by Jc Emery
"This," Dr. Roth points to a bean-shaped object, "is your baby." I stare at it for what feels like several minutes. Brad is silent. The only reason I know he's still in the room is because he's holding my hand. I can't take my eyes off the screen.
The little bean moves and the whole screen looks like it's sloshing around. I blink a few times and squint at the screen. Now I'm seeing two beans. My gut reaction is that I've got a deformed baby and it has two heads. I automatically begin to worry about my baby being picked on by the kids who only have one head and I resolve to tell my baby that he or she… or them… are just so special because they have two heads. And you know what they say about that: two heads are better than one.
"My baby has two heads!" I point at the screen and cry out. Just because I've decided to make sure my two-headed baby is loved beyond comprehension doesn't mean the idea of raising a two-headed baby doesn't scare the crap out of me. At least my two-headed baby's daddy carries a gun. That ought to resolve some of the teasing.
"Mrs. Patrick, please calm down," Dr. Roth smiles. She reminds me that there are risks associated with this pregnancy for me as well. She's all calm and collected like two-headed babies are a dime a dozen. Bitch. "You do see two heads, but look at this," she says. I follow her finger as it traces a line on the screen I can hardly distinguish. There's definitely two beans.
"Two heart beats, two tiny, growing little bodies," she concludes and stares at us like we're supposed to finish that for her. My brain is, unfortunately, still stuck on the whole two-headed baby thing.
"Two?" Brad asks and I'm snapped out of my fantasies of clothes shopping for my extra special child and the difficulties such a task would include. I don't think Sears carries clothing for two-headed babies.
"Two," Dr. Roth nods and smiles. Two?
Holy shit.
Two.
"So, my baby doesn't have two heads?" I ask in disbelief. Brad laughs and kisses my forehead. Twins run in both of our families, so this wasn’t an impossibility. We spend a few moments letting that sink in. I'm not worried about two. Not at all. I'm just happy to have a baby at all. Having two is a bonus.
"This is fucking awesome," Brad says, and then apologizes to Dr. Roth. He’s been working on his language in preparation for the baby. Babies.
He's still grinning but there's a bit of water in his eyes. "Can we tell what they are?" Always the eloquent one.
"Well, this one," Dr. Roth continues to move her finger across the screen, "is a boy."
Brad cheers loudly. I stare up at him because as goofy and ridiculous as he is, I can't wait to have a little boy running around just like him. But God help me, Brad has a big head. I hope our baby boy's head is a little smaller at birth or my vagina is in serious trouble.
"Are they both boys?" I ask, half giddy and half terrified at the idea. I do have an older brother, so I remember what little boys are like. Two of them could set fire to the entire city in a matter of minutes; especially Brad's boys.
"It seems baby number 2 is being shy today. I can't make out its gender." Dr. Roth tells us that we can try again at the next ultrasound. So for today we'll leave the ultrasound knowing that baby number one is a little boy (although Dr. Roth says that both are quite large for twins at their current gestation and seem to be very healthy); and we'll just have to wait until the next time to find out if he has a brother or a sister.
AS THE WEEKS progress and I increase in size, I've taken to staying home more. Not that I have a ton of reasons to leave the house. As it turns out, my quitting my job was the "best thing [I] ever did" according to Brad. In the months that have passed since then, I have often wondered if I'll ever go back to working at a firm. For now, I have Brad’s internship keeping me busy. As it turns out, there’s a lot more red-tape involved than I thought, but my dad has been guiding me through the process of who to talk to and how. Hopefully by this time next year we’ll have the first round of at-risk kids interning at the station and in line to receive scholarships to the academy if they qualify. Lately I’ve been hounding the Red Sox to get involved, but haven’t gotten to speak to the right people yet.
The internship takes up a good bit of time, but I have been doing plenty of lying around, too. Sometimes I even lay around at Darla and James’s house with the kids. I mean, I do some things around the house: the laundry, dishes, and the cooking; but I'm bored. I'm bored out of my mind, so I've been thinking about what I'll do after the babies get older and don't need me for everything anymore. This internship won’t last forever. Then again, judging by the way my own mother and James interact, some children need their mothers well into their 30s. For a brief moment, I beam at the idea of my babies never leaving me.
Today is one of my rare trips out of the house. It's not so easy moving around anymore. I'm nearly eight months along now and my babies are growing strong and healthy. We still don't know the sex of baby number two. The little bugger is good at hiding behind his or her brother. We also still don't have names picked out for either of them just yet. Sadly, Brad has officially nixed Margot and Madison.
The grocery store is pretty empty, and thank God for it. The holidays have come and passed and with it have gone the crowds. We nearly starved in all of December as I'd been boycotting standing in lines with my swollen ankles and pea-sized bladder.
"Colleen?" A soft voice calls behind me. I set down the box of cookies I've been eyeing and turn to see none other than Heather standing before me. I'm so surprised I nearly pee myself.
"Um," I stutter and look around for Brad. We haven't seen hide nor hair of Heather since the incident so many years ago. Now that everything in my life is so perfect, my immediate reaction is to fear that this could screw it all up. "Heather, hi," I try to smile.
"You're uncomfortable," she assesses my demeanor with accuracy. I am uncomfortable. Anyone would be, I assume. I try to apologize but just as I'm getting the words out, Brad walks up.
“Heather," his voice is low. Not quite the quiet fear or heartbroken voice that I'd been expecting. He's just surprised. I worry that he's going to get mad or upset or sad. I know he loves me, but once upon a time, he loved her, too.
"Wow. This is awkward," Heather says. I laugh so loud that I nearly squeak.
"And we're making it worse," Brad says. "So, how have you been?" And slowly, things get less awkward. Brad loosens up and so do I. Heather tells us that she's married a local carpet cleaner to which he has to withhold a few choice comments about carpet munching.
Heather isn't surprised to hear that we're married—only that it took us so long. And as the minutes pass and the conversation runs out, I can see that Heather doesn't hold the same power over Brad anymore. I can see that he's moved past it. He's beyond the stupid things we've done as young adults and the angst and heartbreak we'd all endured because we were both so stupid—so stupid and afraid. We're both beyond it. And it doesn't matter anymore.
I rub my belly, knowing what does matter; and I smile at my husband, knowing that he loves me. And even if our marriage began in an unconventional way, and even if we're both ridiculous and dumb; we're ridiculous and dumb together. It's not about being somebody or being defined by what we do to earn a living, or how we speak. It's about us, and being together. And above all, it's what I've always wanted: to love and be loved in return—unconditionally, irrevocably, and without limit.
EPILOGUE
(Brad)
Just like her mother.
"GET YOUR BUTT back here!" I shout, chasing behind her—my beautiful girl. I don't run too fast because I don't want to step on her, but damn it, she's really gotten fast lately. Her blonde curls bob around her head as her chubby little feet fly across the hardwood floor. She squeals in delight. Chase is her favorite game. I'll chase her forever if it always makes her happy like this.
This girl is driving me insane. She woke up this morning, loud as can be, and was all over me. Any guy would consider himself lucky to have a beautiful girl all over him right? Yeah, well, this o
ne bit me. Like, she flat out fucking bit me. And then she laughed. Hard. What do I do with that?
I tried to give her this look to tell her that biting isn't nice; but then she pinched me. She's a brutal little thing—always has been and if she's anything like her mother—always will be.
I chase her into the living room where her grandpa Dan sweeps her up in his arms and she laughs hysterically. Just like Colleen, Dusty is a ham. Her twin brother is more laid back than she is (Colleen says that Jarrod is a lot like me—hanging out in the back, waiting for the crazy girl to have her say, before he makes a move.) I still can't believe that Colleen let me name our kids.
It was the end of May and Colleen was about to pop. Dr. Roth had thought that she'd of let the critters out by then, but they were just waiting for the right time. As it turned out, the right time was on May 25th, smack dab in the middle of a Red Sox game. My pretty girl had refused to stay home just because she was due to go into labor at any given moment. She wanted to go to the game, so I took her. In fact, she hadn't missed a home game all season up until she'd given birth. There were countless days that season that I'd be at work and would hear about a fly ball knowing that my girl was at the yard. Twice that season random guys gave her the fly balls they'd caught. Even with her massive pregnant belly, she could reel 'em in.
That day had been a good one. Colleen felt her first contraction during the first inning just as Dustin Pedroia homered. I was a fucking mess. I wanted to call 9-1-1 and wheel her out of the stadium right then and there but she nearly ripped my nuts off and said "I'm not leaving any game where my boys hit it out of the park in the first inning. These babies will just have to wait." I fell in love with her all over again at that moment.
During the 6th inning, Jarrod Saltalamacchia hit another homerun. We made the Jumbotron when the cameramen realized Colleen was in labor. A stadium attendant came by every inning to check on her. He continually suggested we get to the hospital until the 7th inning stretch when Colleen had threatened to stretch something of his if he didn't lay off.
We didn't find out until the next day that we had made the local news. A reporter came to the hospital and interviewed us. When he asked the babies' names, I'd blurted out that we'd be naming them after good old number 39 (centerfield) and 15 (second base). Nevermind that baby number two had come out a beautiful little girl. Thank God, Colleen was drugged up and she had agreed to it in her exhaustion. I don't think she's forgiven me for naming our daughter Dustin just yet.
"Here," The Chief says, handing Dusty back to me. He's blinking and squinting. I think she might have blown one of his eardrums with all her squealing. I take her in my arms like she's a football and I'm Tom Brady, making a mad dash for the end zone. My dad shakes his head from across the room.
"Your mother hates it when you carry her like that," he chides me. It's true. My mom has been getting on me for carrying her around like she's luggage. She tells me that Dusty is far too fragile and precious to be treated like sports equipment. I just shake my head and wonder if we're talking about the same kid.
"Yeah, well," I defend myself, "she's got this thing with biting, so until she stops, this is how she travels." Jarrod bit me once, but all it took was a slight pop on his nose from Colleen for him to learn. When we tried that tactic on Dusty, she went and popped Colleen right back. Since then we've tried other measures to calm her down. Louise reminds us that Colleen was no different and it might be a few decades until she's a civilized human being.
"You ready, bro?" James asks from the couch. He's got Fitz (who's now three) on his lap, and Alex on the floor in front of him. Alex is Dusty's idol. Colleen still calls Alex her little monkey; she's just no longer nearly as amused by his climbing skills now that the critters are trying his antics out for themselves.
"Damn ready," I say, looking around. "Where's Jarrod?" The room gets silent. Casually, every man in the room starts looking around. No one really wants to assume responsibility for losing my kid. A moment passes and a full-on panic ensues. I rush around the room, my human football under arm. And then I see it—Jarrod's butt and legs sticking out of the dryer. I should have known. He seems to think the dryer is some kind of toy, because anytime it's left open, he tries to crawl in it. I walk over and pull him out.
"Dryer bad, little dude." I give him a dirty look as I hold him against my chest. I can feel drool soaking the hand that's holding Dusty. She's probably chewing on something of mine again. The kid is a chewer, but Colleen won't let me get her one of those squeaky chew toys.
'It's a dog's toy, Brad.'
Yeah, yeah.
It could be anything that Dusty's chewing on; but right now is an especially bad time to be chewing on my clothes. I'm in my new tux about to get hitched to their mama. Or is it re-hitched? Whatever. We're going to St. Brigid's and doing this thing right, we put it off long enough.
"Close the dryer, damn it. My kid likes to crawl in it!" I yell, annoyed. I finally get Colleen to remember to close the dryer and now these goons walk around leaving it open. My kid is going to get hurt and then I'm going to have to crack somebody's skull open. Jarrod looks up at me, pouting, and I swear it's like looking in a mirror. I don't remember being as chubby as he is, but I was a baby. What can I remember about that anyway?
"Now," I say, looking around at the male half of the wedding party. "Who wants the honor of getting these two monsters dressed?" James makes a coughing sound, grabs Fitz, and wanders out of the room. I roll my eyes and hand Jarrod to my dad and Dusty to Dan.
"You get Dusty," I say to Dan, "because she's pure Frasier." I leave them there with the twins and walk back into the bathroom to finish getting ready. I don't even know how Colleen got out of taking Dusty with the women. She said something about makeup and hot rollers and then made Dusty bat her eyes at me and stick her lip out. I can say no to one of them, but not both. Damn women.
MY COLLEEN IS the second most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. I love her in anything and nothing at all, but standing before me in her wedding dress, I'm blown away. She's wearing her mother's dress. It's not real gaudy or anything. It's just modest. Colleen didn't care either way. Neither did I. We both just want the marriage and the family—which we already have—so the ceremony and its get-ups don't really matter. This is for our families and for Father Donnelly, who doled out communion every Sunday, married both of our parents, baptized us, baptized our kids, and has been riding us for ages to be married in the Church. He’s probably going to regret that soon.
The good Father marries us with the big, long, song and dance Catholic-style, which takes forever. We get choked up a few times, but mostly make it through without blubbering like idiots. Our family and friends are in the pews, teary-eyed, and moved to their emotional limits. There are over a hundred people crammed into this little Church. I think all of South Boston is here, and possibly, most of the station has made it. Now would be a good time to be a criminal in Southie—I don't think anybody's out patrolling right now.
We smile at each other as Father Donnelly is about to pronounce us husband and wife. We have a plan and may God have mercy on our souls, because we're going to need it.
"What God has joined, men must not divide," Father Donnelly says, about to tie up the ceremony when pretty girl speaks up.
"I know this isn't allowed, so my apologies to God and everyone listening, but this is important to us." She grins at me and giggles. I can see our parents’ face-palming and squirming in their seats. I guess they're worried that this might be a repeat of the time we knocked over the holy water and Colleen pretended to melt in it after we'd escaped from Sunday School and had been spying on Mass.
"I, Colleen Frasier Patrick, sort of, kind of, take you, pretty boy, as my husband. You're my best friend and my partner in crime, and my ally when the critters try to stage a break-out. I promise to bring you beer and keep Tums and Beano on hand, and I promise to always be your best friend and to love you until the day Jesus lights me on fire."
I try to ignore the chuckles and gasps around the church as my pretty girl stands before me, being the bad ass that I know she always has been. I spare a look at Father Donnelly who seems to be apologizing to God on our behalf. I want to feel bad for him, but he's been witness to most of our more colorful exploits. He had to know this was coming. I mouth 'I love you' at Colleen and I begin my vows.
"I, Bradley Patrick, sort of, kind of, take you, Colleen Frasier Patrick, mother of my monsters, to have and to grope from this day forward until whenever you break my hand. I promise to make you laugh and to shower at least weekly, and to knock you up as many times as you wish. I promise to always do anything I can to make you smile. Above all, I promise to always be your best friend, and to love you until the day Jesus lights me on fire."
The Church is silent for a long moment as we mouth words of love back and forth, both silently praying that we don't get kicked out of our own wedding.
"I shouldn't be surprised," Father Donnelly begins. "Bradley and Colleen have always been spirited. I have had the pleasure of seeing their accomplishments and milestones from birth to now, and each step they have managed to leave their mark along the way. It is with great respect and love to this… unique couple, that I pronounce them husband and wife."
Colleen doesn't waste a moment. She launches herself at me and kisses me in a way that's probably got as much a chance of sending us to hell as our impromptu vows do. But it doesn't matter. This is Colleen and me and if I'm going to hell, there's no one else I'd rather be with—my pretty girl.
The end.
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