Everyone was fatigued. The miscarriage was unexpected and therefore all the more frightening. Birdie had lost a lot of blood but she assured them in a clinical manner that everything was normal.
“They say it’s nature’s way of getting rid of a defective baby.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to a hospital?” Rose asked, handing her two Motrin and a glass of water.
“All I need is some rest.” Her voice sounded flat and unemotional. She swallowed the tablets and noisily drank the water.
“Is there anything we can get you?” Hannah was being solicitous. She sat by her mother’s side with an expression of devotion. “Pizza’s coming. I ordered cheese and fresh tomato slices. Your favorite.”
Birdie weakly patted her hand. “Thanks, but I’m just tired. I’d like to sleep now.” When Hannah squeezed her hand tightly and looked at her like a frightened child, Birdie squeezed back and mustered reassurance. “Okay, honey?”
Hannah nodded, then bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. She held her lips to her cheek an extra moment.
Rose took the glass from Birdie, turned off the light by her bed, and then helped Birdie settle comfortably under the blankets. She was good at nursing. She always felt it was a quiet way of showing how much she loved someone.
“Why don’t you go to your room now,” she whispered to Hannah. “I’ll be here for her if she needs anything.”
“I’d like to stay with her. Not just for tonight, but to move in here, you know?”
Rose registered this. “I think that’s a good idea. But why not start tomorrow. It’s too much to move things around tonight, and if she needs anyone, I’ve got the most experience. Is that okay with you?”
Hannah nodded. “Yeah, okay. You’ll call me if there’s a problem?”
“There won’t be a problem,” Birdie called out from under the blankets. “I’m just fine.”
Rose looked at Hannah and shrugged.
Hannah left for her room. Closing the door, Rose looked at Birdie, a big hulk huddled on her side with the blankets up to her ears. Her new, vibrant red hair stood out in damp spikes against the white pillow. Rose’s heart broke for her sister. She was trying to be Birdie the strong one. Birdie, the one who could handle everything. Except that before she looked away, Rose saw the flash of tears in her eyes.
Jilly stood on the little wooden bridge away from the motel. The collar of her thin leather coat was stiff and cold against her neck and she was shivering in the blast of frigid northern air. She leaned on the railing, smoking cigarette after cigarette, enjoying each one less than the last. It was the repetition of movement she enjoyed more than the taste. The sight of the little red tip burning in the darkness was soothing.
She’d felt so useless in the room with Birdie and the others that she’d had to leave or go mad. Birdie’s face and mannerisms were so cool and efficient it didn’t seem natural. All they saw was a hand that stretched out through a crack in the open door. All they heard was a crisp and polite “Thank you. No, I don’t need any help, thank you.”
Jilly’s arms had hung uselessly at her side as she stared at that closed bathroom door knowing that Birdie was losing much more than blood in there. She was losing a baby. No amount of competence would tidy up that realization so easily. She took a long drag, exhaling a plume that hung in the chilly air.
From far in the darkness she heard a familiar high bark. Looking out toward the sound, she saw the dim reflection of a man’s silhouette in the moonlight and a blur of white at his feet.
“Hello,” she called out.
Pirate Pete took off after the sound of her voice, barking joyously. She reached into her pocket for the dog cookie she always kept there now. Behind him, Rajiv approached hesitantly.
“Are we interrupting?”
“No, not at all. I suppose I should say something like we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He laughed. “Now, this is karma. Are you sure we’re not interrupting?”
“I’d like some company, actually. It’s been quite a night.”
He crossed the bridge, meeting her in the middle. He was wearing a navy wool pea coat and his hands were tucked into the pockets. The dark made his eyes even more mysterious.
“More news about your daughter?” he inquired.
“No. Actually, it was rather traumatic. Birdie had a miscarriage.”
He startled at the news. “Is she all right?” he asked quickly. “Does she need a doctor?”
“She is a doctor. And she’s fine—or so she tells us. The miscarriage was early in the pregnancy. In fact, she didn’t even know she was pregnant. Imagine. Not knowing.” She took another puff from her cigarette and leaned again over the railing, staring straight ahead into the darkness. “I’ve read that ten percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, usually in the first twelve weeks. Probably more, since so many go unreported.” She looked up. “Do you know what I thought when I heard Birdie was having a miscarriage? I thought, why didn’t that happen to me? If I had been in that ten percent, I wouldn’t have messed up my life. Or the lives of my sisters. Or my parents. Do you think other mothers ever wonder about that? What their lives would have been like had they not had a child? Maybe? I wonder if my mother thought that about me.” She laughed derisively. “Probably.
“But then I thought, how could I wish that my baby had not been born? My beautiful daughter? I know that, despite everything I went through, I would have chosen to have her.” She turned her head to look him in the eyes and spoke from the heart. “If I could have changed anything in my life, anything at all, I would have kept my baby.” She saw sympathy in his eyes. Turning toward the water again she tossed the cigarette into the river. “You don’t understand. That’s really big for me to say. Really big. I’ve never told anyone this before, but when I gave up my baby, deep down I was relieved. Isn’t that awful? You must think I’m horrible. But that’s how I felt. I was only seventeen and scared out of my mind. What did I know about being a mother? And everyone was telling me that giving the baby up was the right thing to do. So I did.” She ran her hand through her hair and sighed heavily. “But later on…then it hits you.
“So I’m standing here tonight wondering what Birdie is feeling now. My poor, darling, strong, fragile sister. Is she sad about losing the baby she didn’t even know was inside of her? Or is she relieved? Either way, she’s going to feel so sad.” Her voice cracked and she tightened her lips against the cry.
Suddenly she felt his hands on her shoulders, long and firm, pulling her up from the railing to his chest. She felt like a small pebble in the river, caught in the upstream. It felt so natural to step closer, to wrap her arms around his back, to rest her cheek upon the scratchy wool of his coat as his long arms wrapped tight around her, comforting her. He held her close against the cold night. She could smell the exotic scent of his aftershave and some delicious spice that she didn’t recognize. His fingers brushed the hair away from her face. From somewhere in the night she heard the river rush.
He dipped his head. She raised hers. His lips met hers as easily, as readily, as though they had kissed many times before. She felt the kiss spark at the lips, then flow smoothly throughout her body, transported through her bloodstream, liquid and hot, up and down and swirling in her center. His arms tightened around her and his tongue coaxed her mouth open, testing, tasting. When he drew back she clung to him, grasping her fingers around his neck and pulling him close. His mouth crushed hers, this time urgent and demanding. She opened, coaxing, pleading with her tongue as her body pressed against his for the release she so desperately needed. It had been so long since she’d felt like this.
When he pulled back the second time, he reached up to gently disentangle her fingers from his neck. She opened her eyes, so close to his, and was stunned by the animal-like ferocity she saw in them once again.
“Is there somewhere we can go?” she asked.
She saw in his face his struggle to tug back on that mental leas
h he held in such rigid control. He still held her hands and brought them up to his lips to kiss each one before letting them go.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She struggled with the rejection, stepping back. She raked her hand through her hair, grateful that the night cloaked her blush. “Maybe not,” she replied flippantly. From off in the parking lot she heard a grinding of tires. Looking out, she caught sight of a pizza delivery sign over an old sedan.
“Well then, see you.” She tucked her hands, icy now, in her pockets and began to walk past him. His arm shot out to hold her back.
“I know you’re vulnerable now,” he said, his eyes piercing in the moonlight. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
She looked into his eyes and this time resented the sympathy she saw there. She jerked his hand away, tucked her hand back into her pocket and forced a confident smile that was well-practiced and expertly delivered.
“Rajiv, if you knew me better, you’d know that no one takes advantage of Jillian Season.”
17
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS BLEAK and rainy, as though nature were trying to match the weather with their moods. The motel seemed even uglier in bad weather, if such a thing was possible. Birdie lay in bed under the covers in a comatose state. She’d awakened with the dawn, such as it was, and had lain motionless, going over and over in her mind how she could possibly not have known she was pregnant.
Yes, she knew she was late with her period, but that was not uncommon for her. At forty-one, she wrote off the early signs of pregnancy as symptoms of early menopause. If only she’d taken a simple test. If only she’d stayed home and rested.
She sniffed and swiped the tears from her cheek, scolding herself for being so emotional. She was acting immature and irrational. As a physician she knew a miscarriage was no one’s fault. Even if she’d gone straight to bed and kept her feet up, there was no guarantee that she’d have kept the baby. It was nature’s way.
Then why did she feel such loss?
She wanted her husband. It felt wrong to be going through this ordeal without him. This was his loss as much as hers. He should know. But this wasn’t the kind of message one left on an answering machine.
Where was he? Why didn’t he call her back? Was he just angry or was it possible that she’d lost him as well as her child? She pressed her hands together and brought them to her lips. That thought was crushing. As she lay prone, staring out at the bleak dawn, Birdie came to the realization that her life was falling apart.
She’d tried pretending for so many days that Dennis hadn’t meant what he’d said in Evanston. That he hadn’t really left her. But each day that he wasn’t home, that he didn’t call, was a battering ram breaking down her wall of pretense. Pounding, pounding, until all the pressures and responsibilities that she held so tightly inside of her burst and bled out in huge, fist-size clots.
“I can’t do it anymore,” she whimpered, pressing her fist against her lips, trying hard to hold back the cry. She felt something crack deep inside of her. I’m not perfect. I can’t solve all the problems. I can’t save anyone. Not even myself.
Years later she’d still remember what felt like a splitting open, similar to an earthquake when the pressure builds and the earth shifts and there is a terrible roaring, renting sound as the land tears apart. After the release she began to sob—hard, shoulder-shaking heaves that she couldn’t control. She cried loudly, openly, letting the anguish pour out as the blood had flowed the night before. She became aware of Rose rising up beside her, hurrying to her bed, not saying a word, just wrapping her arms around her and rocking her, back and forth like a child as she wept unashamedly. Her sister’s delicate fingers smoothed the hair from her face as she crooned in her beautiful voice, “Good, Birdie. Good. Let it all out. That’s right. You’re not alone. I love you.”
Jilly came into the room hours later carrying a beautiful tray covered with a blue-and-white-checked linen tablecloth. Under her arm, she was carrying a huge bouquet of spring flowers.
“Surprise! Wake up, sleepyhead. Time for breakfast!”
Birdie’s body ached and she wasn’t the least bit ready for breakfast or a happy face. She didn’t know how long she’d wept, or how long she’d slept afterward, but she did know it wasn’t nearly long enough. But Jilly was determinedly cheerful, so she offered a tremulous smile and begrudgingly dragged herself up to her elbows. Moving, she felt a gush of blood flow from her body.
“Damn. Wait a minute,” she said, hurrying as fast as she could with the diaperlike pad between her legs. When she came back into the room, she saw that Jilly had arranged the flowers in a vase near her bed, tidied up the room and cracked open the window. The scent of rain-fresh air cut through the staleness of the room.
“Come have breakfast,” Jilly said, folding back the covers.
Birdie saw that she’d also changed the linen. The crisp sheets smelled of bleach and were heavenly against her skin. Small kindnesses such as these were blessings.
“Thank you,” she said, climbing into the glorious sheets.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jilly replied with a too eager smile. “I am at your service.”
Birdie rested back against the pillows and studied Jilly more closely. With her hair freshly washed and tucked neatly behind her ears and wearing a fresh white cropped shirt over slender slacks, Jilly had the air of the perfect hostess. Her bright cheerfulness seemed more like armor, however, one Birdie had seen her use when she put on a front for strangers. Was she making her sister nervous now, she wondered?
“I’m okay, you know,” she said, meeting Jilly’s eye. “I’m not falling apart or about to throw myself into the river or anything.”
Jilly’s smile faltered but she rallied. She came to sit on the bed beside Birdie and busied herself with smoothing the blankets around Birdie’s waist, then moved the laden breakfast tray up on her lap.
“I know you’re not,” she answered perfunctorily. Then switching the subject, “I hope you like a hale-and-hearty breakfast. Eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast. Courtesy of Maude and Larry.”
“Rose told you that I cried, didn’t she?”
Jilly poured out coffee from a thermos into the china cup, then added cream to it and handed it to Birdie.
“Buckets,” she replied. She poured a cup for herself. When she looked up, she met Birdie’s relentless gaze. Her face softened. “I’m glad you cried. You don’t do it enough. It’s not fair to you to always be so strong. You need to let us be strong for you once in a while. We can handle it, you know.” She placed her hand over Birdie’s. “Goodbye, Iron Bird.”
Birdie felt as though another wave of tears was going to hit and turned her head away. “Stop,” she said with a curt laugh. “I can’t seem to turn off the spigot.”
“You’ve got years of stored tears to let go. Let ’em flow.”
“It’s so embarrassing. I hate to cry. It makes me feel so vulnerable.”
“Maybe because you are right now. You’ve just had a miscarriage, honey. You’d have to be rocky now. No one is that strong. How are you doing?”
“It’s not like I haven’t had one before.”
“How many have you had?”
“Four. Five, something like that. You’re not always sure. I’m not even sure this time. It’s possible that it’s just a bout of unexplained uterine bleeding. It happens at our age.”
“Does that make it easier to deal with?”
Birdie shrugged. “Not really. I’m dealing with the same issue whether it’s a miscarriage or menopause. I’m not going to have any more babies.”
Jilly’s eyes were dark green pools of sympathy. “Neither of us are.”
They sipped their coffee in unison, then lowered their cups.
“I cried like that once,” Jilly said in an offhand manner.
“At the hospital?”
She nodded. “After I had my baby I cried all night long. And when I woke up, I didn’t have any tears left. Or so I
thought.” She shook her head and smiled ruefully. “I just kept them bottled up for all those years. We’re talking gallons and gallons of tears stored up in there, like a camel. But once they’re released, whew. It’s pitiful. I’ve been crying since I got home. The memories keep coming and I keep crying. I feel like I’m washing my brain out with tears.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing. A cleansing, the way a doctor washes out a wound.”
“Sometimes it feels like an eruption. I was reading about how these scientists believe there’s all this water building pressure under the ocean floor. It got trapped there millions of years ago when the earth’s plates were shifting. They’re worried that all this pressure is just building up in there and that one of these days, it’s going to blow. If it leaks out slowly, then the water tables might rise, but we can deal with it. But if the ocean floor cracks, it will cause these humongous waves to hit the shore. Can you imagine? Some poor guy on the Jersey shore reading Jaws will sense a shadow and look up to see this enormous tsunami heading his way!”
Birdie chuckled but inside she knew what Jilly was trying to tell her. It must have been obvious to everyone how the pressure had been building up in her. She’d felt the rent and tearing of the eruption that morning and she was still feeling the aftershocks. “Are you saying Dennis is going to be hit by a tsunami of my emotion?”
“Better him than me,” Jilly replied with a teasing smile. “No,” she added seriously. “I’m just glad to hear you acknowledge that you need to let the pressure out. Me, too. God knows we’ve both been storing it up for what feels like millions of years.”
“I think talking like this helps ease out some of that pressure.”
“We haven’t talked like this in so long. Not since we were roomies. I didn’t think we ever would again. I’ve missed you, Birdie.”
Birdie felt the impact of the statement seep slowly into her mind. “I’ll probably cry about that one, too. Give me a few minutes to store up some fluid.”
The Four Seasons Page 25