Lost in the Beehive

by Michele Young-Stone

  “You’re already three months along. You have about six to go. Probably twenty-six to twenty-eight weeks. So, what we’re going to do now is, I’m going to ask Betty to leave the room, and I’m going to do a pelvic exam.” I looked around. There was a window, metal blinds pulled shut. I felt warm. The room was too confined. “You’ll be fine,” he said. He slid the metal stirrups out. Betty said, “I’ll be right outside.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to have a baby.”

  “A lot of women say that. Don’t worry. Now I just need you to lie back and relax your legs for me.”

  “I like your tie.”

  He touched it and looked down. “Thank you.”

  “I used to sell ties.”

  “Here. Scooch down for me. Try and relax. It’s easier that way.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “Sorry about that. Just taking a peek,” he said.

  I stared at the ceiling, trying not to tense up, which was impossible. I couldn’t have a baby. I didn’t know how to be a mother. Jacob didn’t know how to be a father.

  “Everything looks good. The cervix changes color when you’re pregnant.”

  “What color is it?”

  “It’s a little blue.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “It’s exactly what we want. It’s caused by the increase in blood flow.” He removed the speculum. “You’re going to experience a lot of changes. You might become short of breath. You should avoid doing anything too strenuous. Basically, listen to your body.” I sat up. Dr. Donato was bald. He had a round face and a kind smile. “I’ll send you home with some information, and I’ll want to see you back in two months. You can schedule an appointment with Tammi before you leave. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Who’s Tammi?”

  “My receptionist. You saw her when you checked in.”

  “Right. One more thing: my mother had a couple miscarriages, and then she had twins prematurely and they didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, Gloria,” he said. “You’re not your mother. So far, everything looks good. I’ll see you every two months and then every month and then every week as we get closer to your due date. Stay positive.”

  “Yes, sir.” I needed to cry. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how to be a mother. I’d had a plan and it did not include a baby.

  “You get dressed, and I’ll see you soon. You’re going to be great.”

  I wasn’t great. I was pregnant. I didn’t say very much after we got in the car. I touched my stomach where I thought the baby must be. Can I get an abortion? I’ll tell Betty that I miscarried. A baby will complicate everything. Jacob will want to see it. To be a father. I felt like I was going to throw up. “Betty, can you stop?” She pulled off to the side of the road on Route 614. I pushed my door open and ran toward the ditch. A cold wind blew out of the north. A sixteen-wheeler roared past, the force whipping my hair. The ground was hard, my breath visible. Steam rose up from where I got sick. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and returned to Betty’s car. As I pulled the door closed, I began to cry.

  Betty looked at me. “It’s going to be okay, Gloria.”

  What was I going to do? I knew that I could never go through with getting an abortion. There was a life inside me. I wouldn’t snuff it out. Betty’s car was warm, the engine running. A van drove past.

  I wiped my face with my coat sleeve. “I don’t know. It’s just a lot to take in. I guess I’m in shock.”

  “Everything’s going to be all right. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m here.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think Jacob will be happy? Are you worried about how he’s going to feel?”

  “No. I think he’ll be happy. I guess I’m just overwhelmed.”

  Betty pulled back onto Route 614 toward Greeley. “I’m here. Don’t forget it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  By the time I got home, it was after five o’clock. Jacob was in the workshop, using the sander. I wasn’t going to bother him. Oscar followed me into the kitchen, where I put the pregnancy brochures on the table and went to the pantry. I needed to make dinner. I pulled the light cord and looked up. There were a few straggler bees not hibernating. They’d probably die soon. I pointed at my stomach. “Baby,” I said, before pulling a can of green beans off the shelf. “I knew you’d be excited.” The bees were hardly moving. I pulled the light cord. “Good night.”

  I took a package of hot dogs from the fridge and, nauseated, sat at the table, my head in my hands. I was still wearing my winter coat. I don’t want to have a baby. I was careful not to have sex when I was ovulating nearly all the time except for when Jacob insisted. I was really careful. Fuck.

  Jacob tromped into the kitchen, his brown jacket smelling of cigarette smoke. I reached for the pregnancy brochures. “What’s that?” he said, taking hold of my wrist.

  “Huh?”

  “What you got?”

  I handed them to him. Oscar settled under the table, his snout on my foot. Jacob looked at the titles: How to Have a Healthy Baby and You’re Eating for Two. “Who’s pregnant?” He looked at me. “Are you pregnant, Gloria? Are you?” He was waiting. His dark eyes wide. “Is it you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes!” He pounded the table with his fist. “Thank God! I was getting worried that my seed was no good. We’ve been having sex for three years, I mean, I figured maybe one of us was defective. Hot damn! Did you see a doctor?”

  “Today,” I told him.

  “Are you all right? When are you due?”

  “Six months about. July.”

  He took my face in his hands and kissed me. “You look tired.”

  “I am.”

  “You go up to bed. I’ll make dinner tonight.”

  He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Oh, Gloria, thank you. I’m going to do everything right that my dad did wrong. Just wait until Big Mama hears. And I need to call Early Bird.”

  That night, I dreamed the bees flew together, taking the shape of Sheff. I knew with certainty that it was him, even as his figure pulsed and vibrated, golden bits of him flying here and there. I knew it was Sheff how I knew when I fell in a dream that I’d wake before the pavement because it’s not the end that’s unbearable. It’s the flail, the arms and legs waving but going nowhere, the anticipation and dread, the fall. With this knowledge, I went to Sheff, to hold him or some piece of him, and as I drew near, the bees parted; the form dispersed. When I stepped back, the bees flew together. I shouted over the hum: “I’m having a baby.” He was in there somewhere, but I couldn’t sense what he was feeling, couldn’t touch him. I screamed over the buzz, “I’m having a baby!” When he didn’t respond, I tried again to hold him, but my arms and legs and voice scattered the bees. They didn’t fly back, and I woke feeling sad.

  I’m having a baby, darling Sheff.

  I’m not getting divorced. I cried before I got out of bed. Downstairs, I found a note in the kitchen. Be home by six. Take it easy. I love you. J

  After I had coffee and toast, I telephoned my parents. “We’re having a baby!” I tried to sound happy, but my mother must’ve detected the sadness in my voice because after her initial joyful squeals and acknowledgment that she’d be a nana, she asked, “Are you all right? You don’t sound good.”

  “I’m just emotional.”

  “That’s understandable. Oh, but it’s going to be wonderful.”

  “It doesn’t seem real to me.”

  “And it won’t, maybe not until you’re holding that baby.”

  In the weeks and months that followed, Betty phoned every morning to ask how I was feeling. In truth, I felt stuck, but I was well practiced in the art of pretending to be what I was not, so while I trudged through my pregnancy, everyone around me celebrating my growing girth, I smiled and feigned celebrating right along with them. I bought “fat clothes” at the thrift store and shopped for the baby’s nursery with Betty.

  Jacob was generally agreeable and spent two to three night
s a week in Raleigh, reportedly searching antique markets and estate sales for more furniture even though the workshop was full, the bulk of our supply unfinished. Early Bird worked eight to nine hours a day most days. I didn’t understand why Jacob was never home, but because I appreciated his absence, I kept my mouth shut. Then, one afternoon in late March, while I was out sweeping the front porch, Jacob pulled up in his truck. I saw Early Bird rush from the workshop, his hands in fists. He was shouting. “What’s going on with you, brother? I’m doing all the work because you can’t keep your dick in your pants!”

  Jacob said, “Keep it down.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  Then, they saw me standing on the porch. Jacob asked me, “Do you need something?”

  “No.”

  “Are you eavesdropping?” He cupped his hand around his ear. “Are you spying?”

  “No. I was sweeping.”

  “Go inside, Gloria.”

  I did as I was told. I never said anything about what Early Bird had said because I was still well practiced at walking on eggshells, and Jacob would have had some excuse or explanation for Early Bird’s claim, and then Early Bird would have been at my door defending Jacob, so I said nothing. I kept trudging. My mother sent a white crib from Sears. Gwen sent a star mobile. Betty painted a circus-themed border along the floor and ceiling. She filled the nursery with stuffed elephants and giraffes, and Early Bird gave me an antique dresser that he’d refinished especially for the baby. After he moved the dresser into the nursery, I thanked him. Then he seemed to summon up courage. He scrunched up his face. “Can I touch your belly?”

  “The baby’s not moving yet.”

  “I know, but can I touch it?”

  “Of course.” I started to lift up my shirt, but he stopped me.

  “Like this is just fine.” His voice twanged like a guitar. He put his hand on my shirt and smiled. “Wow.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “If you ever need anything, you can count on me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  I knew he meant it.

  In April, the bees buzzed like mad, leaving their hive to seek out pollen. They often trailed me across the lawn, into the shed, and even upstairs to my bedroom, but they fled when anyone else was around.

  Big Mama knitted a white blanket, and it lay folded on a blue recliner that Betty had shipped from Goldsboro. Late at night when I couldn’t sleep, I went to the nursery, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and I sat in the recliner with the blanket over my belly. I tried to imagine what it would be like with a baby, another whole person, in this very room, but it was impossible to conceive.

  The first time the baby kicked, I was drinking iced tea in Betty’s apartment. It was the strangest, most amazing feeling. The baby was really real. It took a kick to make him or her real. I took Betty’s hand, sliding it right and left and up and down, my belly like a drum. We sat there all afternoon feeling for the little thumps. I want my baby to live. That same night, I dreamed of the bees. They were buzzing through the pines behind my parents’ house. I trailed them. They were moving faster and faster, and I was chasing, but we ran a loop back to my parents’ house. I could never catch up.

  28

  IT WAS JULY 3, 1974, a Wednesday. I was home alone washing dishes when the phone rang. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and picked up. It was my mother. She said, “I’m not giving any speeches tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “At the party … no speeches this year.”

  “That’s a big step. Are you sure? You always give a speech.”

  “Not this year. And my new college friends are coming.”

  “Do you think Maria Montefusco will be jealous?”

  “Of what?”

  “Your new friends.”

  “Probably.” She giggled. “It’ll be good.”

  “So, no speech, really?”

  “I told your father that he should make one, or at least a toast.”

  “Nice.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Do you think he’ll talk about salt?”

  “Most likely.”

  I laughed. “Saltines have been really good to me lately.”

  “I had to call and tell you. We’re going to miss you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I hung up the phone and returned to my dishes.

  I was halfway through the stack when I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. I nearly dropped a glass. “Fuck.” The pain subsided and I finished the dishes. Dr. Donato had said, “Don’t rush to the hospital at the first bit of discomfort. They’ll just send you home. Try and relax and breathe through the contractions. The first baby usually takes between twelve and twenty-four hours of labor. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been doing this for two decades.”

  After I dried and put the dishes away, I went upstairs and stood in the nursery. I was getting close. I imagined that maybe tomorrow I’d be ready to go to the hospital. Throughout the day, I had waves of discomfort in my lower back. I took deep breaths and relaxed into them. The pain came and it went, and I tried to stay busy. In the afternoon, I decided to clean the tub. The bathroom was a small space, and the basket-weave tiles were cracked around the commode. After a short time down on my knees, the pain was worse, and I got to my feet, bracing myself against the sink. Fuck! One of the honeybees flew into the room. It buzzed around the ceiling, then circled my face before leaving.

  I made my way downstairs. Jacob and Early Bird were off somewhere. I wasn’t sure where. It was time to go to the hospital. I couldn’t wait any longer. I picked up the phone and dialed Betty’s number. While I was waiting for her to pick up, a flurry of bees flew from the pantry. They were larger bees with big dark eyes. Drones. They flew toward the ceiling.

  Betty said, “Hello.”

  “I need you.” I stared at the drones, their big eyes staring back.

  “Is it time?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m there.” She hung up, and I leaned back in the kitchen chair, trying to remember what I’d read about breathing. I couldn’t remember much of anything. The drones hovered by the plaster ceiling before the hive emerged, converging, a bright humming golden ball swirling above me. I was in awe of them.

  When I heard Betty’s car door open and shut, the bees flew back to the hive. She opened the kitchen door. There was no trace of them. “It’s time to have a baby, right? Is that what we’re talking about?” Her hair twisted, pinned high up in a bun, she was ready to get to work. “Let’s do it.”

  Betty darted upstairs for my suitcase. Then, she telephoned Washington City Hospital to let them know that we were on our way. “After we get there,” she told me, “I’ll try to locate Jacob. I’ll call Big Mama.”

  “Call my mother.”

  “I will. Oh, do you want to drive?”

  “Oh my God.” I swatted at her. “No, I can’t drive right now.”

  “That’s why you love me. Because I’m funny like you.”

  Betty drove fast along the backcountry roads, illegally passing multiple cars. I said, “Don’t kill us.”

  “I’m not killing anybody, but you don’t want to give birth in my Bug. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  Betty sped beneath the ambulance-only underpass of the hospital and pulled the parking brake. I flew forward, my hand on the dashboard.

  Betty got out of the car. “Help! My friend’s having a baby.”

  A man wearing a dull green smock and identification badge came over. “You can’t park here. You need to move your car.”

  “My friend’s having a baby.”

  “I’ve got her.”

  Betty said, “Are you okay, Gloria?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’m Ray,” the man said. He wheeled me into the hospital, asking my name and date of birth. I answered
him, but then I started to cry. “You’re all right,” he said. “You’re in good hands.”

  At the admitting desk, a different man asked the same question, adding, “What’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Fifteen.”

  The woman behind the desk said, “Get that one upstairs pronto. We’re not having any babies down here.” Another woman said, “She’s one of Dr. Donato’s. I’ve got her information.” She put a band on my arm.

  Then, I was wheeled upstairs to Labor and Delivery. I asked Ray, “Will my friend be able to find me?” Everything was happening too fast.

  “There’s only one Labor and Delivery floor.” He wheeled me into a delivery room. “Just one second,” he said, ducking back out.

  Then, two nurses came into the room, one tall, one short. The shorter nurse handed me a gown. “Put this on. It ties in the back.” She introduced herself. “I’m Maggie. How are you doing, honey?” She wore a starched cap and white uniform dress.

  “I’m not sure.” I had been trying not to think about my mother’s twins, but then I did. I was full-term, but what if my baby didn’t live? I couldn’t go home empty-handed. Maggie and the taller nurse, Lisa, helped me onto the delivery table.

  Lisa said, “Well, we’re going to take a look. Scooch down for me. Let’s get you in these stirrups.” She told Maggie, “She’s already at seven.”

  “Dr. Donato missed two births last month.”

  Lisa said, “I’m going to call him now.”

  I said, “What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s good on this end. You’re doing great,” Maggie said. “How’s your pain?”

  “Terrible. My back is killing me.”

  “I’m going to start an IV, and you’re going to feel better soon. Make sure you don’t push until we tell you. Hopefully, Dr. Donato will be here by then.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m just kidding,” she said. “He’ll be here.”

  I wished that Betty was with me. I didn’t want to do this alone. After Maggie started the IV, I felt a warmth fill my limbs, and then I felt like I’d peed myself. I was sure my water had broken in Betty’s car, but I hadn’t said anything. Surprise, Betty.

  “You’re doing really well,” Maggie said. “How’s your pain?”