by Teisha Mott
"You know, I would if it would stop you from being so damn miserable and contrary!"
Samantha scoffed and turned back to her lunch. "I am ignoring you now!"
"That is the best news I have heard all day!" Tevin sighed. "Now the rest of us don't have to put up with the annoying sound of your incessant bickering!" He turned to Andie. "No more lunches are mandatory until those two learn to get along, got it?"
"Talk ’bout I'm not the coach!" Jeremy muttered into his lunch.
Samantha looked at him. So he wanted to be the coach. When her mother had suggested the classes, she had wondered whether he would want to come, but thought it would not make sense since he was leaving. She had planned to ask her mother to be the coach. If Jeremy wasn't going to be in the delivery room with her, then she would definitely want her mother. But now he was saying he wanted to be there, and Samantha was relieved. She was so relieved that as the summer progressed, and as the baby grew, she was realising that although she was going to be an unmarried mother, she was not going to be a single mother. Her daughter was going to have a father. She was not going to have to do 'the baby thing' alone.
Darrin was so wrong. Jeremy could change. He had changed. He was not the same Jeremy who went around UWI with his head up his ass. He was not a perfect person, but he was a good person – or he was trying to be one, which was the best she could expect, having now realised that she was not a perfect person either.
185
Just Perfect!
chapter ten
August 8
Jeremy was Officially Traumatised. Why the H-E-double hockey sticks had he ever insisted on going to that wretched childbirth class? It had started out innocently enough. There were five other couples in the room, all at various stages of pregnancy, but he and Samantha were the youngest in the group. Some of the fathers were on their second or third babies, and had a plethora of advice to share. He had read on line that child birth classes were potentially play date groups, and Mrs Persaud had even told him that she had met the parents of Samantha’s friend, Nicolette, in a childbirth class. The lecturer, or instructor, or whatever she chose to call herself, was a nurse/midwife, who seemed to know what she was talking about. She said the men were going to learn how to help their wives breathe – it was nice considering Samantha as his wife – and how to focus during the birth of the baby. He was going to learn all the different birth positions that he, as the father and the coach was going to help the mother assume... All exciting stuff. Then later, perhaps after he was long gone, they would learn how to give baby a bath and how to put baby to bed, but how difficult could that be? Men have been doing that since the time of Adam or at least since the women's liberation movement, when men became forced to help in the house! And one big plus was that the instructor spoke in a normal voice. This was going to be a cakewalk. Who said he couldn’t be the father/coach? Then Madame Instructor had whipped out the video of a woman giving birth, and that was when all hell broke loose.
Jeremy sighed and leaned against the Rav4. He had seen things that a man should never see – things that a man could never unsee! For the rest of his life, the image of that baby ripping that woman in two as it forced itself out of her - her- her…area – he could not even bring himself to think the real word – would be emblazoned on his retina!
“Are you okay?” Samantha looked at him concerned, as she waited for him to disarm the car so she could get in. He was ash grey and there were huge wet spots on the arm pits of his white Izzy Man polo shirt. He looked like he might faint.
Jeremy shook his head. He dared not open his mouth, lest he threw up. He was everything but okay! He wanted to forget. All he wanted to do was forget.
“You want me to drive?” Samantha asked again.
“Would you please?” Jeremy gratefully handed over the keys. If he drove he probably would not get them home in one piece. How was he expected to focus on the road while the world’s most traumatising words hopped, skipped, jumped, danced, cavorted and preened through his brain: effacement, cervix, placenta, mucous plug, dilation…
Samantha grabbed the keys, trying her best not to laugh at him. “You are a real pussy, you know that?” She disarmed the car, and he got into the passenger side.
“Oh my dear God!” Jeremy moaned. He rested his head into his hands. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
“What are you ‘Oh my God’-ing about?” Samantha asked him. “You are the one who insisted that you wanted to be the coach. ‘I’m the father, I’m the coach! I’m the father, I’m the coach!”
Jeremy could not even chastise her for teasing him. She was perfectly right. He was the one who had insisted. And now, he was forever ruined as a man. All he could think about was that poor, poor woman. Her water had not broken, so the doctor had to put his hand way up into her ‘area’ and break it himself, then as she strained to get the baby out, she had crapped herself. Jeremy thought her ‘area’ was going to rip, and clearly the doctor had agreed, so he had whipped out a pair of scissors and gave her an – new word; gory word—episiotomy. Then in the end, she had given birth not to a baby, but to what looked like phlegm, and shortly afterwards, perhaps of piece of her liver and her intestines.
“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry!”
“Sorry for what? For insisting on being the coach?”
“No, I am so sorry for you. I am sorry for what you are going to have to go through. You are going to go into labour, and it's going to hurt like a son of a bitch!”
“I wonder why you ever thought that pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of my nostril was going to be pain free!” Samantha noted. “Of course it is going to ‘hurt like a son of a bitch’!”
“Oh my God!” It seemed like the only words Jeremy knew at that moment. “Oh my God!”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Look, if you're going to bawl like a little girl in the delivery room, tell me from now so I can go and find a new coach!”
“Who else in the world do you think will come and be terrorised like that?” He squeaked.
“Well, I had planned to ask my mother!” Samantha pointed out. “I am sure she isn’t going to freak out. The purpose of the coach is to remain calm in case the mother freaks out. You carrying on like this is only going to prove counterproductive!”
That was an idea, Jeremy thought. Ask her mother. Mrs Persaud had been through that Waterloo three times. Why on earth would someone put themselves through that torture three times? He decided that this baby was going to be his only child. He was as much of a masochist as the next guy, but this made ‘Friday the 13th’ look like Sesame Street! But no. He was not going to take the chicken route out. He was in 100 per cent. He had told her he would be the coach. He had fought to be the coach, so he had no choice but to keep his promise and be the coach.
“No,” Jeremy shook his head. “I’m the father. I am going to be the coach!”
“When you faint and die on December 27, I will tell your father to put that stupid refrain on your tomb stone!” Samantha chuckled. She turned the Rav4 on to Constant Spring Road. “Just know that I reserve the right to mock you for as long as possible for acting like a wuss! ‘Oh my God, oh my God, Oh my God’!” She chuckled. “I can’t wait to tell Andie and Bianca and Klao what a punk you are!”
Jeremy looked at her. “Well, you just continue acting big and bad now. You see how brave the woman in the video was acting until labour pain start to send her up gum tree? I am so glad I am not you! Aren’t you worried even a little bit?”
“Well, it has to come out one way or another,” Samantha pointed out. “And women have been giving birth since the dawn of time, and a population of over 6 billion people proves that most of the time it is not a crisis. I mean, look at those women in China. They work in the rice fields, right up to the eleventh hour, then they lay down, push out the baby, strap it to their backs and continue planting rice as though nothing happened!”
“That is sick!”
“Be that
as it may, it is true! Besides, there are more traumatic things in the world than having a baby!”
“Like what?
“Like waking up on the morning of my birthday realising that I had lost my virginity to the likes of you!” She pulled up to the house and opened the gates with her battery operated gate opener. “Now shut up and stop being a pussy, and let’s go get some dinner. I am starving!”
***
It was a balmy August evening, and Theresa had broken out the barbecue grill. It was coming up to seven in the evening, and the sun had not yet gone in, so Theresa had set up dinner on the pool deck. Samantha surveyed the table, feeling hungrier and hungrier by the second. There was Theresa’s special barbecued chicken with some sort of fruity glaze that she could not figure out – and Theresa would rather die than disclose -- macaroni and potato salad with bits of turkey bacon floating around in it, a layered, multi-vegetable salad, skillet corned bread and apple pie. There was also a plate of chocolate brownies which Samantha was sure Theresa had made especially for her, given her – or rather, Caitlin’s -- insatiable appetite for anything chocolate.
Most importantly, they had guests for dinner. Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Ravi were there! Being retired with enough funds at their disposal to do whatever they wanted, Grandma and Grandpa never missed an opportunity to travel. For the past two weeks, at Grandma’s insistence, they had been trolling the city of Paris. No one was quite sure when they were coming back, but there they were, not looking the worst for wear, although Samantha knew for sure that Grandpa detested the city, and only went because, as he said, Grandma had taken a lover who she had stashed away somewhere on the Place de la Concorde. That could be the only reason she insisted on visiting Paris so regularly, and could stay nowhere but Hotel Crillon.
"Well, look at you, look at you!" Grandpa Ravi declared reaching out to her. "Look who is rounding out and popping and just glowing all over…"
"Thank you, Grandpa!" Samantha said with a smile. She kissed her grandpa's cheek and sat next to him at the picnic table. "Welcome home. Did you have a nice time in Paris?"
"How can anyone have a nice time in Paris?" Grandpa declared. "Insane motorists, snooty waiters, too many American tourists and a giant phallus in the middle of what could have been a wonderful park!"
"Ravi, don't be grouchy!" Grandma Sylvia chastised. "Paris was absolutely lovely!"
“It wasn’t ‘lovely’!” Grandpa disagreed. “It was cold then hot, then rainy then suddenly cold again. Bloody city couldn’t make up its mind whether it was in summer or autumn. Now, I’m sure I feel a sore throat coming on. If I get pneumonia and die, your Parisian lover cannot move into our house, Sylvia!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ravi!” Grandma declared. “My imaginary Parisian lover and I will live in his imaginary villa down in Arcachon!” She turned back to Samantha. “Ignore your grandfather dear, and come let me have a look at you. Impending motherhood really does agree with you!"
“I wonder how I am going to look when I get pregnant!” Andie piped in. “Maybe I’ll get boobs!” She grabbed Christopher’s basketball from him and tucked it under her shirt. “What do you all think?”
“We think you should stop doing that before you give your father a heart attack!” Mrs Persaud suggested.
“And don’t say ‘boobs’, dear!” Grandma added. “You’ll distress Grandpa. She turned to Samantha. "So you are having a little girl?"
"Unfortunately!" Christopher commented. He wondered how to get his ball from Andie without having to put his hand under her shirt. He was excited to be an uncle, even uncle to a girl, but the idea of his ball being a baby was too much.
"So why does that one look like he's going to cry?" Grandma motioned to Jeremy.
Samantha couldn't hold back the laughter. "We went to the childbirth class. He was traumatised by the video of a woman giving birth."
Grandpa Ravi made a face. "Why would you look at that, Jeremy?" He asked. "Son, there are some things that a man does not need to see!”
“But he should see, Ravi!’ Mrs Persaud disagreed. “If he is going to be the coach, he has to be prepared from now. That way he won’t faint in the delivery room like some people at the table who shall remain nameless!” She winked at her husband.
“I didn’t faint!” Dr Persaud argued. “There were too many people in the room and you know I am no good in hot, crowded spaces!”
“Of course you didn’t faint dear!” Grandma patted his hand. “You swooned! Just like Scarlett O’Hara in ‘Gone With The Wind’…”
“Dr Persaud, you fainted in the delivery room?” Jeremy suddenly didn’t feel so bad about his panic attack while watching the video. He couldn’t believe it. Dr Persaud had actually fainted!
“I didn’t faint!” Dr Persaud insisted. “I’d had a long day lecturing, I hadn’t eaten anything all day, then suddenly I get a call to go to the hospital because my wife was having a baby that was taking forever to come out... I had low blood sugar!”
“Daddy you fainted!” Andie stated. “And that’s why Aunt Phoebe was coach when I was born.”
“Aunt Phoebe was coach when you were born because you could not wait to come when you were supposed to, and I couldn’t make it to New York on time!” Her father snapped. “And take that stupid basketball from under your shirt!”
“Well, I miss the good old days when men were expected to stay outside in the corridor and pace, then hand out cigars when it was all over!” Grandpa Ravi said firmly. “If you are going to be a ‘modern man’ and accompany Sammy into the delivery room, Jeremy, more power to you. All I have to say is, may God have mercy on your soul! Now can we eat please? I haven’t had a proper meal two weeks, and Theresa’s cornbread looks really, really good!”
***
Micah Elliot looked around the one bedroom apartment in Hope Pastures. Finally, finally, it was starting to look like something he could live in. It had taken two weeks of painting and repairing and seeking out cheap furniture and upholstering the few pieces that he had managed to convince his mother to part with, but his surroundings were finally starting to look like home. His very first ‘own place’ at all of 26 years old. And not a moment too soon. Next week, he would start at BOJ as a brand new Economist, and he had wanted to have a comfortable space to come home to after a long day at work. Now all he had left to do was unpack the boxes of crap that his mother had sent up from Hanover when she had sent the furniture. After moving off Post Graduate flats, he had sent home, much to his mother’s dismay, all his books and all the odds and ends he had accumulated while he was at UWI. She told him her house was not for storing his junk, and the second he found an apartment of his own, she was sending them all back. He did not realise she would have kept her promise. Micah knew he was a bit of a hoarder. He hated throwing away anything. His greatest fear was that he would throw out something today only to discover tomorrow that he had needed it.
Well, some of these things would have to go, he thought, as he ripped the tape from the first box. The little apartment did not have enough space for him and all this, and all the junk he anticipated collecting up until the day he would be eligible for a mortgage loan from BOJ, and a more reasonably sized place to live.
The first box held all the papers he had written for the five years of University. He flipped through them, remembering the A he had gotten for Introduction to Political Institutions when he was in first year. Two people had gotten As – him and Nathan. He frowned a bit. He had not spoken to Nathan in forever. He should give him a call one of these days… He dug through the box, and unearthed a few more treasures – every time table from first year until now, his examination receipts – well those were still useful. Maybe not the ones from Undergraduate, but definitely the ones from the MSc. He would not throw those out until after November when the degree was firmly in his hands…
Then he saw it, smiling up from him from the box. Son of a gun! How had that gotten in there? It was the portrait of Samantha, taken only last year
November. She had come home from NYU for her UWI graduation. There she was, his stunningly beautiful ex-girlfriend, dressed in her graduation gown, showing off her perfectly straight teeth. Her brown/blonde hair had been curled and framed her perfect heart shaped face. She was so beautiful he thought, as he took the picture out of the box. He recalled the first time he had seen her in the library at UWI. He knew she was Samantha Persaud – daughter of the Dean of Social Sciences and his Economics lecturer. He had thought back then that she was a Persaud, so likely she was a snob. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that she was nothing of the sort, then they became friends and study partners … then that day she had asked him when he was going to ask her out. That was the day that he had hit the roof. He was dating Samantha Persaud! Samantha Persaud actually liked him … then fell in love with him … then left him to go to NYU. That had not been a problem in the beginning. In fact, he had encouraged her to go to NYU. He would have wanted to do is masters at NYU. Unfortunately, his mother was a nurse, and his father was a teacher. With two parents on government salaries, even UWI fees were a challenge without his partial scholarship and tutoring job. But it was fine. She would only be gone for eighteen months, and when she came back, everything would be the same as before.
Then Ronica came into the picture. Ronica was from Antigua, and had done her first year and a half of the MSc at UWI in Cave Hill before transferring to Mona in January for the final semester. She was rumoured to have a photographic memory, and Micah had been curious to find out if it was true. He started talking to her one day in the library, and the next thing he knew, they were going out on dates, and spending time at lookout point up at Strawberry Hill. Nathan had asked him what the hell he was doing. He needed to remember that he had a girlfriend – a beautiful, smart, sweet girlfriend who was madly in love with him. He had a girlfriend who happened to be his girlfriend’s big sister. He had no business locking up in Ronica’s room down at Rex Nettleford Hall, and worse no business taking her to lookout point. Micah knew that Nathan was right, but there was something about Ronica. She was not as pretty as Samantha – not in the least. In fact, she was what some diplomatic people would call ‘very difficult to look at’, but there was something about her. Something that kept pulling Micah back. He was getting something from his time with Ronica that he never got from Samantha. Samantha had been focused to the point of OCD. With her, everything had to be ‘just so’. Samantha Persaud did not make mistakes, or go to parties on school nights, or drink alcohol and get dizzily drunk, or go down to August Town and buy weed, which she used to make ‘special cakes’. Samantha did none of those things, but Ronica did. Ronica was a free spirit, never short on fun plans and ideas. She didn’t take herself seriously. Being with her was fun, and Micah had never had fun before. Going out with Samantha had been an experience. He had met so many important people, and his professional network was pretty much made. How could it not be, when he was dating the granddaughter of the wealthiest man on the island? But Ronica was Ronica. He tried to convince himself and Nathan that he was just having a fun time with Ronica. When summer came and Graduate School was over, Ronica would move back to Antigua and he and Samantha would be fine. He would never be stupid enough to cheat on Samantha. He was in love with her…