I really want to find some matching outfits for the twins, but all of the clothes are so different for boys and girls. I don’t want to put them in yellow, which is so ambiguous. I want them to look the same, but different. Like Donnie and Marie on the reruns of their old variety show. Their costumes were made of the same fabric and glitter, in the same colors, but cut differently. Marie might have on a white V-neck jumper dress with silver sequins and a blue silk shirt underneath with French cuffs and Donnie would have on a white V-neck vest and long pants with silver sequins and a blue silk shirt with French cuffs. They would both be wearing white ice skates and big toothy smiles. That is the kind of coordination I am looking for. No, two shapeless yellow onesies is not what I am looking for. Doll agrees. Her nose is turned up so high you can see her nostrils.
Phew, I am getting tired from standing on my feet for so long under all of these bright lights. I start to feel dizzy and the room seems cloudy. I grip a circular rack of boy’s pajamas to steady myself but, phew, it is hard to hold on. My stomach is turning and churning and my breakfast is on its way up. I don’t want anyone to see me out of sorts so I crawl inside of the round rack and sit on the ground. My stomach is spasming and my throat is clenching. I can feel my insides coming out. I pull Doll out just in time and heave my breakfast into the diaper bag. After a few minutes, I have to heave again. The bag has a waterproof lining, but it will never be the same again.
I wipe my mouth with a wet wipe from the special side compartment. My stomach is still in turmoil, and I am confused. I had had toast and freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast. Could the oranges have been contaminated with E. coli? But I had washed them before cutting into them. I don’t understand why I could be so sick. Unless . . . could I really be pregnant? Could renewing my faith in God have worked this quickly? I look to Doll to see if she has any ideas. Just then the circle of light above me is shaded, and I see the outline of a man’s face floating above me where I am sitting under the round rack of boy’s pajamas. I can’t make out his features, but I am sure it is a sign. Maybe it is a vision of God!
I hear him say, “Are you all right? Hey, is that you? I told you it was her. I can’t believe it. What are you doing down there? Are you nuts?” There is a rustling in the pajamas to my right. That’s when I see Callie with Manny, peering in at me. She looks concerned and is saying something to Gus, but I can’t hear either of them. I try to hide the bag of vomit by shoving Doll in on top.
“I wasn’t feeling well. The lights are so bright that I needed to get to a shadier spot. I’m not sure what’s wrong . . .” I try to offer some excuse for being on the floor.
I hear Callie say, “Are you feeling faint, Xeni? If you are feeling faint, just stay there until you feel better, okay? Don’t rush. That happened to me once when I felt faint.” She gives me a reassuring smile, but Gus is shaking his head and asks, “What are you doing here anyway?’
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I tell her. I cross my arms over my chest to cover the maternity shirt. I tell Gus, “No big deal. I’m here shopping for a friend’s baby shower. I’ll be fine.”
Manny has crawled over and is pointing at me. He looks at me with a big goo-goo smile on his face and starts making happy sounds. He is a real baby. Seeing the three of them there together makes me think that I am dreaming. I’m not pregnant. I am just sick to my stomach. They are a real family, and I am a lonely desperate woman with a belly full of fake babies. Aren’t I?
A Flashing Light
It’s finally the day I will find out if I am pregnant. I’m sitting on the toilet holding the pregnancy test stick in my hand. But after all the waiting and wondering, I’m actually afraid to look at it. What if this didn’t work, and I’m right back where I started? I take a deep breath, make the sign of the cross, and slowly open my eyes. The second I see the plus sign on the pregnancy test I fall to my knees in thankful prayer, crumpled up on the bathroom floor and heaving happy tears. I wrap my white nightgown around my knees and squeeze myself tight. White, white, I can wear white. There is not a drop of blood in sight. The only red is a plus sign, a sign of the cross on the pregnancy stick. I feel reborn and pure. God has blessed and entrusted me with a baby to love and protect!
I start nesting right away, organizing all the baby clothes I’ve accumulated into stacks according to size. I reread all of my pregnancy books. I stock up on newborn diapers and soft cotton blankets. I clean my little home from corner to corner and set up the baby monitor. It doesn’t take long to assemble the bassinet once it arrives in the mail. The little sheep hanging from the mobile swing to and fro as I rock it back and forth singing soothing lullabies. I pin an icon of Mary and baby Jesus on the bassinet so the baby will always be safe.
• • •
I’ve been walking on a cloud of happiness since the day I missed my period, and now here I am at my second ultrasound. I’ve been anxious with anticipation to see my baby again, to see how she or he has grown. Lying on your back with your feet in stirrups is very embarrassing. But it’s the only way I can see my baby’s heartbeat. When I lie this way, an image is projected from my womb up onto a screen. The doctor rubs a cold gel on my stomach, and somehow it soothes me and makes me feel less nervous. At the last appointment, I saw my baby for the very first time. Its heart pulsed on the screen like a little flashing light. It was so fast, I could barely believe my eyes. After all of this time, my prayers have finally been answered. There is a miracle growing in my womb.
I am lying there on the table with my feet in the air when they tell me they don’t use the ultrasound screen at this appointment. This time the doctor will use something like a microphone to pick up the sound of the heartbeat. He presses the microphone onto my belly several times and in different locations, and then he mumbles something.
“What did you say, doctor?”
“I’m having a hard time hearing the heartbeat.”
My face feels hot, and I think, this can’t be happening.
“I think it’s because I have gas. Or maybe I’m too fat, and you can’t hear the baby through my bulgy tummy. Please try harder,” I ask him.
The doctor is rubbing the cold gel on my stomach again, but I still have butterflies because I haven’t heard the heartbeat or seen the flashing light yet. He has a weird scowl on his face.
“I’m going to have to take some blood tests.”
I sit up, clutching the hospital gown to my chest. “But I want to see the heartbeat first. Please!”
He shakes his head. “There is no longer a heartbeat.”
That doesn’t make any sense to me because it was there. I saw my baby’s heart beating with my own eyes at the last visit. There has to be a heartbeat. He must be wrong. But when I look at his face again, I realize his scowl is actually resignation. It feels like my body is on fire, and I fall to the floor, keening. My baby is dead? God must be punishing me. Is it because I used the sperm bank? I promise I’ll never do it again. Just please bring back my baby.
Back home, every time I turn around I see another reminder. The empty bassinet sucks the air out of my lungs. The stacks of clothes and diapers threaten to fall over and crush me. I’ve gotten to where I can’t stay at home anymore. But when I go out, all I see is gloriously happy pregnant women waddling down the street getting ready to give birth, preparing to nurture their precious bundles. When I think of that little light going out I can’t breathe.
Bread
At communion you drink of His blood and eat of His flesh. Wine and bread. The magical alchemy of life. Round grapes crushed and fermented become His blood. Yeast and water, sweetness and flour, transform into His flesh. From simple beginnings to holy beginnings. And when we eat of His flesh, we understand that all things are possible.
I told Callie that there are all kinds of magic in the world, but not everyone wants you to know about that. Most people keep it to themselves unless they’re trying to trick you out of your money, and usually those people don’t really know magic; they
just know how to make you feel naked. I know because I’ve been to my fair share of fortune-tellers, gypsies, and psychic readers. I even used to have a Ouija board, but I finally got rid of it because all it ever did was spell out swear words. Stupid things like, A-S-S-W-I-P-E and D-I-C-K. I had one simple question that was never answered: “When will I have a baby?”
As far as I can tell, there are only two kinds of real magic in the world—the magic of God and the magic of food. Who am I to explain the magic of God? He is almighty and we are His children. He speaks to us and guides us, through the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus. He has saved me on more than one occasion through them, but that is not something I go around sharing with perfect strangers. But I do think that if I ever have a girl, I’ll name her Mary. Surely there is no sweeter and braver name for a girl.
Food is easier to explain but also unexplainable. For instance, yeast. I can tell you that when you mix dried-up, smelly, crumbly, inert yeast with a little warm water, a spirit is resurrected. And if you feed it something sweet like sugar or honey, it will bubble up with life. And if you keep feeding it with the golden grain of wheat, its body will begin to take shape. It will stop being a primordial, foamy, bubbling liquid and it will take a form that will rise and grow. And when you add some love to it, helping it to integrate liquid with solid, blood with flesh, massaging it, needing it, kneading it, turning it over, and patting it, it becomes of an elastic flesh that takes in breath and grows at a phenomenal rate. Rising like a luminous moon over the valley of the bowl, rising and expanding the possibilities of life. It needs warmth, and careful attention, and rest . . . quiet.
Sometimes you lose things that you really, really love and the wind gets knocked out of you, but you have to keep going. It’s like that with the yeast. After it has risen, its glistening crown anointed with holy olive oil, you have to punch it back down. What was once hopeful and full of promise deflates and seems to die. But what is not visible to the naked eye is that its spirit still hovers, waiting. And so you lovingly caress the mass of loose skin and cover it again with cloth and desire. Sometimes when you check back, you see that it really has died and will never, ever come back. And yet you always hope that when you check, peek under the cover, you will see that once again it is rising with a full luminosity that is truly astounding and brings you down to your raw knees.
With the gentlest of motions you cradle it and place it in the oven, hoping that this time all the magic will fall into place, that the form you are baking in the oven will become a baby that you can lovingly eat alive.
BREAD
“You will see that it is rising with a luminosity that is truly astounding.”
1 1/4 cups lukewarm water
2 packets of yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
Mix the warm water, yeast and sugar in a bowl and set it aside. The yeast will resurrect and bubble. Mix the flour with the salt, and then stir the flour into the yeast until the dough is smooth and no longer sticky. Turn your dough out onto a floured surface and knead it for 10 minutes. While you are kneading the dough, remember that each push of your hands brings it to life. Place your dough in a bowl coated with olive oil, turning it so the dough becomes coated with oil. Place a sheet of plastic wrap over the bowl and then top it with a clean towel. Put it in a warm place to rise. When you see that your dough has doubled, it will fill you with wonder, but you must punch it down. Put the dough into an oiled bread pan, and allow it to rise again, until it doubles once more. Bake it at 375 degrees until it is golden brown and makes a hollow sound when thumped, approximately 30–45 minutes.
Cradle your warm loaf in a clean towel and sniff the crust before you tear off the first delicious piece.
Sweet Sour Pie
Manny is sitting in his high chair with a big round biscuit in his hand, banging it over and over onto the little table in front of him. His eyes are crinkled up from smiling and spit bubbles are on his lips as he gurgles with joy. “GAAAA! Ha ha ha hhhhhhhh! Ah!” I look at him intently, and he stops his banging long enough to stare back at me.
“What do you feel like cooking today, Manny? Do you have any favorites in mind?” I tickle him under his chin and he giggles, showing off a new tooth.
Callie is standing at the kitchen counter with a cardboard box of organic produce that has been delivered that morning. One by one she takes out the contents, naming each fruit or vegetable, “Swiss chard, corn, summer squash, oranges, strawberries, and rhubarb—oh, let’s make a strawberry rhubarb pie!”
My stomach turns. I do not want to make pie, but I notice that Callie looks unusually happy, her blue eyes twinkling, her wavy red hair resting on her shoulders, talking about how her aunt used to always make strawberry rhubarb pie and how it was her favorite when she was a little girl. Callie’s nose wrinkles a little when she smiles, and all the tiny freckles across her nose dance.
I shake my head. “We aren’t making pie. Strawberry rhubarb pie is not Greek, and Gus’s mother will be here before you know it. In a week. You have to get ready, right?”
Callie grabs me by my shoulders and brings her face up close to mine. “Oh come on, please!” I can smell her minty breath and wonder if her red lips taste like strawberries. I feel as if Callie’s fingers are sinking into my flesh, and for a moment I feel hot and cold at the same time and a rush of energy zooms up from my stomach and into my throat, choking me. The fine hairs on my neck and scalp stand up. Spots float in the space between my face and Callie’s.
“Whaddya say?” Callie asks, but I can’t move my tongue or my jaws, I am frozen in her grasp. Callie’s face changes. Her smile turns into a little pout, her eyes turn to her feet, and ever so slowly her hands release my shoulders. As they drop, they skim my arms from top to bottom until her hands find mine. When she looks up again, her eyes are sad and watery. She whispers, “I need a break from being Greek right now. No offense.” I notice dark circles under Callie’s puffy eyes, and wonder if she’s been crying.
“I just need to feel like me again,” Callie says.
I can’t argue with that. “All right. But you’re going to have to chop up that fruit yourself!”
Callie squeezes my hands and kisses my cheek, surprising me. I stand a little taller and try to suppress the smile that is trying to take over my face. I haven’t smiled since it happened. I haven’t told anyone I lost my baby. Callie takes my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen counter and the box of produce.
“Come on, I’m gonna show you how to bake my aunt’s pie. It’ll make you feel like you have a little bit of heaven in your mouth. It’s sweet and tangy at the same time, and when you bite into a plump, juicy strawberry, all your troubles go away!”
“Well, I don’t know anything about strawberry rhubarb pie. We never made things like that when I was growing up and I was learning to cook. That was too American. We only made Greek food, but to us it wasn’t Greek food; it was food.” I lift Manny out of his high chair and give him a squeeze. “Let’s watch Mommy make a yummy pie, Manny. Do you like pie? But you better behave. You know what happens to children who misbehave. They get baked into pies, and evil fairies eat them!” Manny grabs a handful of my hair and tugs. “Oh no, Manny! You don’t want the evil fairies to eat you, you know why? Because I’m going to eat you!” He giggles while I blow raspberries onto his pudgy belly.
Callie throws the strawberries into a colander and rinses them off. She is humming a little tune under her breath that I can’t make out. She chops up the deep red rhubarb stalks and the sweet strawberries and puts them into a big yellow ceramic bowl. “Now make sure you mix them up good with the tapioca balls and the sugar and let it set for at least fifteen minutes,” Callie says. I poke my foot against the cabinet door and squeeze Manny a little closer. It feels unfamiliar having Callie teach me how to cook. But I find myself feeling curious about the rhubarb and about Callie. And I want a break from being
me. I put Manny down on the rug, and he starts pulling on the fringy edges right away.
“You know what I love about strawberries?” Callie asks. “They remind me of my aunt’s dog, Homer. I loved him so much. When I’d come home from school, as soon as I got through the door, he’d practically knock me down and lick my face with his rough tongue.” She picks up a big strawberry. “His tongue was rough like this strawberry with all the little seeds on the surface.” She licks the rough strawberry with her soft tongue. “If I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back in my aunt’s house with Homer.”
With her eyes closed Callie looks like an angel floating on a cloud in heaven, licking that strawberry.
“You want to try?” she asks and holds the strawberry out toward me. The strawberry is vivid red and plump, full of juice and vigor. She holds it between her thumb and middle finger, with the pointy end toward my mouth. It looks like a tongue, a thirsty, rough red tongue. I imagine taking it into my mouth, like a French kiss, with Callie’s fingertips at my lips.
“Go ahead, take a bite,” Callie prompts.
“No. I’m not hungry.”
“It’s really sweet . . . and juicy delicious.” Callie has a little smile on her face. She steps closer to me and holds the strawberry near my lips. I can feel Callie’s breath on my cheek. “Try it . . . I think you might like it.”
“B—but, I’m not hungry.”
Callie softly says, “Are you absolutely sure?” and puts her arm around my shoulders.
“No.”
“You’re not sure,” Callie whispers.
“No. I mean. I’m not sure. What am I supposed to be sure about?”
The Feasting Virgin Page 9