Crossing the Street

by Campbell, Molly D. ;

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was certainly not what anybody expected. Diana’s pregnancy, although filled with her own signature style of drama, lots of whining, and attention-grabbing but inconsequential Braxton-Hicks contractions, had been normal. Healthy.

  But delivery was a different story. Things got dicey about seven hours in, when the fetal monitor showed that the baby was in distress. Chaos ensued, as it became clear that the cord was tangled around the baby’s neck. Luckily, there were excellent obstetricians involved. The hospital was known for its neonatology department. After an emergency caesarian section, during which Diana began to hemorrhage, Alexander Villiers Dallas was delivered safely, Diana was stabilized. Although it was “touch and go there for a minute,” according to the relieved father in his ebullient phone call, all was well. Mother and baby were resting comfortably.

  Theo poured us all another glass of wine. He had some sort of sonata playing in the background. Gail ignored Rick’s hand on her knee and looked concerned. I polished off this, my third glass, almost instantly, and I held it up to Theo. “Just one more. I need this. It isn’t every day that I become an aunt and nearly lose a sister.”

  Theo looked doubtful, but poured me another half glass. Setting the empty bottle on the mantel, he sat down beside me on the floor. Before I could toss this one back, he gently removed the glass from my hand and set it on the coffee table.

  Gail removed Rick’s hand and scooted away from him. “Isn’t that sort of an exaggeration? Everything turned out all right. It was just a difficult birth. But both she and the baby will be fine won’t they?”

  Rick, who up until this point had not evinced one iota of interest in anything but Gail’s torso, added, “Right. And she is in a good hospital with good doctors, isn’t she? And having the cord wrapped around the baby’s neck is scary, but they handled it—that happened to my sister. She and the baby were fine. Your sister will be okay. Nothing more to worry about. Caesarians require a slightly longer recovery, but that’s all.”

  Still stunned at Rick’s revelation, I looked over at Gail. She raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “God knows where THAT came from.”

  “Rick, you’re right, D is fine, but she lost a lot of blood. It wasn’t just the cord thing. The placenta didn’t entirely detach, or something like that. I’m not a medical expert, but according to my mother, it was a critical situation there for a time. D had to have a transfusion.”

  Gail took a sip of wine and held the glass in her lap, gently twirling it with one hand. “Are you going to go to Chicago to help? Or is Claire just going to go over there and camp out for a while?”

  “This is problematic. Mom is going for a week, but she has clients. Pressing demands for bathroom makeovers and Italian plaster. She can’t stay any longer than a week without one of her design customers having a fit about granite countertops. And to be perfectly honest, I’m afraid if I went to Chicago I would kill either the baby due to lack of any sort of baby care qualifications, or I would kill my sister out of sheer frustration, OR I would murder Bryan for losing my cat. Toss up.”

  Gail set her glass down. “Well, this is just typical. Beck, you have to look beyond the end of your nose on this one. That family is your family. Can’t you learn to just let bygones be bygones, for God’s sake?” She frowned, which on Gail looked like a sexy squint.

  “But—“

  Theo interrupted, but softly. “You know, Beck, it might not be a bad idea to rethink your whole position on all of this. You only have the one sibling. And that baby boy is completely innocent. Think about what you want your life to be like in a few years. Won’t you want to have your family all together? Won’t you want to know your nephew?”

  Whew. This was like some sort of Midwestern intervention reality show. I looked around at the assemblage: one blonde best friend with perfect eyebrows, an all-silk wardrobe and nothing but the best intentions; her devastatingly gorgeous boyfriend who seemed a little bored; me, the sad-sack self-absorbed older sister; and my tall, kind, concerned, and color-coordinated boyfriend. I didn’t like being the center of attention.

  “By the way—the baby’s name is Alexander.” I picked my glass back up and had another generous swig of wine.

  Theo nodded. “Alexander Dallas. Your nephew. You will want to know him.”

  I turned and shot him an incredulous look. “You say that like some sort of movie hero. What does this mean? I need to get to know him because he will eventually save my life? I should know him because I will probably not have a child of my own? I should get to know him so that I can be a better babysitter when my sister decides she needs an extended spa vacation? Why, Theo?”

  At this point, my negative attitude had created a completely awkward situation. You could cut the uneasiness in the room with a Brie knife. Gail sat up suddenly and looked at her watch—straight out of any number of movie scenes: “Look at the time! I have to check in with a client—I may have a bidding war going on for that house on White Ash Circle. Really, I have to get out of here.” She stood, smoothing out the creases in her raspberry douppioni skirt. She finished the last sip of her wine, grabbed Rick, and hauled him off the sofa, his Oakley sunglasses falling from his pocket and disappearing between the suede cushions.

  Rick tried to fish them out, but Gail powered him towards the door, his head craning back towards the sectional.

  “Honey, Theo will get those and bring them to you. We really have to run.”

  As they were about to go out the door, Rick still looking pained, Gail turned back for a parting shot. “Beck. The ‘Diana steals Bryan’ story is old news. I know. It sucked. But adults have to take control of situations. Life isn’t always a bowl of cherries, you know! It may be a bitter pill to swallow, but you are the one who may have to swallow it and get this whole family shitshow to end. It’s ancient history!”—she fluttered her fingers in my direction—“I know; sort out the metaphors and just get going on this, will you?” And with that, she pulled Rick out the door and shut it firmly behind her.

  I hadn’t bothered to get up for any of her soliloquy—I was too pooped. It was a combination of stress, my missing cat, boredom with my life, dissatisfaction with my writing career, and just general, all-around malaise. Theo, who had tried to be the perfect host and escort Gail and Rick out, only to have his own door shut in his face, wandered into the kitchen and returned with one bottle of Chardonnay and one of Burgundy.

  “We should probably get shit-faced right now, correct? These two ought to do the trick.”

  I wasn’t to be so easily dissuaded. “Theo, no, let’s not drink any more, because I really want to know why you think I will so ‘want to know’ my nephew.” Theo flinched. “No, seriously. I am not picking a fight—I just really want to know the answer.”

  Theo poured himself another glass of Chardonnay. I hate Chardonnay, by the way. To me, it tastes like drinking perfume.

  Theo sat down on the carpet beside me. He glugged some wine (not in character for him, at all), put his glass down, and began:

  “Beck, I know you say you don’t care for children. I have heard you claim this a number of times. And yet, one of the most important people in your life right now is an adorable little girl who seems to be your, pardon my French, BFF. So your ‘I don’t like kids’ thing does not hold any water. That’s first of all.”

  He paused and looked at me to gauge my reaction. He drew back, screwed up his nose and also squinted at me, covering his face with his hands as if he thought I might haul off and sock him. “Okay, okay, Theo. I am not feeling particularly violent at the moment. Go on.”

  “Okay.” He took another sip of wine. My God, what was he going to say that required such fortification?

  “Well. Beck. Here is the second of all. I think you imagine that you are still in love with your ex. But let’s face it—that is an illusion you are carrying around with you. The cool guy on campus f
alling for the slightly off-kilter but charming girl. They make the perfect couple. But Beck, you and Bryan obviously were not the match made in heaven, or you wouldn’t have been the one to break up with him, right?”

  Yada, yada, yada. I nodded, waving my hands weakly in surrender.

  “Third of all. You are not the kind of person who just writes people off. Okay, I actually don’t know you well enough to vouch for that, but you certainly seem loyal. This is your family, and the rules of human relationships are not just black and white in families. We are stuck with these imperfect people our entire lives. Whether we hate them or love them. So isn’t it easier to hang together with them at a level of at least cordiality, if nothing else?”

  I was so sick of myself at this point. This was threatening to overtake me in a sea of migraine. “Theo, you speak the wisdom of the Oracles. I will take every single crumb of what you said under advisement. But right now, I feel slightly queasy, and I have an aura.”

  Theo’s eyes popped.

  “No, an aura, not a HALO. I am getting a migraine. I need to go home and sleep it off.”

  Theo, ever the perfect boyfriend, looked concerned, bent over to help me up, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, walked me to the bathroom for a cold compress to put over my eyes, offered me some Excedrin (which I chewed like candy), and bundled me into to his car, took me home, and tucked me in.

  It was so comforting. As I drifted off to sleep, hearing the soft click of Theo latching my front door, I reached out to pet Simpson. The left side of my head lit up with pain as if a firecracker had exploded in there.

  I woke up four hours later with a dry mouth, a fragile feeling in the vicinity of my left ear and left upper molars, a very strong desire for a Popsicle, and the horrifying realization that I had to go to Chicago when Mom got back. Oh, yes. And that other realization: that I should grab Theo and prostrate myself while apologizing to him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mom came home absolutely fizzing with enthusiasm about baby Alexander. She called me at least seven times to tell me that:

  He was the cutest baby ever born.

  He had eyes just like mine.

  Bryan was gaga over him.

  He had cute, fuzzy hair.

  He was having a hard time “latching” (whatever the hell that was).

  He smiled already.

  Diana was struggling.

  Therefore, I was needed in Chicago, STAT.

  How in God’s name having me, her hated older sister, readily at hand was going to help D was a mystery to me. And this whole “latching” business was equally mysterious. Plus, ever since Bryan and I spilled our guts about everything, I quivered with guilt whenever I thought of this baby, or babies in general.

  So it was with great trepidation that I stood in my bedroom on a Friday evening, packing my bag for my eight a.m. flight to Chicago (via Columbus; Framington airport flew directly to absolutely nowhere BUT Columbus) the next morning.

  Bob sat cross-legged on my bed, directing. Bob began with “Don’t forget—you have to pack soft things. Babies like to snuggle, and so you have to be cozy. So don’t take that hoodie with the zipper—it will poke Alex.”

  “Bob, you have never even laid eyes on this baby.”

  Bob shook her head with eight-year-old vigor. “Have too! You showed me those pictures on your cell that your mom sent you. He is nearly bald and cute.”

  “Right. Anything else I need to know? Since you seem to be an expert?”

  Bob frowned, her freckles compressing into her furrowed brow. “There was a baby who lived next door to us in Iowa. Her name was Lucy, and she liked to snuggle. I held her a bunch of times. Her mom told me that babies like fuzzy things. Are you bringing Alex a present? Like a stuffed animal or something?”

  Shit. I hadn’t even thought about a present. I wondered if they had baby things for sale at O’Hare. I wouldn’t have enough time to go shopping in Columbus. “Right. I will look for something for him at the airport in Chicago before I go over to their house.”

  Bob looked dubious. “Really, Beck. It should be something special. You know, since this is your nephew. Do you have anything special that you loved when you were little? Something you could take with you and give to Alex? Like a blankie you knitted for him?”

  My God. This child was more mature than I was, by far. Of course, I should have been knitting him something. Or crocheting him something. That would entail already knowing how to knit or crochet, however. I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Bob, you make a very good point here. The main problem is that I don’t know how to knit, and I am leaving at the crack of dawn. Do you have any other good ideas?”

  I have never seen a person leap off a bed so fast. Bob flew over to me and hugged my waist. “I have just the thing! Gran knits! I will go get it! BE RIGHT BACK!”

  Bob cantered out of the bedroom, and I heard my front door clap shut behind her. Crisis averted, apparently. I put the zippy hoodie back on the floor of my closet, where it lived, and began rummaging through my things for appropriately soft apparel. I chose four oft-washed tee shirts that were so soft they were nearly falling apart, three pairs of leggings (not particularly soft, but they were like second skin, so I figured that was fine), a jersey night shirt without buttons, and three camisoles. I was considering whether or not I needed a dress when Bob burst back into the apartment and sprinted back into the bedroom, holding the most gorgeous yellow-and-white striped knitted throw I had ever seen.

  “Oh, Bob! This is beautiful! But did you just take this? Does your gran know you have it?”

  Bob’s freckles went neon, I swear. “Oh, YES! I told her that we had an emergency, and that you needed something very special for Alex, and that they don’t have special baby things at airports, and what should we do?”

  She stopped for a quick breath. “And guess what? Gran has a whole trunk full of things that she knits for gifts! She makes them for the church! But she has plenty! So she told me I could choose one for Alex, and I thought this one was the prettiest!”

  Bob laid the throw on the bed with great reverence. She ran her small hand over the folds, and then laid her face down against it. “Alexander,” she whispered. “This is especially for you from me, Beck, and Gran.”

  I nearly choked on the lump in my throat. I knelt beside Bob and stroked the softness of the gift. “Oh, Bob. You are brilliant. I will be sure to tell them that this wonderful gift was all your idea. As a matter of fact, do you want to make a card to go with it? You can explain how your gran made this, and how you came up with the idea for giving it to Alex.”

  Bob nodded. She folded the throw neatly into a square, and I went off to find some paper and a pencil. I set Bob up at the kitchen table, and managed to find a red crayon and a blue crayon in my junk drawer. Biting her lower lip, Bob labored over the card for a good ten minutes.

  When it was finished, she folded it in two with a flourish. “Here you go! Do you want me to read it to you? See—this picture on the front is of you, me, and Gran.”

  She held it up. On the front, bordered in crooked red, stood three blue figures. One, wearing red pants and holding what looked kind of like a blue rectangle with a stick at the end was me, she said. “That blue thing in your hand is a Popsicle.”

  “Love it!”

  The other adult figure was obviously Ella. She had a little red rod in each hand. “Knitting needles,” Bob pointed out.

  The third figure was a small blue person. She had a round head with a large, red smile. There were blue dots all over her face. “Freckles—I had to draw the truth,” Bob said. In her hand, outlined in red, was obviously the knitted throw. “It shouldn’t be red. But you didn’t have a yellow crayon. Do you think they will understand?” I nodded.

  “Okay! Here is what I put inside.” She unfolded the card and read

  Dear Alex. This blankie is for yo
u to hold when you are sad or scared. It is very soft. My gran made it. But it is from me, Gran, AND Beck. Love, Bob

  Bob folded the card closed and held it out to me.

  “Oh, Bob, this is wonderful. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  Bob jumped up and down. “I KNOW. But, Beck, you also have to remember to be nice when you’re there. Even if your sister is mean to you—you have to be nice. And don’t worry about me walking to school without adult supervision, because Hallie and I are always on the lookout for trouble. Gran says you can stop worrying about us, too, because Framington is safe.”

  After Bob left, I finished packing, and then sat down in front of my laptop, the screen glaring back at me, nearly empty, but for the title at the top of the otherwise blank screen:

  The Summer Child, By Rebecca Throckmorton

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I had no idea that babies cry so damn much. I mean, when they are conscious, they are crying. Part of this whole shrieking thing had to do with the latching debacle. I now know all about latching.

  See, the conscientious mother of today knows that the best way to feed a baby is with breast milk. This stuff contains all sorts of antibodies that protect the baby from disease. It is convenient—no bottles to wash, no nipples to sterilize, none of that. All you have to do is pop the kid onto your chest, and he will go to town. And you will feel fulfilled. And the baby will thrive.

  I copied this almost verbatim from the brochure on breastfeeding that D brought home from the hospital. It was full of optimistic propaganda, because if what D was going through is typical, breast-feeding is nearly impossible.

  Latching is what Alexander is supposed to do whenever he cries. D, who by the way, was even bitchier than ever (more about this later), grabs him away from Bryan (exhausted and also grouchy, see “more about that later,” above), who has changed Alex’s diaper. She sits propped up by multiple pillows, some sort of nursing pillow thing in her lap. She holds the baby and undoes her nursing bra. Alex, theoretically, just grabs on and drinks the elixir that is life-giving and oh, so perfectly suited to his little baby digestive system.