by Sara James
“I am sorry, Frans, he’s gone and I can’t help you. Go to the nurse, you know where she lives. It’s just two streets away.” He held up the palms of his hands, pleading, sniffling and not moving.
“You can’t come in. Go to the nurse.” I switched off the interior light so he couldn’t see my stricken face, and watched him disappear down the street into the darkness.
What had I done? This was another woman’s son. Injured, bleeding, shivering in the rain, and I’d told him to go away. I hated myself. But I also had a son to consider. Nad had taken the medical kit with him, and without surgical gloves, I wasn’t going to touch Frans, to take the chance that his blood might mingle with mine and my unborn baby’s. Frans had made it to our house. He could make it to the nurse’s home. She had gloves, training, and knew the risk of contracting AIDS in Africa as well as I did. She would help him. I couldn’t. I had to put my baby first, and I had. But I sat in the living room, curled in a chair, and cried until the sun came up.
I HAD TO get out of the house, which was why, at nine months pregnant, I took on a job filming cheetahs. One day I followed a Heikom tracker named Johannes Kapner as he darted a cheetah. I held on to my stomach with one hand and the back of the Land Rover seat with the other as we tried to keep up with the fastest animal on earth. We bounced over burrows in the ground, dodged termite mounds, flattened small trees, until finally the drugs took effect: the cheetah slowed down and fell into a deep sleep under a tree. “I’ll set up the camera, Johannes. Then I want you to walk into frame.”
I kicked open the back door of the Land Rover, lifted the fluid head and tripod out of their boxes, and screwed the camera on tight. Twenty-five pounds of equipment rested above my belly as I pushed myself out of the vehicle.
“I’m ready.”
For the next hour under the blazing midday sun, I moved around Johannes and the cheetah, positioning the camera for the most interesting shots. It was so much fun I nearly forgot I was carrying around an extra thirty-five pounds.
But the calendar told a different story. There were no more doctor’s appointments, no more filming engagements, and just two weeks to go before my due date. Still, that was plenty of time to plan our trip down to Windhoek. We’d decided to go down five days early, stay with friends, and wait for our baby.
“Good night, Gin. Sleep well.” Nad kissed me, then turned out the lights. I tried to get comfortable, rolling my enormous stomach from side to side. Finally when I settled on my back I felt something wet and warm running between my legs. “Oh my God. Nad, wake up. My water’s broken.”
“What? Quick, grab the books.”
I made a dash for the living room with Nad running behind me.
“Oh, shit.”
“What was that?” I spun around to find Nad lying on the floor. He’d slipped in a pool of his baby’s waters.
“I’m okay. Just tell me, what does the book say?”
“I’m looking, okay, page 295. It’s here. ‘Each case is different, a few to twenty-four hours before delivery after rupture of membranes.’ My contractions haven’t started yet, so that gives us time. I’ll just lie down a minute.”
It was midnight, Easter morning, and pitch black outside—the time when kudus graze beside unlit roads, when jackals dart across the bush, when no one should drive. The roads are desolate, the towns spaced hundreds of miles apart, the only obvious sign of life the glow of wild animals’ eyes. We phoned Dr. Baines, who with extreme hesitation and kindness said since labor is usually longer with the first baby and since contractions hadn’t started, we should get some sleep and leave at first light.
Ten minutes later my contractions started. They shot from my back down my legs with such piercing intensity that I screamed. Sixty seconds of pain followed by ten anxious minutes until the pain struck again.
“I can’t stand this. We have to go.” Nad loaded our big blue diesel pram with a mattress, blankets, and plenty of water. I packed a bag for my baby and myself. So huge was my stomach that I stuffed the baby’s bag with clothes for a nine-month-old infant.
It was half past twelve when we began what should have been a five-hour drive to the hospital in Windhoek. Two minutes later we stopped.
“Get out of the road, you beasts.”
“What is it?”
I lifted my head and saw two black rhinos standing in the middle of the road, several tons of immovable animals.
Nad eased the car forward.
“Are you crazy? Don’t hit them.”
“You want to wait?” Finally the rhinos snorted, turned, and melted into the bush.
“Let’s try this again.”
Nad gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove on, scanning the side of the road for the telltale glow of eyes. If a five-hundred-pound kudu antelope darted across our path, we might not survive…much less our baby.
Three hours into the drive, Nad had seen no vehicles, but he’d counted fifty-two kudus and had listened to me moan and then scream every ten minutes. We were approaching Otjiwarango, the town that marks the halfway point between Etosha and Windhoek, where there was a small regional Medi-Clinic hospital.
“I want to stop, just to make sure I’m not bleeding, before we drive on to Windhoek.”
We pulled up at the hospital. It was completely dark, shut down for the night. No twenty-four-hour emergency room bay, not a single light burning inside or outside. I tried the doors but they were locked. Nad tried to open a window. Finally a lone nurse appeared.
“Come in, come in. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I think. We want to get to Windhoek, but may I first use the bathroom?” Five minutes later we were back on the road. It had been nearly four hours since my water broke.
Two miles outside of town, I bit down on a blanket, feeling the pain of another contraction starting to rise. And then we saw the police roadblock, a typical sight on Easter weekend, when traffic is unusually heavy. Just as we pulled up, I let loose with a bloodcurdling scream. Suddenly a routine check must have sounded like high drama, because when the pain eased, I looked up to see four policemen with their weapons drawn, pointing at Nad. “Sir, we need you to pull over.” Then one policeman edged closer to our vehicle and peered inside, perhaps looking for weapons or proof that our Land Rover was stolen. He clearly wasn’t expecting to spy a panting, wild-eyed woman in labor. When he saw my big belly, he yelled, “Go, man, go! Get that girl to a hospital. She can’t have a baby here!”
Thankfully I didn’t. We drove for seven hours, and the sky had turned pink with daylight when we reached Windhoek.
“Well, I see you made it.”
I would have recognized that voice anywhere. “Hi, Dr. Baines.”
“Must say I’m relieved to see you.” He grinned. “How are you feeling? In any pain?”
“Constant.”
“I see.” He and Nad exchanged glances.
“Have you considered having an epidural?”
“I’d rather not. I’ll be okay.”
A half hour later I’d changed my mind, and leaned into Nad’s arms as the shot was prepared.
“Now this may hurt a—Nad? Are you okay? Nad?”
I felt Nad’s muscular arms slacken, and when I lifted my eyes, I saw that he’d turned as white as a hospital sheet.
My husband, who had darted elephants while hanging out of helicopters, captured charging rhinos on foot, pulled calves from their mothers’ wombs, who had even delivered eight human babies during his days as a medic, couldn’t stand the sight of a thick, six-inch-long needle being plunged into his wife’s back.
But Nad was strong and alert ten hours later when our son, Kimberlin Myles Brain, was born. He seemed to fly into the doctor’s arms. He never cried. He simply looked around and had a big wee, sending a stream of urine flying high into the air. I laughed at the thought of a champagne cork blowing and bubbly spraying in celebration. When Dr. Baines placed him on my chest, I had more to celebrate than I could ever have imagined. At thirty-seven years old, for the
first time, I held six pounds six ounces of pure joy. Welcome to the world, my boy.
24
SARA (1998–1999)
SARA?™ HER VOICE sounded thick and slow, drugged even.
“Gin?!”
“Hey.” In her exhaustion, she pronounced the word the way we had as children, with two syllables.
“How are you? How is he? When was he born? Tell me everything!”
Her chuckle seemed to restore her strength. “I’m fine. A little tired, but fine. He was born two nights ago. I’m so sorry I couldn’t call till now. But he’s wonderful. He was six pounds six ounces and he’s got big eyes, and Sara, I know I’m his mom, but he’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, Gin, I’m sure he is, and I’m so happy for you.” And I was. With every part of my being, I was. All those tangled feelings of jealousy and fear for our friendship had evaporated, replaced by the equally powerful longing to pick up her little boy, hold him in my arms, rock him, croon to him. At thirty-seven, my life had changed dramatically, and my perspective with it. We were both quiet for a few seconds. The line gurgled with the swampy, underwater sounds of an overseas call. In the background I heard the echo of sounds in a corridor. When I could trust my voice again, I blurted out, “Was it a long—”
“How’s An—”
We both started laughing again. “We can talk about Andrew later,” I said, arching my eyebrow at the tall man standing across the living room. After all, he’d been in New York for a few months. “But what about you? How did it all go? Was labor long?”
“Mmmmmmm. Kind of. It started in Etosha.”
“What!? What happened to your plan to be in Windhoek a couple of weeks beforehand?”
“My water broke late one night, so it was a bit tense and uncomfortable by the end, but—”
“Tense and uncomfortable!? And you did that drive at night??? Gin, we nearly hit a kudu in broad daylight.” I shivered, thinking of all the things that could so easily have gone terribly wrong. “Good God, Gin, did Nad think he was going to have to deliver Kimber??”
“He did, and I did, too. But we made it, and thank God for epidurals. The only thing was at the end they had to use a forceps to pull Kimber out, so he has a bit of a cone head. But he seems fine.” She paused. And because I knew she was thinking of her baby’s brain, so fragilely encased in his soft skull, I could think of nothing to say. “He is fine,” she amended, her voice stronger.
“I’m sure he’s perfect, Ginger.”
“Listen, Sara, I wish I could tell you more, but—”
“I can call you back! Just give me the phone number for your room,” I interrupted, anxious for more details but knowing the call must be dreadfully expensive.
“I wish you could, but actually it’s impossible. There’s only the one phone for the entire floor and it’s down the hall. And there’s another mom behind me who wants to call her family.”
I pictured Gin, two days postpartum, in maternity nightgown, robe, and slippers standing in line on a cold cement floor of a Third World hospital to call family and friends. Forget birthing suites, special dinners, everyone coming to see you. Forget balloons and baskets of flowers, baby showers, baby nurses, and nannies. Kimber just had Ginger and Nad. Thank goodness Gin’s mom and dad would be heading over soon for a few weeks.
“I understand. I just wish I could see him, see you. I can’t wait to see you as a mom.”
“I wish you were here, too. I’ll have Nad send a picture as soon as I can.”
“Give him a kiss for us.”
“I will.”
“So is everything all right?” Andrew’s voice brought me back.
“Everything’s fine. Sounds like a scary trip to the hospital, but Kimber is great and Ginger’s tired, but so happy.”
“Everything went well. So naturally you look depressed.”
I laughed. “Fair enough. It’s just that they feel so far away.”
“Sara, they are far away. But I’m not. Come over here and I’ll take your mind off your misery.”
I walked over, snuggled for a bit. Then poked him.
“What’s that for?”
“Just making sure you’re really here. Living on Barrow Street no less. Although you may be the only person in the trendy West Village wearing a Tasmanian devil T-shirt with Ugg boots and shorts.”
“Hey, back off, Tiger, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Just a few subway stops away.”
Andrew snorted. “What would you know about the subway? You only take taxis or limos. And I won’t be here for long if you keep me stuck in the city for another weekend. Fair crack of the whip.” Andrew grinned. “Come on, let’s get a hire car and go walkabout.”
“Rental car, Andrew. You’ve got to learn to speak American if you’re going to live here. And I’m ready anytime.”
The last of the snow had melted from the fields north of the city, but the April trees looked brittle and gray. We stopped to admire a trim white farmhouse. I closed my eyes for a moment, tried to picture it as ours, driving up on weekends, settling in by a cozy fire with hot cider, home. In the nearby pasture a few hapless bovines ankle-deep in muck listlessly gnawed a hay bale.
“It’s interesting that they do round bales here,” said Andrew.
I eyed him, thinking about my friends having brunch at Sarabeth’s or EJ’s, perusing the Times, latte in hand. Surely I must be the only person I knew discussing hay bales on a Sunday morning. “As compared to what?”
“We do square back home. Easier to cart and stack in the sheds. Round bales only make sense if you cut your own hay for your own cattle. These paddocks look funny, though.”
I stared at him. “Funny? Funny how?”
“No sheep. We’d need to have sheep.”
Now I was slack-jawed. As any woman knows, deciphering man-speak is like breaking the Enigma code. But he’d definitely just used first person plural. Wasn’t that cryptic sentence a hopeful sign? Could “We’d need to have sheep” be Australian for “I want to marry you”?
When in doubt, say nothing. Or, failing that, say nothing revealing. I ventured, “I remember my first trip to visit your folks and how surprised I was by how they cut the grass. Just move the sheep! Pretty good trick.” I remembered, too, with the shutters open onto the veranda, how the sound of a flock munching was oddly restful, peaceful. Baa, baa, black sheep. Sleep, baby, sleep, the stars are the sheep. That sheep may safely graze. Try coming up with similarly comforting lullabies about cows.
At dinner that night, back in the city, I found I was still thinking. Thinking about what Andrew was thinking. Trying to break the Enigma code. I proceeded in an artful, time-honored manner—seeking to learn what I wanted to know about us by discussing a friend and her boyfriend who were having trouble.
“So, Andrew, do men always mean what they say? I mean, he told her not to call. But she’d really like to. She’s had second thoughts, and isn’t sure he understands how ready she is to make a commitment.”
Andrew scoffed. “What is it with women? Why do they always try to read stuff into what men say? We’re entirely straightforward. I should write a book. Blokes on Blokes: For Women. It would be short.”
“Gimme an example.”
“Okay, here’s chapter one: ‘If the Guy Says Don’t Call, Don’t Call.’ Chapter two: ‘Did You Read Chapter One?’”
So there was my answer. Talking about sheep was just talking about sheep. No hidden message. I got up abruptly, headed toward the terrace.
Andrew pushed his chair back. “What’s wrong now?” He managed to make three words sound exasperated and tender all at once.
“Nothing.”
“Obviously. What sort of nothing?”
“Just. Sheep!” I blurted out. “I mean, do you like it here? Do you think you could live here? And for how long? We could buy a few, I suppose, but there just aren’t a lot of sheep in New York!!!”
Andrew looked bewildered. “What are you rabbiting on about? Would you stop carryi
ng on like a pork chop and tell me what’s wrong?”
I began laughing in spite of myself, eyes stinging. “Carrying on like a pork chop? What does that even mean? I do not understand you!”
“You know. Being a dag.” I laughed harder. “A duffer.” He crossed the room toward me as the tears started to fall, and soon he was holding me close so it didn’t matter so much when he said, “Being a bloody idiot. There, do you understand that, you muttonhead?”
He nuzzled my hair and I took a deep breath of him, warm and male. I imagined I caught a whiff of clover, clear and fresh, and there was that lingering scent you can’t help but notice inside when you’ve spent the day out in the cold.
But Andrew wasn’t done, apparently. “I obviously didn’t come to New York for the sheep. I came here for you.”
“And you love me?”
“Crikey, Sara, what’s a bloke got to do?” He was now genuinely annoyed. “I move halfway around the world, quit my job when I’m on track to make editor one day, and instead work freelance in a great big city when I love the country life, all so we can figure out if this is what we think it is. I sure as hell wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think I’d marry you.” I stopped snuffling. Grabbed him and held him very, very tight, but he extricated himself enough to tip my head back and looked gravely into my eyes.
“Sara, when are you going to learn? I don’t say things, I do them.”
I reburied my head into that ridiculously endearing Tazzie devil T-shirt. “Well, I have a tip for bloody men. A few more words once in a while wouldn’t go astray.”
“And I have a tip for women. Talk less.”
We settled our differences in a leisurely, thoroughly amicable manner.
IF YOU’RE FORTUNATE, and I have been, there are those rare seasons in life that feel like a perfect day on a ski slope. The air wallops your lungs in icy blasts, your ears sting, but the skis carve the snow just so and you feel supremely alive as you shoot down the mountain on an extraordinary run. Not only was my boyfriend actually living in New York, but work was exciting, too. I was the regular fill-in on Today, substituting for Ann Curry on the news desk. And I’d just gotten what would prove to be the most exhilarating assignment of my career. Fellow correspondent Bob McKeown and I, along with a talented team of NBC producers, camera crews, editors, and engineers, would join George Tulloch and his RMS Titanic expedition on a journey to the site of the most famous shipwreck in history. I would cohost the first live television show ever produced from the middle of the North Atlantic. We were going to raise the Titanic. Or a twenty-ton piece of it, anyway.