We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  A row of shiny wooden cribs announces the baby section. Frank’s been spending a lot of time in his workroom in the garage, building “a surprise” for the baby that I suspect is probably a crib. Considering the prices I’m seeing here, a free crib sounds amazing to me, and it’s given Frank something to do these last few weeks, an escape from Cookie and the broken son he has no idea how to fix.

  I waddle slowly up and down the next aisle, leaning heavily on the cart handle. A baby swing catches my eye, and I lean over to the bottom shelf to look at the price. When I straighten, there’s a familiar and distinct wetness between my legs. I probably peed myself again. It happens lately every time I sneeze, cough, or bend over. Just another one of those totally normal and gross symptoms of pregnancy that no one ever tells you about. I’ve started wearing these gigantic pads all the time, the same kind the kids in middle school used to leave on our seventh-grade teacher Mrs. Dobber’s chair, sticky side up.

  It feels more wet than usual this time though. It’s gonna soak through my only pair of maternity jeans. My body is embarrassing enough without having to walk through Target with a dark splotch across my ass. I need a mirror to see how bad it looks.

  Suddenly a searing pain rips through my midsection. I make it two more steps and there’s another sharp stab, a hot blade slicing through me. I can’t even catch my breath before there’s another and another until I can’t take it anymore. I collapse on the ground.

  Worse even than the pain is the sudden and paralyzing certainty that something is wrong.

  “Help me. Somebody help… me.” I finally get out the words. The effort leaves me spent.

  A pimply-faced teenager wearing a red polo shirt two sizes too big for him approaches but does nothing except stand there looking at me, useless. Finally a woman pushing a cart with three girls under the age of six shoves the store employee out of the way and places her hand on my back.

  “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “No, no, no. It’s too soon.”

  The look on the woman’s face says it all. She’s had kids, those three little girls watching me now, silent and scared.

  “Did your water break?”

  “I don’t know.” The wet spot around my crotch is spreading, seeping down my thighs. The doctors and the websites all say it’s unlikely that your water will break. It only happens 20 percent of the time. It’s the smell that lets you know. But what’s it supposed to smell like? All I can smell is my own fear, sour and metallic.

  “Give me your phone. I’ll call your husband.”

  “In my bag?”

  The woman digs around in my purse, rooting through the loose change, crumpled receipts, the bruised banana I keep meaning to throw away, dirty tissues, the spare tampon that long ago lost its wrapper. As she continues to search the multiple pockets, I have a crystal-clear image of my phone sitting in the center console of the car.

  The woman squats down, her kind eyes level to mine. “I can’t find it. We can use mine. What’s the number?”

  I only knew three numbers by heart. Lou’s home number, which is the same number I had growing up; Riley’s cell, which has miraculously stayed the same all these years; and Kevin’s cell, which I only know because he made me memorize it. Part of his training was making the family memorize important numbers. I squeak out Kevin’s number and watch the woman punch it into her own phone.

  “It went to voice mail.”

  Of course it did. He’s not going to answer some random number and listen to someone scream at him again.

  “Who else can I call?”

  Before I can answer, a chain saw slices right through my stomach, cutting me in half. I roll over, an inhuman sound coming out of my mouth. I start bargaining with God, thinking of all the things I’ll trade for Chase to be okay. It’s a short-lived exercise, because the answer is everything, anything.

  “Call 911!” the woman commands the pimply teenager, and he seems happy to be told what to do.

  I think I’m nodding, though maybe my head isn’t even moving. I’m squeezing my eyes shut against the agony. I sense the small crowd forming around us, staring at me with concern and pity, and a dash of excitement too, at being front row for an emergency, a story to tell later.

  “Try my husband again,” I manage.

  The woman dutifully complies. “Still no answer, hon.”

  I could give her Riley’s cell: 215-555-4810… 215-555-4810. I’ve dialed it more than I’ve dialed Kevin’s number, more than my own home phone. I’ve called it from pay phones and random guys’ cell phones to let her know when our favorite song came on in some bar during a boring date. But no. I can’t call Riley. Why? In the haze of pain it’s hard to think straight. I’m done. But done with what? Done with Riley? I wasn’t gonna call her again. Ever. The hard line had felt good, a sense of righteous satisfaction. Now that reasoning doesn’t make sense. Riley’s my best friend? The thought forms itself into a question.

  “Anyone else, honey?” The woman asks, a frantic pitch to her voice. One of her little girls whimpers.

  “My best friend… Call Riley,” I manage. From a distance, over the sound of my own labored panting, I can faintly hear Riley say hello to Judy through the phone. I’m not sure how I know the woman’s name is Judy. She must have told me.

  “I think your friend has gone into labor,” Judy explains. I need Judy to take those words back. Hearing them out loud makes it real. When I’m seized by another crippling contraction, I focus on Judy’s three girls, all of them with white-blond hair and wide eyes like baby deer. The little one who was whimpering has stopped. She’s now staring at me, along with her sisters, as if I’m an animal in a zoo as she slurps loudly out of a Little Mermaid cup. Judy holds the phone down, and Riley’s voice is closer now, right in my ear.

  “Jenny, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to find Kevin and we’ll meet you at the hospital. Okay, Jenny? You’re going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.” I’m so happy to hear Riley’s voice, even if she’s lying to me again. I’m not going to be fine. But there’s a chance Chase could be. He has to be. There’s no other outcome that I can bear.

  The small crowd that’s gathered gives way to the paramedics, who lift me into an ambulance.

  The paramedics tell me we’re headed to St. Mary, and this is the first thing that’s brought me peace in what feels like hours. Annie’s hospital. If I can’t deliver downtown, as I planned, this is the next best option. I have no idea if she’s working, but at least my sister-in-law can put in a good word with the staff, make sure we receive the best care.

  My relief is so short-lived it’s barely enough time to remember the feeling. Another wave of staggering pain washes over me, like a riptide pulling me under. There’s no point in fighting. How is it possible that my body is capable of so much agony? As soon as I can breathe again, I ask what’s happening, if the baby is okay. The two paramedics respond in a soothing, even tone that makes me want to kick them in the teeth. How dare they be so calm at a time like this? They’re not gonna tell me what’s really happening anyway. They won’t tell me that Chase is in trouble, but I know. Riley’s not the only one with the tingles.

  Minutes, seconds, or hours after we arrive at the hospital, Kevin bursts through the flimsy curtain surrounding my bed in the ER. The paramedics gave me a shot of something. It’s dulled the sensations, or maybe I’ve grown used to them.

  “Babe, are you okay?” Kevin asks, panic pulsing off him. He practically slams into the bed and pats me frantically with both hands, as if checking for injuries. He looks like he does right before he’s going to be sick, pale and shaky.

  I’m hit hard with a surge of love for him right then, and relief, and sympathy; it’s all there swirling around, making me dizzy. I want to spare him the truth, so I don’t say anything at all. I simply grab his hand. When we touch, something unspoken passes between us, a solidarity that gives me strength.

  We turn, still holding on to each other, as
a stocky man in a crisp white coat comes through the curtain. “I’m Dr. Atunde, the ob-gyn resident on duty tonight.”

  My stomach sinks, taking in the doctor, his dark skin. Kevin stiffens like he’s having the same thought. What if this doctor recognizes my husband from the news? Will it impact how hard he works to save our baby? No, that’s impossible. Doctors don’t do that. They took oaths not to do that. They save terrorists and serial killers.

  “You’re going to be a father today,” the doctor says to Kevin, with measured joy. Kevin lets go of my hand so he can take the doctor’s, who shakes it vigorously. The hand that Kevin released finds its way to my belly.

  I’m going to be a mother today. It’s a prayer, more than a statement. I focus every fiber of my being on Chase, willing him to be okay with a fervor that borders on unhinged. I have never needed and will never need or want anything more desperately than this, and the simple clarity of that is overwhelming. If I get this, I will never ask for another thing as long as I live. It’s the purest promise I will ever make.

  Even though Dr. Atunde calmly explains what’s going to happen next, there’s an unmistakable urgency in his voice too. “Jennifer, we’re concerned about the fetal heart rate. It’s too fast; your blood pressure is rising, and the labor isn’t progressing. We have to do an emergency C-section. We need to get this baby out of you as quickly as possible. I’m going to get washed up and I’ll see you up there. The anesthesiologist is ready for you. Any questions?”

  Kevin shivers as he strokes my hair, murmuring over and over, “Jenny, it’s gonna be okay.” His breath, with the faintest trace of beer, is warm on my face. But then it’s Riley’s voice I think I hear calling my name. It comes again, louder, my full name. And then Riley is there, bursting through the curtain, standing right at my feet.

  “You came.” I don’t entirely believe it.

  “Oh Jenny, of course I came.” She rushes over and kisses me on my clammy forehead.

  Kevin and Riley are in the same room. It’s a struggle to arrange this fact in my mind. Not even the same room, in the same claustrophobic space. I glance at the heart-rate monitor, worried it’ll spike and give away how tense this makes me.

  Riley nods hello at Kevin and moves to the opposite side of my bed. He responds with an unmistakable hint of anger that’s quickly replaced with relief. He no longer has to deal with this alone.

  “Are you okay?” Riley glances at the beeping monitor, where the squiggly lines build to a pointy mountain every seven minutes or so. “Is Chase okay?”

  “Chase?” Kevin looks confused. He takes a step backward, as if he’s been physically pushed. “Wait. It’s a boy? She knew?” He seems to be trying to process these facts as Riley stands there completely stricken. This has the makings of a hilarious setup in some wacky sitcom, except that exactly nothing about our life is hilarious right now.

  “It was an accident, Kevin. I found out by accident,” Riley explains, desperately looking to me for guidance.

  I don’t have enough energy for this moment. I grab Kevin’s hand and hope that does what it’s supposed to do, says all the things I can’t summon, mainly that I’m sorry.

  A balloon of tension grows until a slow grin starts to take over his face, deflating it just like that. “It’s a boy.” He says the words with a reverential joy, and even though I had nothing to do with this, it was all biology and fate and genes, I still feel like I’m giving him a gift.

  “I thought it was a girl. I don’t know… but a boy. I wanted a boy,” Kevin says, positively giddy now, like he’s revealing his own secret, even though I knew perfectly well how badly he wanted a son.

  Riley’s wide brown eyes blaze with concern when I turn to look at her.

  “They have to cut him out of me, Rye.” My voice cracks. “It’s too early.”

  She leans over so her face is inches from mine. She smells faintly of sweat and cocoa butter.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You’re strong. Chase is strong. You’ve got this.” She straightens up to look at Kevin. “You’ve both got this. Gigi would say, ‘Women been making babies since the beginning of babies. Our bodies know what to do. You know what to do.’ ”

  “No, I don’t know what to do. My body isn’t doing the right thing.”

  “It is.” Riley places both of my hands between hers. Hers are bigger than mine. They always have been. We’d compare them when we were little, placing our palms against each other’s, checking to see how much longer Riley’s fingers stretched than mine. Then I’d flip Riley’s palm up to the sky and pretend I knew how to read her future in the fine lines etched into the skin. “Your life line is long. Look at this love line. You’re going to have three great loves in your life and four babies and a mansion in Miami on the beach.” Now, Riley’s long fingers wrap around mine, a lifeline.

  “Do you think he’s scared? Chase?” The question is ridiculous, but it’s what I want to know.

  Both Kevin and Riley speak at the same time. “No. No. He isn’t scared. He doesn’t know what’s happening.”

  I stare straight up at the ceiling. “I’m scared, you guys.”

  “You’ll be fine. You’re going to do great,” Riley reassures me again.

  “Hi, Momma, how about we get this baby out?” another nurse asks as she comes in and starts to unplug and unhook with ruthless efficiency.

  “It’s a boy,” I blurt. “It’s a boy, and his name is Chase. Can we please use his name?” In case the worst happens, I need everyone to call him by his name, like he’s a real person in the world. He exists.

  The nurse stops moving long enough to look right at me. “Got it, are you ready to meet Chase?”

  Riley grabs my hand, runs her finger across my palm. It’s an old code we used to have when we were at the dinner table or church and couldn’t even whisper without someone hearing. A scratch on the palm means, Are you good? Two squeezes means yes. One means no. I squeeze Riley’s hand two times.

  “She’s ready,” Riley tells the nurse, still looking at me.

  “You’ve got this. You can do this, Jaybird,” Kevin adds, leaning over to kiss my damp forehead.

  Riley and Kevin step away from the bed as the nurses prepare to move me. Without either of them touching me I feel suddenly untethered, lost.

  “Will you be here?” I ask Riley. Of course Kevin will stay, but I’m terrified that she’ll leave, walk out the door, and we’ll go back to strained emails, unanswered text messages, and broken plans. The thought that I might have to text Riley the first picture of Chase makes me unspeakably sad. I’d always imagined her being in the hospital to see my baby when he was brand-new to the world, to touch him and hold him and kiss his head and help me count his fingers and toes. I need Riley to be one of the first people Chase ever knows.

  “I’ll be here.” Riley smiles her big TV smile, no trace of fear, at least to someone who doesn’t know her. But I see it there. I can see through the mask.

  “While you’re doing your thing up there, I’m going to buy a bottle of champagne. So we can celebrate after.”

  Soon, I’m in motion through the hospital halls, being wheeled into an OR. It’s all a blur.

  And then I hear it. The best sound I’ve ever heard—my baby’s wail. Dr. Atunde lifts Chase Anderson Murphy, triumphantly, high into the air.

  “His lungs are working,” Dr. Atunde says, the relief in his voice revealing that he was prepared for a different outcome. I feel a rush of love for this stranger, for getting Chase out in time.

  I watch Kevin walk from where he’s been stationed at the top of the bed to the other side of the coarse blue curtain at my waist. He’s not prepared for the sight of my belly sliced open from side to side—all of my guts exposed. I see his face flit from fear to disgust to confusion in a matter of seconds before his eyes land on Chase, and then there is only awe.

  “Oh God, Jenny, he’s so small.” He sounds terrified and happy and overwhelmed.

  The nurse holds up a p
air of scissors. “We’re going to have to get this little guy over to the NICU. Do you want to cut the cord, Daddy?”

  Kevin murmurs something that sounds like “uh-huh” and the nurse lowers the sheet enough so that I can see Kevin’s hands shake as he cuts through the ropy string of tissue connecting me to Chase. It doesn’t look like a cord at all, rather some kind of lumpy, spongy tube with a pulse, a life all its own.

  As soon as he’s finished, Dr. Atunde holds Chase up for me to see. He looks impossibly fragile, with arms like tiny twigs. His hair is thick and black like Kevin’s, his skin almost translucent, and I can make out blue veins furiously pumping blood into his little heart that thumps so hard in his chest I worry it might burst out of his skin.

  When I first see him, gooey and gorgeous, I think I might die for the second time that day. It doesn’t seem possible that you could live with this staggering amount of love. It’s almost daunting to feel so much at once. All of the women who said, “Oh, you just wait until you hold your baby the first time and the love you experience,” like it was a mystical passage that you couldn’t comprehend until you were on the other side—I get it now; they were right.

  When I think of how much we went through to get here, the miscarriages, the needles, and all the times I nearly forced myself to give up, until some small seed inside me said, No, you can’t. I know the road was supposed to lead me here. Right here. And whatever happens from this point forward, I have this; I have my baby.

  * * *

  A champagne bottle, an expensive-looking one with a French name that I can’t pronounce, is the first thing I see when my eyes flutter open later, my head foggy with drugs and exhaustion. I’m in a proper room now. It’s not private though, our insurance wouldn’t cover that, but no one is in the bed next to mine. I turn and there’s Riley asleep on a hard chair in the corner.