Something To Be Brave For

  “Turn that off!” Claude shouted.

  “Use an assumed name, then. No one will know!” Madeleine sounded frantic.

  “Won’t work. If the press gets hold of this, it will be huge, it’ll be the end. Ben, talk to me.”

  “I’ve upped her oxygen, and I am administering adrenaline now,” Ben said.

  I fumbled with the CD player, then pressed myself against the wall, afraid to talk or move. Suddenly, Claude’s operating room resembled my father’s quite a lot.

  “Come on, wake up, Victoria, don’t do this to me,” Claude said, frantically shaking his patient. I’d never seen him so desperate. “For Christ’s sake, Ben, do something!” Claude practically screamed as he threw the kidney dish against the wall.

  Madeleine was frantically palpating both sides of Victoria’s neck. I closed my eyes to shut out the scene, trying to steady myself.

  “I’ve got a pulse!” Ben said.

  “Yes, yes. She’s just started to breathe,” Claude said hoarsely.

  “And look, her eyelids are starting to flutter,” Madeleine said.

  Ben said, “Okay, okay… wait… Let’s give her some time to wake up. That was a close call, but she’s going to be okay.” He ran his forearm across his wet brow but kept his eyes on Victoria’s face.

  “Katie, get me a cold compress, and put her CD back on,” Claude said, obviously relieved. I pushed the play button, and Victoria’s disembodied voice filled the room again. I brought the washcloth, and the old woman groaned as Madeleine sponged tiny flecks of dried blood from her face.

  “Pulse is steady. Blood pressure is normal,” Ben reported.

  “She’s beginning to come to. She’s mumbling something,” Claude said. “Jesus, I hope we were in time.” He looked down at his patient, who batted her heavy eyelids. “Hello, Victoria. You were sleeping pretty soundly there. How are you feeling?”

  “Just fine, Doctor,” she slurred. “But how do I look?”

  “Fabulous – all’s well. Let’s get you up and into the recovery room where you can have some orange juice to pep you up. After you rest, your nurse can help you get dressed. She has all my information on aftercare. Oh, and don’t forget your CD. It’s quite impressive,” Claude said.

  “You’re the best,” she said. “I’m going to do something very special for you for making me so beautiful. You’ll see,” she laughed, still high from the anesthetic, waving her finger at Claude as two nurses escorted her across the hall.

  “She’s a little wobbly, but doing well,” Claude said. “Everything’s fine, and I really appreciate all of your help, but let’s just keep this little incident to ourselves,” he added quietly, his eyes flitting from me to Madeleine, then to Ben and back to me as he ran his hand through his damp hair.

  “I’m going home,” I said. “I don’t feel well. And I need some fresh air.”

  Claude and I walked silently through the empty office, and he embraced me at the door – a tight, rigid embrace that was new and somehow not intimate.

  “Take a little nap and feel better, darling. And don’t forget our Valentine’s Day celebration tonight.”

  *

  I stepped out into the fresh, frosty air and found myself remembering my conversation with Gillian after the movie. She’d said that psychopaths understood compassion only in terms of whether or not it made them look good or bad – they thought about themselves first. Claude was as far from a psychopath as I was from China. He was my adoring and passionate husband, but here, on his turf, he seemed willing to do almost anything to protect himself. What would have happened if Victoria Langley had died? “Prepare to be shocked,” Gillian had said, referring to – what? Life in general? And I had been shocked today, yes, and was still a little shocked now, and confused.

  I couldn’t imagine how Claude could be thinking about hearts and flowers and celebrating. A person in his care had almost died. But maybe that’s the point, I thought as I walked to the car. Life was fragile and precious, and Claude, a doctor, knew that. He’d seen people die before. He’d dissected a cadaver in medical school. He understood that each day we live is a kind of gift. What else was there to do but celebrate it?

  6

  Spring 1995

  “Yes!” I cried, and I kissed the end of the purple plastic stick. I felt as if I were holding a sacred object. Almost, in a way, as if I were holding a baby already, and not a home pregnancy test stick that I’d bought at the drugstore. I’d gone to the large, anonymous Walgreens, not the small, family-owned Jackson’s, where we usually went. Everyone knew everyone else’s business at Jackson’s Pharmacy, and this business was private, between Claude and me.

  “Let me see,” he said, and took it from me, squinting at the little window on the front, where a pink line lay like a hyphen, connecting our childless life to our future family life, asserting itself without ambiguity.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “And we weren’t even trying.”

  “Are you sure it’s accurate? There can be false positives, you know,” Claude said, while he flicked the stick back and forth, examining it in the morning light as if he were reading a thermometer. “I think you should confirm it with your doctor before you get too excited.” He handed it back to me, and I pressed it to my chest.

  “I will, but I know it’s right!”

  “How so?” He cooly picked up his demi of espresso and sipped.

  “I’ve been feeling so tired, and my favorite violet perfume turns my stomach. I threw up this morning from the smell of the coffee, and today’s not the first time, either. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Maybe it’s a stomach bug.”

  “Oh, Claude, it’s not! And I know just when it happened.”

  “Oh? When?”

  “Six weeks ago, Jamaica. Out on the golf course, after dinner. Remember? We didn’t get back to the house until dawn.” I giggled – I could have shouted with excitement.

  “I vaguely remember something. All those rum drinks.”

  “They were delicious, and you were so romantic. You picked a gardenia and put it in my hair and lay your jacket on the damp grass for me. We listened to the crickets sing all night.” I bent over the back of his chair and put my arms around his neck. He tilted his head up at me, and to my relief I saw his face soften a little. The shock of the pregnancy had really thrown him, but he was coming around.

  “Yes, right,” he said. “It was after dinner, and we decided to take a walk. Your mother and father were dancing to a calypso band by the pool, and your mother was wearing that fish-pattern caftan thing from West Africa and went around telling everyone, ‘I’m a Pisces.’ The hostess was completely focused on your father – and by the way, he did an incredible job reattaching her nose. She’s big Texas oil money. Maybe I’ll do her face next.”

  The recitation left me feeling somewhat cold.

  “Oh, Claude, you’re always thinking about work. Now there’s a baby to think about. I want you to think about that.”

  “I will,” he said. “As soon as we get confirmation. That night, in Jamaica,” he went on, “They flew the meat in from New York on their private jet. Thirty-six for a sit-down, with a servant for practically every guest, and you sat next to that real estate developer, remember?”

  “Yes. He kept nodding off. I think he was either hammered or narcoleptic.”

  “Or maybe your conversation wasn’t as scintillating as it could have been. After all, what do you know about the real estate market?”

  “Not much,” I said, “but why should I? Maybe the guy’s just a drunk.”

  “If he is, he’s a very successful one.”

  I didn’t understand why, at times, Claude chose to be so blunt – not blunt, mean. I pushed the thought away. “You were sitting next to the gossip columnist with the black eye,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, yes, I loved her. She told me all about it.”

  “Really?” I said, feeling more comfortable with the change of focus.

  “She
and her boyfriend had been in bed, experimenting with different positions and ropes and God knows what. Something broke, he fell on top of her and kicked her in the eye.” Claude laughed lightly.

  “I can’t believe she told you that. Some of these women you meet are so forward.”

  “And sometimes you’re such a little girl, but you’re my little girl.”

  “Yes, but maybe now there will be another little girl. An actual one. This is the best thing that’s happened to us.”

  “No, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, and I don’t want that ever to change.” He bit into his pain au chocolat and wiped his fingers on the linen napkin. His coolness amazed me, but I was also more than a little baffled: he wanted confirmation before he could get excited, and I wanted everyone in the world to know. We were at opposite ends of the earth.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Nothing will change. Things will only be better. Do you care if it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked.

  “I don’t care, as long as it’s healthy, and I don’t want to find out in advance. I want it to be a surprise. Another one of those wonderful surprises that keep appearing in my life since I met you.”

  I looked at the pink hyphen again to make sure it was still there. When I raised my eyes, Claude was looking at me.

  “I thought you were taking the pill,” he said in a flat voice.

  “No, I told you months ago, Claude. I stopped taking it, and you said that was fine.”

  “So you were trying to get pregnant?”

  “No, not really.” Why was this such a struggle? My joy had evaporated. “I just wanted to see what would happen. I didn’t know whether I could, and if I couldn’t, it was better to find out sooner rather than later. Why? What’s wrong, Claude? I thought this was what we both wanted sometime soon.”

  I felt a growing anger. Why was he so argumentative and petulant? It was like I’d committed a crime. “What’s wrong?” I said again.

  “Nothing. It’s just that now might not be the best time. I’m extremely busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He turned a page of the Boston Globe.

  “And you’re only going to get busier,” I said. “It’s never a good time, that’s what the books say. But we can more than afford it. We’re really incredibly lucky, Claude. We’ve got money, and a good life, and each other, and now this.” I fingered my plastic stick, holding onto it as if it were a good luck charm that I was starting to think I would need.

  Even if Claude’s reaction was disappointing, I realized I’d wanted him to be like the husband in an old black-and-white movie, enchanted and delighted and only privy to the news when he catches sight of his wife knitting booties. But instead Claude was withholding, giving off the cool, professional, detached vibe I used to like and was beginning to dislike. I knew life wasn’t an old movie, but goddammit…

  “I suppose you’re right,” he finally said in a clipped, anodyne tone. “And a son would be nice, but I don’t want you gaining too much weight.”

  “I’m afraid that comes with the territory,” I said with a laugh, but he wouldn’t laugh along with me.

  *

  My obstetrician, George Palmer, was old school, but kind and not condescending, as I’d feared he would be. After I left his office I crossed over to Beacon Hill Park, luxuriating in the cool spring air. Dr. Palmer had given me a perfect report and told me my morning sickness would very likely disappear by the end of the first trimester. He said my body was in a “hormonal upheaval”, and I assumed my new emotional reactions were part of it. I cried, if only briefly, over an empty soap dish in the kitchen, a missing sock from the dryer, and a hair clip that wouldn’t stay in place.

  Now I picked a bench under a large maple tree overlooking Frog Pond and sat down to think about my doctor’s good, reassuring news before going to Claude’s office to tell him it had all been confirmed and would all be okay… and that now, if he so desired, he could get enthused.

  The surface of the pond was still and beautifully reflective. Daffodils sprouted up around its edges, and birds were singing in the trees. I felt peaceful and in tune with life, with my own personal springtime – my own world! – growing inside of me. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bench and thought again about what a wonderful life I had. I had a loving husband – and he was loving, I knew that, and that he would love our child just as much as I would. I was going to have my own family. My dreams really were coming true.

  Suddenly something small and hard fell into my lap. I looked down and screamed. A dead sparrow lay in the lap of my yellow coat. The eyes were open, and its head flopped to the side when I quickly jumped up. The little brown body tumbled to the ground at my feet. I moved away from the bird, even though I was fascinated, and beginning to calm down and wanted to look at it.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin a second time.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, holding his hands up and stepping back. He was wearing a city parks uniform. “I heard you scream.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. I did. A sparrow fell on me, I think from out of the tree. I don’t want to just leave it here on the ground. Do you think you could bury it?”

  “Sure. I’ve buried quite a few of them before.”

  He peered at the small, dessicated body. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said, pulling on a pair of leather gloves. “They usually go off and hide before they die: they don’t often stay in a tree. This one must’ve found a niche up there and died there. Hard to know, really.” He reached down and gently picked up the bird.

  I thanked him and walked back to my car, my mood decidedly subdued. I briefly considered going back to Dr. Palmer’s office but figured the best thing I could do was to forget about the dead sparrow. I headed toward the dry cleaner’s to drop off my coat, then home for a nice hot shower and then to Claude’s office. I decided I wouldn’t tell him about what had happened in the park. He’d just dismiss it or mock me for having been so frightened.

  I shivered, thinking of the poor, lonely little thing. I remembered reading that in ancient times birds were believed to be a supernatural link between heaven and earth. Sparrows carried the souls of the dead up to heaven. Or was it that sparrows brought the newborn soul to earth?

  *

  In the middle of my second trimester, when my body seemed to grow and change a bit more every day, Claude asked me to stop coming into the office. It wasn’t really a request.

  “Darling, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want a pregnant woman working there. It’s just not the right image. The patients who come to me don’t want to think about gaining weight, labor and delivery, or the drudgery of childrearing.”

  “Drudgery?” I said. “You mean real life? Thanks a lot. Surely it’s more than—”

  “Besides, you hardly do anything when you’re there that Sally can’t handle. Stay home and fix up the baby’s nursery or something. Spend whatever you want on it, darling, but don’t come to work.”

  That got me thinking about the nursery: I’d make a patchwork quilt, needlepoint some sweet little pillows, and fill the bookshelf with The Tales of Peter Rabbit and Goodnight Moon – a hundred books. And even though I resented the small-minded attitude, I knew Claude didn’t like overweight women. But with a baby, it was different. I wasn’t going to argue with Claude about my weight gain, which Dr. Palmer had said was perfectly normal. Fathers-to-be apparently went through their own mood swings.

  As soon as the baby was born, I knew, Claude would be back to his real self, my multifaceted man – my hero. But I had to wonder at times who his “real self” was. What made him laugh at my shape? Plenty of men find their pregnant wives sexy as hell, relishing their new, full breasts and opulent curves – they find the coming life exciting, and when that’s the case a pregnant woman invites a man’s attentions. So what made Claude imitate a duck’s quacking as he waddled and flapped around me? One day he mooed like a cow as I crossed the
room.

  “Claude, stop,” I cried, tears starting into my eyes. “I’m not a farm animal.”

  “I never said you were, Elsie. Honey, you take things too seriously. I was just having fun. There, there, don’t cry.”

  He took me in his arms, and I let him hold me.

  See, if you were a better sport, you’d understand that it’s normal for a husband to behave this way. But you’re pregnant and hormonal and you can’t take a joke.

  The night of the smashed mirror, he had said, “You disgust me.”

  And I think you were skinny back then, weren’t you?

  “Seven years of bad luck when you break a mirror,” I thought, “and we were still in year one.”

  *

  I visited my mother, looking for advice and hoping to glean some sympathy. She perched on her silk damask sofa in front of her grandmother’s silver tea service, pouring her favorite Formosa Oolong tea.

  “What’s a little teasing, Katie dear? Quack, moo moo – it’s rather amusing. Don’t be so sensitive. When I was pregnant with you, I was convinced your father was having an affair with a visiting German professor – all I did was cry and eat oranges. You don’t think Claude is having an affair, do you? Quel dommage, if he is,” she said, releasing the sugar cube from the tongs, plop.

  “I don’t know. He’s been coming home later at night. He says he’s busy working.” The smoky aroma of the tea turned my stomach.

  “Oh, that old line – well, maybe he is. It’s certainly not your fault, but it’s a sign, dear – a sign. Take my advice and pull yourself together. Stop wearing that hideous corduroy maternity dress and buy some new ones. God knows, you can afford it. Put some rouge on those pale cheeks and pull your hair off that beautiful face, so we can see it. I never liked long hair. There’s no style to it – no mystery.”

  “He hates my body,” I said.

  “Oh, come, now. He’s probably just afraid that he’s going to lose your affection. Give him more attention – do whatever you need to do to please him – it will be over soon, and then you’ll be back to your slim self in no time.” She needlessly lowered her voice. “There are plenty of ways to please a man in bed other than intercourse.”