An Extra Mile

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Brian looked impressed by this. “How many confirmed kills?”

  Mara made sure she didn’t sigh out loud. The boys played way too many Call of Duty games. “Dunno,” Kevin said. “Lots, probably. I’ll ask him next time.”

  “Or you can ask him, Brian,” Mara said. Might as well seize any open door for conversation.

  The microwave beeped, and Brian brought his plate to the table. He didn’t reply, but he also didn’t roll his eyes.

  “Billy’s got lots of cool stories,” Kevin said.

  Brian took a bite of mashed potatoes. “Not as cool as Leon.”

  “Yeah, definitely as cool as Leon.”

  “Leon’s a boxer, like a heavyweight champion or something.”

  Kevin scoffed. “He’s not a heavyweight, no way.”

  Mara let them argue. If they were determined to fight about who was the coolest patron at Crossroads, she wasn’t going to interrupt. She rose from the table, put some snickerdoodles on a plate for them, and sat down again to listen.

  Charissa

  “You’re holding steady at four centimeters,” the nurse said after checking Charissa’s dilation progress.

  Nine hours of intense contractions, and now Bethany was going to take her time? Not okay. If she thought she could do jumping jacks without fainting, she would. Charissa fiddled with the laces on her hospital gown and tried not to cry.

  “You’re doing great,” John said, and stroked her forehead. She swiped his hand away.

  Hannah

  “What was it like for you when Jake was born?” Hannah asked Nathan as they got ready for bed. When he didn’t reply right away, she said, “I’m interested in all the details. Anything you remember.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. The unabridged version.” She sat down on what had once been his side of the bed and watched his reflection in the bathroom mirror while he squeezed out toothpaste. These moments of observing him in the mundane details of his daily routine—brushing his teeth, combing his hair, shaving—these were the sort of unguarded, familiar moments that reminded her of the gift it was to share life together.

  He caught her gaze in the mirror and smiled. “I remember I was a nervous wreck,” he said, “drove like a maniac to the hospital when we thought it was time. False alarm, and they sent us home.” He brushed vigorously, then spit into the sink. “Next day, same thing. Race to the hospital, and they say nothing’s happening and send us home. Third day, race to the hospital, and they say, yes, she’s at three centimeters.”

  He finished brushing, spit one last time into the sink, and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think it was three centimeters. Anyway, she suddenly started dilating fast, went from three to ten in half an hour or something crazy like that”—he rinsed his hands under the faucet—“and tells me she needs to push. I run to get a nurse, grab the first one I find and yell, ‘She’s pushing!’ So the nurse grabs a wheelchair and races down the hallway because we’ve got to get her into the birthing room. We get her there, and I’m helping her up onto the bed when her water breaks all over me. And the next thing we know, Jake’s crowning—right there—and the midwife, who’s literally just entered the room, puts on rubber gloves and basically catches him.” He dried off his hands. “Nurse, looks at me—she’s as shocked as I am—and says, ‘Can I get you a towel?’” He laughed. “True story.”

  Hannah scooted up against her pillow as he slid into bed. “Incredible,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And then what?”

  He rolled over to face her, propped on his elbow. He was silent a moment and then said, “It’s like people say, you don’t have words. You try, but you can’t describe the feeling of wonder and awe and relief you have in that moment.”

  She could see him mentally debating whether or not to say anything more. She reached for his hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “I want to hear everything. Promise.” She wanted to participate somehow in his moment of becoming a father, wanted to enter into the birth narrative of the young man she was growing to love as her son.

  “I was overcome,” Nathan said, “utterly overcome by love. And overwhelmed with gratitude for the gift she’d given to us. To me.” His eyes brimmed with emotion. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

  No. She was glad he did. His speaking the truth was what she wanted, what she needed. “If you hadn’t loved her in that moment, Nate, what kind of man would you be?”

  He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and murmured, “Thank you.” The depth of love and devotion in his eyes—adoration, even—spoke more profoundly than any other words.

  It was good, Hannah thought as she rolled over and turned off the light, it was very good that Jake was spending the night at a friend’s house. Though she would never share the intimacy of childbirth with her husband, there were other intimate moments of communion they could share. And enjoy.

  Charissa

  Forget natural childbirth, she wanted drugs. Every flavor of drugs. “I want an epidural,” Charissa said. John looked up from the chair where he was typing on his phone.

  “Are you sure? You said—”

  “I know what I said! I changed my mind.” She glared at his phone. “And whoever you’re bringing into the delivery room with us with your texting or Facebook or whatever, stop.”

  John stowed away his phone.

  Charissa watched the monitor as another contraction seized her. A big one. “Epidural,” she hissed as she breathed her way through it. “Now.”

  Becca

  Nighttime was the worst part of the day, that moment when Becca, weary after a ten-hour shift on her feet, would stumble through the front door and hear only the jingling of her keys and the echoing of her footsteps on the hardwood.

  She tossed her name tag onto the kitchen counter and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. She might as well pack up some more boxes. She hadn’t yet done any work in the music room or in the parlor, and since the music room was still filled with too many reminders of her mother’s life and death, she decided to purge the parlor.

  All the furniture would go into the estate sale, and if there were fans of Victorian and early-twentieth-century decor who descended on the house, they would score plenty of treasures. The few things in the room that had been her mother’s she would keep: some framed photos, the snow globe from Harrods, and a china tea service they had used on special occasions. Becca had always loved the weekends when her grandmother was out of town. That’s when her mother was willing to break the strict house rules about toys staying in bedrooms, and they would have tea parties with Becca’s dolls in the parlor. Becca had found pictures in a box: she with her cockeyed pigtails, surrounded by dolls and beaming impishly from the settee. She wished her mother were in the pictures. But there had been no one else to take photos.

  She picked up a magazine from the coffee table, its pages open to sample bridal bouquets, and tried to think of something other than Paris or Simon. He hadn’t contacted her after she’d refused his offer her last night in London. Some nights when she lay in bed by herself, her thoughts drifted toward him, and once she typed a text to say hi, and she nearly sent it—she was so close to sending it—but then she remembered the betrayal and how he had never loved her but loved using her, and her anger kept her from opening that door.

  She put the magazine into Hannah’s box, covering the face of Jesus and the little lamb.

  Maybe she would change her number so she could stop wondering if she would ever hear from him again. Cut the cord, shut that life down, change her email address too. Claire was the only one who had written to her since she’d been back in Kingsbury—kind notes to say she was “thinking of her,” which probably meant she was praying. Whatever. As weary as she felt, Becca would take whatever help the universe was willing to throw her way, which most days didn’t seem like much.

  She was on her way out of the room when she spied a small book lodged between the seat cushion and armres
t of a chair in the corner. Her mother’s journal. She had seen her writing in it the last week they were together, but then she had forgotten about it.

  Flipping through the pages, her eyes landed on an entry dated the fourth of August, the day she dropped Becca off at the airport. Take care of my daughter, Lord. Please. Watch over her and

  Becca closed the book, curled up in the chair, and cried.

  Charissa

  The epidural did what it was designed to do: it removed the pain. But it also took away Charissa’s sense of control. Now the only touchstone, the only connection she had to her own body and to her baby was provided by wires, a monitor, and the report of medical personnel who regularly checked her progress. “There’s a big one,” a nurse commented as she watched the monitor. Charissa felt only moderate tightness. When her water broke moments later, she felt nothing at all.

  “How about a fresh gown?” John said. “And maybe some new sheets?”

  Charissa bit her lip and nodded.

  Just before dawn the monitor, which had been of marginal interest to the staff during the night, suddenly became the focus of a flurry of attention. “What’s going on?” Charissa asked, the panic rising in her voice as one nurse hurried out of the room.

  “What’s happening?” John echoed, leaping up from the chair where he had grabbed snatches of sleep the past few hours.

  “OB’s on his way right now,” another nurse said, patting Charissa’s shoulder.

  “What’s happening?”

  “The baby’s showing some signs of distress,” the nurse said, her voice irritatingly calm.

  Moments later a doctor swept into the room and introduced himself. He looked way too young to be in charge. A baby doc. For babies. Oh, God, help. “What’s happening?” John asked again.

  “Heart rate’s dropping,” he said. “Baby’s not happy at the moment.”

  God, help. Please help.

  The nurse fiddled with the monitor and turned up the volume slightly so that the heartbeat was now audible as well as visible.

  “I’m going to check and see how far dilated you are,” the doctor said, “and then we’ll see what we need to do.” While John held her hand, the doctor donned gloves and did his exam. Charissa, feeling nothing, watched his face, which revealed nothing. “Okay,” he finally said, “you’re good to go. But your baby’s getting tired, and we need to move fast”—God, help!—“so I need you to focus and push with everything you’ve got, okay?”

  Push? How could she push when she couldn’t feel anything?

  “You can do it,” John said, his voice taut. “I know you can.”

  God, please. She bore down and imagined herself pushing as hard and long as she could.

  “Keep going, that’s it,” the doctor said. “Good job! You made good progress there. Take some deep breaths for me, rest a bit.”

  “You’re doing great, Riss.” John squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead.

  “Where’s the heartbeat?” she asked, trying to prop herself on her elbows.

  The nurse moved the ultrasound probe lower on Charissa’s abdomen.

  “Where’s the heartbeat?” John echoed.

  Oh, God!

  The nurse, still maneuvering the transducer in one hand, turned up the volume again. Still nothing. The doctor, leaning sideways around the nurse to check the screen, motioned for her to position the transducer lower. “It’s harder to pick it up when the baby enters the birth canal,” he said.

  “But she’s okay?” John asked. “Everything’s still okay?”

  “We’re going to get her out with the next push,” he said, his hand on Charissa’s abdomen. “There’s another contraction building now, so take a deep breath and push as hard as you can for me again.”

  He hadn’t answered the question. Why hadn’t he answered the question?

  John gripped her hand even more tightly as, once again, Charissa commanded herself to do what she could not feel. Chin tucked to her chest, she closed her eyes and with a loud cry, pushed until she thought she would turn herself inside out.

  “Keep going, Riss, keep going . . . Please . . .”

  “Okay, gentle now, Charissa,” the doctor said. “She’s almost here. Just little pushes, you’re almost there. That’s it. You’ve got it. We’re there.”

  Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement between the nurses and the doctor, lots of movement but no noise. Silence. No cry. Why was there no cry? The doctor lifted up a tiny, dusky gray—Was that a baby? Oh, God, no! She stared at a terror-stricken John for some indicator of what was happening. God! And then, after the interminable, deafening, screaming silence there was a whimper, a tiny mew, the most fragile, resilient, reverberating witness to life and hope Charissa had ever heard. “Call neo,” the doctor commanded. John covered his face in his hands and sobbed.

  There were moments in the life of a new mother that Charissa did not realize were important to her until she was robbed of them, like the father cutting the umbilical cord or smiling parents cradling a seconds-old newborn and marveling over tiny hands and feet before posing for photos. When Bethany was whisked away for oxygen without any chance to hold her, Charissa tried to tell herself that the Hallmark moments weren’t important, that what was important was that their daughter would be receiving the emergency care she needed over the next few minutes, hours, days, weeks, even. “Go,” Charissa said to John when the nurses invited him to accompany Bethany in her transport incubator to the neonatal intensive care unit. “Go with her. Please. I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” But after John left the room, Charissa lay back on the pillow and let the tears flow.

  fourteen

  Becca

  Becca arrived at the coffee shop bleary-eyed on Saturday morning after staying up late to read her mother’s journal. The intimacy of her handwritten thoughts, fears, longings—and yes, prayers—brought her mother to life again. Some of the words soothed, others pierced and wounded. Such was the price of hearing her mother speak, the bittersweet price of hearing her voice, raw, honest, uncensored, and full of love and hope and regret.

  “The usual?” she asked one of their regular customers when she came up to the counter.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Small decaf cappuccino for Ann,” Becca called over her shoulder.

  “You okay?” Ann asked as she swiped her card.

  “Yeah, just tired.”

  But by noon Becca wasn’t sure how she would make it through the rest of her shift. “Go home,” her manager said. “It’s okay. We can cover you.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to leave you stranded.”

  “We’re fine. Go home and get some rest. You look awful.”

  Becca didn’t disagree or argue. But she didn’t want to spend all day ruminating over her mother’s words in an empty house. She texted Lauren. No reply. Maybe she could take a power nap and then tackle some errands. Or she could go for a run. She hadn’t gone for a good run in a couple of months. That might do her a world of good. She drove to the house, changed her clothes, and laced up her favorite pair of shoes.

  As her feet pounded the pavement mile after mile, her mother’s words pursued her: Rescue her, Lord. So many of her mother’s longings were summed up in that prayer. She had viewed Simon as a dangerous predator, and she had pleaded with God to do something to rescue Becca out of his hands. I want my daughter back, she wrote in one particularly distressing entry.

  Well, Becca thought as she rounded the corner near her old elementary school, I want my mom back. The cruel irony was that her mother’s wish had been granted only when it was too late for both of them to enjoy it. As for Becca’s wish, there would be no granting of it. Ever. She pressed her fingers to her neck, checked her pulse, and quickened her pace for another couple of miles until, exhausted, she came to rest beneath a towering oak tree in a park and stared up at the sky.

  That’s where, as a little girl, she had thought heaven was. Some days she would lie on her back in their yard, squint her eyes a
t the clouds, and imagine she could see angels. Some days she would ask angels to deliver messages to her dad, like how she wished he could take her to the daddy-daughter dance at school, or how she had passed a spelling test she was worried about, or how she had gotten the part of a bunny rabbit in the Nutcracker ballet, and she would get to pull the tail of the evil Mouse King. One day she closed her eyes very hard and bypassed angelic messengers altogether. Daddy, if you can see me, she whispered to the sky, please tell me. But no answer came. What answer had she hoped for? A breeze through the tree above her head would have sufficed. But the day was still—not even birdsong—and it was the last time she had talked to the sky.

  Tears ran hot down her cheeks as she lay down in the shade and closed her eyes. Mom, if you can hear me . . .

  Charissa

  The first time Charissa had the opportunity to gaze at her daughter for more than a few seconds was when she was wheeled on her gurney to the NICU before being moved to the postpartum recovery ward. Bethany, now a few hours old, lay in an incubator (a “koala,” the hospital staff called it), wires and cords taped to her tiny pink body, a breathing apparatus attached to her nose, a feeding tube in her mouth, an IV hooked to her perfect little hand. Oh, God. John kissed Charissa on the forehead. “Hey, Mommy,” he said, his hand resting on Bethany’s shoulder, “meet our beautiful girl.”

  She looked nothing like the chubby cherubic babies in the movies. But oh! She was beautiful. Beautiful in her fragility. Charissa managed to squeeze out a broken whisper. “Can I hold her?”

  Nodding, a nurse offered her a bottle of hand sanitizer. Then she gently lifted Bethany out of the koala, adjusted a blanket, and carefully placed her on Charissa’s chest.

  Oh, God.

  Nothing could have prepared her for that first moment of touching her daughter. With a single finger Charissa stroked her cheek, then watched mesmerized as her little body rose and fell in steady breaths. “She’s doing really well,” the nurse said. “I know it can look pretty scary with all these wires and cords, but everything’s looking good. Her vital signs are very good. And she’s already had a good wet diaper.”