“I know what I said.” She took a deep breath and looked straight at me. “So, one bitch to another, what happened?”
“For real? You really want to know?” I held my breath and gauged her expression.
Slowly, she nodded with her eyes closed. She leaned up against my bed, still working on her deep breathing exercises. “Help me God, yes,” she said, almost speaking through her nostrils.
I jumped to my feet. “Okay. Stay put. I’m just gonna go and get my tea and cookies. It’s kind of a ritual thing with me now.” Relief washed over me as I noticed the acceptance and less-sad-than-usual expression on her face as she replied, “Make that two,” in an almost full exhale.
I nodded and smiled. “Yes, ma’am!” She returned a reluctant smile. I guess she was thinking about Dad and what he had said and what he would say if he ever found out. I couldn’t blame her. I had thought about that look on Dad’s face every single time I had reached for yet another letter, but somehow it didn’t keep me from doing what I wasn’t supposed to do. I smiled at Mom and said, “You are one cool bitch, you know that.”
She smiled back—this time a real one. “Come on already, before I regret it.”
“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.”
All the way to the kitchen I was almost bursting with excitement. I couldn’t believe that Mom was actually sitting on my bedroom floor, waiting for me to bring tea and cookies, waiting for us to read a letter together.
Ever since that first letter, I had longed to share every single detail about the letters with someone. Of course, Maddie was my first choice and I had even worked out a clever plan on how to do it on Skype, despite the three-hour time difference. But when I called her up one night and saw her pretty, not-a-worry-in-the-world face smiling at me, I decided against it. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I suddenly knew that she would never connect with or understand the letters. She would never understand Martha and Frederick like I did. I knew Mom would, but I was too afraid to ask. Regardless, she was now sitting on my bedroom floor, leaned back against my bed with the mailbox in her lap.
I poured the tea, grabbed a few extra cookies, and headed back to my room, a trail of steam following behind me.
Mom was already in her sleeping bag, halfway lying on the sofa bed, propped up on her elbow. “I thought we might as well make ourselves comfy, you know.”
I looked around the room and smiled. “You have been busy, I see.”
“I have,” she said as she plunged into the bed.
In two microwave minutes she had transformed my room from a somewhat-scarce teenage bedroom into a cozy and fully equipped hideout. The sofa bed had been transitioned into a bed with pillows scattered all around. She had closed down the blinds, turned on the ugly lamp and had even had time to run to the living room and fetch the very authentic iron chandelier from God knows where. One of the empty storage boxes now served as a makeshift coffee table. The mailbox was standing on top of it—waiting.
“Nice!” I sat down the teacups and cookies next to it.
In a raspy voice she said, “Now tell me everything from the beginning.”
I sat down next to her and provided her with a cup, two cookies, and a napkin, and filled her in on the transatlantic action.
“So, I’ve read about ten letters so far,” I explained to her. “They were all written somewhere between March and April in eighty-one. He’s in Denmark—the land of fairytales—of all places! Can you imagine?”
“Far out,” Mom said, while shaking her head in a way that made me think of one of those silly hand puppets, with a hand up its ass. “That’s where your great-great-great grandparents are from, you know.”
“I know.”
“Go on!” she demanded.
I told her Martha and Frederick had written each other at least once a week about nothing and everything. I told her Frederick was working for a shipping firm in Denmark, and Martha was working as teacher—dealing with kids from broken homes or something. I hadn’t really figured out exactly where she worked, but from her writing I figured it wasn’t some normal elementary school. And then I finally told her about the very emotional letters Martha had written about her feelings and struggle with becoming pregnant. I almost added, “just like you, Mom,” but I didn’t have to, judging by the look on her face.
“That’s pretty much it, so far...” I leaned back on the sofa bed. “I don´t think we’re dealing with any kind of World War Nazis or drug cartels.” I offered, smiling.
In a distant voice she replied, “Uh-huh.” She was clearly not listening to what I was saying.
I grabbed another cookie and leaned against her, and for moment we just sat there—bitch to bitch, cheek to cheek, Mom in her glowing sleeping bag, me in my new one-dollar frog slippers from Target—dipping cookies in tea. Then Mom jumped to her feet, struggling to get out of her sleeping bag, and yelled, “We need air! We need air!” like we had been trapped in the hideout for hours. She finally got out of the sleeping bag and ran for the double windows. A few breaths of cold air later, she turned around and smiled. “I’m sorry, babe, but I swear to God these hot flashes—or whatever it is—are making me crazy. Hot one minute and cold the next. Just like that Katy Perry song of yours. It’s terrible.” She grabbed a magazine from the desk and waved it in front of her red face.
“Wow, Mom, you sure looked kinda crazy back there.”
She looked down at the mailbox and smiled. “I know. It’s just ... I was thinking ... something’s not right. It just doesn’t make any sense. If they are trying to make a baby and if they want it that badly, why the hell is he in Denmark?” She stopped waving the magazine and looked at me with one of Dad’s signature expressions, the am-I-right-or-am-I-right face.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they needed some time off, not worrying about it. It seems like they’ve been trying for many years, and it can ... wear you out,” I added cautiously and looked at Mom who was now standing behind the chandelier.
“Yeah.” Mom’s face was still flushed, and her eyebrows were pushed together. “But what did she write in the letters? I mean, about being pregnant?”
“I don’t remember the exact words but something like, you know, that she’s afraid that it’ll never happen or something like that. Does it matter?”
In a small voice Mom said, “Please find the letter.” She walked around the chandelier and sat down on the bed with the sleeping bag in her hand. “Please, I want to know what she wrote.”
I guess it did matter. I grabbed the already-read pile of letters, and six wrong letters later, I found it. “You want me to read?” I asked without looking up.
Her words were almost delivered in a whisper. “Yes,” as she moved a little closer.
“Okay, here goes,” I replied, and began reading.
Sometimes I get so afraid that this was never meant to be. I mean, why suddenly after nine long years?
I paused and looked up.
In a sad, breathy voice Mom said, “Nine years. That’s a long time.”
I nodded. It was, but as far as I knew it was not even close to the number of years Mom and Dad had been trying.
She urged me to continue in the smallest of voices, “Go on.”
Nine long years? I know they say that this could be the turning point, that it could happen because of this, but-
“—This?” Mom interrupted, eyes wide open. “What does she mean by that and what’s the turning point?”
I looked down at the words and shrugged my shoulders. “Beats me. It doesn’t really say.”
Mom took another deep breath of cold night air coming in from the window. “Is that it?”
I nodded. The rest was pretty much about some episode from work and a lot of miss you and love you stuff.
“Well, let’s leave it at that. Just read the next letter.”
“The next as in “the next after this one” or the ones I have already read?”
“Just pick up from where you left off, that
is, without me,” she said, emphasizing the last two words. She got up and closed the window, and then tossed herself on my bed. I grabbed a big soft pillow and a new letter and lay down next to her. It was a Martha letter. Compared to Frederick’s sloppy and at-times-juvenile handwriting, Martha’s was smooth and elegant but sometimes a bit hard to read. Frederick would always write on plain white paper, whereas Martha would write on all kinds of papers—dotted, striped, white, pink, and yellow. Sometimes she would even put smiley stickers on them, ranging from one to five, to visualize her state of mind—a system, I figured, originating from some kind of recognition/learning program at school. This particular day’s letter had only one smiley on it.
April 18th, 1981.
Dear Frederick,
I feel so lonely without you here. The only thing I do is work, go to Mom and Poppa’s house, and go to the movies with Rachel. Last night we saw a brand-new Alan Parker movie called Fame. Wow, I tell you, we danced all the way home. It’s fantastic. It’s a musical, but not one of those Julie Andrews Sound of Music types of musicals, where they can’t go two minutes without singing (the ones you hate). No, this one is so different, and oh boy, they can dance. I almost (almost) fell in love with one of the main characters, Leroy Johnson, an Afro-American dancer who can dance his pants off. Look what I have become—a sad and lonely teacher falling in love with random movie characters (and in tights, I may add). Rach says I’m hopelessly in love, with you that is, and I am. And on top of that I’m so nervous about tomorrow and our little procedure. I feel a little nauseated by the hormones, and this morning I actually thought I was going to throw up. I haven’t told Rach yet. I mean, it’s all so new and hard to understand for people who haven’t endured what we have. I guess if or when I do become pregnant, with you living in Denmark and all, people are going to talk. But what do they know about all of this anyway? Rach did ask me a few weeks ago whether we were going to have kids. I’m wondering if she asked me because I have gained a few pounds? You know me, always a little vain about the size of my lady hips. But I told her that we’re still trying. That we haven’t given up yet. I just hope that this time, we will make it. It would be perfect—a little winter child. One for each season, remember?
I stopped reading and looked at Mom. She was propped up on her elbow, staring at me with glassy eyes. “She’s one clever girl, that Martha, huh?” She smiled and stroked my arm. “My winter child. The best season if you ask me.” She leaned back again and closed her eyes—a clue, I figured, for me to go on reading. I cleared my throat and continued.
I better go back to bed now. It’s two AM and I need to get up at six. Four hours of slumber sure isn’t enough beauty sleep, but I have a feeling I will be tossing and turning all night anyway. I will call you tomorrow and let you know how it went.
I love you,
Martha.
Mom sat up again and reached for the last cookie. “In eighty-one?” she said, staring at the cookie. “But was that even possible?”
“What? Having sex? I think that was invented quite some time before the eighties.” I smiled and looked at Mom.
“No, not that, silly,” she said, shaking her head and chewing vigorously. “To me it almost sounds like she (or they) are undergoing some kind of treatment, some kind of fertility treatment. But I mean, eighty-one?” She looked up, frowning. “That’s like ages ago, but it would solve the mystery of long-distance sex slash baby making.” She gave me a serious look—the one Dad loves so much. He calls it her thinking-hat face. Dad used to have a hat in college that Mom later wore when she didn’t have time to wash her hair due to exams and term paper deadlines. He still has it somewhere—somewhere between Connecticut and Seattle that is.
“Explain, please,” I demanded, unable to read her thoughts as well as usual this time.
“I mean, it all makes perfect sense; Martha and Fredrick could make a baby despite an entire ocean between them.” She got up and started pacing the floor.
“Ocean? Baby? Mom, you’re not making any sense.”
“But I am. Don’t you see?” She stopped and pointed at the letter, lying on the edge of the bed. “Martha’s still trying to make a baby with Frederick. Well, not in person. I guess he must have, you know, saved some for later in the almighty fridge.” She raised her eyebrow and broke into a wide smile.
“Saved some for later in the almighty fridge?” And right when I said it I realized what she was getting at.
She stopped right in front of me. “Yeah, you know!” She looked down and made a jerking-off imitation with her right hand.
“Mom?” I couldn’t believe my own mother just did that, in my room, in front of me, or that she did it period!
“What?” she asked, unable to conceal a grin.
“Gross,” I said, attempting to hide my own smile.
“I was just trying to explain, you know.” Her cheeks were rose colored again and I couldn’t tell if it was the hot flashes or if she was actually blushing a bit.
“I get it. Even without your little mime theater there.”
She sat down on my bed and grabbed her cup. “Read one more. We need to know what happens.”
“That would be breaking the rule.”
In her best British housemaid accent she said, “So you have rules already. Well, Miss Punctilious, let’s hear them rules.” I only had one rule. “Only one letter per day,” I informed her. Truly it was just another rule-breaking rule to begin with. I shouldn’t be reading any of these letters at all.
“Why that rule?” Mom raised one eyebrow.
I had convinced myself that the one letter rule would be less of a violation of Dad’s command not to read the letters. But even more important, by sticking to the rule, I would be able to space the letters out over a longer period of time. I wanted Martha and Frederick to stay with me for as long as possible.
“I don’t know,” I said, lying too easily. “It’s probably just a silly rule.” I looked down at my nails. “Maybe we need to make some new rules?”
“As in never read one more letter without the Mom?” She smiled. “And we take turns reading a letter?”
I nodded. “And tea and cookies are mandatory. And never make comments until after we finish reading a letter. And no more than two, three letters tops?” I held out my hand.
“Deal.”
We shook on it and I read just one more, short letter before we finally went to bed.
April 1981.
My Martha,
I like the sound of a winter child. I like the sound of any season, and I know we’ll get there someday. All I want is for you to be happy. I want you to be the happiest woman on earth, and it’s killing me to think about you going to the clinic all by yourself. No one to hold your hand. “I wanna hold your hand.” John or Paul? I can never tell, but I’m singing it right now for you. Can you hear it? I am. For real (even though I’m a terrible singer, as you know). I know it’s tough on you, but I’m also so grateful to Dr. Griffith for including us in his study in the first place. I know it must feel like we’re part of an experiment, but then again, trying to get pregnant all of those years did feel like an experiment as well, right? I know the hormones and the weight (though a little more of you is a little more for me) are not something you’re used to, but it’s not forever. Just hang in there, we will get there eventually. I know this. Trust me on this.
Love you no matter what.
Frederick forever.
AFTER KISSING MOM GOODNIGHT, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed wide awake thinking about Martha—all alone (and still sleepless) in Seattle—undergoing fertility treatment, apparently with the help of a few drops of her husband’s sperm stashed away in some freezer somewhere. A pretty far-out way to make a baby, if you ask me.
And, of course, I couldn’t help thinking about Mom. When she had tucked me in, I noticed the tears in her eyes, and that’s when I realized that it might be too hard for her to read the letters. We only read two letters together, but both had direct refere
nces to Mom. I mean, I’ve never heard anyone, besides Mom, say he or she wanted a child for every season. And, other than Mom, who is that much into The Beatles these days? It was just too close to home, too close to Mom, and it was actually starting to freak me out because I couldn’t help thinking that, even though Dad had almost gone on a sit-down strike wearing a big sign saying, “DON’T READ THE FREAKING LETTERS,” maybe, somehow, we were meant to read them—me and Mom together. Maybe it was all part of a bigger plan. I mean, what were the odds that our family would end up with somebody else’s U-Haul truck? Everyone said it was practically impossible. And of all the boxes in the world, why would we end up with a box of letters flooded with so much love and so many tears cried over someone failing to become pregnant?
I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe in magical moments, and this was definitely one of those moments. Mom hadn’t said a word about it, but she didn’t have to. It was just too much of a coincidence. I knew it. And she knew it, but maybe she didn’t say anything because she thought me being a spoiled teenage girl still living at home, still working on her high school algebra, still working on making new friends, would never understand. But I think I did, at least some part of it. And even though I had never been through anything like that, I knew the importance of having someone to share it with—someone who got it. In one of her first letters, Martha had mentioned that writing letters was a form of therapy for her. Maybe reading her letters was, too?
And I couldn’t help thinking about Mom and Dad and all the sleepless nights they had shared over the years and wondering why they never had any help. It sure couldn’t be the workings of some religious belief (Mom is a very low-key Christian, and Dad’s religious beliefs are not stronger than a cup of coffee—his own words). But what did I know? I guess they could have. Maybe all of those miscarriages—God knows how many—weren’t a result of Mom and Dad having real-life sex but the outcome of Mom’s eggs being fertilized by Dad’s sperm in some lab? For all I know, I could be a lab-baby too. The only thing I do know for sure is how much Mom and Dad love me—lab-baby or not—and that’s all that matters.
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 8