Chin Up, Honey

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  Going into something of a panic, John Cole called his parents, who came running over from their house. They all got into Papa and Mother Berrys’ big Plymouth and headed through pouring rain to the hospital. Every couple of minutes throughout the drive John Cole would ask her, “Are you all right?”

  How did one answer, when one’s body was seized with a wave of constricting pain at about the same time as the question was asked?

  Just before they got there, Emma began to feel that she was about to deliver. She hiked up her dress and began to remove her panties.

  John Cole grabbed her hands. “We’re not at the hospital!”

  “I don’t care!” she cried. “And neither does this baby!”

  John Cole moved to the far side of the seat, plastering himself against the door, while Emma removed her panties and tried to remember her Lamaze breathing.

  Then her father-in-law called out, “Hold on, Emma, we’re here!” He hardly ever said anything, and his voice startled her. She was swung to the side as he turned into the emergency drive. Before the car had even stopped, Mother Berry was out and running inside. John Cole helped Emma work her way out of the backseat, leaving her panties stark white against the dark velour.

  In front of them, the emergency room doors parted, and here came Mother Berry pushing a gurney, with a nurse and orderly following and trying to catch up. There ensued a great deal of fumbling and arguing in the effort to get Emma up on the gurney. This ended when she stalked off—as best as she could stalk while bending over in a contraction—leaving the others to follow her into the emergency room.

  After all the rush, Emma was in labor for thirty-six hours, in which they told her that her contractions were just not strong enough, and she told them they weren’t the ones having them.

  For most of those hours, John Cole stood by her bed, holding her hand. A point came when the doctor gave her something to make her drowsy so that she could rest. John Cole was led away to an adjacent room—to let him lie down. To this day, Emma was quite certain the reason for the delay was that the surgeon had not wanted to be disturbed on a weekend. He arrived on Monday morning.

  John Cole was once again beside Emma, holding her hand. “You have to let go now,” the nurse said firmly, prying Emma’s grip loose. “He cannot go into surgery.”

  “Blow, honey…blow….” John Cole called in a tired voice, as they rolled her away to surgery.

  “Oh, God, my blow’s done gone. Would y’all just hurry the hell up and give me somethinnnn…”

  The next thing she knew, someone was patting her cheek and calling her name. “Mrs. Berry…Mrs. Berry, can you hear me? Do you know what you had?”

  She thought someone must be speaking to her mother-in-law, and she wished they would shut up.

  A little while later, “Mrs. Berry…wake up. You had a baby boy.”

  “I know,” she managed to get out.

  “She’s awake…she knows she had a boy.”

  Oh, you idiot, I knew all along I was going to have a boy, she thought, and went back to sleep again.

  When she next came awake, she heard voices, someone telling John Cole to call her name. He said it softly, “Emma…Emma…”

  She got her eyes open, and there was John Cole’s face, only inches away. He was smiling at her like he’d lost his mind. “We had a boy,” he said, and he kissed her gently and took her hand again.

  “Oh, God, Emma, I was scared you were gonna die.”

  The idea was a little shocking. She had not even thought of it, and she had not realized John Cole’s anguish.

  Her heart flooding, she reached up and placed her palm to his warm cheek, saying, “Honey, it’s okay. I’m just fine…it’s okay.”

  The next instant, her sweet baby was placed into her arms. She looked down at him and fell totally, indescribably in love in a way she had never before known.

  5

  Together Again

  The next morning, when Emma peeked out into the hallway, the television was silent and John Cole was snoring softly.

  She hurried into the bathroom, where she washed and moisturized her face, gazed at her image for a few seconds, then applied more moisturizer under her eyes and a bit of blush to her cheeks. She gave thanks to her mother and grandmother for high cheekbones and good skin.

  In the kitchen, the coffeemaker with its timer set last night already held a full pot. Emma got her mug from the cabinet.

  John Cole’s mug was there, pushed a little to the back. Pulling it out, she held it in both hands for several long seconds. Then she sat it next to the coffeepot.

  Smiling and humming a bit, she took her coffee through the shadowy living room to her workroom at the far end of the house, where she rolled open the Florida windows to the sweet morning air and watched the sun come up at the end of the long driveway. As she gazed at the sight, her mind traveled back over the years.

  “Oh, John Cole, I love it!” she had said of the house the first time they had driven up the drive.

  “Don’t get carried away until we see the inside.”

  She knew that so many times her high emotion had embarrassed him. She would try to hold herself down. She had not succeeded too well on that particular day, as she went from room to room. “Look at this…oh, look at this.” Poor John Cole had stood helplessly, knowing that he did not have a chance of saying no.

  Turning from the bittersweet memory, she switched on the lamp over the worktable and sat on the tall swivel stool. Neatly arranged at the right were various calligraphy pens, pencils, color and glitter markers and glue, and stacks of papers in a myriad of hues and textures.

  After several minutes of sipping coffee and thinking, she chose crisp, white card stock, on which she drew a racing-red sports car. She added two stick figures holding hands, round faces with smiles, sunny-brown hair for the boy and long dark hair for the girl. Inside the card, she wrote in a fine script: Congratulations, sweet heart. I’m so happy for you.–Mom, who loves you. She added a decorative flourish, her bit of trademark.

  She carefully set the card aside to let the ink dry before inserting it into an envelope.

  Next she chose ivory linen paper. Gracie’s card would need a touch of elegance. First sketching in pencil, then filling in with colored pen, she drew a door decorated with a plaque that said Welcome, Gracie. She added a tiny, shiny, red-checked ribbon from her box of trims. Inside the card, at the top, she drew another plaque that said The Berrys. After staring at it for a long minute, she quickly drew berries on the plaque. And then bigger berries beneath, turning them into people. She was a blueberry, John Cole a strawberry, clusters of cranberries behind them. Did cranberries grow in clusters? Her mother, who technically wasn’t a Berry, was off to the side—a raspberry with bright purple hair.

  Possibly Gracie would find Emma’s cards a rather poor effort at art. Perhaps she was one who preferred something elegant and store-bought.

  “Good mornin’.”

  “Oh!” She jumped and almost f lung aside the pen. “I didn’t hear you.” She felt silly.

  “I’m sorry. I tried not to scare you. I knocked.”

  “Oh…I was…you know.”

  She swallowed as she watched him come fully into the room, in careful steps, as if still trying to ease in. Golden sunlight streaming through the windows made patterns over his face and body, causing her to realize that she had been lost in her work for some time. Her heart tumbled over itself with gladness at seeing him in their home once again.

  And then she thought that, still, he was handsome. His eyes in the warm morning light were very blue, which never ceased to affect her. He seemed happy to be home. She averted her eyes to the paper in front of her.

  “I see you got a fancy new coffeemaker.”

  “Yes. It was on a great sale.”

  John Cole was scanning the stacks of cards along the edge of the table, flipping through them. “You’ve been busy,” he said.

  “Yes.” There had been so much time when
she couldn’t sleep.

  Reading the inside of one, he chuckled and held it up in an appreciative manner.

  It was a card with a drawing on the front of a frazzled woman and a quote that read: Thanks for loving me just as I am. Inside it read: It took a whole lot of time and difficulty to get this way.

  “It’s one of the most popular ones,” she said, feeling foolishly pleased. “I also draw it with a man, or a boy or a girl. Belinda’s sold all that she had for the drugstore, and now she’s putting them into a gift shop that she owns with another woman.”

  Did he even recall that Belinda had taken some to sell at the drugstore? A thrill sliced through her with the telling—and satisfaction when his eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “It’s not all that much money, really, but it’s nice to have people want them.” She suddenly felt very shy.

  “I’m glad you’re doin’ so well with them. I told you when Belinda took some, that I’d be glad to put them in the Stops. You seemed like you didn’t want to do that. You said it would be too much work.”

  “I guess I didn’t think they would sell. And I didn’t realize how easy it was to get them printed. It’s nice, too, that Belinda handles the business part. All I have to do is the creating then. I’m not so good at business things.”

  He gazed at her, then sipped his coffee. “You were when you worked at Berry Corp.—good at business.”

  She was surprised by his compliment and didn’t know what to say to it.

  “You can tell Belinda to count the Stops as another outlet. It’s silly not to. You own the Stops, too, you know.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “I just didn’t think of it, and I guess Belinda didn’t, either. She’ll be excited when I tell her. She has all these plans.” She was a little embarrassed by Belinda’s elaborate plans, to tell the truth.

  John Cole told her the best location would be at the larger Berry Truck Stop and suggested places for display. He said he would alert the clerks. She simply nodded to everything, while drawing a birthday cake.

  Quite suddenly, she was gazing straight into his blue eyes.

  They broke the gaze at the same time.

  John Cole said, “Well…I guess I’d better let you get to it…and I’d better get on to work. I’m already late.”

  He went out the door, and she reached for her mug of coffee, finding it empty. She felt self-conscious about going into the kitchen. He might think she was finding an excuse to follow after him.

  She felt like crying…silly, silly.

  And then, suddenly, there he was in the doorway.

  He said, “Would you have a minute to talk…about us?”

  Emma managed to get out, “Well…yes. Of course,” and had to clear her voice in the middle of it.

  Did he want to talk about a divorce?

  Panic swept her. She didn’t think she could talk about divorce. She would just say she had to focus on the wedding. Dear God, keep me sensible.

  John Cole came back into the room and straddled the chair, then sat there gazing downward. The little-boy-lost expression came over his face and shoulders. It was an expression with which Emma was thoroughly familiar, and not so impressed anymore.

  In fact, he did this so long that she began to get annoyed. She wanted to say, Will you get to it, already? I have things to do, and I am not takin’ over your emotions on this thing.

  Just when she was at her last nerve, he said, “I’ve had a lot of time to think the past few days.”

  He paused, and something seemed required on her part. “I have, too,” she got out.

  Another moment’s pause, and he said, “I’ve missed it here…. I’ve missed you, Emma.”

  She was surprised by his direct and intense gaze. “I’ve missed you, too.” Her voice cracked.

  “I know we’ve had some difficulty for a few years. I know I’ve been busy…and that you haven’t been happy.”

  He paused yet again, but she had nothing to say.

  He continued then, going on to say that he knew he kept getting too busy with his work, and that he just wasn’t too good at talking. As he went on in this manner, she began to get impatient again. It was all of a similar vein to what he had said in the past, whenever she had tried to motivate him to see they had problems in their marriage that needed to be addressed—namely that he needed to take part in the marriage.

  The idea struck her, though, that his speaking voluntarily just now was taking part.

  “I’ve really missed us, Emma.”

  “I have, too.”

  Silence stretched again, while they each sat there as if waiting to see what the other was going to say or do.

  “I was thinking…”

  “I’m glad you…”

  They both stopped.

  John Cole said, “You go ahead.”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  He shifted and gazed at her, and she had about decided he wasn’t going to say anything when he came out with, “I was thinking that…if you are willin’…maybe we could go see a marriage counselor.”

  “What?”

  “I thought we could go to a marriage counselor. I got this card from the bulletin board at the Stop.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and passed it over to her.

  She looked from the card to John Cole, and then back to the card again. “You want to go to a marriage counselor?”

  “Well, you said once that you wanted to do that. I think it would be good to try.”

  She gazed at him.

  “Okay, you said it a lot of times.” He got to his feet. “I wasn’t ready to do it before. I apologize for that. But…look, I’m ready to give it a chance, Emma. Are you?”

  Well, of course, she had to say yes. Heaven help her, though, because she also had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  And somehow, during the course of it all, she ended up agreeing to be the one to make the appointment.

  “New Hope Counseling. Catherine Owens speaking. May I help you?”

  Owens? Emma checked the business card. New Hope Counseling Center, Theodore M. Owens, Ph.D. and Catherine Owens, Ph.D., LMFC. Individual, Marital and Family Counseling.

  The therapist was answering the telephone?

  “I would like to make an appointment, please,” Emma said. “But first, can you tell me something about the therapists?”

  “Certainly. There are two of us—myself and my husband, Ted Owens. I am a licensed clinical psychologist, and licensed marriage and family counselor. I’ve been practicing for twenty-five years. Ted is a licensed clinical psychologist and has been practicing for thirty-four years.”

  Emma felt at once reassured by their ages and a little put off. They might be worn out.

  “We both counsel all manner of issues, but I generally handle women’s issues, and Ted handles anger management and all addictions. What sort of difficulty are you having?”

  Emma said, “Uh–we would like marriage counseling. My husband and I.” She had the idle thought that maybe they needed anger management, too.

  “All right. I would be glad to help you with that,” the woman said in a positive manner that Emma instantly appreciated.

  The woman gave Emma several choices for appointments, and Emma chose Thursday afternoon the following week.

  Later, when she told John Cole the time of the appointment and the name of the therapist, he said with a note of alarm, “Therapist? I thought we were seein’ a counselor.”

  “We are. That’s what marriage counseling is. Therapy.”

  “Oh. And it’s a woman?”

  “Yes,” Emma answered.

  After several seconds, he said, “Oh,” again and let it go at that, demonstrating that he was learning when to shut up.

  6

  1550 AM on the Radio Dial

  The Sunday Morning Gospel Hour

  The music faded, and Winston came on. “That was Barbara Mandrell’s rendition of ‘Amazing Grace.’ Glad to have you here with us this bright morni
n’, where our generous sponsors this week are the Valentine Voice, the area’s award-winning newspaper, and the good folks of the First United Methodist Church.”

  He paused for a thoughtful moment. “We have a First Baptist Church, too. As far as I know, those are the only Methodist and Baptist churches in town, so I don’t know why they don’t just call themselves the Onlys—the Only United Methodist or the Only Baptist.

  “Anyway, the folks at the First Methodist invite you all to join them this mornin’ for services. Sunday school is about to commence over there, I think…ah, I can’t find my listing…”

  He felt odd. A little swimmy-headed. He saw Jim Rainwater shoot him one of his worried looks.

  Averting his eyes to the tune list, Winston looked through his reading glasses and read, “And now here’s Ricky Skaggs, givin’ us some bluegrass gospel.”

  His chest felt a little tight. But a man did not get to his nineties and not have a lot of odd-feeling moments. Not wanting the kid getting his shorts in a knot with worry, he pushed up from his chair, saying, “I’m goin’ to the john. Don’t get worried.”

  He tried not to shuffle his steps as he left the room. He had a sudden and odd longing for Willie Lee. Sunday mornings were the one time since school had gotten out that his little buddy did not accompany him. Willie Lee’s mother insisted on a quiet family gathering around the breakfast table on Sundays.

  But in that moment, Winston wished so much for the companionship of the boy that he had the disconcerting sense of being close to tears. It rather rattled him. It was said that when a body went into a heart attack, emotions got all mixed up. He had experienced a heart attack a number of years previously, but mostly what he recalled was waking up and people annoying the hell out of him.

  In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and dried it with a paper towel. He purposely avoided looking in the mirror. These days the image in the mirror was some strange old man, not himself at all.

  He threw the paper towel in the trash and stood bracing himself on the windowsill, trying to summon the memory of the man he had been in his prime, tall and straight, with steelgray hair and a chiseled jaw. It wasn’t so much what a person looked like. It was more how a person envisioned himself—that was what a person projected.