“Mother, is that what you think?! That unless my husband is gay, the breakup is my fault?”
“Of course not, darling, but you know what imbeciles people can be.”
“I certainly do,” I shot. “Might I remind you that you and Daddy divorced when I was six months old? Did anyone say it was your fault? Or did you just tell everyone he was gay?”
“Lucy,” she said with overdone sympathy. “Your father was a drug addict.”
“Mother, frankly, I can see why.”
I hated when my mother called my father a “drug addict.” Yes, he smoked pot daily, and did more than his fair share of LSD, cocaine, and heroin, but he did other things too. Admittedly, they were not necessarily performed as coherently as they may have otherwise been, but to call Sammy a drug addict seemed to detract from all his other qualities. Drug addicts were useless losers who pissed on themselves in alleyways. Guys who simply did drugs on a daily basis were something different. They were musicians. He never missed a visiting Sunday, a school play, a horse show, or a parent-teacher conference. He had an IQ of 146 and could debate just about any issue with anyone. So to call him a drug addict really gave a very one-dimensional picture of my father. I’ll admit, he wasn’t Pa Ingalls, but we didn’t live in a little house on the prairie either, so I don’t know why Anjoli always needed to use that tired old characterization with me. The man was dead. Hadn’t she already won Parental Survivor?
Anjoli burst into laughter. “I must say, darling, you certainly did inherit his comedic delivery.” Every time I am convinced she is nonmaternal, she does something incredibly warm and nurturing. Just as I’m convinced she’s trying to body slam a dead man, she acknowledges that Sammy was quite funny. This woman was so infuriatingly inconsistent I wanted to scream. She smiled, and I adored her again.
“How long do you intend to live this way?” Anjoli asked, again brushing the hair from my eyes.
“Will you stop with the hair?!” I snapped.
“I want to see your eyes.”
“Then look at them. There’s no hair blocking your view. Why do you keep brushing my hair away? What do you want, to just pet me like a cat?”
“Maybe I do. Is that such a crime?”
I moved next to her on the couch and put a pillow on her lap. I was about to rest my head on it when Anjoli protested. “You’re not planning to put your head on my legs, are you?”
“Problem?”
“Darling, my circulation. Please, rest your head next to my legs, not on top of them. I’ll get varicose veins.”
The doorbell rang. My mother glided to the front door to greet the traveling waiter from Zen Palate. I overheard that his audition went well, but that he wasn’t sure he looked Russian enough to play one of the Cossacks in Fiddler on the Roof. With that, I glanced around the corner to see the most beautiful Puerto Rican young man I’d ever seen. His brown eyes were so wide and piercing, I almost floated from my seat toward him. I think Anjoli’s apartment has some weird effect on guys because every man who passed through those doors in the last three weeks was quiver-worthy.
I heard Anjoli tell the guy that West Side Story was coming back to Broadway next season and that she knew the director. Of course she could get him an audition, she assured. “You are coming to my New Year’s Eve party, aren’t you? You’ll meet Tommy then.”
New Year’s Eve party? What New Year’s Eve party?
Chapter 9
Never let a comfortable environment fool you. It’s those times when you think you’re in the absolute safest place when disaster strikes. I’d claimed a favorite spot in Anjoli’s living room—the far end of the sectional facing the fireplace and Christmas tree. A bright light craned over my seat so I could always read, even when Anjoli decided to dim the main lights so the tiny white holiday lights would sparkle. And just off to my left was a wooden table just big enough to hold my mug, book, and cell phone.
The sun had set and it was officially New Year’s Eve, a night filled with the promise that tomorrow was another year. A clean slate. A fresh start. Anjoli and Alfie were at Jefferson Market picking up some last-minute items and I was curled up on the couch finishing the last few pages of a lovely novel. I felt a rare sense of peace. Then I felt a sharp cramp that made me drop my book and shout. I felt warm blood rushing out of me, soaking my underwear and bottoms. Panicked, I reached for my cell phone to call Anjoli before remembering that she doesn’t carry one. She believes they cause ear cancer. I inhaled deeply and tried to fight back the tears while dialing 9-1-1. “Yes, I need help. I’m having a miscarriage and I’m home alone,” I said as calmly as I could. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I continued answering the dispatcher’s questions. “Eight months ... Yes, I’m bleeding and cramping ... Sixteen West Eleventh Street, it’s just west of Sixth Avenue ... Yes, of course I’ll stay on the line.” Was she kidding?! My husband dumped me and my mother was making a prosciutto run. The disembodied voice said she was sending an ambulance that should arrive within minutes. I could tell she was a mother because she kept telling me to breathe deeply and that everything would be fine. But how could it be? My fifth baby had come so close, and now he was leaving too.
Anjoli and Alfie arrived at the same time as the paramedics, so I didn’t have to struggle to answer the door. “What in God’s name is going on, Lucy?” Anjoli cried, rushing in to the apartment. “Why is an ambulance here?”
With that, I burst into tears. “I’m having a miscarriage,” I bawled.
“Oh, Christ!” Alfie rushed over to me.
The paramedics brought a gurney to the couch and pulled back the blanket covering me. “Why do you think you’re miscarrying, ma’am?”
“Because I’m bleeding all over the place, and my stomach is twisting in knots,” I managed to say between sobs.
“Not again! Not again!” Anjoli shouted. “What kind of wretched karmic retribution is this?” she shook her fists at the sky.
“Um, ma’am,” the paramedic said. “You’re not bleeding.”
“Yes, I am!” I insisted. “I’m soaked in blood. Can’t you see the blood all over me?” I looked at my pants, which were soaking wet, but not with blood.
“Ma’am, your water broke. You’re in labor.”
“I am?” I wiped my red nose.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. He nodded. “I am absolutely, positively not having a miscarriage?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But I’m not due till February,” I protested.
“Ma’am, you’ll be delivering in December,” he said. “Or January.”
“Hallelujah!” shouted Alfie. “Can she still take the ambulance or do we need to call a cab?”
“We’ll take her,” said another paramedic.
“The hospital’s just across the street,” I reminded them.
Alfie rubbed his hands with glee. “This baby’s a drama queen already!”
For the first time, I smelled the food from Anjoli’s shopping bags, and remembered her party. “What about your party?” I asked.
“We’ll be back by then,” Anjoli assured. “How long can a simple delivery take?” Anjoli always acts as if extended labor is a matter of laziness. She delivered me in less than two hours and firmly believes that if women just set their minds to it, they could do the same. She had some sort of bizarre fantasy that before the clock struck midnight, the kid would be dressed in a fabulous sequined tuxedo and ready to be serenaded by Alfie.
“Call Jack, please!” I requested of Alfie as I was placed on the gurney.
By the time I got checked into the labor and delivery ward, it was dark and the rest of the world had moved into New Year’s Eve celebration mode. The staffers were watching the New Year being rung in somewhere else in the world.
“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy!” Alfie rushed into my room. “No one’s answering the phone at your house. What’s Jack’s cell number, hon?” I gave it to him, disappointed in the knowledge that, with party traffic, it wou
ld be another two hours before he arrived.
Anjoli was generous in spirit. She was genuinely trying to be helpful. It’s just that listening was never her sharpest skill. Despite numerous attempts to convince Anjoli that I was neither hot nor sweating, she insisted on wiping my brow with a cool rag every few minutes. Three times she asked if I was thirsty. Each time I told her I was not, yet she kept slipping ice cubes in my mouth. After a while, she stopped asking, and just kept feeding them to me like coins in a parking meter.
Our nurse, Betsy, came in to check on me every now and again, but basically labor was a bunch of sitting around and waiting, while nurses charted contractions. “Six minutes apart and seven centimeters dilated,” nurse Betsy said, checking a strip of paper from the monitor. “You should be a mommy very soon, Mrs. Klein.”
Should?!
“Should?” I shot.
“Yes, should,” nurse Betsy said. “It could take a little longer.” She smiled and shrugged as if to say, “We’ll see.”
“Do you know my history?” I asked our nurse. As she tilted her head down to read my chart, a mass of wavy brown hair fell over her un-made-up face. She shook her head no. I wasn’t a patient at this hospital. My doctor was back in New Jersey, undoubtedly enjoying cocktails.
“I’ve had four miscarriages, one was quite late in the pregnancy,” I told her.
She scrunched her face with discomfort and held my hand. “This baby is healthy as they come,” nurse Betsy said.
Anjoli deposited another ice chip in my mouth as she passed by my bed. “When is Jack going to get here?” She looked at her watch.
“Your party!” I remembered. “Mother, go home and take care of what you need to. I’ll be fine here. What could happen in a hospital full of doctors and nurses?”
Anjoli’s head whipped around and her eyes narrowed with fierceness. “Plenty. I’ll stay. Besides, my guests won’t arrive till ten. We have plenty of time. Alfie, be a love and start the aperitifs, darling?” She tossed her key ring to him.
An hour later, nurse Betsy returned. “How are you doing in here?”
“Exhausted,” Anjoli replied.
“I’m fine between contractions,” I smiled as I answered the nurse. Betsy gave me a knowing look as though she might have the same type of mother at home. She glanced at the strip that monitored my labor and assured me the baby was doing well. The phone rang. Finally, Jack was calling to say he would arrive shortly. Or at least, that’s what I’d hoped. It was Alfie who had some questions about menu preparation for Anjoli. I handed the phone to my mother, who sat straight in her chair and listened carefully.
“No, no, no, darling! The caterer knows I won’t serve foie gras. Do you have any idea how cruel they are to those poor little geese? I’ll have nothing to do with it. Philipe knows I need faux gras.” She paused. “It’s soy-based, Alfie. You’ll never know the difference.”
Anjoli continued chattering a bunch of French names I assumed were her champagne selections when Betsy whispered, “Would you like to take a shower?” I knit my brows. “It’s very relaxing. It takes the edge off the contractions.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “If you really think it will help.”
“Has he lost his mind?!” Anjoli shrieked. “Did you tell him this was for me?”
“Mom, we’re going to go-”
“Hold on a second, darling,” Anjoli said to Alfie. “Where are you going, Lucy? To get more ice?”
“Yeah, I need more ice,” I said, clutching Betsy’s arm.
“Let the girl get it,” she shooed with her hand. “Never mind, it’s probably good for your circulation for you to take a little walk. Anyway, Alfie, tell Philipe I need the soybased foie gras or Kiki will have my head. She was the one who told me about those wretched feeding tubes they use on those sweet little geese.”
When we arrived at the shower, I stepped into a small room with yellow bathroom tiles and a small bench where the father was supposed to sit. “Can I take my cane in with me?” I asked the nurse.
“It’s handicap accessible,” Betsy replied. “Grab the rail and you’ll be much safer than trying to balance on a cane. How long have you had the Bell’s palsy?”
I told her it was about a month and was pleased when she said I was having a remarkably fast recovery. “It’s hardly noticeable,” she said. “You’re lucky.”
“Luck, nothing,” I snapped in a friendly defense. “I’ve been doing forty minutes of face exercises every day for the last month.”
“Wow, impressive. Okay, press this button when you need me to come around and help you back to your room.”
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in the shower, but I believe I came dangerously close to using the entire hospital hot water supply. When Betsy came to help me back to my room, I looked at the clock and saw it had been forty minutes. Something about the hot water was a sedative and muscle relaxer. And feeling clean is always so rejuvenating. When I arrived back at the room, Jack was there and Anjoli had returned to her apartment. He explained that she had an entertainment emergency and had to get back to the apartment to assist Alfie. Apparently, the party supply store delivered horns that guests would have to squeeze, like the ones clowns use for their unicycles, instead of the traditional foil-fringed blower. Quel horror!
“Hey, kiddo,” Jack said warmly. “How’re you doing?”
“It’s like the worst period cramp I’ve ever had, over and over, every five minutes,” I said, realizing that gave him absolutely no way to relate. “Very bad, but not as bad as I expected.”
“The nurse said the baby’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing in there,” he said.
“He’s well behaved already.”
“Your face is almost back to normal,” Jack said.
And yours is beautiful, I didn’t say. I’d forgotten how handsome Jack is, with his chiseled features and dark brown hair. He has a baseball player’s body—tall and muscular with wide shoulders and a thin waist. He has an olive complexion that highlights his green eyes exquisitely. But his best feature is his lips. The bottom lip is thin and uneven, the right side a bit fuller than the left. Unlike my Bell’s palsified face, Jack’s asymmetry worked to create a sexy, inviting look.
“The face workout worked,” I said awkwardly, hoping he wouldn’t notice I was a bit nervous to see him. “Did I interrupt your night?” I said, referring to the fact that he was dressed in a tuxedo.
“Yeah,” he laughed. “You can guess how well this went over. My date’s sitting there, like your what has gone into what?”
I burst with laughter at the thought of Jack having to explain to his girlfriend that he had a pregnant wife. What a piece of shit, she must have thought him. God knows, I did several nights as I lay awake in my old bedroom, wondering what my sort-of-single husband was up to. “You’ll explain it to her in the morning,” I reassured Jack.
“I doubt it. Sheila made it pretty clear that she didn’t want to hear from me again.”
Sheila?! Sheila?! What kind of name is Sheila? Probably some type of, of, of ahhhhhhh!!!! The pain is back. It’s Sheila. She’s made a voodoo doll of me and is sticking pins in the belly.
“Jack, get the nurse!” I shouted.
He rushed out of the room and returned with Betsy, who lifted my gown and announced that it was time to push. But before any pushing began, she rolled my bed into a different room, one with forest wallpaper, bright lights, and surgical tools. “Focus on the trees, Lucy,” Betsy urged when she saw my look of horror. There had to be some sort of joke about not being able to see the forest for the trees, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. “Breathe in deep through the nose, out with the mouth,” she said. Jack started repeating everything Betsy said as he held my hand at the side of the bed. “Let me get the doctor,” Betsy rushed out.
“This is it, Lucy,” Jack said, wrapping both hands around my one. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. It’s all come down to this moment. You got what it takes to
deliver this kid into the world and be the best mom ever.”
I know he meant well, but I started to feel like an athlete going into the big game. My heart pounded, but not with fear, exactly. With performance anxiety. “You can do this, kiddo. A couple pushes and we’re in there.”
A couple pushes turned into a couple hours and pretty soon I heard Dick Clark’s voice on the television, announcing that the ball would drop in Times Square in less than a minute. I pushed one more time before nurse Betsy leaned in close and whispered the greatest piece of maternal wisdom I’d ever heard. “Push like it’s a bowel movement, honey,’’ she said. Now, no new mother likes to think of her child as a vaginally delivered piece of shit, but I had to admit there was something to this.
The doctors and nurses all started chanting for me. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” Okay, maybe they were watching the ball drop, but I found it very inspiring. “Three, two, one!” And as they blew horns and shouted “Happy New Year,” the small voice of my son let out a tiny wail.
Chapter 10
I lifted my head to see a light coat of white fur covering the back of a grayish-blue baby curled in a small ball. He was slick with blood and goop and a ropy cord hung from his belly, disproportionately larger than any of his other features. He had a full head of brown hair like Jack’s that made him look as though he was in one of those boy bands where the kids over-gel their hair so it stands in every direction. “Is he healthy? “ I asked.
“Ten fingers, ten toes,” Betsy said.
“What about his face?” I asked.
“He’s a looker,” Jack answered.
“On both sides?” I asked.
Betsy leaned in and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Both sides of his face are crying.”
Thank you, God. I will never, ever ask for another thing as long as I live.
“Care to cut the cord, Dad?” asked the doctor. I did not know it at the time, but this was the official start of our son’s doctors referring to Jack and me as “Dad” and “Mom.” Jack stepped forward without hesitation, as though our son’s umbilical cord was all in a day’s work. If it were me, I’d be so nervous, I wouldn’t be able to follow through. Jack seemed entirely at ease as he snipped my son loose from my body. I knew then that, whatever hesitation I had about this whole co-parenting deal, it would be the best arrangement for the baby. He needed a levelheaded parent around the house. The inevitable slips and falls that drew blood from kids would be ably dealt with by Jack. Jack and I would provide a good balance for the baby. Of course, I would have preferred a husband who was madly in love with me, but this arrangement beat going it alone.
Tales From the Crib Page 6