by Cathy Lamb
Blake stood right in front of Tay and me. I stopped dancing, so did Tay, but did not drop my arms from around his neck. This was why Tay was trouble.
“Hello, chief. Hello. Are you here to arrest me?” I blinked, swayed. Even in my semidrunken state, a state I was rather embarrassed to be in, I could still feel the zinging between Blake and me.
Zing and zing.
“No, not yet, Meggie.”
“Why would you be arrested?” Tay asked. He grinned at me. “For being beautiful?”
I giggled. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t think I’m beautiful. I would need Kalani’s black magic for that.”
Tay’s eyes opened wide. “Then he’s blind. You are way beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at Tay. I wanted to smile at Blake, but he looked grim. Jaw set. Shoulders back. Tight face.
“Are you really the chief?” Tay asked, all friendly and black Lab-ish. Bark bark!
“Yes, I am.”
Tay smiled even more broadly. Like I said, he’s a friendly sort. Good looking, too. Excellent teeth, wide smile.
“Congratulations, man,” Tay said, shaking his hand. “That’s awesome. You know, I’ve seen you on TV.”
Blake nodded, ever so slightly, acknowledging what he said but not allowing himself to be drawn into the conversation.
“Meggie, I’m going to drive you home.”
I laughed. Giggled. Laughed. Leaned against Tay, who wrapped his arms around me again. Blake was soooo rawly handsome. I wanted to go bounce on his body badly. “No. There’s a typhoon.”
“Yes,” Blake said with quiet, firm precision. “Let’s go.”
“No. I’m here with . . .” I waved my hand as a crush of dizziness inserted itself into my brain. “I’m here with my sisters and Grandma, and other people from work, and my grandma is going to dance on the bar and wiggle like a sewing machine.”
Blake raised his eyebrow. “Dance on the bar?”
“Yes. She is completing her . . . what is it called . . . aha! Her Bust Out and Shake It Adventure Club list.”
“What do you mean her Bust Out and Shake It Adventure Club list?”
“Her list is all the things she wants to do before she dies and goes back to Ireland.”
“Is she dying?”
“No. Not at all. She’s healthy as a leprechaun sliding down a rainbow can be. But she’s in her eighties. Not young anymore, so she can’t fly on the back of an owl.” I stopped. Why was I talking about that magical story that was so grossly untrue? “At least, her body isn’t young. Her mind is. Her spirit inside is flying around from Ireland and making me go with her to do all these Irish things that have to get done. She doesn’t have young . . .” I could not keep track of my thoughts. “She does not have young toes.” I blinked to clear my vision. “She does not have young intestines.”
Blake looked intimidating and angry. I swayed.
“She doesn’t have young toes?” Tay laughed, tightening his arms around me. “That’s a great way of putting it. She’s not old, but she doesn’t have young toes!”
“No young toes. She’s not like you, Blake.” I smiled at him, though I could feel his anger coming at my drunkenness in waves. “You’re handsome. She’s not handsome. She’s beautiful. My grandma—” I paused and took a breath, feeling emotional all of a sudden. “She’s truly beautiful. I love her.” I pulled out of Tay’s arms and hugged Blake. I felt his arms around my back, secure and warm. “I love my grandma,” I whispered in his ear. “I love my grandma.”
“Aw!” Tay said behind me, “That’s so nice! I love my grandma, too.”
I pulled back and stared into the gray-blue fury of Blake’s eyes. “Don’t you love your grandma?”
“Yes, I did. But you are drunk and I want you to come with me and I will take you home.”
“Oh, no. You won’t take me to your home,” I told him, waving a finger. “You will take me to my home. You have already told me I can’t go to your home and see your bedsheets.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yep.” I pulled out of his arms, though he resisted and I had to push his arms away. Tay pulled me back in. He’s fun. He’s full of life and spirit. He is so perfect for someone else. “You don’t need to drive me, I’m with . . .” I paused and tried to envision who I was with. “I am with a black Labrador.”
“A black Lab!” Tay exclaimed, happy. “I had a black Lab named Spaghetti when I was a kid, and I loved him. I miss that dog.”
“You’re kind of a black Lab sort of man and this . . .” I pointed at Blake, whose glare could fillet a shark. “This man is more of a Doberman.” The bar was spinning. Yuck.
I smiled at Tay, and he hugged me closer, then said to Blake, “Good to meet you, man,” which was like saying, “Shove off, buddy, I’m with this woman,” and it about set Blake on fire, he was so mad. Even through my inebriation I could see that.
“Let’s go, Meggie,” Blake said. “Do you even know this guy?”
“Nope. But I’m not going with you.”
“It’s time for you to go.”
“Who are you here with, Blake?” I asked. “A golden retriever?”
“I was having dinner with the mayor and a woman from city council.”
“Not with your girlfriend?” The bar spun again. Double yuck.
He was not pleased. “I don’t have a girlfriend, as you know.”
All three of us turned at the drumroll, and a “Ladies and Gentleman” call went out by the deejay.
“Folks, this is Regan O’Rourke. She is eighty-something years old and she wants to dance on a bar. She says it’s now or never.”
Gracefully, carefully, with help from Lance and Eric, Grandma climbed on top of the bar, to wild applause, in her turquoise dress and high heels. She signaled for a microphone, and obediently the deejay handed it to her.
“Greetings and good evening. I have written a list called my Bust Out and Shake It Adventure Club list. Basically I’m checking things off that I always wanted to do but didn’t do in my youth. I always wanted to dance on a bar when I was younger, but I was too busy working.” Her Irish brogue was lilting, lovely. “I can’t even dance. Why? Same reason. When I was young and should have been dancing, I was working. So tonight’s the night. I need three people up here to help me—my granddaughters, Tory, Meggie, and Lacey.”
“That’s your grandma?” the black Lab gushed.
“Yes, that is!” I put both hands up in the air and clapped. “The Irishman’s wife!”
Tay stared at her, totally admiring. “She is absolutely awesome. Awesome!”
I was grabbed by Abigail, Tory, and Lacey. The black Lab gave me a push, laughing. I did not look at the huggable Doberman.
Grandma signaled the drummer, the drummer pounded out the beat, the band joined him, and Grandma danced, strutting, and wiggling up and down the long bar as people threw their hands in the air and clapped and hooted.
I hadn’t danced in many miserable years. But I was tipsy and irrationally furious at Blake for rejecting me, so when Grandma held her arms out I climbed up and danced, along with Tory, who knew how to shake it.
I danced in my burgundy dress that dropped halfway down my thighs, with the low-cut bodice, and in high heels, which I hadn’t worn in years. Tory did a shimmy thing up there—she has rhythm in her soul—and Lacey bobbed up and down, carefully, in one place, no heels, three people standing below to catch her, just in case.
Grandma’s smile lit up that whole room. At the end, with a dramatic drumroll, the bass ear-splitting, applause thunderous, Grandma hugged me close. “That’s my girl,” she said. “You’re coming back to life. Welcome aboard, and I love you.”
Tory said, “There’s hope yet, Meggie. You still know how to dance.”
When I climbed down, the black Lab bounced up and spun me around. “I think I want to marry you!” Bark bark!
Over his shoulder, as I was being swung, I saw the Doberman. He may have liked the dance, I don’t know, but fo
r sure he did not like the black Lab. Too bad for him.
Unfortunately I didn’t want to marry a friendly black Lab.
I didn’t want to marry anyone, but if I were forced by a gun-wielding, six-legged scorpion from a sci-fi movie to marry someone, I would definitely pick the Doberman.
The Doberman turned and left.
I woke up naked on my leather couch Saturday morning with a headache the size of Arkansas.
I groaned, then dragged my sorry butt up and poured myself tomato juice. Next I dipped three marshmallows into orange juice and ate them. After that I ate peanut butter straight from the jar. Jeepers hissed at me from upstairs.
I wrapped myself in my pink, bedraggled draggy robe, then pulled on one blue wool sock and one red sock and headed out to my deck, where I sat in the blue Adirondack chair and buried my head in my hands. I was glad Blake couldn’t see me from his house. Pop Pop climbed on my lap and licked my cheek as the whole night came flooding back.
After the bar-dancing debacle Tay said, “Will you come home with me later, Meggie. Please?”
He had a loose and easy smile, with dimples on the sides. He had fun and friendly eyes. He would be fun and friendly in bed. He would allow me to escape for a while. I could forget. I could have sex. I was dying for sex. I was dying to be held. I was dying to stroke and straddle a handsome man.
But Tay wasn’t the man I wanted to stroke or straddle.
I could not sleep with Tay with Blake zooming around in my head.
I also had Aaron in my head, too.
That would have made four people in one bed: Tay, Aaron, Blake, and me.
I am not kinky in bed at all, and four is way too many.
“Tay, I’m sorry . . .” I started. “No.”
“How about dinner tomorrow night?” He was hopeful.
“No.”
“Lunch?” Losing hope.
“No.”
“Any chance for coffee?” His smile was definitely dimming.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Hope gone.
I hugged him, said I wasn’t interested in dating. The black Lab was sad.
I remembered Blake’s eyes boring into mine. He had not liked seeing me tipsy. He had not liked seeing me with Tay.
I felt my temper shoot on up.
Who the hell did he think he was to be mad at me?
I had asked him if he wanted to sleep with me, and he’d said no.
So what claim did he have on me if I was inebriated and clinging to a black Lab?
On my deck, my head throbbing from being drunk for the first time in forever, my body ill, I acknowledged that Blake and I had another problem. It was a clash of personalities.
Blake was used to leading. He’s a leader. A natural leader.
I, however, lead, too. And I cannot, will not, follow again, as I did with Aaron. I will not be out of control of my own life or my own head or my own emotions again. I will not give up that control ever. I will never, ever follow again in a relationship, nor will I live reacting to disasters that mess with my mental stability.
I will never let a man run the show. I will never cater to a man again, I will never be in a relationship where I have no voice or choices, I will never be smothered, I will never be manipulated by him or be toyed with in any shape or form. I will never alter myself in any way, or let a man push my personality around to suit his needs or wants. I will never allow myself to get trapped again.
I will not allow the man to control our sex life, and what Blake was doing now, not getting involved with me sexually, that smacked of control.
Control over me.
Blake is a man who wants a serious, committed relationship. He’s a man who wants the closeness and intimacy and trust that I am not giving any man again.
Therein lay our insurmountable problem.
During the third week of filming, I started having contractions.
I told Aaron. He waved his hand in my face and said, “You’re fine. You’re overreacting, emotional as usual. They’re the Braxton Hicks contractions I read about in the baby book.” Aaron had read three baby books. He was now an authority on my pregnancy. He told me what to eat and what not to eat, cleared food out of our pantry, and filled it with a whole bunch of stuff that looked like rabbit meal. I refused to eat it, so he called me a “neglectful mother.”
“What you eat now determines the health of my baby, Meggie, so eat this. We’re not leaving the table until you’ve eaten what I made, even if we have to sit here all night.” I refused to sit there the rest of the night, so he raged, then gave me the silent treatment for a week.
He was obsessive and critical. “I’m not sure how you’re going to be as a mother, Meggie, because you want to work so much and you have to have absolute control, and you’re a perfectionist and way too ambitious . . . don’t cry, I want to talk this out before the baby comes and I want you to be a good mother. Women like you who are career oriented often don’t have a lot of maternal skills.”
“Where did you read that?”
He hemmed and hawed and said, “I know it instinctively.”
And I said, “I’ll be a great mom. If you stop going to bed for weeks on end, if you stop throwing temper tantrums and being critical, and if you stop taking painkillers and smoking pot and instead take your medicine and see your doctors, maybe you’ll be a great dad.”
He flew off the handle at that, walked off our worksite, and I didn’t see him for a week. Our cameraman, sound technician, and assistant were thrilled to have him gone. So was I.
When the contractions returned he said, “You can’t get upset about every little thing. You’re high-strung to begin with. Try to ignore your emotions, Meggie. That’s what I do when I don’t know what to do with you. Damn.”
In the middle of the night, weeks later, I woke up with a gripping contraction, and I knew I was in trouble.
I woke Aaron. He said, “Lie down. You’re fine. Don’t be hysterical. At this stage of your pregnancy, you’ll be even more irrational and hypersensitive. I’m having serious concerns about you being a mother.”
I ignored him.
I drove to the hospital.
At least, I tried to drive to the hospital. When the pains became too sharp, my teeth clenched in agony, I pulled over and called an ambulance. The police and the paramedics arrived.
They were the kindest people. One of the police officers was a woman. She held my hand as I gave birth in the back of the ambulance. “It’s too soon,” I told them. “Oh, God, help me. It’s too soon.”
She was tiny.
She was not ready for our world.
Despite heroic efforts by the hospital staff, she was dead within two hours.
I held her in my arms at the end and watched the life drain out of her. She was a tiny soul leaving, returning to the heavens, her time another time.
Aaron was hysterical, furious, and raving. He was eventually dragged out of the hospital by security. He made vile accusations against the doctors and nurses, saying they had “murdered my child by incompetence. This is your fault. You did this! Fuck you!” He then started toppling all sorts of things in my hospital room, including my IV pole, medical equipment, and a medical cabinet.
I clutched my baby to my heart, though her heart had stopped beating—her face, her fingers, her toes, absolutely perfect, so fragile. Around me the doctors were restraining Aaron, his black curls and black feather flying, his jaw unshaven. He railed and yelled, and the most foul words came out of his mouth, along with spittle, his sweat flying.
Other doctors ran in, security ran in, a nurse jumped into the fray, and there was yelling and screaming.
The room was in chaotic disarray, like an uncontrollable human tornado had touched down. In the midst of that tornado I held my baby close and kissed her, my tears raining down on her still, pale face, my body bleeding and trembling. She had a shock of fuzzy black hair—from Aaron or from Sperm Donor Number Two? She had lips like a rosebud. She was so
sweet, so loved.
I blamed myself for her death. I thought Aaron was right. I worked too hard, maybe I didn’t eat right, I was stressed and anxious, I cleaned late at night, I didn’t sleep enough, I became stuck on my racing and negative thoughts, and I obsessed over small things because I couldn’t control the cauldron of insanity in my life: Aaron.
I cried often, which probably upset the baby. She probably thought the tears were about her. She heard her mother crying. She had made her mother sad. I had also had small contractions and thought they were normal. I was wrong.
Yes, it was my fault. I killed my own baby. I suck. I hate myself.
I named her Josephine.
I have never felt that much pain in my life.
I thought I was being split in two with an ax.
I have never recovered from that split. I never will.
Some grief never leaves.
You deal with it as best you can.
That’s what I’ve done. I’ve done the best I could.
Josephine, my beautiful baby.
Always, always in my heart.
I miss you, my sweet. Every day I miss you.
I will see you again someday. I will hug you, and kiss you. We will play and laugh and read books and bake cookies.
I am so sorry.
Mommy loves you.
19
I wasn’t surprised at the photo of my mother in the Living section of our local newspaper. I had seen the show a couple of days prior.
My mother was the featured guest with Emmy Shandil, who is the host of the nationally syndicated talk show The Emmy Show. My mother was dressed in the pages of her book. She’d had her favorite designer make the pages into a dress. The dress dropped to midcalf. It had a low neckline with a curved bodice and a slit in front. She wore shiny red heels with it. She was a cross between a book and Dorothy of The Wizard of Oz.
“I love your dress, Brianna,” Emmy gushed. She has exceptionally large teeth and a short brown bob. Now and then she fillets her guests if she doesn’t like them.
“Ask me to tell you what I’m trying to say with my dress.” My mother sat straight up in her chair, those red curls hanging down her back reminding me so much of Lacey’s.