Bed Rest

by Sarah Bilston

  Alexis, perched on the edge of our leather armchair, ran his fingers through his hair with an air of deep, lifelong exasperation. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help out, y’know?” he said. “But as far as the old people are concerned, with a good American education I should be able to take on the whole Randalls corporation, save everybody’s homes, and guarantee them all a happy, peaceful retirement. I try to point out it’s not as easy as that—I don’t have any legal training, I’m just using my common sense—but they act like I’m somehow trying to screw them around. I know this isn’t fair to you, but if you can read the letter and give me some pointers, tell me what you think—I’d really appreciate it.”

  Poor man, I thought. What a responsibility. (He uncrossed his legs at that moment and I caught myself staring covertly at the bulge in his black jeans, but then the baby kicked reproachfully. My tiny hormone surge subsided limply.)

  I sighed and skimmed the letter quickly. It explained that Randalls had hired Environment First, a private environmental inspection firm, to assess the mold in December of last year. Randalls included a summary of the report with their letter. Environment First found evidence of Stachybotrys atra (black mold) together with Aspergillus ustus and Penicillium fungi throughout the building. Apparently there has been a series of catastrophic water leaks over the last ten years, which caused the initial mold infestations; many of the construction materials used back in the 1940s—ceiling tiles and so forth—are cellulose-based, and this has left the complex particularly susceptible to mold growth. Virtually none of the apartments are mold-free, and those on the ground floor (the site of a burst water pipe about two years ago) are particularly affected. The cost of a cleanup would almost certainly outweigh the cost of destroying the complex and building a new one, so Environment First “recommends immediate evacuation of the apartments and their subsequent demolition” (the line from the report was quoted in the letter in bold fourteen-point type).

  In light of this, the letter from Randalls concludes, leases will not be renewed and tenants are required to vacate within ninety days of the expiration of their lease term. Each household will be paid a reasonable sum in relocation expenses, and appropriate alternative accommodation will be provided in another Randalls-owned building. Yours faithfully, Coleman and Elgin Randall.

  Together with Environment First’s statement was a fuzzy Xerox of a note from the New York State Division of Housing and Community Renewal acknowledging Randalls’ application to demolish the building.

  I read all of this and shook my head sadly. Given the rising costs of litigation on the part of residents who want restitution for the health costs of living in a building with mold, it’s hard to blame a property owner who takes his environmental responsibilities so seriously, I thought. The residents are screwed, I thought. If the building has to be demolished, it has to be demolished. There’s nothing I or anyone else can do, although I can probably recommend a lawyer who will make sure the tenants are getting reasonable compensation.

  But then I paused; some wormy wriggly idea was trying to force its way into the forefront of my consciousness. Something was missing. This is not my area of law, but—where was the order approving the application to demolish? I stared solemnly into the depths of the brown envelope from Randalls; I read the letter again, looking for a reference, a passing comment. Nothing. I chewed my pen contemplatively while Alexis stared at me hopefully. Environment First is a private inspection company, and private companies don’t have the authority to enforce demolition. In order to destroy a building inhabited by residents in rent-controlled apartments, Randalls has to provide all tenants with a copy of a notice from the Division of Housing approving the demolition.

  It was so simple, so straightforward, that I paused a moment longer. Then I asked Alexis if he’d seen an official statement of condemnation at any point in the process, and he told me he hadn’t; at that moment Mrs. G reappeared from the bathroom, and he asked her in Greek if she’d heard anything about it. She shrugged her shoulders, pulled down the corners of her mouth, and said, no, never. Well, I said, it may not hold off the demolition forever, but they can’t kick out your friends without the DHCR’s approval notice. Maybe it already exists, maybe Randalls simply forgot to include it with this letter, but still, without it, you can seriously hold things up.

  “By the way, I don’t suppose you remember the name of Randalls’ lawyers, do you?” I asked; Alexis shook his head, then looked over at Mrs. G, who wrinkled her nose. “I think—we had a letter once from Smith and—someone, and the Smith was spelt funny, you know?” she said uncertainly. I nodded. “Smyth and Westlon, I know them,” I said. “They do a lot of eviction stuff. Fine, send them a copy of your letter as well, Alexis, that should help.”

  Alexis, I noticed, had developed a tight, anxious expression. “So you want me to write to both Randalls and the lawyers, asking them where this approval notice from the—DC—the DH—the whoever it is, is? What was the name of it again—wait, I must find a pen…then maybe you can tell me what to say to all these guys…”

  I watched him scrabble in the pocket of his jacket, thrown over the back of the armchair, for a moment or two. Mrs. G watched me watch him. Her expression was pregnant with meaning. I sighed.

  “Alexis, don’t worry about it, okay?” I said, gently. “I’ll write it all down for you. In fact, I’ll draft a letter stating that the residents won’t leave until they’ve received copies of the official notice, then you can adapt it however you want, give it to Mrs. G, and she can sign it. And I’ll get you Smyth and Westlon’s address as well. Okay?”

  “Oh, that’s be great,” said Alexis delightedly, his face becomingly flushed with relief. He reached for my hand and shook it warmly; Mrs. G gave me an approving nod. As they got up to leave, the doorbell rang. This time, it was Brianna, who bumped into Alexis in the doorway, then did a double-take, blushed, looked down, and pushed a loose strand of dark hair away from her ear, exposing her throat, the side of her peach-skin neck. The pheromones were still tingling in the air half an hour after she left.

  19

  Wednesday 4 P.M.

  We just got back from the doctor’s office—Jeanie took me this week, so Tom could put in more hours at work. He’s helping finalize the details on a huge, $300 million bid for some Midtown office space (Crimpson has one of the biggest real estate departments in the city). The weather is utterly miserable; it’s one of those days where the clouds squat down on the sidewalks, enveloping everything in a dripping dirty gray mist.

  First of all Cherise, the ash-blond technician, did her usual thing. I watched the baby on the monitor for a few moments, then lay back and looked around the gloomy examining room. Cherise has placed things above the couch that are clearly supposed to keep patients of all ages and both genders entertained—a mobile of three cartoonish chickens in a chain, four black-and-white postcards of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, and a page of “Dos and Don’ts” from Marie Claire (avoid strapless tops if you have rounded shoulders, halter tops make small busts look bigger, long-waisted shirts help conceal a large tummy. Nothing about hiding double chins and puffy ankles, I noticed).

  After ten minutes of prodding and rubbing and pushing Cherise told me flatly—it had to happen—that my fluid level has now dropped.

  Weinberg was consulting a book entitled High-Risk Pregnancies and Their Outcomes when I entered her room; she smiled brightly, too brightly, as she slid High-Risk Pregnancies discreetly under the latest copy of The Jewish Week.

  “I want you to come in on Friday for something called a ‘nonstress test,’” she said, very cheerfully. “A nonstress test checks the strength and regularity of a baby’s heartbeat; it’s no big deal. It’s just a precaution. I’m sure everything’s fine. But—tell me,” she added, her tone studiedly casual, “has your little one been active this past week? Are his kicks still strong?”

  Of course I knew what she was saying. Is he healthy, will he survive? Truthfully, I don’t kno
w if this is “an active little one” or not. Some days I get kicks so hard they leave me breathless, other days I feel almost nothing, just a tiny catch in my pelvis, the merest flicker under my ribs. What does that mean?

  I’m worried that my fluid dropped because—if I’m going to be completely honest—I’ve been up and about more since Jeanie arrived. Yes, I make her fill up my water jug and fetch me breakfast and lunch, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to take her on a little walk of our block the first day she arrived. She tried to prevent me, of course, but I played the “I’m your older sister and I know what I’m doing” card. And it was an unusually warm day, the last of the slushy snow melting in the light of a clear blue sky. So now I feel guilty, worried that my ten-minute perambulation of the local bars, restaurants, and fruiteries has put our baby’s life at risk. (I haven’t told Tom about the walk yet, and it’s been weighing heavily on my conscience—I’m going to have to admit it tonight, when I tell him the result of today’s investigations. He can be rather frightening when he gets angry, he turns on this ghastly lawyer-in-a-courtroom thing that I’ve never quite mastered. “I present you with exhibit A, an empty toilet roll. Can you explain, please, how it is that this empty toilet roll was not replaced with exhibit B, the full toilet roll, which resides in the bathroom cabinet, as shown on map C? Well?”)

  Jeanie had obviously decided before she came that the whole bed rest thing was ridiculous; the trip to Weinberg’s office today seems to have changed her mind. On the telephone a week or two ago she said to me, cheerily, “You know what I think, Q? In another era you wouldn’t have known a thing about this oligo-whatever-it-is and you’d have produced a completely healthy child in three months’ time.” But in the sonographer’s office today, as we watched the baby hunched into something that looked like the Little Ease torture chamber in the Tower of London, she felt for my hand. I caught sight of the stricken look on her face. “It says on the screen that the baby’s head is in the twentieth percentile,” she whispered to me at one point, uncertainly. “Is that okay?”

  She’s off tomorrow, and I’m nervous at the thought of being alone again day in, day out. But I’m not entirely sad that she’s going. I don’t want to have to hold things together for her any more—I want her to reassure me, not the other way around. After we got home she kept saying positive things that were on the verge of making me feel better when she would spoil the effect entirely by turning them into questions. “I think the doctor’s pretty optimistic about your condition—isn’t she?” she said, gazing at my belly with an anxious eye. “I know the baby’s a bit small, but size doesn’t mean anything—or does it?” And then, falteringly, “Everything’s going to be okay, right, Q? Right?” That’s the problem with being the older kid. You always have to be the grown-up in these situations. I smiled brightly at her. Of course everything’s going to be okay, I said firmly. Of course.

  The other upside of Jeanie’s departure: I’m longing to send Tom into the spare room so that I can have the bed to myself. My eyes are red-rimmed, the skin on my face seems to be stretched in one unending yawn. My legs ache, my hips ache, my knees ache, my back aches, my head aches. I want to sleep for a thousand years.

  20

  Friday 10 A.M.

  Jeanie left at four o’clock yesterday afternoon for JFK. In the evening I dispatched Tom into the spare room, turned our double bed into a pregnant-woman-comfort-zone (pillows at every limb), and settled down to enjoy a long night of uninterrupted sleep.

  But that’s not what happened. True, Tom’s absence meant I could finally throw open the windows and enjoy the subzero temperatures of a New York night in February (my pregnant body seems to think it’s in a Guatemalan heat wave), but I still couldn’t sleep. The pressure pain along my left side remains close to unendurable. Taxis, drunken men, and street cleaners seem to conspire to keep me in a state of constant near-consciousness. Every twenty minutes I need to guzzle a barrel of water to quench my Saharan thirst. Whenever sleep seems beguilingly within my grasp, I either have to pee, or an ambulance screams frantically past, and I’m jolted back into hot, aching, heavy-lidded wakefulness.

  So I spent much of last night staring at our lavender-painted bedroom walls—or rather, watching the gray give way to purple with the dawn—just as I have watched this same slow battle of colors every night these last few interminable weeks.

  Tom, at least, looked a bit more human this morning; he’s been positively skeletal these last few weeks, his blue-green eyes ringed with black. “Well, Q, that was an improvement,” he said cheerily as he grabbed his navy coat and scarf from the closet. “I actually got some sleep without you kicking about. We may just have to sleep apart for the remainder of your pregnancy,” he added, barely a shade less cheery, dropping a light kiss on my clammy forehead. “At least that way we’ll go into parenthood well rested,” he finished, with a positively sunny smile on his face as he picked up his heavy maroon leather briefcase and vanished into the corridor, leaving a smell of burnt toast and marmalade hanging thickly in the air behind him.

  I lay staring at the closed door for a long time after he left. I, of course, continue to look like one of the Undead, but my husband didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t make me a slice of toast and marmalade this morning (“Sorry, honey, didn’t realize you were awake, I thought you’d be sleeping in.” As if). He also forgot, for the first time since the first day of bed rest, to make me a sandwich for lunch and snacks (i.e., cookies, cake, brownies) for the day. And finally, he didn’t mention—I don’t know if he’s even remembered—that he is supposed to take me to the clinic this afternoon for the nonstress test. One night apart, and already he’s slipped the leash. He’s become one of them, a “normal” person who gets up in the morning and goes to work, an ordinary guy leading an ordinary life. Meanwhile I lie here hour after hour, nothing to separate morning from afternoon, weekday from weekend. I’ve never felt so alone.

  Tom’s gone, and Jeanie’s gone, and I’m alone. Alone with the memory of the stupid, horrible argument I had with Jeanie just before she left for the airport yesterday afternoon. It was the old argument, the one we’ve been having for the last twenty years, dressed up in adult clothes. She asked me to come and spend a week with her and Dave in a Cornwall cottage this autumn, and I made it perfectly clear that I wouldn’t set foot in a house that contained him. She became increasingly upset and said, but you’ll go to stay with Alison even though you hate Greg, so why won’t you take a holiday with me and Dave? And I said, because Greg at least washes himself and doesn’t pick his nose in front of the television—but it’s not worth recording what I said, because what I was really trying to do was hurt her. I watched the stricken expression in her eyes, I watched the corners of her mouth quiver, and suddenly she was seven years old all over again, and I was twelve, and we were playing outside at our home in Kent…

  —Jeanie following me around the rose-filled garden—Jeanie wanting my attention—Jeanie asking me to come and play with her—and instead I take Alison’s arm in mine and lead her off to read teenage magazines under the bramble bushes that edge the field. I see the appalled expression in my littlest sister’s eyes, and I feel a delighted sense of power, I realize that I can make someone else feel the way I feel when my mother looks at me with vacant eyes—“you’re too young, you’re just a baby, you can’t play with us big kids”—“I’m sorry, Q, I have more important things to do, someone has to earn a living around here, go and play on your own, or can’t you entertain yourself yet? Dearie me, what a very little girl you are still, you have a lot of growing up to do…”

  Well, now Jeanie has gone, and I am faced with the prospect of the next ten weeks on my own, day and night. Serves me right.

  I should call Tom to remind him about the appointment. But perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I will order a taxi to take me to the clinic instead. That’ll serve him. He’ll feel really guilty this evening, when I tell him I struggled to Dr. Weinberg’s office on my own, blinking in the
daylight, a heavy pregnant woman with dwindling muscle tone.

  Noon

  Okay, scrub all of the above. Self-indulgent nonsense. I highlighted it and was about to hit the scissors icon, but then my compulsive need to record all my thoughts in this diary stopped me from doing it. Anyway, Tom just called; he’s coming to pick me up in ten minutes. He remembered the appointment in plenty of time, and he’s promised to bring a prosciutto and artichoke-heart sub with him for my lunch. And a chocolate chip cookie.

  7 P.M.

  I’m typing this in a hospital bed.

  Tom has just dashed out the door to get me some dinner. By my side, on a small laminate table, reposes the meal the hospital provided at five-thirty, which looks entirely inedible. A viscous meat loaf oozes into stringy green beans; also provided is soup of indeterminate vegetables, a browning banana, and a cellophane-wrapped cookie (at least they got one thing right). Tom and I stared at each other over the rapidly congealing meat loaf for a while, then we decided to resist the entropy that seemed to be closing in on us. Food, at least, we can control. A large pizza with tomato and basil and a fresh Caesar salad should be here in about fifteen minutes.

  It’s funny that the thing we had this afternoon is called a “nonstress test.” It was the most stressful test I’ve taken in my life.

  It started out reasonably enough. I hoisted myself onto the examining couch in the sonographer’s office, and—I know the drill—pulled up my shirt to expose my belly. Cherise covered me with the usual dollop of translucent blue goo, then settled herself into her chair and checked the baby’s position and my fluid level, which was the same as the other day. Fine, I thought. This won’t take too long. I’ll be out of here in half an hour.