“I’m Don Pendergrass,” he says gruffly, “your new boss. We’re changing things up around here, Simons.”
It’s even more refrigerated here than in the newsroom. I rub the backs of my arms.
“I’ve watched your shows. You’re the best writer we have.”
“Oh, thank you—”
He cuts me off. “So why do you work the shit shifts?”
“I—”
“From now on, you’re the six-o’clock producer. Monday through Friday.”
Oh, wow. “Thank you.” It’s got to be a promotion, for sure.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not a promotion.”
I blink hard, a bit stunned by his foretelling.
“It’s not a promotion because I’m not paying you more. Just consider yourself lucky to have a job.”
Well, balls. More stress but the same salary? Maybe I’d rather stick with the shit shift and work weekends.
“And no more namby-pamby save-the-turtles crap. The six o’clock is the crime and business show.”
“Environmental stories are business stories. And crime stories, for that matter.”
“Wrong. They are stories that just make people feel bad about themselves. People don’t want to feel bad about themselves, or about the wreckage they’re causing. They want to hear about how other people are bad. That’s what pays the bills. We’re running out of money. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Our reporters didn’t know either. So much for being hard-hitting investigators.” He reaches for a Big Gulp, sucks down a third of his soda, and bumps on his sternum as he suppresses a burp. “Who buys our ads?”
“Uh . . .”
“Car dealerships. Now even Granny’s Used Cars won’t buy our airtime. The dealerships are broke, too. We either need to figure out how to boost our ratings, or we need to figure out how to sell cars. And I don’t know how to sell cars.”
The AC has cycled on; an avalanche of cold air tumbles over my shoulders. What a waste of nonrenewable energy. My eyes land back on Angela’s empty desk. “Do you mind if I ask where Angela is?”
“No, I don’t mind. I fired her.”
Oh. Oh no. Poor Angela. The newsroom was her entire universe, other than her dog. No friends. No family in town. Just old Cooper and his bandanas and Santa Claus outfits. Why did he fire her? She gave everything to her job.
“You’re wondering why I fired her. I’ll tell you why.” His chair squeaks as he leans forward. “I had to trim the fat to keep this station alive. I’ll be the acting news director until people stop shitting themselves and start buying cars again.”
It’s at this very moment that I realize I don’t want to work here anymore. I can get a new job. Maybe not here in town, but somewhere daring, like New York. I’ll start looking tonight. And the minute I get an offer, I’ll resign. My shoulders relax. My body almost levitates I feel so light. What have I been doing here all this time? I never even liked it.
“What’s that say on your jacket? That button thing.”
After the funeral, I ransacked my house for my old button maker. I searched in the corners of my closet, under my sink, and in the cupboards next to the stove. I finally found it in a box I had planned on donating to Goodwill sometime around my move back to Charleston. It was one of those items that, when left alone long enough, was eventually forgotten. The last few nights, with steamy cups of tea and soy candles burning, I began to sketch again. I started with the slogan that came to me during Laudie’s funeral. I pinned it to my jacket. “SO OVER MALE GODS.”
He looks at me as though I did just levitate. “You worship fairies or something?”
“Ha!” I laugh, actually enjoying myself for a moment. I’m on my way out of here. I have nothing to lose. Might as well have some fun. “Who doesn’t? Tonight’s a full moon. Kind of auspicious, don’t you think? Maybe place that Big Gulp at the base of a tree, see if the fairies drink it.”
Don considers this for a moment. “I’m a Republican.”
I’m not exactly sure how his response makes sense, and as much fun as it is to say ridiculous things to this sweaty man, I’d rather get out of here and get on with my day. “Gotcha. I’m guessing I don’t need to write today’s shows.”
“No. Meghan’s on it.” Through the glass window, I see her hunched over her keyboard. Her diminutive body seems to have shrunk now that she’s been demoted. His phone buzzes. “Pendergrass, here.”
I seize the moment to hustle out of the room to enjoy my first weekend free in half a year. As I weave through the windowless cube farm, it strikes me how much I don’t ever want to come back.
* * *
On the way home, I blast my music, flipping through the dials and enjoying every song. Rap, country, gospel, metal. I want it all. And when I get to my apartment, I rummage through the old pile of CDs left over from the last tenant. I crank up the volume, kick off my shoes, and let loose. This time, it’s my very own kitchen dance.
40.
Under Water
It’s hard to sleep. The sheets trap too much heat, but when I kick them off, I get cold. Headlights from passing cars swipe the ceiling. I count them like sheep, toss, turn, try sleeping on my stomach. My phone buzzes. It’s Weezy, and it’s 12:34 a.m. “Simons, I’m almost to your house.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m having the baby. I need you to go with me.”
“Oh my God. Is Ashley on that duck-hunting trip? Who has Francie?”
“She’s with a neighbor . . .”
Silence. “Weezy? Weezy?” I check my phone to see if we’ve lost connection. “Weezy, are you having a contraction? Are you driving and having contractions?”
“Just go outside.”
Shit. I am so not prepared for this. What do I bring? I flick on the overhead light and rifle through my possessions for what could possibly come in handy when bringing a baby into this world. I’ll need my cell phone and charger for sure. In case running is involved, I grab my sneakers. I swipe my toothbrush from the silver julep cup by my sink and snatch a handful of panties. This could take a few days, right? I scoop my rumpled jeans from the floor and—with a kick—flip them into the air and onto the pile in my arms. I dash into the kitchen and grab a bottle of wine (for celebrating later) and a jar of peanut butter (the perfect food). I stuff everything in a reusable grocery bag and fly down the stairs.
Weezy’s car is parked, its hazards flashing. She is waddling around the front of the car, her hand on the hood, making her way to the passenger side. The high beams illuminate her swollen silhouette, and I’m reminded of the opening credits to Alfred Hitchcock Presents. As I help Weezy into her seat, she all but falls in. “Where are your clothes?”
I’m still in my T-shirt and underpants. And my feet are bare and suddenly chilly. There’s no time to get dressed. Who cares, anyway? “In my bag.” I shut her door, run around the car, and sling my bag into the back seat.
I zip through the narrow one-way streets of downtown Charleston and roll onto the interstate. The highway is empty. I drive as carefully, as safely, as possible: my back straight, both hands on the wheel, speedometer precisely at the legal limit.
Weezy groans. Bracing herself, she grabs the door handle with one hand and presses against the dashboard with her other.
“Are you okay? What can I do?”
“I’m fine,” she manages. “Just take the next exit.”
The birthing center’s parking lot is empty except for one car. A few lights are on in the building. A woman stands inside a glass door wearing a multicolored sweater and a red beanie. She loops a bulky scarf around her neck before walking outside to greet us.
“Hi, Louisa.” She helps my sister from the car. “You must be the sister,” she continues in her unhurried fashion. “I’m Vickie. Get her things and we’ll go to the back bedroom. I already have the water running.”
I dive into the darkness of the back seat, groping for our bags. “I forgot to tell yo
u to bring your suit, Sims,” Weezy yells.
Why would I need a bathing suit? What I need are pants. Still in the parking lot, I pull on my jeans, jam my feet into my sneakers, and catch up with my laboring sister and her midwife. We walk past the waiting room, lit by a lone Himalayan salt lamp, and down a long hall to the birthing suite.
The room looks like a stage set for a cheesy romance. A sleigh bed with crimson sheets dominates one side of the room. A massive hot tub occupies an alcove to my left. The midwife turns on a device that scatters aquamarine specks of confetti-size light across the ceiling. On a far wall, I spy clinical instruments, giving me a sense of relief that there is legit medical equipment in the vicinity. I set our bags near the door.
“Mmh . . . another one is coming.” Weezy bends over the bed, her arms on the mattress, her hips up in the air. She digs her forehead into the bed and rocks her body back and forth.
“That’s good, Louisa.” Vickie rubs her lower back. “Breathe through it.” She wraps a blood pressure cuff around Weezy’s arm and starts to pump.
“Ooh. They’re getting stronger.” Weezy stops swaying. She slides down to her knees on the hard floor and melts into a child’s pose. “Ugh.” I sit down to be with her. Her eyes are closed. She’s somewhere else.
Vickie unwraps the cuff. “Blood pressure is good.” She scribbles some notes on a clipboard. “Keep breathing. Just breathe through it.”
Weezy’s gasps intensify as her contraction climaxes. When the worst is over, she lifts her head, which is rimmed with perspiration. “Can you get my music, please? My phone’s in the side pocket.”
“Of course.” I punch in her passcode, which is 123456, and shuffle through her playlists. “Is it ‘Baby Time #2’?”
She manages a laugh. “That was for making this baby, but sure, you can play that.”
A vision of a freckly, white-assed Ashley thrusting himself into my sister flashes through my brain. “Ew, no.” I scroll a bit more, past “Methods for a Loving, Natural Birth,” and land on “Tunes for Baby Boy.” “I found it.” I plug the device into the deck and press play. The first song is a country tune, probably Ashley’s pick.
Vicky helps Weezy onto the bed. Weezy lies on her side, rubbing her belly in rhythmic, circular strokes. “Oof, here comes another one.” She tucks herself into a ball. “Damn.” She blows out a deep breath. “This hurts.”
Her face is so scrunched her eyebrows touch. Her moans are otherworldly. “Owww. Oh my God, OW! Sims, this really hurts,” she groans, a faraway expression on her face.
Another thirty seconds pass, and Weezy’s breathing calms. “I’m going to need to check her cervix,” Vickie says between scribbles on her clipboard. “Can you help her get undressed?”
I sit on the bed, coaxing Weezy’s maternity pants over her hips. She lifts her arms, signaling for me to take off her shirt and bra. She’s naked now, with dark nipples, a massive belly, and a thatch of pubic hair. She’s the epitome of a fertility goddess, looking equally powerful and vulnerable.
The midwife tugs on a latex glove and then drives her hand inside my sister. Weezy winces, twists away. “Keep still, Louisa.” She lifts her eyes to the ceiling, where confetti light swirls lazily. “You’re six—almost seven—centimeters, Louisa. Good girl.” She snaps the glove off and makes another note in the chart.
“Did you hear that? Almost seven centimeters,” I say happily, though I have no idea what that means.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Vickie slides a trash can next to the bed just as Weezy’s body lurches. She vomits—over and over. The acidic, bile-soaked smell makes my stomach churn.
“Oh,” she moans, rolling back into the fetal position. “Here comes another one.”
Jesus. Seriously? This can’t be normal. My poor sister.
“Just breathe through it, Louisa. You’re getting closer with every contraction.” Vickie takes the trash can from my hands and leaves the room, giving me a moment to plead my case.
I crawl onto the bed and rub her back. “Weezy, you don’t have to do this. You’re doing great, but there’s still time to get you to a hospital.” I don’t want to scare her, but labor isn’t supposed to be this excruciating, right? We need a doctor, not a jacuzzi and swirling lights.
“No,” she says weakly. “I’m okay. I feel better now that I’ve thrown up.”
“Seriously, Weezy! This is dangerous.”
Weezy wraps a clammy hand around my arm. Her eyes glow with determination. “I’m going to do this.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, then. I’m here to help you.”
Vickie returns with a new trash can, which she places beside the hot tub. “Are you ready to get in the water?”
Weezy nods, tries to stand. I hurry to help, ducking under her body. She leans into my support, her strength clearly ebbing. We lumber over to the bath. “Hold on.” She stops to breathe through another contraction. I feel her body seize. Her stomach visibly tightens. “Oh. Ah!” She cries and dives forward, catching herself with her hands on the rim of the tub. I wait, helpless.
After a while, she nods to signal she’s ready, but I can’t figure out how we’re going to get her in the giant hot tub. So that she doesn’t bonk her head against the faucet, I straddle the bath—one foot out, one foot in. The water seeps into my sneaker, soaks my sock, and rides up the right pant leg of my jeans. Hoisting her up with all my strength, my arms shaking, I lift my other leg into the water and lower both of us into the tub. I settle us into a corner, hooking my arms beneath her armpits to keep her afloat.
“Uh . . . ,” she moans. Her cries are becoming more guttural, more animalistic.
“Try kicking your legs, Louisa,” Vickie offers, stirring a blue-gloved hand in the water. Weezy feebly starts to kick.
I don’t think the hot water is working. Weezy doesn’t look any less uncomfortable. She only seems more tired. And kicking? That’s terrible advice. She’s exhausted as it is.
I want Vickie to shut up. I want to haul Weezy away, leave this tub of misery, and get some proper medical treatment at a legitimate hospital. But here I am, wearing blue jeans in the water, keeping my sister from drowning while she’s being tortured by this dangerous, screwball birth process.
Vickie runs the fetal heart probe monitor over Weezy’s belly. I hear the strong swooshing of a heartbeat. “Baby sounds good.”
Weezy manages a half-smile. She looks both gorgeous and nearly dead.
My arms start to tire. My back hurts, too. Sweat runs from behind my ears, down my neck. I check the wall clock; we’ve only been in this purgatory two-and-a-half hours.
Weezy’s body starts to quiver. She shakes like she’s being electrocuted. What the fuck . . . ? Is she being electrocuted? I look for a severed outlet, a smoking socket, or some indicator that my sister is indeed being shocked. I start to stand, ready to haul her out of this hellhole. “Weezy! Weezy!”
Vickie pushes a firm hand down on my shoulder, forcing me to remain seated in the tub. “Simons, sit down. You need to stay calm.”
“What’s happening to my sister?” I scream, hot tears coursing down my face.
“Simons, she’s transitioning. It’s a surge of hormones. Don’t be scared. This is all a part of the natural process.”
Natural processes. I hate them. In a less violent but more gruesome way, a natural process—the act of dying—overtook my grandmother, snatched her from this vibrant life and slowly dragged her to another world. And now here a new life begins, its initiation marked by howls, anguish, and blood.
The shuddering stops. My sister falls limp. Vickie plunges a fist up my sister’s crotch. “I can feel his head, Louisa. Do you feel the urge to push?”
Weezy nods, passes out again.
I hold her—she’s as limp as a sack of flour—and wait for the pain to rouse her from dreamless sleep. The Jacuzzi whirs. The clock ticks. From the small speakers, Michael Jackson croons about the man in the mirror. A trickle of water drips f
rom the midwife’s hand, which rests on the tub’s rim. These are the sounds of waiting.
“Aye!” Weezy yelps, her voice spiraling higher and higher. “Ow, ow, ow. It burns. It burns!” She thrashes in the water like a harpooned fish. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” she howls in staccato bursts. Suddenly, she passes out again—as oblivious as a person in a coma of the next torturous contraction that will waken and wrack her any minute.
“How’s she doing?” A slender woman in pink scrubs enters the room, another nurse midwife. Backup, I guess. A stethoscope hangs around her neck. She pulls various instruments and gauze from the cabinets and bangs the doors shut.
“I think she’s gonna tear, if she hasn’t already,” Vickie tells her.
Tear? As in her vagina getting shredded?!
The nurse nods and pulls out a suture packet.
My sister comes to with a guttural groan. “Ow!” she cries, sucking air through her teeth.
“Here he comes, Louisa. He’s almost there. Just a few more pushes. You are so close to meeting your baby boy.”
Weezy steadies her gaze and summons a reserve hidden within her to birth her child. With an inhuman growl, she pushes. How is she so strong? How does any woman do this? How dare anyone beat or belittle a woman when this is what they do for the human race?
“That’s it. One more. That’s it.”
She pushes again, releasing an earth-shattering roar. A plume of blood gushes from between her legs, making the water look biblical, as though it has turned into wine. Vickie bends over the rim, both hands in the tub this time. She lifts a wet, red body out of the water and places the squealing new life-form on Weezy’s heaving, trembling chest. “I did it,” Weezy whispers.
My nephew pinches his eyes shut and opens his mouth wide. He screams for his mother; she lays a hand on his wrinkly little body and kisses his head. Weezy looks up at me; I smile at her. In this moment, when we really see each other, we understand the enormity of the moment. We both start crying—true tears of joy. I hold her tight, so deeply grateful she is okay. It’s over. He’s here, and he’s perfect. It’s all going to be okay.
In Polite Company Page 21