She dialed Brier ICU, and asked for Phoebe.
“Do you have a sec?” She asked when Phoebe got on the line.
“It’s slow today. How are you?”
“He moved.”
“One of your neighbors moved?”
“Phoebe, give me a break. The baby moved.”
“You have my congratulations, and my condolences, sweetie. Things will never be the same, again—well, not until you unload your passenger. Are you at work? I’ll come down and we’ll celebrate.”
“No, I’m home. I have the day off, but I’m taking another pregnancy course at the Y this afternoon. Why don’t you come over tonight?”
“We’ll stop at Andronico’s on the way, for something disgustingly sweet. You make coffee.”
Lisa spent the morning doing housework, and fending off Sandy, who said, “Sit. Rest. I’ll do it.”
“Mother, I’m fine. I need to move around. It’s good for me and the baby.” Lisa hesitated a moment and then said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Mother, but I think it’s time for you to go back to Grass Valley.”
“But I want to be here to help.”
Easy, Lisa, she thought.
“It’s time to go home, Mother. With attending to Mike and work, I’m doing well. Don’t forget that I’m going to need you here after I have the baby.”
“I can stay, you know.”
“I know, Mother. I’ll drive you back.”
“No, Grass Valley is too far. I’ll take the bus.”
Lisa dropped Sandy off at the Walnut Creek bus terminal. “I’ll call every day. I promise.”
She drove to the YMCA in Concord. The parking lot was full. She circled and cursed her lateness, but finally found a space.
This is exactly the kind of aggravation I should avoid.
Lisa walked through the glass doors of the one-storey brick building, looked at the bulletin board, and moved her finger to the sign for her pregnancy class in room 5. The instructor, Peggy Murphy, taught the Iyengar Method, an advanced form of Yoga exercise for pregnant women.
When Lisa entered the class, the women had scattered seven Yoga mats around the room. The brass holder up front held a smoking stick of pungent, fruity, incense, which filled the room.
Peggy, a woman in her mid to late fifties, greeted Lisa. “I’m so glad you could join us. You may be the most experienced student I have. I may, if it’s okay, ask for your help with some of those new to Yoga.”
“I’ve been at Yoga for a while, but I’ve never taught it,” Lisa said. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
Peggy put a CD into her portable player, and the room filled with the sound of traditional Indian instruments. They started with a simple series of stretches. Lisa admired Peggy’s, flexibility, and the grace and precision of her movements. They went through a series of bends, inversions, twists, and thrusts, and then into deep relaxation. Here the goal was to become aware of each body part. Lisa found herself slipping into a dreamy state, totally relaxed, but supremely aware of her body and her surroundings.
Afterward, and totally at ease, Lisa recognized that, for a few precious moments, and for the first time in months, she was at peace—a reprieve from worldly worries.
Chapter Forty-Two (Weeks 20-21)
Something is happening. For the first time, I discover a distinction between levels of consciousness. I note a primary state, dreamlike with periods of sleep, but gradually, I begin to recognize some other state, almost, but not quite, like consciousness, except I can’t hear, see, or move.
I visualize moving my hands and wiggling my toes, but nothing happens.
I try to open my eyes, but feel only the faint quiver of movement of my lids—I can almost do it.
I struggle again and again to move, until I feel something on my upper lip. It's a tiny bead of perspiration. The strain of the mental imagery exhausts me, and I’m soon asleep.
When Lisa kissed Mike’s lips to say goodbye for the day, she tasted the salty sweat. “What’s his temp?” She asked.
“98.8 degrees,” said his nurse.
“I saw the sweat on his lips—I just wondered.”
“He’s done that three times in the last day and a half. I’ll ask Dr. Byrnes about it.”
While Lisa’s thoughts about Mike were always with her, she managed to remain preoccupied with her pregnancy, as it captivated her conscious mind. At times, she felt guilty when Mike’s presence faded from her consciousness for even an instant as she swam in an ocean of hormonal currents and bathed in the new concept—motherhood.
Like most things in Lisa’s life, she was determined to do this well. She read extensively, attended traditional pregnancy and childbirth courses, continued with her Yoga, and found the time to explore the world of alternative medicine and spirituality.
It was Sunday morning. Phoebe, Jason, and Max arrived with the New York Sunday Times, fresh bagels, cream cheese, lox, and smoked whitefish. For once, they could enjoy a day that nobody had to work.
Jason sat at the table studying the formidable Times crossword puzzle, Max was asleep in his portable playpen/crib combo, and Lisa sat with Phoebe on the sofa. The stereo played a rhythmic far eastern CD.
“You look fantastic,” Phoebe said. “Pregnancy agrees with you.”
“I feel great, too.”
“Look at you. You’re hardly showing. How’s your weight?”
“I’ve put on maybe two pounds, max.”
“Are you sure you’re pregnant?”
“Pretty sure,” Lisa said, smiling.
“Are you still going to Yoga classes?”
“Wouldn’t miss one. You used to love it, why don’t you come back?”
“I don’t have the time, or the energy. Maybe when they offer Yoga for the two-year-old, I’ll get back to it.”
Phoebe picked up a stack of brochures on the cocktail table, and started to read. After browsing for a few moments, she looked up at Lisa. “You’re really going off the deep end, honey.”
“Ease up, girl. I’m just curious. At one time, you too knew that there was more to life than simply what our physical senses perceive.”
“There’s something about childbirth, cleaning up vomit, and wiping up shit, that keeps you earthbound.”
“I don’t believe it for a moment. I see you and Jason with Max.”
Phoebe picked up one brochure, and read, “Spirituality and You. I love this one: Developing your intuition, Connecting with the ascended masters, Angel workshop, Fetal awareness workshop, and let’s leave the best for last, The Third Eye Workshop.”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
Phoebe picked up the next brochure, and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding—Kabbalah!”
“If it’s good enough for Madonna, Brittany, Demi, and especially Paris, then it’s good enough for me.”
“Mike might have had you locked up for your own good.”
“No, Mike understands me. He accepts me. He loves me,” she said, grasping her abdomen with both arms.
“Oh, he just kicked me. He must be listening in on our conversation.”
“That being Mike’s son, if he could listen, he’d be shaking his head in concern for your mental health. The last thing he’d like to hear is this conversation.”
“I know that you’re not going to buy all of this, Phoebe, but studies at dozens of universities and hospitals have confirmed much of what mothers have believed for ages. Babies in utero see, hear, feel, smell, and taste. Those are the rudimentary forms of awareness in the womb.”
“I can buy some of that, but playing Mozart, talking to your baby, and taking your uterus to cultural events is too much for a simple girl from Brooklyn.”
“You sound like Mike. You’re going to love this, many psychologists contend that the effects of intrauterine life and the birth experience can affect personality and ability. What I do, how I treat myself, and what I eat and drink, can affect my baby. You were pregnant. Don’t tell me you never noticed that yo
ur life had an influence over Max.”
“Of course. When I got pissed, Max got pissed. When I was relaxed, he went for a siesta, but that’s a long way from Kabbalah.”
“I’m not so sure. It’s been around for a few thousand years. Don’t allow celebrity to debase fundamental truths.”
“Look, sweetie, I love you. You’re going to be one hell of a mother. If you can pass on the love of chocolate, or of Wolfgang Amadeus, or of progressive politics to your son, then I say go for it.”
Lisa held her belly again, as she felt the baby thrashing about. “He’s listening. He knows I’m right.”
“I’m tired all the time,” Harvey Russo said as he and Teri sipped coffee after dinner. “I don’t know what it is.”
“I think you do know, Honey.”
Harvey looked at his wife, and then reached across the table to grasp her hand. “Maybe I do. We’ve had to put up with a lot of crap over the years, but I’ve managed somehow to stay on top of it. Now…”
“What’s Jackie’s take on the malpractice case?”
“She thinks it’s crap, but we still have to defend it. She’s put three investigators on the case. She’s confident that they’ll uncover facts that will impeach the sparkling character of Ms. Edna-Sue Jones. I don’t know who is worse, Edna-Sue, or her attorney.”
A week later, Richie Boardman asked for a meeting. His secretary characterized it as a settlement conference.
“What’s he got up his sleeve, Jackie?” Harvey asked as they awaited Ritchie’s arrival in her conference room.
“Don’t have the slightest, but whatever it is, I’ve arranged to have the room fumigated afterward.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Boardman said as he rushed into the room, wearing a pin-striped Brooks Brother’s suit. He loosened his silk tie. “Just got out of another deposition.”
Richie placed his stuffed leather briefcase on the table, and placed a portable file cabinet next to it. “Got a lot of good stuff, here,” he said, patting the material.
“I’m sure. This is your meeting, Ritchie,” she said, looking at her watch. “We don’t have much time.”
Ritchie smiled. “Good one, Jackie—the time constraints, I mean. It’s a pleasure watching you work. Join me in practice, Jackie, and we can both retire in five years.”
“I’ll give that serious consideration,” she said with a straight face.
Ritchie laughed again.
“Look,” he said, getting serious, “let’s put this case to rest and save us both a lot of aggravation and money.”
“Aggravation? I’m looking forward to trying this case, Ritchie. You’ve overextended yourself, this time.”
“I don’t think so, Jackie. We’re considering amendments to the charges, and our actuaries have recalculated the damage to baby Jones.”
Jackie laughed. “Ritchie, you’re so amusing.”
“We may be willing to amend the charges in your favor, if you’ll help us with our case against Brier. Our experts can assign responsibility for the delay that Ms. Jones encountered in the ER.”
Jackie reached over to the intercom, and said, “Carolyn, please bring me the green file sitting on my desk.” She turned to Boardman, and said, “It’s only because I like you so much, Ritchie, that I’m going to save you a nice chunk of money and a massive dose of public humiliation.”
Boardman stared at his opponent.
After a soft knock on the door, the secretary brought the green file.
Jackie placed her hand on the closed file. “I’m going to assume, Ritchie, that you would not knowingly condone perjury on the part of your client. We both know the game, and its limits.”
Ritchie stared at the green file, as if he had x-ray vision.
“That won’t help, Ritchie.”
Jackie held up three two-page documents, and then slid them across the table for Ritchie. “These are the sworn statements by two close friends of Ms. Jones, and her hairdresser, that your client knew she was pregnant for at least two months before she presented to Brier ER.”
Ritchie paled as he read the statements.
Jackie then held up a copy of hospital medical records, turned to Harvey, and said, “You’re going to appreciate this, Harvey. This is the hospital record of Ms. Jones from November of 2002. They hospitalized her in Louisiana—Baton Rouge, to be specific. It will please you to hear you’re your charming client presented in labor, and had a partial uterine rupture. She almost lost her uterus that time. That’s a hell of a specimen you have there, Ritchie.”
Boardman looked ill, and said, “I’ll have to discuss these developments with my client.”
After Ritchie left the room, Jackie said, “That should do it, Harvey. There’s no way he can go forward with this case.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, the information just came in—and, I love surprises.”
Chapter Forty-Three (Weeks 22-23)
My periods of sleep and consciousness have become clearer, although some dreams are so lifelike that they blur the distinction. Each morning—at least, I think it’s morning by the increase in activity around me—I’m more aware of what’s going on. I can’t move or see, but my sense of touch and hearing improve. I struggle to recognize sounds. For the first time, I feel something pushing on my skin—maybe squeezing my muscles.
I will my fingers to move—nothing.
I try to wiggle my toes—nothing.
I try to open my eyes, and this time it’s different, like I can, but something’s interfering.
Where am I?
What’s wrong with me?
I feel my heart racing.
I begin to sweat.
What is it? Thought Mike’s nurse, as she scanned her patient. Nothing had changed, yet she sensed that something was different.
Lisa continued working whenever she could, but turned down several shifts. She didn’t have the energy. She loved the distraction, no—she needed it. Moreover, the NICU revealed the best of humanity: the love of parents, the dedication of the staff, and the feeling that she was doing something important with her life.
Mike’s partners were supportive. They found opportunities to spend time with Lisa, making sure she knew they cared.
As painful as it was, she still found her head jerking to the sound of the door opening, waiting to see Mike’s smiling face enter the NICU.
Lisa and Phoebe had the day off. After visiting Mike in the morning, they drove to Classico, an outdoor café near the Rockridge Bart station. They sat under the multicolored umbrella, which protected them from the bright noon sunlight.
“I love my work, Phoebe, but it has its downside.”
“What job doesn’t?”
“I’m not just thinking about myself, now. I’m thinking of him. I lived for the thrill of the NICU, the pace, the action. Now I’m thinking, at what price? When I consider the daily stress of trying to be there for Mike, and the emotional price of working in NICU, I ask myself, can that be good for my baby?”
Phoebe’s knowing smile said as much as her words. “You’re right, Lisa. I don’t know how millions of babies manage to be born, survive, and do well without the mother living in a cocoon for nine months.”
Lisa, too, smiled. “Always the sympathetic ear, Phoebe. That’s one reason I love you. Even when we disagree, I still feel you care. That’s part of what makes me love Mike, too.”
“I’ll write that comment off to hormone-induced sentimentality.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you? Anyway, sweetie, you’re gonna love this: I’ve joined Holistic Harmonies for Health (HHH), a spirituality-based program for interacting and influencing my baby.”
“Well,” smiled Phoebe, rolling her eyes. “What can I say?”
“I want to bond with my baby, reduce stress, practice joy, and find inspiration and insight over the soulscape of my existence.”
“‘Soulscape’? I’m going to be sick,” Phoebe burst out with laughter.
Lis
a had to join her.
“He’s on the move, again,” Lisa said, clutching her abdomen. “Every time we argue, Phoebe, he has to stick his two cents in.”
They ordered oriental chicken salad. Phoebe ordered a glass of Chardonnay.
“I’m tempted to order a glass of wine,” Lisa said.
“You can’t make up your mind, Lisa. I thought it was healthy baby, or be damned?”
“The risk of a single glass of wine once in a while has been overstated in this country. In most parts of the world, especially in Europe, women continue to drink on occasion without any adverse effects.”
The salads arrived. Lisa took a bite, and then said, “Mike would hate this, it’s full of cilantro. He had a thing about it, you remember. I couldn’t bring it in the house.”
“I see why you two get along so well; you both are certifiable.”
Lisa gasped, and then held her belly. “Something’s wrong!”
Phoebe put down her fork, swallowed the last mouthful, and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, but something’s upset him. He’s churning and thrashing inside me.” Lisa rubbed her abdomen, trying to get comfortable, but the movement continued.
“I guess he hates cilantro,” Phoebe said, smiling. “After all, he’s Mike’s son.”
“Maybe there’s something to genetics, after all,” Lisa said as she pushed the plate away.
The waiter, noticing Lisa’s discomfort, said, “Is everything okay?”
“Is it possible that I can get the oriental chicken salad without the cilantro?”
“Of course,” he said, taking the plate away. He returned a moment later with a new salad.
Lisa took the first bite, and then stared at her abdomen, awaiting a response. The baby twisted several times more before becoming calm.
Nora called the next day. “Are you up for lunch?”
“That would be great,” Lisa said.
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