by Various
“You’ve been squirming in the seat since you got in the cab. You jonesing or something? Because I don’t drive to deals.”
Michael laughs nervously and, self-conscious, stills his leg, “No. No. I just had a baby.”
The driver’s not impressed.
Michael grins. “I… my wife had a baby boy.” At least she should have. She was in labor, it’s a boy, that’s all he knows. Don’t think like that. Of course she had the baby. Women have been doing it for years.
In an odd monotone, the driver says, “Well congratulations and good luck with that.”
Michael drops the conversation.
Why can’t he reach her?
He was so far out in the bush, it was two days before he even realized he’d lost signal. The last time they talked, she missed him, but she was fine. She was going to stay with her sister Anna, so he needn’t bother calling for a few days. He worried, but reminded himself that she was safe. They were prepared for this possibility and Sarah said that she could manage for a week out of touch. The baby wasn’t due for six weeks… a month and a half.
He missed her like crazy, but this trip was a trade-off. Management at the Department of Conservation would get him home three weeks before she was due and then he could have two full months of paternity leave. This job was a constant negotiation; Christmas in exchange for Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving for the week of the Fourth. Geologists weren’t meant to have lives; they should be devoted to their science. Two months off was unheard of. Sarah said they should jump at the chance.
Right before he left, she’d had a change of heart. “Don’t go.”
He laughed, pulling her into him, kissing her ridiculously pregnant-thick hair. “I wish I didn’t have to.”
She wouldn’t relax into the hug and pushed him away. “I feel like. I don’t know. Something might go wrong.” She looked genuinely frightened, which unnerved him. She was always so calm.
He said, “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Just don’t go, okay?” She was so serious that he laughed.
She relaxed a bit and hugged him. She said it must have been the hormones talking, and he left.
Maybe she knew something was going to happen.
Michael checked in each day until the weekend. He should have listened to his instincts. Caroline, his field-trip partner for five years now, is always better at seeing the big picture. Broad-faced, hilarious and strong-minded, she’s a steadying influence in his life. Everything was telling him to go back to base, to call home, but Caroline teased him. “Hey, Papa, the male of the species isn’t really necessary for the birth part. Unless of course he’s the doctor.”
Two days out, take some core samples, two days back. They were already out there, it would be foolish not to finish their work.
The geological arm of the Department of Conservation was particularly interested in the results of this trip: if they didn’t find evidence of oil, they could save the entire area from drilling. Caroline stayed on at base to finish up their logs, but Michael used the transport of the core samples as his early ticket home. Planes don’t appear in the wilderness for over-anxious fathers-to-be. When the department heard he had the samples, they were happy to pay the expense to get him out of there.
Once in cell phone range, he tried Sarah and Anna with no luck. He dialed Sarah’s number every hour after that. Anna’s number every other. The hospital they planned on had no record of her checking in, and there was no answer at the apartment. He left only two desperate call me messages with Sarah’s mother. He didn’t want to freak her out for no reason. Everything might be fine. He finally got through to Sarah’s cell when he boarded the plane in Seattle.
“Michael?” Anna answered her sister’s phone. Why? She sounded very far away. Probably the weather.
Michael said, “Anna?”
She said, “Michael, where are you?” Did she sound concerned? She was dropping out and interference made it hard to judge tone of voice.
He said, “Is Sarah okay? Is the baby okay?”
“Michael, can you hear me? Sarah—”
The stewardess interrupted and Michael couldn’t hear the rest of her sentence. “Sir, you’re going to have to turn off your phone.”
“Just a minute!” Then, distraught, into the phone, “Anna?”
He couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying when the phone cut out on its own, the battery dead.
• • •
The baby is crying. Again. Sarah’s curled up on the sofa, trying to ignore its howls. She can’t look at it anymore, his little pink face screwed up, his fists waving furiously in the air. He is a one-man revolution. She’s done everything she can, nursed him, sung to him, paced the apartment with him, and yet he cries, incessant, unrelenting. He cries so passionately that she worries his chest will burst, his head fall off. She lies on the sofa watching the lacy bassinette shudder, the occasional angry fist visible above its edge.
Michael was supposed to be here; helping, tending, keeping her from losing her mind. But he’s not here and she’s alone with this wailing creature who is supposedly her offspring.
She’s given up. What’s the point, anyway? He’ll cry. And then maybe he’ll stop. Eventually. Anything she does in the meantime doesn’t seem to have any effect on him one way or the other.
There’s a knock and Sarah hears the front door open and close gently. Thank God, Greta’s here again to help. Sarah’s grateful for a different face; different from the troll-like open-mouthed toothless yawper. She also knows that she’s been caught red-handed, not tending to her child. She’s too tired to do anything but feel enormous guilt, and she turns her head away.
She’d been dead set against getting a doula. Something about having a stranger come into your home to “help” you with your newborn baby seemed intrusive and off-putting. She would manage on her own; people have done it since… there were people. But when Sarah found herself here, alone with this yowling thing, no Michael, completely lost and unable to redefine her new world, Greta’s appearance seemed a godsend.
There’s something comforting and earthy about this woman. When she enters the room, her heavy form, organic perfume and authoritative strength fill the air like a warm hug. Greta goes to the child. Sarah should feel more protective. She’s read about that hormonal reaction you’re supposed to have when other people touch your infant. But she feels only relief for someone else taking charge, somebody else being liable for this child’s needs.
The baby stops crying.
Greta clucks at the baby and asks Sarah, as if about the weather, “Have you named him?” Greta has a strong, grandmotherly, New York accent. Her tone makes Sarah feel comfortable. At home.
Sarah can’t manage to turn her head yet. “Yes.” The moment she does, she will have agreed to this huge responsibility.
Greta says, “Good.”
Sarah feels Greta move over next to her. She cringes as she hears the snuffling child that the woman lowers into her arms. Greta takes Sarah’s arms with a gentle force, helping her to encircle the baby, hold him securely. Sarah can smell his wet, milky neediness. He’s quiet now.
“Sarah.” Greta is more than saying her name. Sarah’s being summoned, commanded. “Sarah, take your baby. Talk to him.”
Sarah won’t turn her head yet. She doesn’t have to. When she does, she’ll be stuck.
But Greta’s tone lulls her and fills her with warmth and purpose. “Talk to your baby. Call him by name. He is yours and he is here and you are here and nothing else matters. Love your baby, Sarah. It is all he exists for.”
Sarah looks down at the infant sucking on his fist. He opens his eyes and looks at her. They’re large, wide-set, enormous, black pupils set in a border of dark blue, and the only human thing in his squished up still-fetal face. There he is. Not just a crying creature. But Tim. Tim is here.
She puts her pinkie in his other cat’s tongue-sized hand. He grips it with surprising strength for one so small. She smiles at
the boy and starts to cry.
However lost she feels, she knows that she’s home.
• • •
By the time they pull up to the curb, the windows of the taxi have fogged up from the moisture on Michael’s clothing. He takes a deep breath. Feeling frantic isn’t helping anyone, but he can’t stop his heart pounding. Anna’s voice resounds in his head, “Sarah…” What did she mean? “Sarah wants to talk to you.” “Sarah’s right here.” “Sarah can’t speak, she’s had a stroke.” “Sarah has painted the baby’s bedroom pink!” It was probably nothing. Looking anxious is not the way to meet his son.
Michael gets out. The streets are wet and he can hear the sound of water running in the gutters. Things smell fresh and dirty at the same time. City after rain. A few blocks east there would be restaurant odors mixed in. But here it’s residential: wet litter and leaves mixed with fresh air and car exhaust.
The Harrowgate looms above him. “Look at it,” Sarah always says. “Looming is what it does best.” An early twentieth-century building, it has doglike gargoyles watching from above the second floor and limestone facing up to around the fourth floor, where incongruously plain brick starts, continuing all the way to the roof. The building is filled with architectural details like crown moldings, marble foyers, too-small service kitchens and ancient plumbing. Sarah fell in love with the architecture, even though Michael was plagued by the building’s problems: persistently drippy faucets, occasional chunks of paint and plaster falling off the ceiling, and old wiring that would short out his computer. But he loves it, too. It’s home, even if today the gargoyles look more menacing against the sullen sky.
The cab driver helps Michael get his things out of the trunk. He doesn’t hold back his resentment, pointedly dropping the sample case onto the ground. He looks at Michael, challenging him to complain. It’s best not to engage. Better to back off, give him his space and flee. Michael hands him the cash.
Saying nothing, the driver gets back into the cab and peels out of the spot in front of the building. Michael grabs his things as best he can and books for the front door.
There’s a new doorman. “Can I help you?”
He says, “Michael Gould. Where’s Charles?”
“Mr. Gould. Right. I’m Phil. Let me help you with your things, sir.” Phil stares at Michael nervously, as if searching his face for a clue to something. He picks up Michael’s luggage and walks it to the elevator for him.
“Thanks.” Michael presses the button. It’s taking forever, but the fourteen floors to his apartment mean that he won’t get there faster by running.
The doorman stands next to him. “You have three boxes of mail, sir. Would you like me to bring them up?” His eagerness to help gets on Michael’s nerves. Three boxes. Sarah’s probably been too distracted to pick up the mail.
“No, thanks. I’ll get it later.” Three boxes. How long was she in the hospital?
The doorman isn’t moving. Michael snaps, “I got it from here.” The cab driver got to him. He tries a gentler, “Thank you.”
Phil doesn’t seem to notice. He just laughs nervously and goes back to his post.
It takes ages, but the elevator comes. That final moment when the porthole window lights up and the door grinds open is interminable. Michael pushes inside, closing the gate. He’s never known the elevator to be this slow. He punches the button for the fourteenth floor and it lurches to life again. There are no thirteenth floors in much of Manhattan; it would be bad luck.
5… 6… 7… 8…
Even at the end of the day, fighting a full bladder and a raging headache, the elevator has never taken this long.
12… 14…
Michael wants to break the doors open, but the elevator will not be rushed. When it opens enough to squeeze through, he fights his way out and stumbles toward the door of their apartment. He hammers on it.
“Sarah! Sarah!” He stops himself. Baby. Waking the baby. He grins. He steps back, breathes, rings the doorbell. After losing his house keys in various remote locations, Sarah doesn’t let him travel with them anymore.
She’s not answering. He knocks, softly, but steadily. Can she even walk? Can people answer the front door when they’ve just had a baby? What if she’s in the middle of nursing? The door opens a crack, the guard chain still on. Sarah looks like she’s been through a war. She’s pale and tired. He should have been there for her. It takes her a moment to focus on him.
“Sarah?”
Her eyes light up with surprise. “Michael.” She sounds incredulous. She closes the door to take the chain off and opens it again. “I didn’t know.” She falls against him and starts to cry.
He buries his face in her hair. It’s so good to hold her, to finally have her safe in his arms. “Shh, shh. It’s okay, honey, I’m home.” She smells like herself, but with a foreign added odor: a milky sourness with an undertone of powdery lotion. He realizes that it’s the smell of baby. His heart beats a little faster.
He says, “Where is he?”
She smiles and leads him by the hand into the nursery. More guilt as he realizes he’d only just gotten it painted before he had to go on his trip. The crib was in pieces when he left, the changing table still in its box. Now, all is assembled, including a mobile and some pictures on the walls. With the daybed in the corner, arrayed with brightly colored truck pillows and stuffed animals, it looks like a real baby’s room. He trembles as she leads him to the crib; he hooks his hands in his pockets to steady himself. He peeks over the edge of the rail, its bars obscured by a bumper covered in pictures of cars.
There he is. He doesn’t look premature. He looks like a fully formed newborn. But what does Michael know?
“Tim?”
She laughs. “Of course. Timothy Wilder Gould.”
He stares at the baby, arms splayed over his head, little chest rising and falling, face twitching. Tim looks like some wizened old man, his features still skinny, his brow furrowed. Newborns are notoriously ugly, but Tim is the most beautiful baby Michael has ever seen. Tim’s face contorts into a wretched frown and he purses his lips, the aged man now discontent. Michael asks, “Is he okay?”
Sarah comes in next to him and watches the baby. She laughs. “Gas. He makes the most horrid expressions all day. I’ve read that it’s what they do.”
He teases her. “Been doing your research?” She was always so professional-minded; this new role of mother is amusing to him.
“A little.” She smiles.
He looks at her pinched face; she’s aged a few years since he saw her last. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, was it awful? Did you do your breathing? Did you get the drugs? I told you, you should get the drugs.” But his questions bring a look of panic and her eyes well up. Was it so horrible?
“Honey?”
She searches his face and stifles a sob.
“Honey? What happened? Did something happen?”
She raises his hand to his chest, stopping him. “Is it okay? Is it okay if I don’t want to talk about it right now?”
It was awful. He should have been here. He pulls her to him and rocks her a little. “Shh, shh. Of course.” He looks down and sees Tim there, his little chest rising and falling. Michael reaches his hand into the crib to touch Tim’s belly, to feel that breath.
Sarah releases herself from Michael’s hold and grabs his arm, pulling it back so quickly it startles him. “No. You’ll wake him.” She’s got a tone in her voice he’s never heard before: frantic, worried.
“Can’t I…” He can’t articulate it, other than making grabbing motions with his hands. He wants to hold the baby, eat him up.
She says, “You have no idea how long it took me to get him down for a nap. Later.” She pulls him by the elbow, trying to lead him away from the crib. But when Michael looks back at the baby, it feels wrong, somehow, to leave him.
He pulls free of Sarah and walks up to the crib, watches the baby’s wise little face, his stretching hands. He says, “Hey, little man.�
� The baby’s clearly in a deep sleep now. Michael instinctively reaches out his hand again.
“Michael!”
Michael stings at being scolded.
He follows Sarah out of the room and into their bedroom. She folds a pile of baby clothes. He paces at the foot of the bed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him.”
She snaps a baby blanket in the air and folds it sharply. This isn’t like her. Sarah’s always been the even-keeled one of the relationship. She would be there with a wry smile that let him know in an instant he was being ridiculous. She was the soother.
“You were gone so long.” She’s appeasing him now.
He says, “It was only a couple of weeks.”
“You have no idea how it’s been, how isolating. I feel like I exist to lactate and to get that child to sleep.”
Michael laughs. Sarah shoots him a glare. He says, “Honey, I wanted to see him.”
She says, “And then he has gas. If he has gas, he cries, and the crying, Michael, it goes on all night. And I love him so much, I can’t take it when I can’t fix it.”
“Babies cry.”
She drops what she’s folding in defeat. Michael goes to her and wraps his arms around her. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
She says, “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
He rocks her gently. “I’m here now.” He hates how deeply upset she is.
She pulls away from him gently. She says, “And the worst thing?”
He strokes her face. “What, baby? Shh…”
“I can’t find my sense of humor. Anywhere.” He laughs. She smiles and says, “I’ve looked in the fridge, in the laundry room, under the sofa.”
He says, “Did you check my underwear drawer?” She musters a laugh. He knows he has her. “‘Cause that’s a funny place.”
They will be okay.
• • •
They were friends first. Well, to start with, Sarah was more of a pest than a friend.
At the time, Michael was deeply involved with an earth-mother type named Naomi who was ruling his life the fall of his senior year at Georgetown, dosing him with equal parts ginseng tea and echinacea. Michael and Naomi had pretty great sex, which kept him involved in the relationship longer than he should have been. In the spring of his junior year, he fell in with her peasant skirts, form-hugging tops, and giant earrings, wrapped up in an essential oil of vanilla cloud. She read all sorts of books on sex, from the Kama Sutra and The Joy of Sex to some obscure texts translated from Sanskrit, and was eager to try out her newfound knowledge. She found Michael an ardent student and a willing slave. Up until he met her, sex had been pretty unimaginative; missionary, girl on top, occasionally implimenting different pieces of furniture. But Naomi was willing to try anything, and while the candle wax and handcuffs period was more uncomfortable than fun, there was always something new waiting around the corner.