by Ka Hancock
I looked up at him. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But he knows me . . .”
I ran my hand down Mickey’s arm. “Please don’t keep secrets from me, Mic. This is way too important. Too big.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you’re afraid, I want to know it. Are you afraid?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t call Gleason because I’m afraid, Lucy. I did it because I want to do this right. I don’t want to blow it. I don’t want to let you down. Or it.”
“Then don’t.”
Mickey chuckled.
We walked the rest of the way in silence, and when we got home, we sat down on the front stoop. It was a calm night with a sky full of stars. I could hear the faint noise of a TV over at Jan and Harry’s and the small sound of a softball game going on in the park. I breathed deep and snuggled next to Mickey. “It?” I said.
“What?”
“The baby. You called it an ‘it.’”
“I guess I did.”
“It’s a she.”
Mickey turned to me. “Charlotte told you it’s a girl?”
“No. I just know.”
Goofy amusement played over his face. “A mini you? How great would that be?” He ran a finger down my face, then he kissed me, soft at first, then more hungry. When he pulled away, his eyes had turned all soft around the edges, stripped bare of whatever fear I had imagined. “I love you, Lu.”
“Backatcha, Michael.”
He kissed me again. “Let’s get naked,” he murmured.
“What a fabulous idea.”
thirteen
JULY 7, 2011
I was riding a natural high and it felt delicious; the baby and all its attendant excitement, planning, growing closer to Lucy, making room for our budding family. Every time I saw a baby in a stroller, I felt giddy and then like I should rein it in. Every time I walked into our bedroom and saw the car seat we’d bought, I laughed and then scolded myself for laughing. And it wasn’t just the baby. I couldn’t get enough of my wife—touching her, breathing her in, watching her, and I worried about the fine line between joy and pathology that I seemed to be tap-dancing on. A normal man doesn’t have to question his sense of well-being. But a mood-disordered man trying to balance on a pinhead of stability really needs to pay attention. Obsessing over all of this was starting to make me nervous. I talked to Gleason about it. He prescribed Lamictal.
We were in Deep River Center having lunch with Gleason Webb—a little impromptu checkup over lunch. We’d discussed Mickey’s meds and how much sleep he was getting, and now Gleason was smiling at us over the pizza we’d ordered. “I feel like I’m going to be a grandpa!”
“Well, you should, Grandpa Gleason!” I said.
He laughed. “So you’re both happy?”
“Absolutely,” Mickey said, and I nodded.
“Well, you wear it well,” Gleason said as the waitress refilled our drinks.
I liked the sound of that—we wore it well. It was true; despite sisters who weren’t sure how to feel about all this and a doctor who tempered his concern with happy wishes, life had felt so right since Mickey had gotten out of the hospital. The small tiff we’d had over Mic’s calling Gleason was the last time we’d argued. Since then, we’d totally immersed ourselves in making room for our baby. In fact, after our appointment/lunch with Dr. Webb, we were on our way to get some more paint samples for the nursery. And next week I was going to drag Mickey to a crib sale at the Baby Depot in New London. I’d fallen in love with a pricey little number in the Pottery Barn catalog that Mickey was trying to talk me out of. Now he’d have his chance.
In the meantime, we’d worked hard cleaning out Priss’s old bedroom, and I was shocked at how much junk we’d accumulated. It had all translated to eight bags of trash to the curb, six boxes of odds and ends for Goodwill. A broken desk and the carpet we’d pulled up was headed to the dump. But now we had a clean canvas. I’d even taken the old curtains off the bay window, though now when the sun poured in it highlighted the terrible shape of the wood floor. Mickey promised to sand it down, and after it was refinished, I’d find a plush rug, one colorful and soft enough for a baby to crawl through the sunbeams—
“I’m sorry, what?” Mickey had poked me in the ribs, interrupting my thought, and I was a little embarrassed. “Sorry, Gleason, I was just imagining the baby’s room. We’re duking it out over buttercup yellow or cotton-candy pink for the walls.”
He chuckled and put his hand on his heart. “Well, I can see truly epic decisions are to be made, but I was just saying how proud I am of you two.” Gleason nodded. “I really think life has handed you a gift, despite yourselves. I know you didn’t plan for this, but you’ve made room for it. And it looks like you’re doing well in the process.”
“We are,” Mickey said. “For whatever reason we’ve been granted this little miracle, and we’re just going to trust it.”
I smiled at him. Sometimes my husband just took my breath away.
“That’s good to hear, Mic.” Gleason took a last gulp of his coffee. “You two will get through your challenges together, just like always. And of course I’m right here if you need me.” He stood up. “I’ve got a one forty-five, so you two enjoy the rest of the pie. Call if you need to, otherwise I’ll see you in two weeks and you can buy me lunch.” He smiled at me and palmed Mickey’s shoulder as he walked away.
Mickey looked at me. “See? He thinks it’s great.”
I kissed his cheek, thinking it was so much more than that. Gleason knew we could handle it, and that was even more comforting to me.
It was amazing how having this singular focus lifted Mickey and me. Maybe it was because we’d been by ourselves for almost eleven years, which neither of us thought was a terrible thing, but now it was like we were getting ready for royalty. We’d been having so much fun these last few weeks; it was like falling in love all over again over paint and hardwood.
It certainly felt that way the morning Mickey finally found time to sand the floor in the nursery. We were so thrilled to find honey-colored birch under the grimy layers of time and neglect that we almost danced. “Just clear-coat it,” I told him on a cough. “It’s beautiful just the way it is. Except,” I said with a wry smile, “it’s way too light now for buttercup. We need a color with more depth.”
“Not pink,” Mickey insisted. “It’s too . . . girly.”
“Well, hello . . .”
“Something between the two, but not pink. Besides we don’t even know it’s a girl yet, and I don’t want my son’s eyes to burn out when he wakes up to Pepto-Bismol. He could be a boy, Lu.”
“He’s not a boy. I’ll bet you everything in the checkbook, he’s a girl.”
“You know there’s only one hundred and twenty-nine dollars in there. Not too confident, are you, Wife?”
Mickey was covered with a layer of fine dust, and as he teased me he shrugged off his shirt and wiped his face with the inside of it. The sight of his hard chest glistening in the sunlight made me smile.
“What are you doing?” I said as he unzipped his pants.
“I’m getting in the shower, and I don’t want to leave a trail from here to there. I have a meeting with Jared and the new talent in half an hour.”
“Hmmmm,” I said, following him down the hall and into the bathroom. “I didn’t know you had a meeting.”
“Pretty sure I told you,” he said, turning the water on.
“Pretty sure you didn’t.”
He dropped his boxers and stepped into the shower still talking—something about the talent—but I wasn’t listening. I was unbuttoning my blouse. When I opened the steamy glass door, standing there wearing just my smile, Mickey grinned and lifted an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing, missy?”
“A bad thing,” I said, stepping into the shower.
He swallowed. “How bad?”
“Pretty
bad, I think. I’m gonna make you late for your meeting.”
“What meeting?” he said as he ran his soapy hands over me.
A couple of weeks later, I had to attend a state teachers’ conference in Hartford. I was gone all day, and when I finally got home, Mickey, who I thought would be at the club, was sitting on the front porch. His shorts and bare feet made it look as if he wasn’t planning to go anywhere, and I got out of the car happy. “Hey, what are you doing home?” I asked, planting a kiss on his forehead.
“I had a project, so I took the night off.”
“What kind of project?” I said, trying not to sound anxious.
He laughed. “Don’t be nervous. Come with me and close your eyes.”
He guided me into the house and made me promise not to peek, which was impossible with his big hands over my face. I half expected to smell paint fumes, but apparently painting the nursery had not been his project. “Okay, Lu. Open them.”
I squealed. In the center of my living room sat the crib that I had wanted since I’d seen it in the catalog. It was even more beautiful than the picture; off-white, thick slats, and it would convert into a twin bed for her when she was older. I looked at Mickey and just threw myself at him. “I love it! Oh, baby, thank you! Thank you. Thank you!” I kissed him all over his face.
He’d done a beautiful job putting it together, and it was everything I wanted. I ran my fingers over it and imagined the way the puffy, pink bedding I’d found would look in it; the dark-haired baby girl that would sleep among all that pink. I stepped back to take it all in. Then I laughed because it did take up quite a chunk of space.
“I know,” Mickey said, reading me. “I meant to put it together in the nursery, and I would have if it had been delivered when it was supposed to be—next Thursday. But it came today and I couldn’t resist. We’ll paint this weekend—because by then we’ll know we’re having a boy—then I’ll haul it upstairs.” I kissed him as I slipped out of my shoes. “You are a fabulous husband even if you are pathetically wrong.” I plopped down on the couch to admire Mickey’s handiwork. He still refused to buy paint until after Charlotte proved me right, so for the time being it looked as if the crib would stay right here in our living room. I didn’t actually mind that. “Have you eaten?” I yawned.
“No, I waited for you.”
“What should we have?”
“I think we should have the lasagna I made.”
I looked at him and wanted to cry. “Oh, you are sooo my hero!”
The next weekend I figured out a way to surprise Mickey back when I found a rocking chair at the Dunleavys’ yard sale. It was solid and ancient and oversize, and I didn’t even know I was looking for one until I saw it. I fell in love with it, knowing it would be perfect for my great big husband to rock his tiny daughter to sleep.
After much pleading, Charlotte had agreed to do our gender check at eighteen weeks. So on August 1, the day that had forever been circled in pink and blue on our calendar, we headed to Charlotte’s office. The $129 bet still stood, but I was certain she was a girl. I knew Mickey secretly wanted a girl, even though he would at random times give my baby bump a little squeeze and say, “Feels like a boy, Lu,” and I’d say, “No, she doesn’t.”
What I really wanted him to feel was what I’d started to feel: the butterfly wings, so faint at first that I’d completely dismissed it for what it was—our baby coming to life. I couldn’t wait to lift Mickey’s hand to my stomach so he could feel her kick.
Bev Lancaster showed us into the examination room and told me to climb on up on the table. Ten minutes later I was still there, now with my shirt pulled up, my lovely bump on full display, willing my baby to move. Mickey was studying a plastic model of a birth canal with a funny look on his face when the door opened and Charlotte walked in. She was pushing a little cart, on top of which was a computer screen. There was also a white paddle trailing what looked like a phone cord.
“So . . . how are the Chandlers today?” she said. “Mickey, you look wonderful. How are you feeling?”
“I feel great, Dr. Barbee. A little nervous at the moment.”
“Why?”
“He hates to lose money,” I said, reaching for his hand.
Charlotte laughed and bent to plug the machine into the wall. “All right, let’s get this show on the road and see who’s going to collect.” She pulled a bottle of gel from a sleeve in the cabinet and squirted it onto my exposed belly. Where I had expected cold, I was pleasantly surprised by warm. She turned on the computer, then smiled down at me as she placed the paddle low on my stomach. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Immediately the screen came alive. I didn’t know what I was seeing but it looked like snow, like bad reception on a black-and-white television. I glanced at Mickey, who was closer to it than I was, trying to decipher it as well.
“Where are you, little one?” Charlotte said under her breath, slowly sliding the paddle over me. It looked as if something was coming into focus, but then I had to cough and it was lost. “Do you want some water, Lucy?” Charlotte asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
Charlotte resumed her sliding, and in a moment a form took shape. “There you are,” Charlotte said to the screen. “And we have a baby.” She adjusted a knob that somehow amplified the image. “Can you see the head?”
“Where?” Mickey and I said at the same time.
“Right here.” Charlotte pointed, and as she did, the image started to make sense. “Full on like this, the face looks a little strange.”
“How can you tell that’s a face?” Mickey said. “All I see are black holes . . . or . . . is that . . . what am I seeing?”
“Those are your baby’s eyes, but you’re only seeing the sockets. Let me see if I can get a profile.” Charlotte slid the paddle around, pushed it deeper into my skin.
“Is that an arm? What is that?” Mickey let go of my hand and bent closer to the screen.
“Yes. There’s an arm and there’s the other one, and a leg and . . . Oh, there you are; another leg. I’m looking,” she said. “Not seeing . . . Nope. I don’t think so.” She adjusted the paddle and zeroed in on a specific angle. “I’m sorry, Mic, but I can’t seem to find a penis.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, you tell me. This is the glass-table view. We’re looking between the legs, but from underneath. Sorry, Dad. If this is a boy, it looks like it’s the girl kind.”
“Yes!” I squealed.
Mickey looked over at me and grinned. “I told you he was a girl,” he said. Then he bent to kiss me full on the mouth, lingered a second. “A mini you . . . ,” he whispered, all awe and joy.
“And you don’t look disappointed at all, Dad,” Charlotte chuckled.
“Well, I’d feel better if she had a face,” Mickey said on a laugh. “But other than that . . .”
I laughed, too, and then I was crying, but not because I was surprised. It was suddenly all so very real. We were having a daughter.
Charlotte winked at me. “You were right, darlin’.”
I don’t know how I’d been so sure, but now it felt as if I’d always known her. My daughter. Charlotte kept talking as she pointed out the chambers of the heart, the hemispheres of the brain. Mickey was fascinated, asking all kinds of questions, and as I watched him, it was as if I’d stolen this moment from someone else this was supposed to happen to. Not us. Never us. Through my tears, I watched my great big husband looking utterly awestruck at his daughter’s clenched fist. “Look, Lu, you can see every little bone in her fingers.”
Charlotte printed several screen shots for us, and Mickey said he was going to run over to Partners and scare Jared with the pictures while I finished up.
“Jared has five kids,” I said. “These won’t scare him.”
Mickey kissed my forehead. “I’m going anyway. Just come over when you’re done and we’ll have lunch.”
I’d gained a total of six pounds, which didn’t seem right, but Char
lotte assured me that my weight would catch up with me. As for everything else, all was well; my blood pressure was good and my heart was beating away at a normal clip. She examined my breasts in her usual manner and totally disregarded that they were tender. She seemed especially hard on the left one, and before she let me go, she decided that, since she had the machine, she’d do a breast ultrasound. Charlotte was thorough, first one, then the other, then back to the first one and none too talkative as she worked. I watched the computer screen and had no idea what I was seeing.
“Do you see something, Charlotte?”
“Ummmm. I don’t think so, mostly just a lot of engorgement. I think they probably look pretty much the way mama-to-be breasts are supposed to look.” She turned off the machine and handed me a towel. “A little messy, but easier than a mammogram, huh?”
“Much.”
“All right, Lucy, I’ll let you get on with your day. If you don’t hear from me, come see me again in two weeks.”
“Okay,” I said, sliding off the table. “But I’m not going to hear from you, right?”
Charlotte smiled. “Not if I can help it, darlin’.”
I was almost skipping as I walked up the street to the Brubaker Inn.
Mickey’s club was through the hotel lobby, and when I got there, Mickey had ordered sandwiches for us off the room-service menu. While we ate in the office he shared with Jared, we pored over the pictures of our daughter. It was awesome to consider this little life was inside me. Jared popped in and acted dutifully impressed. He picked up one of the pictures. “This one looks like you, Lucy.”
I laughed, but he was serious. “Check it out, Mic, that’s Lucy’s profile. Am I lying?” They made me turn just so. Jared held up the profile of our baby next to my face, and Mickey got a strange look on his. “That’s unbelievable. It is your profile, Lu.”
I would have loved to run across the street to Ghosts just then and get my sister’s thoughts on the ultrasound, but I didn’t trust that it wouldn’t be awkward or, worse, hurt her. I missed her horribly. I missed sharing everything with her and I didn’t know how to get that back.