Amanda Bright @ Home

by Danielle Crittenden

  The massage remedy lasted about thirty seconds. Bob squeezed and poked at her shoulder blades, but he was no shiatsu artist. His clumsiness reminded Amanda of her first labor. Bob’s ministrations to her then—the cool cloth on the forehead, the tennis ball in the lower back, his reminders to breathe, everything the books and Sarah Blumstein taught him to do—had only annoyed her and aggravated her pain. Amanda had longed to crawl away to a dark corner and be left alone like a cat, and she hadn’t been sorry when Bob became faint during the birth’s final stages and had to be led from the delivery room.

  More usefully, Bob arranged for them to spend Christmas at his parents’ house in Syracuse, sparing Amanda the ordeal of decorating a tree and cooking Christmas dinner. They drove through Pennsylvania in a blinding snowstorm, and stayed the night with Liz and her family in Binghamton. It was hardly a visit: Amanda’s headaches were growing more persistent and almost immediately after arriving and getting the children to bed, she had to lie down herself, excusing herself from the elaborate meal Liz’s husband, Steve, had cooked.

  “Are you cold?” Liz asked, entering the darkened porch that served as a makeshift guest room. “I brought you some of Steve’s soup.”

  “I’m okay. I’m piled with blankets.”

  “Do you think you ought to call the midwife?”

  “She’s away for the holidays. There will be no one there but some on-call doctor. Did you get headaches when you were pregnant?”

  “Sometimes. Not as bad as yours. Drink some soup.”

  Liz stroked Amanda’s head like a baby’s. Her maternal hand was effective, and within a few minutes Amanda was asleep.

  The next day, Amanda felt much better.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better guest.” Amanda embraced her friend as Bob and the children waited for her in the car.

  “Don’t worry. Next time. Get in the car—it’s freezing.”

  The headaches subsided somewhat, and Amanda was able to pull herself through the next few days. Bob’s mother, a retired nurse, commented once or twice that she didn’t like the look of “Amanda’s puffy eyes.” Amanda balked at the fuss and reiterated Sarah Blumstein’s objections to treating pregnancy like an illness.

  “I’m not saying it’s an illness, dear,” replied her mother-in-law as she stirred gravy for the turkey. “I’m saying you look ill. You should be flushed and energetic at this stage. If I were you—not that I’m trying to interfere—I’d call a doctor as soon as I got home.”

  Amanda suspected her poor health might have been aggravated by the three-day stay with her in-laws. Their little house looked cozy from the outside—a modest suburban box with a big snow-laden spruce on the front lawn. But inside, the thin drywall and warped hollow doors offered little defense against the noise of two bored children and the voice of her mother-in-law as she strained to make herself heard by her increasingly deaf husband. Bob sheltered Amanda as best he could, but the headaches returned, and Amanda was grateful when everyone was finally loaded back into the car, and they were waving good-bye to Bob’s parents through frosted windows and puffs of exhaust.

  By mid-January, Amanda was back on Blumstein’s examining table, her ankles swollen.

  “Twenty-nine weeks now, is it? Par for the course, I’d say. Try elevating them when you sit down.” Blumstein detected faint traces of protein in Amanda’s urine—“nothing to worry about. We’ll just keep an eye on that.”

  “I don’t remember feeling this bad last time.”

  “What’s that?”

  Blumstein had been distracted by a phone call from one of her other patients, who was in labor. Ten minutes of Amanda’s appointment had been spent “talking the client through” some contractions.

  “Well, you’re older than you were—even a few years makes a difference,” the midwife said when Amanda repeated her complaint. “But why don’t we see you again next week if you’re worried—let’s not wait a month. Get plenty of rest until then.”

  Blumstein bustled off with her “catching kit,” as she called it (she didn’t “deliver” babies but “caught” them), and left Amanda alone to change back into her clothes and see herself out.

  Two nights later Amanda awoke with more pain, this time in her right side. It felt suspiciously like indigestion—she and Bob had gone out that evening for Indian food.

  “Are you okay?” Bob whispered sleepily.

  “I think it’s the curry.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No—I’ll just lie here for a little bit. I’ll be okay.”

  He fell back asleep, his hand resting on her belly.

  The midwife was away for Amanda’s next appointment—another “catching.” The office was unusually busy: babies, like customers in shops, seem to arrive all at once. One of the junior doctors reviewed her symptoms.

  “I’ve taken down the information, and I’ll give it to Sarah,” the young man said. “She should be back later.”

  Amanda read his markings on her chart.

  “I’ve gained five pounds in one week?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Depends. Sometimes it can be water. You look a little bloated.”

  “I thought so myself.”

  “Well, we’ll have the tests back to see if anything else is up. Baby moving around okay?”

  “Not a lot. It seems to have been sleeping a good deal lately.”

  “Uh-huh.” He made a notation on the chart. “Well, I’ll pass this all along to Sarah.”

  The midwife phoned Amanda that evening.

  “Your blood pressure’s up a little, hon. Still some protein in the urine.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you keep resting. We’ll watch this—I’d like you to come again next week.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “No, it’s probably nothing. You’re otherwise feeling okay?”

  “I had some indigestion the other night. Indian food.”

  “Stay away from the vindaloo,” Blumstein said, amused, “and I’ll see you in my office.”

  Amanda finished her lunch and rose to clear her plate from the kitchen table. A sharp stab near her stomach winded her and she sat down again. As she bent over as far as she could, taking a few deep breaths, she caught sight of her ankles: they were hugely swollen and blue-veined, like those of the old ladies she used to see as a girl riding the Madison Avenue bus. All she lacked were the rubber galoshes. Amanda pulled herself up, and her whole body sloshed and jiggled like a pudding. A galleon! More like a garbage trawler.

  The telephone rang, and by the time she made it across the room to answer it she was out of breath.

  It was Bob. “Are you okay?”

  “Just fat and slow.”

  “You sound terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Sure. I have to fetch the kids shortly but I’ve got a minute.”

  He lowered his voice furtively. “I’ve finally got some good news. I didn’t want to say anything to you—I didn’t want to get your hopes up or anything, but …”

  Amanda heard someone knock on his door.

  “Wait a sec.” He placed his hand over the receiver and a muffled exchange took place.

  “I’m sorry, but now I have to call you back. Will you be there?”

  “Bob!”

  “I can’t help it—what time can I call you back? I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, so it will have to be after that.”

  “I’ll probably be picking up the children by then—and I was going to take them to Rockville. There’s a sale on baby equipment. I should be home by four-thirty.”

  “I’ll be in another meeting. It’ll have to wait until I get home.”

  “Now you’ll have me dying of curiosity all afternoon!”

  “I’ll try to get home early. Gotta go.”

  Amanda crossed the icy parking lot carrying Sophie on one hip with Ben tugging on her
other arm. To Amanda, the kid outlet, as the ten-foot letters screamed, was a hateful convenience—a noisy, ill-serviced warehouse packed with inventory and jammed into a strip mall—but to her children, its automatic doors opened onto the riches of Aladdin’s cave.

  “I’m going to the Space Rangers aisle first.”

  “Stop pulling, Ben. We’re going to slip. And watch for cars.”

  Once inside, Amanda took a cart and tried to orient herself. She felt another headache building, and she wanted to get her shopping over as quickly as possible.

  “This is our plan, kids,” she said, lifting Sophie into the child’s seat and restraining Ben from a display of marked-down Christmas ornaments. “Mommy has some things to get for the baby. If you both behave—”

  “I want—”

  “Shh! Let Mommy finish. If you both behave, I’ll buy you one treat each—a small one—but only when I’ve got what I need. Understood?”

  “Dollies!”

  “No—Space Rangers!”

  Amanda heaved the cart in what she guessed was the direction of the baby equipment, trying to sort out what it was she needed. The pain in her left temple was increasing. She turned down one aisle, which dead-ended at a wall of party favors.

  “This isn’t it.”

  “Can I get these, Mom?” Ben reached for a package of ghoulish rubber skeletons.

  “No, Ben! Not till I’m finished!”

  She craned her head over the racks to look for a sign. Distantly—it seemed a quarter mile away, through a maze of bicycles and toy aisles—Amanda saw what appeared to be a painted icon of a baby above some cribs.

  “Let’s try over there.”

  She wheeled the cart back around and pushed it through an area in which every package, shelf, and bit of plastic was fuchsia. Her right temple now chimed in with pain, like the wind instruments joining in the overture of strings. Sophie strained in her seat, her hands grasping at every glittering box.

  “Printheth! I want the printheth! Oh, Mommy, there’s a car for dolly—I want the car!”

  Ben, for the moment, had gone blind. “Let’s hurry,” he said impatiently.

  They came to the baby section. Amanda hesitated, unsure where to start. The bassoons were now kicking in, along with the timpani and bass. A car seat was what she needed—she remembered that much despite the booms going off in her head—and she paced back and forth, trying to decide which of the many car seats, chaotically arranged, seemed best for its price (all 40% off as marked!). This one was $49.99, but looked complicated to install; here was one for $59.99, but its pattern resembled vomit. Come to think of it, that might hide a lot—wait, here was a plain blue one, for $63.99, but she couldn’t figure out where the seat belt attached …

  “Mom, c’mon.”

  “Don’t rush me, Ben. Please. Remember our deal.”

  Sophie was squirming in the cart. “Let me out! Let me out!”

  Perhaps Amanda should get a clerk to help her—but there was no clerk in sight. She lifted Sophie down, and the little girl shot off toward a cradle.

  “Stay with me, kids—don’t run away—”

  A sudden stab in Amanda’s side joined in concert with her head. It was the same pain from the night of the curry, the same pain from lunch, but worse, much worse. Her vision grew watery. She stumbled toward a rocking chair—solid pine buy right away in stock!—and slumped in it.

  “Mom!”

  “Just a second, Ben.”

  And a new diaper bin. She needed a new diaper bin. Along with the car seat. And another stroller, just a cheap one … Amanda tried to rock herself in the chair but with every motion, the pain grew worse. Nursery music crackled over a loudspeaker. It worked its way into the rhythms of her headache like an organ-grinder accompanying the grand instruments of the parade. The lights suddenly seemed too bright. Why were the lights so bright? Now it felt as if someone were jabbing a burning poker into her skull, stoking her brain. The edges of her vision started to curl and blacken. Orange sparks flew in front of her eyes.

  “Mom!”

  She knew that it was Ben’s voice, but she couldn’t answer. It was too far away.

  “Mommy!” Sophie was crying, but she too was far away. I’m sorry, darling, Mommy can’t help you right now. A hot fissure ripped up Amanda’s side, thrusting her forward onto the floor. She gasped; her tongue lolled out; it tasted the filth of the linoleum. The floor felt cool but not cool enough. The flames were leaping higher, she could not breathe …

  Distantly Amanda heard the loudspeaker, cutting off the nursery music. It said, “Emergency. Aisle ten. Emergency. Aisle ten.”

  Inexplicably, Bob is here. But where is here?

  The orchestra of pain still plays in her head, but it is muted, everything is muted, it is as if she is lying deep inside a cave and voices reach her as echoes. Through the darkness of the cave she can see a round opening leading to the outside, and filling this opening is Bob’s face.

  His brown eyes look worried. He is saying something to her.

  “You were unconscious.”

  “You collapsed in a store.”

  “We’re at the hospital now.”

  “They’ve given you some painkillers.”

  His words float to her, bounce off the walls of the cave. She does not comprehend them. She must play them again. The rewind takes effort. All she wants to do is to block out the light and drift off to sleep in the nice peaceful darkness. But there is Bob’s face. If she blocks out the light, she will block him out. Blinking, she draws nearer to the entrance of the cave, and as she does so, the lights grow more intense and she hears other noises and other voices. Hospital noises. Doctors’ voices.

  “Blood pressure is one eighty over one twenty. It’s not stabilizing.”

  “Clear signs of toxemia—”

  “I’ve administered magnesium sulfate.”

  “The patient is severely anemic.”

  “Have we got the blood work back?”

  “It shows bleeding in the liver.”

  “Let me see.”

  “We need another ultrasound.”

  Something is very wrong, but Amanda does not have the strength to ask what. The only thing she understands is Bob’s face, and Bob’s face is so troubled. He is trying not to look troubled. He is trying to smile at her, but his eyes don’t change, only the shape of his mouth.

  Please, please tell me. Somehow she transmits the question to him.

  “We’re waiting for some tests to come back. It looks like you have a pretty bad case of toxemia, but they’re treating it. You’re in good hands. Everything will be fine.”

  He anticipates, too, her next question. “Ben and Sophie are fine. They’re down the block, at Marjorie’s. It’s all taken care of.”

  This is good news. She takes a few steps back from the edge of the cave, but pauses. There is something else, something else that is wrong, but she can’t remember what it is. Then it comes to her.

  “The baby?” she manages to say ever so faintly.

  Bob’s lips straighten. His words don’t flow so easily.

  “The doctors are discussing right now what to do. They may have to operate. We’ll know in a little bit. Just rest, sweetheart, don’t worry. I’m here.”

  Yes, Bob is here, she tells herself, and she drifts off under his watch as if in the shade of a mighty tree. He rests his head near hers on the pillow, and she is soothed by the gentle rustle of his breath. She does not know how long she sleeps. She is wakened by another sharp pain in her right side, and a loud familiar voice entering the room.

  “Where is my client?”

  Amanda opens her eyes. She finds if she shifts the aperture of the cave slightly, she can see a battery of machines—a frightening mass of wires and computer screens, each displaying a moving pattern—and beyond them, the blurry figure of Sarah Blumstein surrounded by doctors.

  “Are you her obstetrician?”

  “I’m her midwife. I got here as soon as I could—you sure as
hell took your time calling me.”

  Bob rises, and Amanda instantly feels the loss of his presence beside her. The cave is open and exposed. She wants him back. She hears his voice—it’s too far away!—talking to Sarah.

  Sarah’s face now fills the mouth of the cave.

  “Amanda, hon, I’m sorry about all this … It seems to have happened so quickly. Toxemia can do that … Never seen a case as bad as this before … They don’t want me in the room—male doctors!—but I’ll be right here, okay? … I’ll be just outside in the waiting area, so Bob and you can consult with me when you need to. Everything will be fine, okay, Amanda? …”

  Her face vanishes, and is replaced by Bob’s. He looks serious and tries to speak slowly, and as he does he grips her hand, the one without tubes stuck in it.

  “They want to deliver the baby right away, Amanda.”

  This does not make sense. The baby is not ready to come out.

  “It’s—it’s our best hope. They think the baby is strong enough—and they’re going to give you some more blood to make you strong enough and then—they’re going to put you under general anesthesia. You won’t feel anything—”

  Bob’s voice falters. “But I’m here, Amanda, I’m always here. You’ll be asleep—for a long time, maybe even for a day or two, they can’t say—but I’m not leaving your side, except when they operate—I’m not leaving your side.”

  She nods. She has heard everything that matters.

  The doctors start fussing around her. They inject fluids into the tubes. Someone fastens what feels like a clamp on her nose, and air begins pumping into her nostils. Her body gradually lightens, as if she is levitating slightly above the bed.

  Throughout this, Bob holds her hand; he tethers her to him. So long as she is tethered to that hand, she knows she will be okay. She clings to his hand as she clings to the present moment; that’s all there is now, the present moment, but it, too, contains everything. It is here, it is this person, it is this life they have created, it is this life struggling within her, it is this love …