by Nicole Baart
Grandma’s door squeaked a soft, high note when I opened it, and almost simultaneously I heard her whisper, “Julia?”
“How did you know it was me?” I whispered back. “What are you doing awake?”
“I have a hard time sleeping sometimes,” Grandma explained simply. I could hear her sheets ruffle as she shifted in bed. “What are you doing up, honey?”
There was no point in being coy, so I blurted it out, a little louder than I intended to. “I think I’m in labor.”
A sharp intake of breath told me that Grandma was as surprised as I was at my seemingly early delivery. Dr. Morales had assured me that most first-time moms go late, not early, and he even went so far as to sternly warn me that he had no plans whatsoever to induce me if I did become overdue: “For the most part, babies know exactly when it’s time to come out. We unnecessarily start labor way too often in this country.”
But just as I was on the verge of panic, assuming that Grandma was about as ready for this as I was—not at all—I heard her move again. She seemed to draw apart from me to the far side of the bed away from the door.
“Come lay by me,” she invited. A glint of moonlight on the white sheets told me that she had slid over and pulled the covers back for me.
I hadn’t shared Grandma’s bed since I was a very little girl and Grandpa still occupied it too. Before Dad and I moved in with Grandma, I used to sleep over on the couch in the living room nearly every week. Grandma would wrap a fitted sheet around the couch cushions and make a narrow bed for me, hauling out a special Indian blanket that was so thick as to be suffocating. For the first few hours I would sleep in peace. But inevitably I would wake up at some point and creep to my grandparents’ bedroom in search of a little comfort and reassurance. Grandpa, who slept nearest to the door, would wordlessly grip me under the arms and lift me clear over his own body, depositing me between him and Grandma. She would roll over to face me, still mostly asleep, and curl her arms around me protectively. I’d wake up the next morning, alone in the bed but warm and contented, smiling to myself.
After Grandpa died, it felt wrong to be in his bed. It was so big and empty without him, so different. Altered somehow. I stayed on the couch, even when I woke up in the night and wanted to pad barefoot to the bedroom Grandma now occupied alone.
As I crawled under the covers beside Grandma, a grown woman with fears that far eclipsed those of my youth, I was hit with a twinge of regret. How lonely must she have been in that queen-size bed all by herself? How selfish was I to abandon her there? It made me sad that I had missed countless nights when we could have slept soundly to the tune of each other’s breath in the darkness.
“Are the contractions regular?” Grandma asked, oblivious to the memories that were filling my heart and making me forget my situation. She reached a hand across the bed and laid it softly against my belly, breaking the spell that held me.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, any tremor in my voice disguised by the fact that I was whispering. “I haven’t really been timing them or anything.”
“Are they close together?”
“I’ll get a couple in a row and then suddenly have a long break,” I explained. “Oh! I’m having one now. Can you feel it?”
There were a few seconds of silence while my stomach hardened until I could barely make out the pressure of Grandma’s hand on me. Then she said, “Yes, I can feel it. But I don’t think you’re in labor—not if you can talk during a contraction.”
Relief poured through me, making my fingers numb as a shiver tingled through my bones. “Thank goodness,” I exhaled. Suddenly the severity of the spasm seemed reduced, unimportant.
“Not ready yet?” Grandma didn’t sound surprised or accusatorial, so I didn’t bother answering. “That’s okay,” she murmured when the tightness in my tummy had passed. “You don’t have to be quite ready yet—soon but not just now. I don’t think you’ll be having a baby today.”
I lay in the blackness of her room, loving the warmth of my grandmother beside me and basking in the knowledge that I wasn’t in labor. It was dark and still and cool downstairs—the attic always got a tad too hot in the summer in spite of the air-conditioning—and I wished all at once that I did not have to go back upstairs alone.
Grandma read my mind. “Why don’t you stay here, Julia? I don’t think you’re in labor, but we’ll time the contractions for a while anyway. If we fall asleep, so be it.”
My head sank deeper into the pillow, and I barely stifled a gratified sigh. The weight of Grandma’s blankets against my legs and her light hand still resting on my stomach made me feel safe. This was a haven, a place of protection. It crossed my mind that now, right now, would be the perfect time to confide in Grandma about some of the fears that were slowly burying me alive. She didn’t know about Janice and Ben. She didn’t know that I was plagued by doubt about whether or not I could be a good mother to my baby. Doubt about whether or not I could be a mother at all.
But I was suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. Instead of speaking, I glanced cursorily at the clock, planning on trying to time just one contraction before letting myself drift into oblivion. It was 1:48. I knew no more.
When I woke in the morning, it was to the sound of voices in the kitchen. Grandma’s clock read 7:04, and I pushed myself up on my elbows hastily, confused and wondering what time I was supposed to be in for work. Eight o’clock, I remembered with a sigh, and I let myself sink back into the rumpled bed, relishing the feeling of over five hours of uninterrupted rest. It had been weeks, if not months, since I had enjoyed such a long block of restorative sleep. My body felt light, even a little tingly, as if I could float right out of bed. I decided that it had been way too long since I had spent a night beside my grandma.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I waltzed into the kitchen and showered Grandma and Simon with generous smiles. I carefully avoided Janice’s gaze, as I knew she possessed the ability to erase the fine feeling of all that blissful sleep with a single look.
“Feeling better?” Grandma asked, flipping a buckwheat pancake off the hot griddle and onto my plate.
“Much,” I assured her. Taking my seat, I asked Simon, “Please pass the syrup.”
Simon quickly gave his half-eaten pancake one last squirt. “Were you sick last night?” he inquired. “I got sick once when I was little, and I threw up all over my blanket.” Forgetting to cap the syrup bottle, he slid it to me bartender-style.
I barely grabbed it before it tipped off the edge and spilled maple goop all over the floor. “Not really sick,” I said, giving Simon what I hoped was a stern look as I held up the just-caught bottle. I considered admonishing him lightly—Janice rarely did it herself these days. But I was in a tenuously good mood and had no desire to unbalance my careful contentment by playing mom. Besides, it wasn’t like the syrup actually spilled. Any chastisement would be for what might have been instead of what was.
“So, you feel good enough for work, then?” Grandma eased the last pancake onto her own plate and joined us at the table. “I thought maybe it was about time for you to start your maternity leave.”
“No way,” I told her quickly. “I only get six weeks of paid leave. After that I either have to go back full-time or take another week or two unpaid. I’m going to work until the last possible minute.”
I felt Janice shift beside me, but she didn’t say anything. Though the reason for her increasing silence made me sick to my stomach, I was thankful that she was too wrapped up in troubles of her own to worry much about mine. I was also grateful that if Grandma had noticed a change in Janice’s behavior, she kept her concerns to herself. We were able to have a breakfast that, if nothing else, was routine and even tranquil on the surface.
The contractions of the night before had completely disappeared, and with my impending labor sliding farther away, I was able to somewhat enjoy the drive to work. The team of mechanics from our church had finally fixed my car, and though it irked me that the wo
rk had been done for free, the cost of parts alone was almost more than my budget could handle. Alongside the obvious embarrassment, there was a certain humble sense of keen recognition, of appreciation for the small acts of kindness that my world wouldn’t be worth occupying without.
Small things, I thought as I drove. Like the corn standing tall in the fields and the swaying motion of the leaves as a soft wind rushed down the rows. It was hypnotic. And I knew that if I could see the long, lined vegetation up close, there would yet be droplets of dew on some. It was a humid day. So much so that the road was still damp in shady places, and as I crested hills I could see steam rise off the blacktop as if the earth were exhaling. From the air-conditioned interior of my car, it was all a sight to behold, a world wrapped in an extravagance of green: growing, breathing, alive.
As I pulled into the Value Foods parking lot, I remembered that my shift coincided with Michael’s, and a matched pang of uncertainty and excitement swept through me. In many ways he was as confusing to me as Janice. Both were relationships that I tentatively longed to cultivate yet feared to watch grow. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t determine where I stood with either person. It was complicated and messy and indecipherable. But in spite of all that, Michael was still one of those small things that made me smile. I looked forward to seeing him more than I worried about it.
It was unusually slow for a Monday, and though I had felt fantastic emerging from bed only hours ago, I was weary by midmorning and thankful that the flow of customers was an intermittent trickle instead of a steady stream. True to his word, Michael stationed me at the front, making my duties relatively easy and manageable. He worked the odd jobs, though I caught him studying me on more than one occasion and concern was apparent on his face, even at a distance.
When Michael approached me before noon and asked me to take my lunch break with him, I gladly abandoned my spot at the cash register and let Graham take my place.
“You look lovely today,” Graham said, giving my arm a quick squeeze as I brushed past. “Sleepy but lovely.”
I had grown accustomed to Graham’s extravagant compliments by now, and instead of making me uneasy, they were a welcome diversion. I mustered up a smile for him and reached out to give his arm a squeeze back. “Thank you, Graham. You are always so nice to me.”
Much to my surprise, Graham’s cheeks went just the tiniest bit pink. He shrugged with an uncharacteristic shyness and, trying to take the focus off himself, blurted out, “Isn’t it about time for us to meet that baby?”
“Soon,” I promised him ruefully. “It can’t be long now.”
I followed Michael to the back room and grabbed my brown bag, ready to wilt into a chair at the table. But Michael motioned over his shoulder at me and walked deeper into the storage room, leading me past shelves of canned goods, dog food, and boxed cereals that all had a shelf life of untold years.
“Did you know that there’s a picnic area?” Michael asked conversationally.
“A picnic area? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s not much,” he warned me, “but at least you can grab a little fresh air. And it’s shaded.”
There was a heavy metal door that I had never bothered to notice before set in the wall at the very end of the long hall. Michael backed into it and pushed it open, revealing the loading dock and beyond that the alfalfa field that bordered the back of the store. There was a cracked cement pad and a crooked picnic table with peeling red paint. But it was in the shade, like he promised, and while the air was hot and close, it wasn’t still, and the breeze was just enough to make it comfortable. I far preferred the nearly rotten picnic table outside to the cold metal one inside.
“Looks great,” I said, slumping onto the bench. It tilted and wobbled for a moment before coming to rest at a slant. I sat with my back to the tabletop, looking out over the field and placing my lunch beside me.
Michael sat down, jostling the table again, and extracted a twelve-inch sub from a clear plastic Subway bag.
“Wow,” I joked. “I wish I was a shift manager. Then maybe I could afford Subway for lunch instead of …” I rummaged in my bag. “Peanut butter and jelly?” I sighed. “Grandma gave me the wrong lunch.”
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Michael laughed. “Your grandmother makes your lunch?”
“Not all the time,” I said, shooting him a slanting glance. “Besides, we were talking about you and your big bucks.”
“Not quite,” Michael grunted, taking a bite of his sandwich. He chewed and swallowed quickly, talking around his food. “Besides, you can have my job. I’ll only be here for another three weeks.”
I tried to stop my heart from sinking a little. In three weeks he’d be gone. There was nothing for me to be disappointed about, and yet it was impossible not to feel just the smallest bit jilted. I would miss him. As soon as the thought entered my mind, I found I had to amend it. I had to admit to myself that I didn’t exactly know if I would miss him or simply the possibility of him. Michael offered me the chance to hope.
To cover up my regret, I tore into my own sandwich. “I don’t want your job. I want to get out of here as soon as I can.”
Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? I always had you pegged as a small town girl.”
“Ouch,” I said, feigning hurt. “You think I want to work at this little dump forever?”
He smiled slowly, taking me in as his eyes worked over my face. “Oh, I don’t know if it’s a ‘little dump.’ I kind of like it here. The people are nice. The pay isn’t terrible. …”
“It’s Value Foods,” I argued. “There’s got to be something better than this. Besides, who says the people are nice? You must not have met Clark.”
Still smiling that frustratingly indecipherable smile, Michael nodded once and looked off over the alfalfa field. It had already been mowed twice this season, and the new crop was young and lush with tiny purple flowers. “I have met Clark, but I think—” he studied the sea of lavender and green—“I think that a job is what you make of it. Just like anything else.”
I fixed him with a disbelieving stare. “Seriously.” I let the clipped word hang in the air for a moment. “So why aren’t you staying? If Value Foods is so great …”
Michael shrugged. “I think I could. I think I could be perfectly happy working here, settling down not far from home, starting a family. …” He trailed off and then realized what he had said. Though it was obvious that he wasn’t proposing a single thing, Michael had just uncovered something that was intended for his mind, his heart, alone. I quickly looked away as a flush began to creep up his neck. “But I have no reason to stay. And I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. Always.”
“I wondered what you were going for.”
“Internal medicine,” Michael said with a definitive edge in his voice.
“Why that?”
I could tell that he was wrestling with exactly how much to share. Dreams, no matter how old, are sacred things, and whatever prodded Michael into a future of internal medicine meant a lot to him. It struck me that I had been nosy, and I rushed to retract the question.
But Michael was already answering it. “My dad died when I was really young. It was a car accident. We were all in the vehicle—my mom, my dad, my brothers, and me—but he was the only one who died.” He looked like he was about to say more, but he stopped, ate more of his sandwich.
I didn’t quite know what to say. At first I almost told him that I had lost my dad too. But that seemed manipulative somehow, like a game of one-up. Maybe he wanted to talk about it more—I could ask him for more details. But that seemed wrong too. I waffled and hesitated and finally said the only thing I could get past my lips: “I’m sorry.”
“Oh—” Michael brushed away my condolence with a smile—“it was a long, long time ago. I was only three. Besides, my mom got remarried when I was nine, and my stepdad is a great guy. It’s not like my life has been entirely fatherless.”
I smiled back, because
it was not like my life had been entirely fatherless either. Fifteen years was nowhere near enough, but it was better than nothing.
We ate in silence for a while, considering the field, the clouds that were gathering on the horizon as if a storm was welling up in the distance. The towering spires of white were hedged in by hues of blue and black, and they were being whipped into different shapes and configurations as cream stiffens when beat. I wondered how long it would take for them to sweep across the expanse of sky and drop a thunderstorm on Mason. And then, like a bolt of lightning leaves an incandescent inscription across a dark sky, it hit me. I suddenly knew why Michael was so nice to me, why he continued to reach out to me in ways that were both baffling and almost painfully sweet.
“Your mother was a single mom for six years,” I said almost to myself.
“Huh?” Michael replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah, I guess she was. So what?”
I didn’t mean to seem irascible, but my mind was putting two and two together faster than I could keep up. “That’s why you are always so kind to me. You remember what it was like when she was a single mom, and somehow that makes you feel sorry for me.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them out of the thick air and swallow them as quickly as I had said them. But it was too late, and I found that I couldn’t even look at Michael as I waited for his reaction, for his anger. I deserved it. His kindness was irreproachable; the reasons behind it were his and his alone. I had no right to diminish his consideration with my own insecurities.
But though I waited for a reprimand, a furious exit, and a slammed door, none came. Michael sat quietly. I stole an impulsive peek at him.
He was watching me. “I guess you’re probably right. My mom was an amazing woman, and I know that it must have been very hard for her to make it all those years on her own. I suppose I have a bit of a soft spot for single moms.”