“Ah, oui alors!” Materena can’t believe that cousin. You don’t tell a mother that her baby looks like a chimpanzee! What an idiot!
“And what is the name of this beautiful baby?” Materena asks again.
“Isidore Louis junior,” says Giselle, looking into Materena’s eyes as if she’s waiting for a comment.
And for a second Materena thinks, Isidore Louis junior! What kind of name is this? What on earth made Giselle give that name to her baby?
But, then, we call our babies what we want.
“It’s a nice name,” Materena says.
Giselle puffs smoke. “A good name, you say? Eh, I don’t really like that name.”
“So why did you call him Isidore Louis junior, then?”
“I had no choice.”
Materena knows she’s in for a wait to find out because Giselle always has to start at the beginning of a story.
“You’re not in a hurry?” Giselle asks.
“No. I’m just on my way home from the shop,” Materena replies.
“There’s nothing in those bags that’s going to melt?”
“Ah, you’re not going to talk for hours.”
“Mamie, I can take the shopping home,” says Leilani.
Materena discreetly widens her eyes at Leilani, meaning—I can’t believe you!
Materena is quite annoyed with Leilani because you just don’t walk away when a mother is showing off her baby to you. You’re supposed to admire the baby for at least fifteen minutes.
But Leilani isn’t into babies and stories about births yet, and she’s bound to get bored. And, also, the butter is going to melt. “All right, then, girl,” Materena says. “You go home, I see you later. And put the butter in the fridge.”
After more light kisses on the baby’s forehead, Leilani escapes with the shopping bags.
“Okay, Cousin,” Giselle begins. “Now, here it is… I had my contractions at about eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock at night or eight o’clock in the morning?” Materena is asking this question because there aren’t many trucks during the night and if your car breaks down or if the person who was supposed to drive you drank too much, there can be some serious problems.
“Eight o’clock at night,” Giselle replies. “I was scrubbing the kitchen.”
Materena nods knowingly. “When you get into the scrubbing, it means the baby is coming.”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t think my contractions were the real contractions, because Isidore Louis junior wasn’t due for another week. According to my doctor, he was supposed to be born today.”
Materena smiles at the sleeping baby. “You’re an early baby, eh?”
“When I got the contractions,” Giselle goes on, “I didn’t panic. I thought these contractions were only the contractions you get before the real contractions come along. Eh, how was I to know they were the real contractions? It’s my first baby.”
“Ah oui,” Materena says. “It’s hard to know with the first baby. You don’t have the experience with the contractions.”
“Right. So I went to bed. I didn’t want these contractions to turn into real ones on me, because I was alone in the house.”
“And, Ramona, where was he?” Materena is asking, but she already knows the answer.
“Drinking with his mates.”
“And your brother?” Materena knows the answer to this too.
“Drinking with Ramona.”
“And Mama?”
“Praying at someone’s house.”
“You were all alone, then, eh-eh?”
Giselle nods. “If there was somebody at the house, I would have scrubbed the kitchen floor harder and with joy to get that baby out. I was a bit sick of being pregnant.”
“Ah oui, it’s like that the last month. You just want to go have that baby.”
“You just want to see your feet again.” Giselle looks down at her thongs.
“You want to feel light,” says Materena.
“You just want to sleep on your belly.”
“So you went to bed,” prompts Materena.
“Yes, and I closed my eyes to sleep,” Giselle says. “I thought, If I sleep, the contractions are going to go away. But I couldn’t sleep.”
“The contractions were hurting too much.” Materena grimaces. Even though it has been years since she last had contractions, she still remembers them. Not the actual pain but the fact that she was moaning, and she was moaning because the contractions were hurting.
“Ah oui, they were hurting,” Giselle says. “But that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep because I got thinking about the baby’s name.”
“Ah, you didn’t have a name for the baby organized?” This is a shock for Materena. In Tahiti, you’ve got to have a name for your baby organized before the birth. There are many women giving birth at the Mamao Hospital at the same time as you—ten, sometimes fifteen. You’re in this big room and the only thing that separates the women giving birth is a curtain. It can get confusing. Once, Materena was on the delivery bed with her legs apart, waiting for the doctor, and a strange man came into her room. She shrieked, and he quickly retreated. He got confused because Materena was wearing the same color socks as his woman.
It’s the same confusion with the newborns. They are put into this room to get washed and if there’s no name on your baby’s tag, you can get another woman’s baby by mistake. With Materena, as soon as she gave birth, Loana followed the nurse holding her baby.
You’ve got to have a name organized.
Well, Giselle had a name organized—sort of. Her mama wanted to call the baby this. Ramona wanted to call the baby that. And then there was the maman of Ramona, who wanted the baby to be named after one of her ancestors.
“And you—what did you want to call the baby?” Materena asks.
Giselle lovingly looks down at her beautiful baby. “I wanted to call my baby Michel.”
Materena thinks how the name Michel is so much nicer than the name Isidore Louis junior, but there are circumstances when you’ve got to give your baby a name you don’t like.
“So, you were in the bed trying to sleep,” Materena says.
“Yes, and the contractions got stronger and stronger. I turned this way, and I turned that way. Then there was a popping noise.”
“Your waters broke.” Materena remembers the popping noise.
“Ah oui, the bed was all wet,” says Giselle. “I cursed Ramona because he was drinking with his mates. I cursed my brother because he was drinking with Ramona, and I cursed Mama too because she was praying at someone’s house.”
Giselle was in a lot of pain by then, and when you are in pain like this, curses just fly out of the mouth.
“I got out of bed to call somebody,” Giselle goes on. “But then I remembered that the phone was disconnected because my brother spoke to a mate who’s doing military service in France, and, that brother of mine, he spoke on the phone for two hours and seventeen minutes! The telephone is still disconnected. He wanted me to pay the telephone with my maternity allowance and I told him to go to France to see if I’m there.”
“Ah, oui alors,” Materena says. “The maternity allowance, it’s not to pay telephone bills.”
“Ah non, it’s to buy yourself a couple of nice things, like a new dress… So here I was, I couldn’t telephone anyone, and I was panicking, so I went into the kitchen to look for that coconut Mama bought for me a few days before.”
“To drink the juice to make the baby come out easily,” Materena says.
“Oui. Did you drink the coconut juice with your births?”
“Oui.”
“And it helped you with the pushing?”
Materena thinks about this for a moment. She’s not sure that drinking the coconut juice actually made her babies slide out easily, because it never seemed to her that any of her babies slid out easily when she was pushing them out. But you’re expected to believe in the powers of the coconut jui
ce because thousands of women before you have.
“Yes, it helped a bit,” Materena says. “And with you, it helped?”
“I couldn’t find the coconut. I looked in the fridge, I looked in the pantry, I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. I didn’t know Mama had put the coconut in the baby’s suitcase.”
So in desperation Giselle drank half a bottle of cooking oil because, in her opinion, oil makes things slide.
Materena laughs, but she can’t laugh her hysterical laughter because of the baby sleeping in her arms. Her laughter is more a snort.
“Eh, Cousin,” Giselle says, “I was desperate… I drank my oil, then I went outside. I looked at the sky and I cried, ‘God, Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ—please help me. I don’t want to give birth all by myself. I’m afraid. Please send someone my way. Send me an auntie who’s an expert at giving birth to help me.’”
Materena stops snorting. It’s not good to give birth by yourself—especially when it’s your first time.
“And an auntie arrived?” she asks, hoping for Giselle that it was their auntie Stella who arrived, she being an expert midwife. Stella delivered Materena, and Loana was so pleased with Stella that she requested her to deliver Materena’s brother. Loana didn’t want the doctor.
“No. It’s Cousin Mori who arrived,” replies Giselle.
“Cousin Mori!” Materena exclaims, and thinks, What help would that cousin be to a woman in labor? But Cousin Mori is better than nobody.
“Mori arrived in his rusty clunker Peugeot,” Giselle says. “He was looking for François—to go out drinking, of course. And I said to Mori, ‘Mori, it’s a good thing you’re here. You can drive me to the hospital.’ But first I had to ask him if he still had his driver’s license. I just wanted to make sure that his driver’s license hadn’t been canceled. When the gendarmes pull you over and there’s no license, they give you all sorts of troubles, you have to get into their car and go to the gendarmerie for hours of questions.”
“Ah, they would have seen you with your big belly and driven you to the hospital—pronto,” Materena says.
“It’s not for sure,” replies Giselle. “There’s a story about how a gendarme stopped a car and the driver didn’t have a license, so he got his woman, who was pregnant, to act like she was about to have the baby. And the woman went on moaning and complaining about the pain. So the gendarme put his flashing red light on the roof of his car and escorted the other car to the hospital. But the gendarme decided to escort the pregnant woman right to the delivery room. A nurse examined the pregnant woman with the monitor, then she told the gendarme that there was no way the pregnant woman was in labor. All the gendarmes in Tahiti know that story. And now when they see a pregnant woman acting like she’s about to have a baby, they get suspicious.”
“Ah,” Materena says. “But they would have known you weren’t acting when you started pushing that baby out at the gendarmerie.”
Giselle gives her a horrified look. “I don’t want to push no baby out at the gendarmerie. Think about it—you’re born and the first person you see in your life—it’s a gendarme.” Giselle shakes her head. “Ah non.”
“So Mori had his driver’s license?” Materena asks.
“Yes, he showed it to me, and I checked the date. Then I asked him if he’d been on the booze. I didn’t want a drunk driving me to the hospital.”
“Ah, true, it’s not sure you’re going to get to the hospital,” says Materena.
“Yes, it’s more guaranteed that you’re going to be dead. Like with Ramona, he was going to stop his drinking one week before the birth, I made him swear on his grandmother’s head. That’s why that night he was out drinking big-time—to make up for a whole week of abstinence.”
“And, Mori, he wasn’t drunk?”
“Non, Mori said he’d only drunk a miserable half glass of beer. I got him to breathe on my face and I smelled his breath. His breath smelled more of onions than beer. I was satisfied. Then I asked him if he was sure that his car was going to get me to the Mamao Hospital in one go.”
“How many questions did you ask Mori?” Materena is beginning to wonder if Giselle was truly in labor, because, to her recollection, a woman in labor doesn’t think about asking questions.
Giselle only asked Mori three questions. One question about the driver’s license, one about the booze, then one about the car.
“And what did Mori say about his car?” asks Materena.
“He said, ‘Eh, Cousin, maybe my car looks like it’s a pile of shit, but, I tell you, it’s a good car, the engine is in perfect condition.’ Then Mori went on and on about how his car just got a complete tune-up and how he much prefers a car that can drive around the island over one hundred times without stopping to a car that only appears to be in good condition. So I went to get the baby’s suitcase, then I wrote a note for Mama to say that I was at the hospital—then I got into the car. It’s okay with you to hold the baby?”
“Of course,” Materena says. He’s sound asleep, baby Isidore Louis junior.
Giselle rolls another cigarette. “Mori’s pile of shit broke down at Tipareui. First there was a clunking noise, and soon after that there was another clunking noise, louder, then a bang, then nothing. And it was a good thing Mori got the car to stop on the side of the road and not in the middle. I don’t like it when the car breaks down in the middle of the road. A car can come flying into you.”
Materena shivers, then nods in agreement.
“I didn’t panic,” Giselle says. “It’s no use to panic.”
“Ah oui, it’s best to stay calm and breathe slowly,” says Materena.
“Yes, I breathed slowly. And Mori said, ‘Ah, don’t worry, Cousin.’ He grabbed the flashlight from the glove box and the tool kit from the trunk and he got into fixing his car. And I spoke to the baby. I said, ‘Don’t you come now, it’s not a good time.’ But one minute I was fine and the next minute I got this contraction and it was hurting so much, I cried out loud. Then I yelled, ‘Mori, what’s with your bomb?’ And Mori announced to me that his car was now a wrecked and smoking pile of shit.”
“Ah hia hia,” Materena says. “And after? What?”
“Eh, what was I supposed to do? Here I was, contracting, and Mori’s car was smoking, and Mori was moaning about all the money he paid for the complete tune-up.”
“Some complete tune-up.”
“He got done real bad. He went to the wrong mechanic.”
“He got a cheap job.”
“That’s what happens when you pay shit—you get shit.”
“True, Cousin. And what did you do? Did you walk to the hospital?”
“Walk, Materena?” Giselle looks at Materena like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You’re crazy! With me contracting? Non, I decided to stop a car.”
“Ah, that’s good thinking.”
“Yes. A car passed us and I waved and put my hands on my belly to make the person in the car know that, my waving, it had something to do with me being pregnant. But the car didn’t stop.”
“The car didn’t stop!” Materena exclaims. “There are some people in this world!”
“Another car passed—same thing. Then I realized that perhaps people didn’t stop because of Mori.”
“Ah.” Materena understands. Mori is over six feet tall, he’s a big man with a beard down his chest, and a Rastafarian hairstyle. He is also covered in homemade tattoos. If you didn’t know Mori, you might get scared of him. He looks… well, he looks a bit like a thug, and he is, but he’s no mean person. In fact, he’s quite gentle.
“What did you do with Mori?” Materena asks.
“I got him to hide behind his wrecked car. Another car passed me and I waved and pointed to my belly and the car stopped. It was a brand-new Mercedes-Benz. A young man—a popa’a—got out of the car. I told him about my contractions and he said to get in the car, so I got in the car.”
“What about Mori?”
“Ah, Mori got into
the car too,” Giselle says. “I’d completely forgotten about him when the back door opened and Mori appeared with the baby’s suitcase. Mori said to the driver, ‘Don’t worry, mate, she’s my cousin.’ So, here we were, speeding away to the hospital, and seconds later, I got this urge to push. I tried to hold myself from pushing, I didn’t want to mess up the man’s brand-new car, but, Cousin, I could feel the baby’s head. I wanted to scream because it was like my arse was getting ripped, but I controlled myself. You don’t scream out in front of people you don’t know. Eh, I was a bit embarrassed. If the driver was old—okay, but he was young and so handsome, Cousin. He looked like an actor.”
“You, eh,” Materena chuckles.
“It’s not every day we see a handsome man.” Giselle winks and laughs. “Anyway, we got to Papeete, and I said to myself, Baby is coming—baby is coming. So I asked the young man, ‘Is it okay with you for me to have the baby in your car? Because my baby is coming.’ The young man just looked at me for one second and then he pulled over to the side of the road. And I said to him, ‘My cousin Mori, he’s going to clean up the mess.’ And I said to Mori, ‘Eh, Mori, you’re going to clean up the mess?’ And Mori said, ‘You can count on me.’ I took my undies off, I put my feet on the dashboard, and I pushed.”
And Isidore Louis junior was born.
Materena’s eyes are teary. Birth stories always make Materena’s eyes teary.
“The young man—his name was Isidore Louis junior?” she asks.
“Non, just Isidore Louis. It’s me who added junior.”
“Ah, and, Mori, he cleaned up the car?”
“Non, because when Isidore Louis junior was born, Isidore Louis drove us to the emergency room at the hospital and then he just took off.”
“Maybe he wanted a professional cleaner to clean his car.”
“Eh, he’d need a professional cleaner, with all the blood and the shit.”
Materena looks down at Isidore Louis junior. “You sure have a story to tell your kids.”
Giselle smiles. “Ah oui. It’s not every day a baby gets born in a brand-new Mercedes.”
Here’s a truck coming, and Giselle waves a little wave, meaning, please stop right in front of me. Then she flicks her cigarette away and, smiling, takes her precious son back.
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