Summer Snow

by Nicole Baart

  Hopeful somehow.

  Michael must have turned to regard me, and he witnessed firsthand the affected look on my face. I felt him touch my arm in an almost paternal gesture, and just as quickly as his fingers made contact with my skin, I felt them withdraw. In the corner of my vision I could see him bury his hands deep into his pockets. I blinked and held my eyes closed for the space of one deep breath, watching the waltz of white and gold on the backs of my eyelids. Then, smiling, I tried to focus my attention on Michael. I wanted to say something to dispel the crystalline quality of the moment, but nothing seemed right.

  “You’re going to be okay, you know.” His voice came out of nowhere, and though I didn’t know exactly what he meant, something inside me clutched at those words and pulled them close as if he had offered me a talisman.

  Really? Do you really think so? I felt an almost reckless hunger to hear him say more. What did Michael know about my situation? What comfort could he possibly offer me to soothe the ache of Janice and Simon? the baby? all my unanswered questions? Yet there was something wise in his statement, some nugget of truth that felt real and definable. I clung to it.

  And then, though he had given me enough, though he had helped me forget for a while, shown me beauty, even spoken truth over my life, Michael opened his mouth again. “You’re not alone.”

  It was what I longed to hear.

  Possibility

  I HAD HEARD IT BEFORE.

  From Grandma, from Mrs. Walker, and even from Janice: “You’ll be okay. It’s fine. Everything is going to be all right. This too shall pass.” But to hear it from Michael’s lips—“You’re not alone”—was incalculably different.

  From the moment I knew I was pregnant, a gap had opened in the earth. It was a wide, bottomless fissure that slashed through the center of everything and stranded me on unstable ground. It left me wandering, unbalanced. Alone. And Michael reached for me. He didn’t have to do it—he wasn’t bound to me by genetic code, history, or obligation—and yet he extended an arm, a bridge of blood and bone. I took it.

  When Michael finally drove me home, it was nearly six thirty and the house was in a bit of an uproar about my alleged disappearance. But my face had changed somehow—I could feel it—and though Grandma looked like she wanted to berate me for being late, she simply smiled a mystified little smile that slowly took on a decidedly pleased edge.

  “Where have you been?” Grandma rose from the supper table as if to come to me, maybe take me in her arms, but the legs of her chair caught and she was trapped in a half-standing position.

  “I’m a big girl,” I assured her with a laugh. “A friend drove me home and we got sidetracked. No big deal.”

  Grandma looked on the verge of demanding to know more, but then she shot a bemused look at Janice and sank back into her seat. “Well, supper is cold.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said with all sincerity as I took my spot in front of an empty plate. “I should have called. We just lost track of time.”

  Maintaining a schedule had been a nearly impossible endeavor back in the days when Thomas and I were two sides of the same coin. But it had been a long time since I last had to apologize for causing my grandmother to worry about my whereabouts. Though I didn’t agree with it, I certainly couldn’t blame her for her apprehension, and already any annoyance at my lack of consideration was being quickly replaced in her demeanor by a rare satisfaction that I had been out with a friend.

  “You should have a time-out,” Simon scolded, pointing his fork at me as though provoked.

  “I’m kind of old for time-outs,” I told him. “Besides, when I was your age I didn’t get time-outs; I got spankings. Please pass the asparagus.”

  Simon grudgingly passed me the greens, but I felt buoyant, at ease, and it was hard for the rest of the table not to follow suit. The tone in the room seemed to lighten with every bite of tepid food I cheerfully lifted to my mouth. We talked and laughed. I even smiled at Janice—directly at her, a smile meant specifically for her—and she swelled as if something inside had filled to overflowing and burst whatever banks had held it at bay.

  And because of the untroubled weightlessness of the air around us, I was reckless and hasty and agreed to something I would have never consented to do only days ago.

  “Dr. Morales’s office called,” Grandma told me at an easy break in the conversation. “They wanted to remind you about the hospital orientation tomorrow night.”

  My understanding of the birth process was limited to books and hearsay, and when I learned that Lamaze was outdated and that birthing classes had been relegated to one evening crash course, I had been surprised. But not disappointed. It suited me just fine that instead of weekly meetings with adoring couples wrapped around each other I would only have to endure a few hours of public learning. Apparently first-time moms got little more than a tour of the facilities and a rundown of pain management options.

  I swallowed a mouthful of chicken. “You’re coming with me, right?” I downed the last of my milk, not really even waiting for Grandma’s answer. It was a given. We had decided months ago that she would be in the delivery room with me. Dr. Morales had told me that I would need a birth coach, and though I was determined to take care of myself more and more, I also knew that childbirth was something no one should have to do alone. I looked forward to sharing the experience with Grandma.

  But the room filled with silence.

  I looked up with a half smile pinned to my face. “I can’t do this without you,” I faltered, fixing my eyes on her. Grandma was biting her lower lip in a gesture of distinct discomfort. “You can’t come?” I asked incredulously.

  “I’m still your birth coach,” Grandma rushed to reassure me. “But I am so sorry I can’t make it tomorrow night. I got the dates mixed up on my calendar, and I have to be at a memorial service.”

  All at once I remembered. Grandma volunteered at the yearly hospice memorial service, and it was always held the third Tuesday in June. This year she was going to be director of the volunteer staff. Why hadn’t we thought of it when we signed up for the class in the first place? “We’ll just reschedule the hospital visit,” I said. “No big deal.”

  Grandma still looked distressed. “I already asked, honey. We can’t. They only offer the birthing class every few months. The next one is too late.”

  “I can’t go alone!” I yelped. She’ll have to skip the memorial service this year, I reasoned silently. Surely Grandma wouldn’t leave me stranded at such an event.

  “You don’t have to go alone.” Janice’s voice surprised me, and I turned to her as if in a daze. She was looking at me expectantly, eyebrows lifted as if she was waiting for me to understand her meaning.

  I did at once. “But Grandma is my birth coach,” I told Janice, leaving no room for discussion.

  “She is,” Janice agreed. “But you just have to go tomorrow night. You’ll get to meet the nurses and see the birthing rooms. … They’ll tell you what to expect, and you’ll learn how to cope with the different stages of labor. …” She waved her hands as if to pluck more reasons out of the air. “It’s so important. And you shouldn’t go alone. You don’t have to go alone.” She tapped her own chest with two hesitant fingers, then shrugged at me awkwardly.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t come out insulting. How could I tell Janice, I don’t want you there?

  “What about Simon?” I said. “He can’t come along. Someone has to stay home with him.”

  “I’m going to have a babysitter,” Simon chimed in happily. “Mom says that a babysitter is paid to play with me.”

  I snorted involuntarily.

  Grandma and Janice watched me for a split second, and then they laughed, too, though they seemed too intent on my response to find Simon’s declaration very funny.

  “What?” Simon implored. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered. Quiet fell around the table again, and
I picked at the remnants of my potatoes with the tines of my fork. Nobody said a word, and I could feel three pairs of eyes studying me as I scraped my plate. “Okay, fine,” I finally said. “Janice can come with me. But you—” I pointed the fork at Grandma—“are going to be in that delivery room with me.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Grandma promised, relief in her voice.

  “Thank you,” Janice said.

  I looked at her and was somewhat startled to find that she truly, deeply wanted to be a part of this process in some small way. It was unnerving but also strangely touching, and I decided that a few hours at the hospital with her would hardly be the end of the world. Besides, a tour of the maternity ward was far from intimate, and moreover, I was feeling benevolent, gracious even, after witnessing Michael’s enchanted snowfall.

  The following night Janice and I had a quick supper with Simon and then dropped him off at the babysitter’s early so we could be among the first to arrive at the two-and-a-half-hour class. It felt peculiar to walk the empty hallways of the hospital with Janice, my right hand planted firmly below the swell of my belly, where the baby was beginning to feel a tad too heavy. Janice had walked this same path with my father over nineteen years ago. Did she clutch his arm? Was she afraid? excited? Did she know even before I was born that she wasn’t ready to be a mother? It hadn’t occurred to me to be nervous about the practicalities of the impending birth of my child, but with the clinical smell of hospital disinfectant in the air and the strange juxtaposition of past and present as Janice strode beside me, an abrupt wave of disquiet rushed through my soul.

  We had hoped to be early, but when we neared conference room two—unnecessarily demarcated with pink and blue streamers twirling around the door—we heard voices inside.

  “Guess we’re not the first,” Janice said nervously.

  I grunted in response and stepped gingerly through the door.

  The room was nearly full already, and couples sat in folding chairs that formed a tight circle around the perimeter of the small room. Though I knew my response was the result of oversensitivity, all those young faces seemed attractive to me—happy and confident, with big, white smiles and an air of poise and accomplished ease. They turned as one to survey the newcomers, and as quickly as I had formed an opinion about them, they appraised me. Maybe I was being cynical, but it seemed that something altered in their eyes when Janice appeared behind me—Janice instead of a handsome husband to hold my hand and gaze at me tenderly. There was an almost imperceptible twinge of discomfort before the room dissolved into conversation once again.

  “Welcome,” a nurse in uniform greeted us. “Are you together?” She motioned between Janice and me, and when I nodded, she handed me a clipboard and gave Janice a red folder. “This is information for you to keep and go over together at home.”

  I almost blurted out, “She’s not my birth coach.” But my tongue was thick and uncooperative, and I merely smiled weakly instead.

  The nurse pointed to the clipboard in my arms. “Please find your name and check it off the list.” She paused while I located Julia DeSmit at the very top of the short spreadsheet. A glance at the rest of the names told me that I was the only single mom. Every other entry was twofold: Andrew and Darci Dragstra, Luke and Elizabeth Fennema, Benji and Kim Menning.

  “Done?” the nurse asked. I quickly tore my eyes from the clipboard and handed it back. She indicated the chairs with a rehearsed smile. “Go ahead and find a seat.”

  It was stiflingly hot, and I wished that I had taken a bottle of water along. None of the other women seemed bothered by the heat, and they stroked their tummies lovingly, catching their husbands’ hands now and then to let Daddy feel the little kicks and movements of Junior. They laughed serenely and talked of nursery decorations and layettes.

  “What is a layette?” I whispered desperately in Janice’s ear. Suddenly she felt safe to me, familiar amid the exoticness of such a foreign, even hostile landscape.

  “It’s just a fancy term for all the things you need for a baby,” Janice explained quietly. “You know, clothes, blankets, diapers …”

  I had a few sleepers and Mrs. Walker’s old crib. There was nothing else. There was no nursery to decorate. The baby would sleep in my room; we simply had no more space. Janice and Simon had taken over the sewing room, and the only extra room in the house was the other half of the attic. It was completely uninhabitable. I thought of the plain white walls of my bedroom and the neat collages of old photographs that I had hung in any available space. It was a far cry from what I envisioned a nursery to be.

  When I overheard the woman to my left ramble on about an oak changing table and a new glider rocker, my heart cringed for the things that my baby already lacked. We hadn’t been rich when I was growing up, and I knew well what it felt like to buy my clothes at Wal-Mart instead of in the mall shops where the jeans sported tags with catchy brand names. My heart plummeted at the thought of my son feeling what I felt: You are not enough.

  But stuff—nurseries, expensive labels, layettes—was nothing in comparison to the one fundamental thing that I could not provide for my son, and I abruptly, achingly came face-to-face with the insufficiency of my role as a mother.

  It was a tremendously depressing evening. When the nurse explained the stages of labor, she kept slipping up and saying “your spouse” whenever she referenced techniques that the birth coach could use to ease the pain. Most of the time she caught herself the moment the words escaped her lips and threw me a quick, obvious look that made my spirit sink a little lower in my abdomen with every glance.

  Janice must have felt me stiffen beside her because she laid a hand on my knee for the briefest of moments. It was an act of support, a gesture of solidarity, and while I appreciated her indication of encouragement, in some ways it made me feel even worse. Not only did I have to face this without a husband, the person accompanying me was a virtual stranger.

  The last thing we did before the nurse dismissed us was take a tour of the birthing rooms. There were only three rooms, but they were large and modern with suede-colored walls and cream moldings. Peaceful landscape prints adorned the walls, and any medical equipment was discreetly concealed behind large cabinets with shapely pewter pulls. The effect was clean and sophisticated; this one little area of the hospital had been transformed into an upscale hotel.

  “Oh, honey,” one woman gushed, pulling her husband into the spacious bathroom, “there’s a Jacuzzi tub. Maybe we could have a water birth.”

  Water birth? I wanted to curl up in a corner and hide my face in my hands. Everyone seemed completely taken with the newly redecorated maternity ward, but I longed for a cold operating room. This was all too much: too lavish, too indulgent, too romantic somehow. It was intended for gentle kisses, warm embraces, blissful families. I didn’t fit the demographic. Not at all.

  Janice and I stepped into the starry night a few minutes before ten. Many of the couples were still chatting and asking the nurse questions, but the moment she thanked us for coming, the two of us blazed a path to the door. Janice hadn’t said much of anything throughout the entire evening, and when the hospital was behind us, she seemed to come to her senses. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and I assumed from the brisk pace she set to the car that she was embarrassed by the lack of guidance she had offered. For some reason I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t come with any expectations, but she spoke first.

  “A little overwhelmed?” Janice asked lightly, as if this was nothing more monumental than an upcoming science test. But her voice was strained, and it was obvious to me that she knew the class had been more than just a little overwhelming for me. It seemed to have been difficult for her, too.

  Yes didn’t begin to encompass what I felt, so I said nothing.

  We entered the distinct circle of light cast by a streetlamp, and I saw a smooth, round stone. I kicked it absently, and it skidded unevenly across the pavement before bumping into the curb and flip
ping into the grass beyond.

  Janice trailed the movement of the rock and, watching it disappear into the darkness of the well-kept hospital lawn, followed its path and sat down heavily on the ground. She ran her fingers through the grass and heaved a loud sigh.

  Because I was exhausted and didn’t know what else to do, I joined her. The grass was cool and smelled like summer. Without thinking, I lay back until my vision was filled with a sky full of stars and nothing more. “That was awful,” I said quietly into the blackness.

  Janice fell back too. “I know.”

  Then, because I needed consolation, I voiced the fear that I had shared so many times before: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Janice didn’t respond. I waited for a few words of comfort, for a confirmation of my ability to do this well, to be an excellent mother, but none came. The seconds stretched into a minute and then two. Completely stunned, I indignantly rolled my head to survey her. She owed me that much at least. After all she had done to me, after all we had been through, the least she could do was muster up a couple of reassuring words.

  Janice was watching the sky, but when she sensed me move, she turned her head to face me. Her cheeks were pinched and pale, her lips a slight, hard line. “Julia,” she said quickly, ignoring the heat in my glare, “you’re going to hate me for this, but I have to say it.” She pressed her eyes shut but kept her face turned toward me. Her words tumbled out like a pent-up confession. “It’s not too late. I know that you think you love this baby, and I’m sure that you do, but you don’t have to do this. You can let the baby go. There are so many families out there who just long for a child, and you can make their dreams come true.” Janice’s eyes flashed open. “You can make your dreams come true. You can start over.”

  The last bit made her voice climb a notch, and I understood in an instant that starting over was probably the dearest dream enclosed in the depths of Janice’s heart. But even as a chink of insight into Janice’s soul fell into place, my defenses inflated at her words. “It’s a little late for advice,” I said frostily, articulating each syllable with careful precision.