“Wait, Mama.” Cerise stood and scanned the yard. “I need a special ingred’ant for this one.”
Violet watched as she wandered toward the lilac bush at the corner of the yard. Ed had planted it only a few years before and already its lower branches spread like a canopy, a perfect place to hide.
“Come and find me,” Cerise teased, dropping onto hands and knees.
Violet laughed and pitched herself up from where she’d been sitting. Her backside was chilled from the spring soil and beginning to ache.
“I’m gonna get you.”
She crouched and held out her arms as she trotted toward her giggling daughter. Cerise played along, scooting back farther and farther into the lilac’s canopy.
Their commotion startled a bird from its perch and it fell to the ground, panicked and flapping.
“Look!” Cerise called, scrambling toward the frightened creature. “It won’t fly.”
“Don’t touch it!” Violet’s voice went from merry to harsh in no more than breath. “It might be sick.”
Cerise, however, advanced. And the bird—a robin with its bright red breast—took one more lunge toward survival. It heaved itself into the air, low to the ground but in flight.
“Birdie!”
Cerise chased it. Blind to the curb, the street and the car headed straight for her.
There are some moments as consequential as lifetimes. Seconds that begin and end all at once. Awareness in which there is neither breath nor thought—only the observation of what is to be.
The afternoon of the mud pies was Violet’s first.
This moment in the hospital—with the doctors and the noise and the electric rush filling the very air—was the second.
“Cerise!”
She was screaming. Screaming and not moving.
She knew she could not get there in time. Knew her feet were not fast enough, her arms not strong enough, her reactions not nearly quick enough to do what needed to be done.
At age three, Cerise’s life was saved by an alert driver who swerved just in time. Today, Violet waited for the miracle again.
“Violet?” She felt a hand on her arm. “Everything will be all right. Calm down.”
It was Barb, still in her street clothes but looking every bit as official as the rest of the professionals swarming about in their scrubs.
“What’s happening? She’s not due for another month.”
Barb took her by both elbows and moved her to a corner, out of the path of commotion. She didn’t let go, even as she began to explain.
“Cerise has preeclampsia. The doctors are trying to determine just how much trouble she’s in. Thankfully they spotted it early.”
Violet craned her head over Barb’s shoulder, trying anew to gauge the level of crisis in the medical team’s activity. Mercifully, the doctor had moved out from between Cerise’s legs and now scanned the long paper tail streaming from the monitor beside her bed.
“Him—the doctor. Who is he? Where is Dr. Chung?”
She knew Cerise’s obstetrician because she’d recommended her personally. Not only had Dr. Chung been featured three years running as one of Minnesota’s top doctors, she was also the daughter of Ed’s lead researcher.
That man with the banana yogurt face was not Dr. Chung.
“She’s not on call today. Dr. Edmonds is her partner. He’s very good.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How do you know he’s good? Have you researched him? Have you assessed his reputation among his peers?”
The shrill pitch of a monitor filled the room and they both turned. Violet watched as a nurse silenced it with no greater concern or effort than the push of a button.
“For heaven’s sake. Not a single professional in this room appears to be aware of the seriousness of the situation.”
“No, I assure you...” Barb let go of her elbow as if to explain. Violet, instead, made a break for it.
“I need to gown up,” she announced to the room.
She didn’t know who she needed to talk to, so she resolved to keep talking until someone took action.
“I am the mother. I need to gown up. Is anyone listening?”
A pretty thing in pale pink scrubs glanced up from her work preparing a tray of instruments. She glanced at Violet. Then at Barb.
Violet knew that look, and she wasn’t about to be quieted or controlled.
“That is my daughter you have on that bed. I am her mother.”
She felt a stab in her chest and realized it was coming from her own finger; she’d been jabbing herself with it.
“I am her mother and I have the right to be here.”
Again, she saw the nurse’s eyes flicker and she felt Barb’s arms pulling her away from the action.
This time, Barb made no effort to soothe her.
“Violet,” she barked. “Cerise is the only mother we’re concerned with right now.”
The words hit with a magnitude of force.
Cerise was a mother. Not going to be. Not soon to be. She already was. She was on that journey, responsible for the life and health and safety of the child they would all soon meet.
Cerise was a mother.
“All right,” she said, fixing her eyes on Barb’s steady face. “Please help me find somewhere I can sit quietly and wait.”
* * *
BY THE TIME Ed arrived, Barb had been out to the waiting room twice to faithfully update her on the situation. Violet relayed the details to Ed.
“It’s a condition called preeclampsia. I had to practically haunt the nursing staff to tell me anything about it, but it has to do with the blood vessels and high blood pressure...”
What had the nurses told her? The details skidded across her mind like tires on ice; she couldn’t seem to grab on.
“Yes.” Ed nodded. “They called it toxemia back in our day.”
Aha! Of course. That was the clue she’d needed. She reached for Ed’s hand.
“The doctor says baby appears strong. Thank heavens. But they’re having to monitor Cerise closely.” She felt her throat grip the words, not wanting to release them.
Ed repositioned her hand, taking it more fully in his own.
Violet squeezed—harder, then harder still, until his wedding ring pressed painfully against her knuckles. A reminder she was not alone.
“Violet—” he squeaked.
She loosened her grip, but only slightly. “This can’t happen, Ed. We can’t welcome our only grandchild the same day we lose our daughter.” Thoughts raced at her, white-hot and screaming.
“We won’t lose her,” he said, patting their joined fists with his free hand. “The doctors know what they’re doing.”
Violet shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t go from celebrating a new life to planning a funeral.” That was not the way of things. It was too cruel. Too awful to bear. “I’m not strong enough. I won’t make it.”
Ed brought his arm up to her shoulders and pulled her close. “It’s not time to panic. We have to believe.”
“But what if? What if she’s just gone? Our beautiful daughter, just—gone. With a child who will never know her, who will never know the wonderful, beautiful person she was. Never be held by her or comforted by her or even kissed. A child cannot grow up without her mother.” The words weren’t even out before newer, bigger fears piled in behind them.
“Is,” said Ed.
“What?” She looked at him, calm, as if none of this were happening, as if he were on an entirely different planet.
“The wonderful, beautiful person she is. Not was.” He squeezed her hand. “We don’t panic until we have reason to. And it’s not time yet.”
No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t time yet. Cerise wasn’t due for nearly a month. This baby needed more time. Baby
wasn’t ready, wasn’t fully developed. They shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t time.
“It’s not time—” She stopped, looking up.
Without notice, Barb stood in front of them, her red hair still piled into a sterile scrub cap, holding a bundle all wrapped in blue. “Cerise is doing just fine. Everyone is just fine. Would you like to meet your grandson?”
Announcing
Edward Thomas Benson Hesse Baumgartner
Born this day
April the eleventh, in the year two thousand eighteen
Measuring
Five pounds, ten ounces and twenty-one inches
To delighted parents
Cerise Applewhite Baumgartner
&
Barbara Ambrose Ingersoll Greer Hesse
And to humbled grandparents
Edward and Violet Baumgartner
&
Elliott and Amanda Hesse
“For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled,
and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Luke 14:11
31
Cerise
CERISE ROLLED OVER and felt the warm bundle at her side.
“Careful,” whispered Barb. “You’ll squish Chuck.”
She let out a fatigued moan and gingerly propped herself up against her pillows, her belly quick to remind her that her muscles had only recently been sliced open and stitched back. She was awake now. Nothing sounded more delicious than sleep, but her maternal senses had been piqued at the sight of the baby. There was no quieting them.
“I wish you’d stop calling him Chuck.”
“I will,” said Barb, her face covered by hair and pillows. “Just as soon as we name him.”
Because they hadn’t been able to yet. They’d become one of those can’t agree on the fundamentals couples. Cerise didn’t want to blame their son, but she worried that everything had changed as soon as he’d made his presence known. As if the moment she got pregnant, she and Barb went from best friends and lovers to the creators of to-do lists and doctors’ appointments.
They never talked about anything. They talked, sure—about baby’s weight and feeding patterns and Cerise’s daily intake of folic acid and whether or not she needed Barb to pick up more of the heinously oversize postdelivery maxi pads. Why hadn’t anyone warned her about that humiliating delight?
She knew, though, that those were the easy topics, the ones that kept them from having to discuss the bigger stuff. Like why Cerise wanted her parents—even as invasive and obnoxious as they could be—involved in baby’s life, when Barb was content to leave her parents in Ohio, silent as statues in the park.
Cerise could handle the fact that the nursery was yet unpainted. She could handle the dark-of-night feeding calls. But their son would need a name. Even more, their son would need parents who could manage their emotions long enough to give him one.
“I thought you were stuck on Jax,” she said.
“You called it one of those made-up names.”
Cerise bristled. “No, I just said I like the classics—Joseph, Edward, Thomas, Benjamin, Albert, Andrew. Pick one.”
“Okay, then. Cerise,” Barb said.
“What?”
“No, I mean I pick the name, Cerise, since around here we do things the Baumgartner way.”
Had Barb really just done that? Attacked her with such ease? She felt the rise of emotions so sharply, as if she’d been punched in the throat. She swallowed, fighting it all back.
* * *
FOR HIS PART, baby was performing like a champ. He took to nursing immediately and ate until Cerise’s breasts were drained of their last drop. He pooped with astounding regularity, as Vicky said he would, and when swaddled in a blanket like a burrito, he slept more than he was awake. Seven days into life, he’d upheld his end of the bargain.
Cerise, on the other hand, was the one crying into her soup at night. She couldn’t shake the private sensation that the most beautiful thing she’d ever created had ruined her life. She couldn’t make a decision, she couldn’t sleep, she wandered the house as if looking for something she’d lost.
Where had her confidence gone? Her whole life she’d been a land dweller, her feet on solid ground. Now she was standing at the edge of the water, the waves licking at her bare toes. Never had she ever felt the stakes so high and the future so unclear.
If she could just get a handle on what worried her she could act to fix it. Was it motherhood? Was it her relationship with Barb? Was it the fact that she would never again be responsible for just herself alone? Yes, all of those things. And none of them. No one instrument of doom stood out from the symphony of worries playing in her head.
She sat at the kitchen table sorting through the accumulating pile of cards and baby gifts, but realized she hadn’t really seen any of them. She was simply going through the motions.
Barb brought over a mug of tea and sat beside her.
“Did you see the gift from Abby and Stephan? It’s a T-shirt with a crown on it that says, Sir Poopsalot. Pretty cute.”
Cerise hmm’d. “Did you add it to the thank-you card list?”
“Think so.” Barb flicked through a few of the cards atop the pile. “So many congratulations and we haven’t even sent out his birth announcement. Amazing.”
That reminded her. “My mom’s coming by this morning. Just to warn you.” She caught the glimmer of a frown crimp the edges of Barb’s eyes, but she must have caught herself in time to change course.
“Okay. Did she tell you what time she’d be here?”
Cerise glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Nearly ten.
“Soon,” she said.
The doorbell rang at ten fifteen.
“Helloooooo!”
Cerise came around the corner to see her mother’s face peeking through the half-open door.
“We’re letting ourselves in because you shouldn’t be up on your feet. You need your rest.” Violet opened the door wide and stepped into the foyer. Cerise could see her father hesitating on the front step.
“C’mon in, Dad,” she said. “Hi, Mom.”
She waited for her mother to slip off her shoes and stand upright before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“I see you’re leaning over these days,” Cerise said. “Are the headaches gone?”
Violet handed the bundle of bags and papers in her arms to her dad and none-too-ceremoniously ushered Cerise toward the couch in the family room.
“No more fretting about me. You need your rest so you can care for your son.”
Before she had the chance to resist, her mother was propping up her feet and tucking a blanket across her lap.
“Have you been drinking plenty of water? You need it for recovery and for the breast-feeding, both.”
Cerise saw her father stiffen and blush at the mention of her breasts. She smiled.
“Barb’s been chasing after me with tea and Gatorade all week.”
Violet nodded her approval. “What did the doctor say yesterday? Is your incision healing properly?”
“All according to plan,” she answered. Cerise couldn’t take her eyes off of her father shuffling uncomfortably at the edge of the room. All this talk about his daughter’s girl parts. He’d never had a problem peppering her with intimate questions about her colon, but the female-only regions were anathema.
“Dad,” she said. “Come in and keep me company while Mom does her thing. I’m sure she’s got plans to reorganize my kitchen or teach the baby French while she’s here.”
Her dad gave her a wink and sat down in the armchair opposite the couch. Then he called after her mother, “Don’t overdo it, Violet.”
“I’ll just put water on for tea,” she called back from the kitchen.
Cerise and her father sat
without speaking. He picked at the crease in his khakis, and she wondered why. They looked freshly dry-cleaned.
Cerise shifted on the sofa, crossed and then uncrossed her legs.
Her father cleared his throat. Looked at the ceiling above the fireplace. “Well,” he said. It was a statement, more than a start. A word to fill the silence.
“Well,” Cerise answered, filling it some more.
The kitchen rattled with pans and cupboard doors.
Barb walked across the bedroom floor above their heads.
Cerise crossed her legs.
Her father took a deep breath. He smoothed his pant leg with his palm.
Cerise looked him over in his freshly dry-cleaned polo and khakis, just the sort of outfit she’d have expected on a retiree of his age.
“You think you’ll ever trade in those loafers for a pair of sneakers, Dad?”
He gave her a half smile and lifted the leg of his trousers, revealing an ankle as naked as if he’d just stepped from the shower.
“No socks.” He chuckled. “Just wait till your mother discovers what a rebel I’ve become. It may send her back to the hospital.”
“Your mom has to go back to the hospital?” Cerise turned to see that Barb had entered the room and stood behind her. “Did something happen?”
“No, no,” said Ed, waving a dismissive hand.
“Dad’s just gone a bit rogue in his retirement, is all,” said Cerise, offering no more detail than her father had. She gave him a private half smile.
“The two of you and your secrets.” Barb came around the side of the couch and sat down. The bounce of the cushion sent a zing through Cerise’s recovering belly and made her wince.
“Sorry, babe.”
Violet reappeared carrying a selection of teas arranged in a neat circle on a plate.
“I’ll let you each choose your own flavor,” she said, arriving in front of Cerise first. “Hello, Barb. I didn’t even realize you were home.” She waited for Cerise to pull a tea bag from the plate, and then offered the remaining selection to Barb.
“I was upstairs checking on baby,” said Barb, taking Earl Grey.
“You two girls have such a system going. It’s just wonderful. Admirable, really.”
Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners Page 20