I wondered what it would be like to take walks on a beach, cuddle in a big bed with an overhead fan going, and drink tropical concoctions by a tiki bar. Yes, I knew the man I was marrying, but wouldn't it be lovely to get to know each other in a leisurely way? Without someone hollering, “Mom!” in the background? Once in a while, Detweiler would share a glimpse into his past, and I would realize that I didn't know him very well at all. On the other hand, we'd been through so much together that I knew enough to know he had my back—and I had his. But what I really longed for was someone to rub my back. To pay attention to me and only me, just for a while, that's all. In short, I felt cheated, and at war with myself because I knew I was very, very blessed, but I still felt sad. Inside me there was a tug-of-war going on, one side pitted against the other, and I suspect this cognitive dissonance added to my general sense of exhaustion.
Even from my seat at the kitchen table, I could see that the weather outside was truly frightful. Detweiler had studded snow tires on his police cruiser, but I still cringed at the thought of him out there on the roads alone. Much less the thought of him doing his job on the mean streets of our town. Our wedding last month had climaxed not with the taking of our vows, but with a bullet whizzing by. Detweiler's spleen had been nicked, but the doctors hadn't caught his internal bleeding until he lost a lot of blood. Although he was back on his feet, my husband was drawn and moving kind of slow, which is not good when you're a cop. He'd been instructed not to lift anything heavy for six weeks. I couldn't tell if he was adhering to that bit of warning or not, because twice I'd watched him reach for Erik, and he would have lifted the boy, if I hadn't shouted out for him to stop.
Gracie stood at my side, her thick tail whopping me with every wag. She loves Detweiler more than she loves me, even though I rescued her. I don't mind. I think it's cool that they've bonded the way they have. In the summer, when Detweiler picks up his keys and heads out, his leaving is easy on her. In the winter, when he has to get bundled up like this, she whines. All these thoughts raced through my mind, as I watched Detweiler pull on his coat and reach in his pocket for his winter gloves.
He was going to help Leighton put together a bookcase for his lady love, Lorraine Lauber, who was also Erik’s aunt. No one had expected Leighton and Lorraine to fall in love, but they had. Whereas Leighton once lived here in “the big house,” his family home, he and Lorraine now occupied the small house on the edge of our spacious lot. Having them so close was a blessing. Auntie Lorie could watch Erik grow up, and we were near enough to help out when she had a flare up of her MS.
My lower lip trembled as my husband put one hand on the doorknob.
“Aren't you forgetting something?” I asked, puckering up my lips.
“I could never forget you,” he said, sweeping me up into his arms. “You're my whole life.”
CHAPTER 6
Over the next hour and a half, I was a very busy bee. Scratch that. I was more like a mad wasp protecting its nest. I picked a fight with Brawny and Margit. Added to my tiff with Detweiler, I got into three different scuffles or quarrels, to be precise. Only Erik had avoided the wrath of Kiki.
I overheard Brawny telling Margit not to call me with problems. Evidently, there was a question about an album that I'd set aside for a customer. Since Brawny and Margit already rub each other the wrong way, I bristled when I heard Brawny telling Margit that Clancy could handle the situation when she came in later.
“You could have given me the message, let me solve the problem, and that would have been the end of it. Now I’m going to have an unhappy customer to deal with when I get back to the store.”
“The customer will be fine. Clancy will soothe her. She always does.”
I decided to let that go, even though it sounded like a criticism of my customer service skills.
We probably would have had words—or at least I would have had a go at her—except she was scheduled to teach a class at my store. With a smile, she patted my hand and said, “Don’t ye dare go into labor while I’m gone.”
Less than five minutes later, Detweiler had ticked me off because he kept telling me, “Be careful. Mom says you shouldn't…” and that list was longer than my arm. According to Thelma Detweiler, I shouldn't fret, bend over, pick anything up, stand for longer than five minutes, get too hot or too cold, go without drinking water for more than an hour, and other activities too silly to pay attention to.
I felt trapped in my own home. The image of a Push Me Pull You, the mythical llama-like creature in the Dr. Doolittle books sprang to mind. On one hand, I needed to get outside and soak up whatever meager amounts of sunshine I could. On the other, soft surfaces and mounds of covers beckoned me to burrow down and go into hibernation.
Not surprisingly, I leaped toward my cell phone the second it rang, because I was that eager for a distraction. Thelma Detweiler sounded incredibly cheerful. “How about if we go to St. Louis Bread Co.? I know how you love it.”
In St. Louis, we call Panera Bread by its local name, St. Louis Bread Co. and that rhymes with “dough.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “I’d love to get out of the house.”
Since she was driving over from Illinois, I had plenty of time to get ready. Standing in front of the full length mirror, I took note of the extra cleavage I'd grown and how my mighty boobs spilled out from the armholes of my bra. Would I ever be slim? Doubtful.
I'd taken to smoothing my hair with a curling iron. My curls seemed like the only portion of my life I could tame. The styling implement was heating when Anya burst into our bedroom. “Mom? I have to go to the mall. You need to take me. Nicci's there, and she wants me to look at boots with her.”
“Anya? I believe you meant to ask me if I could take you to the mall. You surely did not intend to demand a ride, did you?” This was a new tact I'd been taking. Rather than correct her, I acted as if she'd overlooked something important, usually manners.
“Whatever.” She pouted. “You know what I mean! Look, I really need to go right now. Nicci doesn't have all day.”
Actually, Nicci probably did have all day. Anya’s best friend, Nicci Moore, spent countless hours at the mall.
“I'm sorry, but I have a meeting to attend. I need you to stay here with Erik.”
“What? Babysitting? I'm not your unpaid slave, you know!”
“That's true. Point of fact, we rarely ask you to watch Erik, because we have Brawny, so it won't hurt you to watch him for an hour or two right now.”
I was being (somewhat) unreasonable, and I knew it. Truth to tell, Thelma could have dropped Anya off at the mall and I could bring Erik with me to St. Louis Bread Co. Thelma adored the boy and accepted him as her grandson even though he wasn't related to her by blood. Since I planned on a civilized conversation, Erik was the perfect foil. He would remind both of us, Thelma and me, that we needed to be especially kind to each other.
But Anya's demanding tone struck me wrong. A slave? Could she hear herself talking? If she thought her life was restrictive, she was in denial. Sure, she wanted to be with her friend, but I was going into labor, and then I would be flat out of choices for a long time. It wasn’t much to ask for her to stay home with her brother.
Detweiler had encouraged me to find a second-string babysitter for Erik. Laurel and her fiancé Father Joe were always willing, but they were busy planning their wedding. But my husband had foreseen this day, a time when Anya was eager to leave her little brother behind while she did her own thing. To be honest, I'd actively procrastinated on finding a helper. Erik had come so far since moving in with us that it seemed unreasonable to push our luck, especially with a new baby coming. Why upset him by adding a new face to his world?
No, to my mind Anya was acting like a spoiled brat. Her accusation that I was using her as unpaid labor hurt my feelings. Over the summer, I'd hired her to work at my store and paid her more than she could have made babysitting. Since she's only thirteen, she was lucky to find work at all. I couldn't at her age. Now
she had a nice nest egg, and it had come directly from my profits—and I’d been generous. I’d expected her to cut me a little slack when I needed her help.
“Look,” I said, in an effort to be reasonable, “I'll pay you five bucks an hour to watch your brother. Trust me, Anya, most of us were saddled with watching younger siblings for free.”
“Make it ten.”
That really got my dander up. “I can't believe this! You're holding me up for money! I'm your mother. He's your brother.”
“Not really,” she said.
And then I got very, very mad.
CHAPTER 7
After grounding my daughter for the rest of her life plus thirty years, I called Thelma and told her I’d meet her at Bread Co. That allowed me to make a clean get away, as I left Anya at home to stew in her own juices.
Thelma was delighted to see the little boy and me. Erik loves Bread Co., so we ordered his favorite lunch, a smoked ham sandwich and creamy tomato soup. I was content with my own bowl of tomato soup and an iced green tea. Thelma paid, and that made me slightly uncomfortable, but I decided to roll with it. We took a booth by the front window. I sipped my tea.
“You shouldn't be drinking that,” she said. “It has caffeine.”
“I looked it up. Brewed coffee has 95 to 200 milligrams of caffeine, while the same amount of green tea has 45.”
She paused while dunking a tea bag in hot water. “Right, but the March of Dimes suggests that women cut back on caffeine consumption during pregnancy. There's some concern that too much can kick you into labor.”
“Right now, that sounds heavenly. My skin is so dry I feel like I'm covered in sandpaper. I itch and scratch all the time. I can't sleep. The baby keeps jamming his toes under my ribs. If I push on one side, he strikes at the other. I have heartburn. My thinking is foggy.” I stopped. I couldn't believe I was giving Thelma ammunition for why I should stay home.
“I remember being uncomfortable, but all that fades away when they put a healthy child in your arms.” There was a slight undertone of disapproval, an attitude totally unlike Thelma Detweiler. “That baby is much, much more important that your stupid store.”
The blood drained from my face. I felt light-headed. “Excuse me?”
“Kiki, you’ve been spending too many hours on your feet. For goodness sake, you’re endangering your child! Use a little common sense.” Thelma’s face must have been as red with anger as mine was white from shock.
“The baby is doing absolutely fine, Thelma. The doctor told me he's active, and healthy, and appropriately sized. There’s no reason I can’t continue to work up until I go into labor. None.”
Her mouth flattened into a straight, thin line. “Things can still go wrong, Kiki. Women lose their babies all the time.”
“Mama Kiki, can you lose a baby? Our baby?”
I said, “No,” right as Thelma said, “Yes.”
That raised my ticked-off meter to boiling hot.
“He doesn't need to hear that,” I hissed at Thelma, after I encouraged Erik to go and dump a wadded up paper napkin in the trash.
“It's not right to lie to him.” Her tone was odd, and totally unlike the Thelma I knew.
I had had enough of Thelma Detweiler and her sanctimonious judgments on my behavior. “I am not lying to Erik. I'm simply uninterested in scaring the kid half to death. The doctor says my baby is fine, and he is. I'm not a high-risk mother. Sure things can go wrong, but then, we could get hit by a truck on the way home.”
A nice clerk had given Erik a bag of potato chips. I didn’t notice he was heading back toward our table. He suddenly appeared at my elbow, and the expression on his face told me he’d overheard my casual remark.
“We could get hit by a truck?” Erik dropped his bag of potato chips. As he bent to pick them up, I gently said, “No, honey. Those are dirty. We’ll get you a new bag.”
His little face scrunched up with worry. “Mama died in a car. An axe-see-dent killed Mama and Van. They died. Are we going to die?”
Then he burst into tears.
I desperately wanted to snap at Thelma, and ask, Couldn't you leave well enough alone? But to my credit, I kept my mouth shut.
CHAPTER 8
Monday
“Either somebody gives me a ride to the store or I'm going to call a cab,” I said, facing down Detweiler and Brawny as they sat across from each other at the breakfast table. “I’ve had it with staying home.”
Detweiler set his coffee cup down gently. “Kiki, are you—”
“Yes, I'm sure. On Sunday, Lorraine and I crocheted for hours. She was pooped out by the time she left. Could barely sit up in the recliner. For goodness sake! That woman has MS. She's in no condition to be helping me! She's worse off than I am—and I am bored out of my skull.”
“Lorraine is fine most of the time,” said Brawny. “Lately, she's hit a rough patch.”
“So have I, but my rough patch is the direct result of you two treating me like a pet parakeet.”
I have no idea where that image came from. The words jumped out of my mouth.
However, they did have the desired effect on Detweiler and Brawny.
“Parakeet? As in a budgie?” she asked.
“A pigeon, maybe. A parakeet, doubtful,” Detweiler said.
“Budgie? What's a budgie? Yes, I mean, no. Okay, maybe. I mean a small colorful bird in a cage!”
Detweiler's sigh was long, low, and loud. “If you think you're up to it, I'll take you. But honestly, Kiki, you've been awfully grumpy lately. Are you sure being at the store is a good thing? For you and your customers? You've gotten mad at my mother, at Brawny, at Anya, and at me. That's not exactly the sort of upbeat attitude that your customers have grown to expect.”
“Since I’m the only person at this table who’s ever been pregnant, I'm a lot more qualified to make judgments on my state of well-being than either of you are.”
“Okay,” said Detweiler, slowly. “You want breakfast?”
“No.”
“I'll make you toast and tea.” Brawny pushed back her chair. I was still plenty ticked off at her so I said, “No thanks. If I wanted toast and tea, I would have made it myself.”
She sank back down.
The drive to the store was quiet. We were half-way there when I realized how much I was craving a McDonald's breakfast burrito. But I would have died rather than ask Detweiler to pull up to a drive-through window. However, my husband knows me pretty well. Five blocks from my store, he took a detour that routed us through a McDonald's. I planned to sit there, stone-faced, but I couldn't. “Sausage burrito, please. Make that two burritos. A hash brown, too. A big bottle of water.”
He handed me the bag.
I couldn't help it. I got the giggles.
“Tough lady,” he said, reaching over to give me a hug. “Hang in there, sweetheart. Three days from now, we'll be holding our baby son in our arms. This will all be over with. I know you haven't been feeling well. Guess what Dr. Gretski told me?”
“What?” I said, cramming a big bite of the burrito into my mouth.
“That you shouldn't have another baby until you grow five inches taller.”
“Ha, ha, ha, what a kidder.”
“Seriously. He explained to me that because you're so short, the baby has nowhere to go. That's one of the reasons you're so uncomfortable. No room at the inn, so to speak.”
“Great. Instead of an ob/gyn, I got a comedian. Ha, ha, ha.”
“He said that you’re irritable because you’re uncomfortable and tired.”
“Right.” I swallowed hard rather than say, I’m irritable because your mother keeps sticking her nose into our business.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’m peachy-keen.”
I didn't tell Detweiler how worried I was. How could I possibly be a good mother to three children? Erik needed me desperately. When he first came to live with us, he'd been standoffish toward me. That was fine. I knew I couldn't r
eplace Gina, his mother. But over the last few weeks particularly, he'd become a little love bug. He would sidle over to me and rest his head on my shoulder. He'd slip up behind me and take my hand. I'd feel his tiny fingers reaching for me at odd times when we were all sitting together on the sofa. At night, he hugged me until I pulled his arms free from my neck.
After having lost one mother, he was naturally worried about losing another. So his kindergartener mind decided that keeping an eye on me, holding on to me physically, was his best option for keeping me safe, because to him, close by and safe were the same thing.
I wondered how he would manage when I went into the hospital. I could imagine him being frightened at my absence.
Halfway through my breakfast burrito, I quit eating. The meal that once seemed so appealing no longer interested me.
CHAPTER 9
Monday dragged on and on. We give out coupons with our classes, as a way to encourage our students to come back quickly and make another purchase. That’s in addition to a hefty coupon for a discount if they sign up for our mailing list. It’s all part of our strategy for staying in touch. We also want to help them feel successful right off the bat, so our first email to them reminds our new friends we’re here to help. Often they’ll get home and then discover they have a question. Typically, we see or hear from our new scrapbookers within a week after they take their first class.
Case in point: Jana Higgins. She hadn’t let any grass grow under her feet, metaphorically. She came in, clutching her coupon in her gloved hands. Her head swivel in a wide arc as she took in all the marvelous options we offer for saving memories.
Rather than ask how I could help, I decided to be more direct. “How's the pregnancy going?”
“Fine, how's yours?”
“I am tired of being pregnant,” I said. “I'm ready to have this baby and get on with my life.”
Her smile blinked off and on. “Me, too.”
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