blinks. “Bullshit.”
“Not a word of it, Mr. Crenshaw. I’m taking night classes to get my MD, at which point the name on the outside of this facility, and on the side of my husband’s truck, will be ‘Nadia Fischer, MD, Country Medicine,’ which means I’ll be practicing medicine the way it has been done out in the country for…well, a long time.”
“Why in th’damn-hell would you do a fool thing like that? Ain’t gonna make no damn money that-a way.”
“Because it’s a need which I can fill, and I don’t need money. I’m…independently wealthy, Mr. Crenshaw. I do this because I love practicing medicine. And more than that, I love being a doctor—even if I don’t yet have the official MD after my name yet—to the kind, wonderful folks who live out here, where I live. I do it because I can, and because I want to. I accept value in trade because my clients may not have much by way of money, but they do have pride, and they make a living off the land. And while I may not need money, I do need to eat.”
He eyes me, and I can see his estimation of me rising. “Guess mebbe when I assumed you was a stuck-up city girl, I was wrong.”
“I guess maybe that’s true.” I pat his shoulder. ”Now, sit tight. I need to calculate the dosage for your antibiotics, and get them mixed up. You are very lucky, Mr. Crenshaw, that your wife coerced you into coming out here when she did, or you would have been too far gone for me to be able to do you any good, and then you would be doomed to a lengthy and expensive stay in the hospital.”
He eyes me. “Well, I guess I’d be the fool to not take you up on the offer of visits. My wife has been fighting the arthritis for a while now, and it ain’t gettin’ no better.” His eyes go to my belly. “But, you be careful on those roads, missy. I may be a cranky old country boy with no education and less sense, but I know bouncin’ around back roads like that ain’t good for th’unborn.”
I rub my belly, six months rounded. “Thank you for the concern, Mr. Crenshaw. I’ll be careful.”
Mr. Crenshaw writes out a misspelled I-O-U for several pounds of bacon and pork belly as value in trade for my services, along with a detailed map of how to get to his property.
The rest of the day is slow. The baby kicks, hard, and often, but I’m grateful for it, even when it hurts; being over forty, it’s a minor miracle that I could conceive.
There’s a young man skipping school who comes in for stitches after crashing his four-wheeler, and an elderly woman with a respiratory infection. There is, technically, a doctor in attendance—Dr. Oscar Gutiérrez—but he’s older than dirt and prone to long naps in his office, and he’s perfectly content to let me do things my way. And once I have my MD, which I’m trying to finish before I have the baby, he’ll officially retire and the community practice will be mine.
At closing time, I rouse Dr. Gutiérrez and send him home, and then head home myself.
Nathan is in his workshop, of course; the cabin which was his home when he first arrived at this little lakeside paradise of ours has been transformed into his workshop. Better lighting, more ventilation, less furniture. The bedroom is now an office, the kitchen is still a kitchen with the same antique appliances, but the rest is open-plan, with a workbench and all his tools. He’s a craftsman, now, an artisan. He has a little shop in town where he sells his handmade bookshelves, dining room sets, sideboards, end tables, desks, and anything else he takes his fancy to craft, as well as his now-trademark and locally famous wildlife carvings. Which are, I’m proud to say, garnering attention beyond our little community. There’s even been talk of a few places in Atlanta giving him shelf-space.
Mainly, he just likes working with wood. Making things. Letting the wood tell him what it wants to be and helping it become that. He loves doing it, and he’s amazing at it. And the beautiful fact is, he’s doing well enough at it that he can almost entirely support us with his woodworking business.
Which, of course, we don’t need. He had quite a bit saved from his career as a Hollywood set builder, as well as a few real estate investments a friend once convinced him to buy into which have panned out profitably. And I have the massive windfall Adrian left me, which I’ve invested so we’ll be comfortable for the rest of our lives.
More importantly, we can focus on doing what we love, and raising this baby.
I stand in the open doorway of Nathan’s workshop, watching him. He’s oblivious, for the moment, absorbed in his latest piece. It’s a rolltop desk, modeled after an antique one he found on the side of the road on one of my house calls a few weeks ago. He made one copy of the desk, and it sold so fast he’s planning on making a few of them.
I love watching him work. His gaze is soft, sort of distant, as if he’s listening to a voice only he can hear. No two pieces he makes are ever alike; each one receives a unique thumbprint of artistry, a touch here and here, which makes it beautifully and uniquely itself. This one, for example, is getting an elaborate system of cubbyholes and hidden drawers which the previous one lacked.
Eventually, he notices me, sets his tools down and hurries over to me. “How long have you been standing there, honey?”
I lift up on my toes to kiss him. “Oh, not long, just a minute or two.” At that moment, the baby does a cartwheel, which I assume will be followed by an extensive program of calisthenics and gymnastics; I press Nathan’s palm to my belly over the movement. “Here, feel.”
His eyes close, and a smile of blissful joy lights up his features. He sinks to his knees, cupping my belly with both hands. “Hi, little one. You dancin’ for mama?” He kisses my belly with delicacy and gentility, as if I’m made of porcelain and starlight.
“Doing the conga, more like,” I say, with a wince and a chuckle. “Or maybe an Olympics floor routine.” I hiss as he or she twists, rolls, and then seems to kick and punch me in at least four different places. “Hoooo, wow. It has to a boy, because he’s as strong as his daddy.”
He keeps his hands on my belly, feeling. “Nope. Girl. She’s strong like her mama.”
“Guess we’ll find out in a couple months, won’t we?” I feather my fingers in his hair as he holds my belly in his big hands, and sings some tune to him or her, under his breath so I can’t quite make out what it is. “I have that ultrasound down at the clinic next week, don’t forget.”
“Won’t miss it for the world.”
Being over forty, I’m considered high risk, so I’ve gotten regular ultrasounds through my pregnancy. An unnecessary precaution, so far. The baby is huge, strong and healthy—so much so my doctor is planning on inducing me a couple weeks early, because the baby is looking to be big enough that if I were to go to term it’d be risky for me to try to deliver naturally, which is my plan.
He stands up. Grins at me. “I’ve got something for you.”
&n
bsp; I tilt my head. “You do? What is it?”
He strides across the workshop, brings over a wooden box. He made the box himself, obviously. It’s oak, polished and stained to a glossy shine. There are no fasteners or metal, only cleverly joined wood. The top lifts off, and within is a bedding of straw, cradling a carving.
It’s us, I can see, before I’ve even lifted the carving out. Carefully, I withdraw the carving from its bedding. I know what it is immediately: a representation of our wedding photo, framed and standing on our mantle: Him and me, on our dock, at sunset. He’s wearing a tux, I’m in an ivory mermaid dress, my hair long and loose and curled into wide spirals. We’re facing each other, hands joined at our waists, about to kiss. Our bodies form a heart, framing the setting sun.
Nathan has captured this photo in white pine, in extraordinary detail, in figurines some six inches tall. Individual fingers, even eyelashes, tendrils of hair, his beard, the planks of the dock under our feet. It’s unpainted, just polished and stained, and the more beautiful for it.
My eyes start to sting. “Nathan, my god…it’s incredible.” I blink the happy tears away. “But…why? I mean, why today?”
He smiles, an amused smirk. “You mean you don’t know?”
I frown. “It’s not our anniversary, I know that. I may have pregnancy brain, but I know our anniversary.”
“Not our wedding anniversary, no.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Nope.”
I huff. “Are you really going to make me guess?”
He tugs on a lock of my hair. “One more guess, sweetheart. Then I’ll tell you.”
“It’s not the day we found out I was pregnant.” I hold up a finger to forestall him telling me—I have an inkling, and it’s forming into knowledge. “Oh! I know: the day we met.”
“Bingo.” He places the carving back into its nest of straw, and leads me out onto the porch of his workshop. The same rocking chair sits there still. “I was sitting here, reading. You pulled up in that car, and I saw you for the first time. It was three years ago, today.”
“We didn’t actually meet the first day I arrived though, you know.” I’m teasing him. “It was the next day.”
“Don’t split hairs with me, woman. Today is the three-year anniversary of the day I first brought you coffee. You were on your porch, and you were wrapped up in your favorite blanket.”
“And seriously jonesing for coffee,” I tease. “I fell in love with you for a lot of reasons, but I think that cup of coffee was the first step.”
“I know the date, because I’m thankful more and more every day for having met you. You’ve changed my life in so many ways that I can’t even begin to list them all. And I guess I just wanted to make you something to memorialize the day you first began saving my life.”
I laugh, but it’s a wet, choked sound. “Stop, Nathan. I already married you, you big sentimental goon. You don’t have to try and make me more in love than I already am.”
“But I’m going to. Or try, at least. Every day.”
I cling to him, nuzzle kisses just under his beard. “Have you thought about names?”
“Yeah. It’s a girl, and her name is Leanne Belle Fischer. B-E-L-L-E. Leanne for Lisa’s middle name, and Belle in honor of Adrian.”
“And if it’s a boy?”
“It’s not. But, if it is by some chance, Robert Thompson Fischer.”
Robert, for Adrian’s middle name, and Thompson, for Lisa’s maiden name.
“Perfect.” I look up at him. “You’re really certain it’s a girl?”
“I know it.” He smiles down at me. “She’ll have my hair and your eyes.” He traces a finger over my temple. “You like the names? I’ve been thinking on ’em for a while.”
“I love the names. They’re exactly perfect.” I try the girl name out loud. “Leanne Belle Fischer.”
“We can talk about it more if you’re not sure.”
I shake my head. “No.” I kiss his cheekbone, and then his lips. “Nathan, Nadia, and Leanne Fischer.”
I took his name. He told me I could keep Bell if I wanted, but I knew part of moving on and starting a new life was taking his name when I said, “I do.” I knew it’s what he would have wanted. Adrian, I mean.
There are still days where I miss him. I wrap the blanket he bought me around my shoulders and I sit on the dock, and I remember him, and I let myself miss him, let myself think about him. Nathan recognizes it, and gives me that space. He has his days, too. I see it in him, and I give him that space. He usually goes for a hike in the woods, spends the day out there by himself, and when he comes back his eyes are clear and his lips once more hold that smile that so lightens my heart.
Our wedding was just him, me, Tess, and a justice of the peace, out here on the dock. And by justice of the peace, I mean the county sheriff, with whom Nathan is good friends. We had a small ceremony, just the essentials of I love you and I vow and I do, and then we went into town and spent the evening with our adopted community, celebrating.
What else could you ask for?
Nothing, I think.
* * *
“One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten!” He’s holding my hand, counting out the seconds as I push.
When he gets to ten, I gasp for breath and let myself cry a little, moan, whimper, and his hand is there, in mine, letting me squeeze it until I’m sure I’ll break it.
He wipes sweat off my forehead, kisses me. “You’re doing great, honey. Just a little more.”
“I can see the crown!” the doctor says, from down between my legs. “All right, here comes a contraction. Ready, mama? Push!”
Nathan counts, and I push, teeth gritted and clenched, straining. Even through the epidural, the pressure is immense. Nathan gets to ten and I start to relax, catch my breath.
“Push again for me, mama! Don’t stop now; you’ve almost got it! I’ve got the head; one more good push and you’re done. Come on, push for me, now!”
I suck in my breath and set my teeth, tuck my chin to my chest and bear down as hard as I can, eyes clenched shut and sweat pouring down my face. Nathan is just holding my hand, now, squeezing back and watching.
Suddenly, abruptly, impossibly, the pressure is gone.
“Great job, mama!” The doctor, the resident OB/GYN rather than my personal doctor, is an older man, thin, lean, with small, nimble hands and a soothing presence. “Baby is out, I just have to…” A pause. “There we go.”
I can’t see, my eyes are blurry, and I’m dizzy from pushing, and I feel Nathan beside me, but he seems stunned. There’s a gasp, a tiny sound. And then a cry, thin and wavering and very, very angry.
“Come here, dad,” the doctor says. “Cut the cord for me, right there, between my fingers. Great. We’ll just clip it off…”
And then I see him bringing me a naked messy bundle, howling with outrage and indignation and shock, and I have my baby in my arms. Wriggling, slimy, and so, so beautiful. Pink flesh, a thick crown of jet-black hair, just like Nathan’s and mine.
“It’s a girl,” Nathan murmurs in my ear, choked up, awed. “It’s Leanne.”
I’m crying, but now I can see more clearly, and she’s beautiful and perfect, ten fingers and ten toes and a loud voice. My gown has slipped, and she’s against the bare skin of my chest, little tiny hands waving, pawing at me and the air. Nathan’s huge finger touches her hand, and for some reason the sight of his huge finger bigger than her whole hand just makes me sob.
“Mom, can dad hold her before we get her cleaned up?”
He crouches, and I extend the precious delicate bundle up to him, and he has never been so gentle as when he cradles her in his arms, and he stares down at her with tears in his eyes, a big strong manly man not afraid to cry with joy and being overwhelmed in a roomful of strangers.
I’m not done—I feel another contraction, and there’s another flurry of activity as I deliver the afterbirth and placenta, and the baby is
being measured and weighed and tested and cleaned and I’m so exhausted—so thrilled, overwhelmed, joyful, grateful, but just bone tired. It was twelve hours of labor, getting to a dilation of six, and halfway effaced but not progressing past that for hours and hours, and then all of a sudden I was fully dilated and effaced and it was baby time.
And now, here comes the nurse with the cart, and our little baby burrito in that blue and pink and white blanket and the little beanie hat. She’s warm, mewling quietly as the nurse settles her into my arms. Nathan watches as the nurse helps me get Leanne cradled in position, and her little mouth searches, and then she finds my nipple and latches on, and her suckling is strong, insistent.
“So beautiful,” Nathan whispers, watching. “You did so good, honey. I’m so proud of you. She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, and I’m amazed by how strong you are.”
His hand is on my shoulder, and I reach up with my free hand, the baby cradled against my chest with the other. Hold his hand. “She looks like you,” I say.
I’m a mother. A mommy. I’m overwhelmed, and so happy.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’m not sure if I’m talking to God, or Adrian, or Nathan, or even to Leanne for making me a mommy, but I’m thankful.
The art to living is hard to learn, there’s grief and loss and sorrow and pain, but there’s also joy and fulfillment and meaning, and you can’t have one without the other. The pain makes joy more potent, I think. It doesn’t mean you seek the pain or want it or like it, but when you find the joy after the pain has healed, you understand more fully that the dawn of redemption only comes after the long night of sorrow has passed.
I found mine. The sorrow was long and the pain deep, so much that there were days I wasn’t sure I’d find any more tomorrows, that I wasn’t sure there’d be any more joy. But yet, here I am.
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