Signs of Life

by Natalie Taylor

  “Diamond commercials,” I say. “Diamond commercials make me furious.” Of course, anyone who watches television knows exactly what I am talking about. These stupid fucking diamond commercials where some handsome guy and his pretty, unassuming wife are driving along together, the snow is falling just slightly outside, the street is lined with Christmas lights, the couple is holding hands, and then suddenly, magically, he slips a diamond necklace into her hand and then they exchange this picture-perfect kiss at the stoplight. Or the one where the woman is asleep and her husband slips a diamond necklace on in the middle of the night and she wakes up and he pretends to be sleeping—this one is the worst! Or the one where the guy unhooks the diamond gift bag from the snowman’s hand. There are a million of them. A million too many and all of them make me want to throw my shoe at the television.

  “Ugh.” Dr. G. rolls her eyes. Obviously, she has seen them too. “Just turn the television off,” she tells me.

  “Told you,” my FMG remarks from the other end of the couch. (FMG is short for Fairy Mom Godmother. Now that she’s part of my family, she wanted a nickname like everyone else.)

  “Why are the holidays like this?” I ask. “Why are they so hard?” Dr. G. nods along with my question and scoots forward in her big chair.

  “You know, I was at a convention with a group of other psychologists and we all concluded that this is our busiest time. This week and next week I have more appointments than at any other time of year.”

  “Seriously? Why is that? Why do the holidays make us feel this way?”

  “Because,” she starts, then thinks about her answer for a moment. This is another reason why I like Dr. G. She thinks about the things that come out of her mouth. “People know that they are going to be disappointed. The media, the stores, the catalogs—they all make us feel like something amazing should happen, and then it doesn’t.” I lean my head back at the thought of this. Yes, I agree. For example, no woman in America will get a diamond like the women in those commercials. All that will happen is millions of women will watch those commercials and think, Wouldn’t that be nice. Wouldn’t that be nice if he just completely splurged on me? Even though we said we wouldn’t spend much on each other, wouldn’t it be nice if he completely broke the rule. And then on Christmas morning, that woman will unwrap a DustBuster and she will scold herself for being so hopeful. And her husband will see the look on her face and say, “But remember, honey, we said we wouldn’t spend a lot.”

  “Don’t even get me started on the holidays.” My Fairy Mom Godmother holds her right hand out like a stop sign, like she’s telling the holidays to talk to the hand.

  “I could kill the person who invented so many holidays,” she says.

  Compounding the problem of sleep, grief, and the holiday stress is that the dogs are still out of control. Kai’s sleep is totally irregular, but the dogs have to come out of their crate at a certain time in the morning. Even if I haven’t slept since four in the morning, they still need to go outside and eat by seven. When Kai sleeps I can’t go back to bed because they are always going in and out, getting into things, demanding more time and attention than what I am capable of. Some days I can’t make arrangements for people to come over while I walk them, so they just end up getting all riled up from staying inside all day. When Louise misses a walk, she sits with her front paws on the windowsill, her body completely erect, trembling at the sight of a squirrel. She makes this horrible noise that sounds like a teakettle and I can’t get her to stop. I can only put her in her crate, but she just barks until I let her out. Walks are torturous for all three of us. Both dogs are now completely unmanageable. They are sad and angry and acting out, and so am I.

  I envision punching inanimate objects, I’m mad at commercial America, and I can’t seem to feel anything toward my own pets except extreme frustration. On top of everything, I don’t sleep. Sleep is like the little Jenga block at the bottom of my already shaky tower. The longer I go without sleep, the more I feel like I’m going to collapse into a million pieces.

  Right after Macbeth tells his wife that he heard a voice curse his sleep, he reflects for a moment about the importance of sleep. He says, “Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care, / The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, / Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, / Chief nourisher in life’s feast.” This quote says it all. What wonderfully comforting words: a bath, balm for a hurt mind, a second course. But all of these things have left me. My chief nourisher is gone. My mind and my body don’t seem to get any rest. One time I read something that said some historians suspect that Shakespeare was a woman. But every time I read this quote, every time I think about his amazing understanding of the importance of sleep, I think about how he wasn’t just a woman, he must have been a baby-mama too.

  Tonight is my first parenting group session. Beaumont Hospital arranges parenting groups for all new mothers. It’s free and anyone can sign up. I called Beaumont earlier this week to see when the parenting group met. The woman on the phone told me that my group would start after the holidays.

  At the end of the conversation she said, “And you want to be in the couples group, right?”

  “Ugh … no, actually, now that you mention it, I don’t.” Well, lucky for me, there is a single moms’ group that meets once a week for six months and it was about to start in a few days.

  “Where does the group meet?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t have to drive to far.

  “The group meets at Embury Methodist Church, right at the corner of Fourteen Mile and Woodward.” My heart sunk. Two years ago this December, eleven days from today, Josh and I were married at Embury Methodist Church at the corner of Fourteen Mile and Woodward. The last time I was there I was wearing a wedding dress. Now I’m going for a single moms’ group.

  “Do you know where that is?” she asked me.

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “Yes, I know exactly where that is.”

  Now, I walk into the small room off to the side of the sanctuary, the same room where the bridesmaids and grandparents waited until it was time to walk down the aisle. Fortunately, the room is very different from how I remember it. It looks much duller tonight. There aren’t as many lights on. The Christmas decorations aren’t glowing like they did the night of our wedding. The first girl I see is a tiny brunette. She sits on the floor with her head down over a little baby girl. I look over at the woman who I assume is the facilitator. She welcomes me and we take care of introductions; her name is Janet. I sit down next to the brunette with a ponytail. “Oh, he is adorable,” she says, smiling at Kai. She has braces. She looks like she is fourteen.

  Next to me on the floor another girl sits with another baby girl. This mom is wearing a sweat suit. She has long brown hair also; it is pulled back in a messy ponytail. This girl looks older, but not by much. Across the room, a blond girl sits with a baby on her lap. She is wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt and jeans with a hole in the knee. In the midst of getting myself settled, a fourth woman walks in. She wears a green knit hat and carries a Starbucks cup. Finally, the last woman comes in. She hurries in and says something about being late. She says a few words to the facilitator and it is obvious that English is not her first language. Her hair is black with orange highlights at the end. Her nails are painted a bright red.

  Within minutes, I have judged all five women. Without hearing from any of them, I conclude that they are all under twenty-five, and perhaps a few of them are under twenty-one. None of them have a bachelor’s degree, and a few may not even have a high school diploma. Their income is less than eight hundred dollars a month. All of them got pregnant unexpectedly with men who are either their ex-boyfriends or will be their ex-boyfriends before their child celebrates his or her first birthday. I have nothing in common with these women, I think to myself. We have nothing to talk about. I should have just joined the couples’ group and gone alone. I should have just been the odd man out, but at least I would be dealing with people who
have a life more similar to mine. These girls probably use double negatives and watch A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila with their babies instead of reading Eric Carle. I realize this is a horrifically judgmental conclusion. I am certain it stems from the fact that I just feel like a total couples’ group reject and now, here I am with the other societal rejects. None of us got invited to the cool kids’ party. So yes, I am bringing down others to make myself feel better, which isn’t right or very mature, but I can’t help it. I even feel guilty that I think these things, but I still can’t help it.

  At first, everyone just chats. Nisi, the woman with the green hat and Starbucks cup, is half Moroccan and half Israeli. She sits with her little boy, Roger, who looks nothing like her. Nisi is very vocal. She talks the most. Next to her on the couch is Galina, the girl with black hair and orange highlights. Galina speaks broken English. She is from Russia. Her son’s name is Tasha. I eavesdrop on Nisi and Galina’s conversation. Nisi, who is hardly listening to Galina, thinks that Tasha is a girl. In her broken English and soft voice, Galina tries twice to clear things up, but Nisi is not listening, she is busy trying to think of the American celebrity with a name like “Tasha.” Finally, Janet says, “No, Tasha is a boy!” “Oh!” says Nisi. She stops talking long enough to hear Galina say that in America Tasha is a girl’s name, but in Russia it’s a boy’s name. Nisi nods.

  Finally, Janet and Heidi, the two facilitators, start the meeting and explain that every Wednesday we will meet here at the church. Tonight we will just get to know each other, but usually there will be someone who will talk to us about a specific topic such as infant massage, CPR, starting foods, and so on. To get the conversation going tonight, Heidi invites all of us to tell our birthing story. I go first. My birthing story is short and nondramatic. I do not mention that I am a widow. I say nothing about Kai’s dad.

  Laura, the brunette without the braces, goes next. Her daughter Megan is four months old. Megan is completely bald except for the base of her head. It looks like a little brown dust ruffle. It goes from ear to ear, no higher than an inch. Laura was in labor for seventeen hours and then had a C-section. Ellen, the girl with the braces, is Laura’s friend. Ellen actually babysits for Laura when she goes to work. Laura works at a church day care. Ellen’s daughter’s name is Rose. She said she was so “drugged up” she hardly remembers her delivery. I wonder if the conception was a similar experience.

  Kat, the blonde with the hole in her jeans, tells her birthing story with Maya asleep on her lap. Kat is very loud and boisterous. She uses the phrase “pissed me off” about three times when describing the nurses. When she describes her obstetrician, she declares, “She was a total bitch.”

  Nisi had a long labor followed by an episiotomy and the use of suction. Gross. That poor woman. Roger was almost nine pounds. Nisi seems to have three different accents going on. She wants all of us to be “girlfriends” and suggests each week we should bring a dish to pass, “maybe something that reflects our culture”!

  Galina goes last. She speaks slowly as Tasha awkwardly moves around in her arms. She seems uncomfortable holding him and a little frustrated that he is being squeamish. She labored for ten hours and she said it was frustrating because the nurses did not understand her very well when she tried to ask questions and talk to them. Galina lives with her parents in Southfield. Galina, Kat, Laura, and Nisi have returned to work full-time.

  After that, we talk casually. Everyone slowly reveals the relationship they currently have with their baby’s father. Kat lives with her boyfriend, Randy. Laura is still living with Tony, but things aren’t going well. The same for Ellen and Pete. Galina, who was quiet for most of the meeting, ends up explaining her “baby daddy” situation. (Heidi initiates the use of this phrase. No one seems to mind.) Galina had been dating a man for seven months. He proposed, they planned the wedding, she got pregnant, he left her. She said her pregnancy was difficult because she was so emotional over the breakup. (Oh really, Galina? Welcome to my world, I think to myself.) She talks for a while about how hard it was. She had to go on bed rest at six months. The fiancé said he wanted nothing to do with her or the baby. All of us are on pins and needles as she gets though her story. “How does it end?” Kat asks as Galina takes a break to put Tasha into burping position. Kat sounds like she’s watching a soap opera. “Did he ever contact you?” Galina explains that she ran into him at a restaurant and he walked past her as if he didn’t even know her. She looks incredibly sad as she says this. It suddenly occurs to me that death is not the only thing in this universe that causes pain.

  “He deed not eeven luk at me,” she adds.

  “Is he paying child support?” Kat asks, eagerly. “Take that jackass for all he’s got,” she adds. Galina says yes, he is paying child support.

  Kat moves to change Maya. It is obvious that I am the only one who has not revealed my baby daddy story. Kat goes for it.

  “So, Natalie, do you keep in touch with Kai’s father?” Everyone looks at me. I am surprised that my throat tightens up. I am annoyed and surprised that my throat tightens.

  “I’m a widow.” The room goes silent. Of course it does. Who is a widow with a newborn baby at age twenty-five? Nobody. Nobody on the entire planet except me.

  There is a long silence and then someone says that she is so sorry to hear that. I don’t know who it is. I focus all of my energy on not crying. I have gone so long without crying in front of people.

  Someone asks me how. Shit. I explain in as few words as possible. They can hear me, they can hear my throat, I don’t cry, but they know I am struggling to get through my sentences. I am so angry that they can sense my weak voice. I don’t know why, don’t ask me why it is so important to me to always be the toughest person in the room, but it is. The room goes quiet again. Everyone is staring at me. I glance over at Galina, who looks like she’s going to throw up. I can read her mind. She wants to say sorry for her whole story. I just stare at Kai, I literally stare at Kai as everyone stares at me. He is asleep. I can’t speak or else I’ll fall apart like a house of cards. I thought I was past this stage. I thought I was past the falling apart like a house of cards stage. Apparently I’m not. I feel pressure to say something.

  “It’s okay,” I say (what a stupid thing to say). “It’s okay, we’re okay. Kai and I live by ourselves and my family is close and my husband’s family is close and we get a lot of help.” But that’s not enough for them. They keep staring. They feel so horrible. They feel so horrible they can’t even speak. “It’s okay,” I mutter again. “You know, we’re all single moms,” I say, trying to put them at ease, because this is how it always goes: I have to put other people at ease. I have to explain to other people that this world is not cruel and there is a reason to get out of bed in the morning. “We all have something that … We all have things in our life that … We all have something. Mine is just a little different.” I look back at Kai. He is still asleep.

  “Well.” Janet breaks the awkward pause. “We’re just going to help you be the best mom you can be.” Everyone tells me how beautiful he is, how long his hair is, how great I look for just having a baby.

  Then mercifully the meeting ends. Janet walks me out. “We are so happy you’re with us, Natalie,” she says as she walks me down the hallway. “We are here for you.”

  A number of different conclusions run through my brain. I am out of place everywhere. I need to join a support group for women my age who have lost their husbands. Kai and I are lucky: I get to stay home with him twice a week. Kai and I are unlucky: We should be in the couples’ group. For a moment, I wonder if I can switch groups. I had planned on being married—doesn’t that count for something? I have more in common with married people … I am a single mom. I am a single mom. This is my group.

  • • •

  A few weeks into December, I decide to clean out my bedroom closet a bit. In late August I took all of Josh’s clothes to the basement storage room except his bathrobes and his shoes. I have no log
ic in keeping his bathrobes and shoes in my own closet, but I did. I guess I felt like his suits never were really a part of him, his job was never a huge part of his identity, but his shoes and his bathrobes were. I can still picture him wandering around the house in his bathrobe on Sunday morning. I could tell you exactly where his hair stuck up when he got out of bed. As for his shoes, he had a couple pairs of soccer cleats and a few pairs of New Balance tennis shoes. He only wore New Balance shoes because his feet were so wide. I remember one summer evening he went for a run in his new gray New Balance running shoes. When he got back I was in the driveway and he said, out of breath but with a little alarm in his voice, “Hey, Nat, can you check the backs of my shoes?”

  “Yeah, why? Did you step in something?”

  He replied, “No, I think there are rockets on them.”

  I decide to move the shoes to the basement. I don’t know why, but I just know I can’t continue to see his shoes in our closet anymore. On the way down the steps I catch a glimpse of the bottoms of his brown New Balance shoes, the ones he always wore for yard work and mowing the lawn. There is still grass embedded in the bottom. The sight of that grass and dirt hits me like a punch in the stomach. I have this moment where I realize that grass can only get in the shoe if there is someone walking around in them, and there had been someone walking around in them not too long ago. The next time the weather is warm enough to see the grass and do yard work, these shoes will still be sitting in the house. The grass, I don’t know why that grass is so poetic. But it is. So I just sit there on the steps holding his shoes, staring at the worn-out bottoms, crying.