“But she was gonna help me, right Auntie Meg?”
I stare at her for a few seconds, trying to ignore the sharp ache blooming in my chest. “I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect, McKenna. Just make sure you wear your sneakers so you don’t fall down, okay?”
Danny shoots me an accusing look and I frown at him.
“Go on, honey,” he tells her, then gently nudges her away.
I focus on the four neat piles of clothing on the bed and force myself not to glance at Danny. I already know what expression he’s wearing; it’s the same one he wore when I left home at seventeen. The look of bereaved resignation.
“Okay, well, thanks a lot, sis. It was great having you while it lasted. So, I’ll see you in, what, about five or six years?”
I know he’s attempting to manipulate me, but I refuse to be sucked in. I grab the pair of pajamas I haven’t worn yet and set it aside. “I need to borrow a duffel bag or something,” I say, but when I look over at the doorway, my brother is already gone.
* * *
Danny’s garage is filled to the brim with stacks of boxes, toys, kid’s bicycles and scooters, a red wagon, and several dusty tool shelves.
Before Danny and the kids headed out for Universal, he told me that there were a bunch of suitcases and carry bags in the eaves above the wall-to-wall storage cupboard. He did not offer to get one for me. So here I am, up on a ladder, rummaging through an enormous plastic bin and praying I don’t fall and break my freaking neck.
I manage to locate a soft case that looks to be the right size, but when I yank it from the bottom of the bin, I feel my Michael Kors sandal catch on the riser. My stomach lurches as I realize I am about to take a header and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Just before I go flying, I feel a strong hand grip my waist and steady me. I let the bag fall to the garage floor and grasp at the ladder, then look down to see Matt.
“Thanks,” I breathe, relieved. “You saved me.”
He immediately lowers his arm and steps back. I climb down the ladder and brush the dust off my jeans, then bend over and pick up the carry case.
“I came over to drop this off,” he says. He hands me a few pieces of mail without meeting my eyes. “They’re addressed to your brother, wrong delivery…”
“It’s a good thing you came when you did, otherwise I’d have broken my ass.” I force a chuckle, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this awkward around a man, even one I’ve actually had sex with.
“Glad to help,” he replies, although he doesn’t look glad at all. He glances at the carry case. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah. Home. Tomorrow. I was going to come over and say goodbye, but…” I shrug.
“Okay, well. Goodbye, Meg.” He thrusts out his hand and I take it. As soon as my palm touches his, a charge of electricity runs up my arm and through my entire being. I yank my hand back a little too quickly.
“Goodbye, Matt.” I want to say something more than ‘It was nice meeting you.’ Nothing comes to mind that would make any sense or make this any easier. So I pretend indifference. “See you around.”
“Sure.” He smiles sadly. “See you around.”
I watch him retreat from the garage. He wears the same tattered blue shirt he wore the night of tequila. My heart pounds in my chest and I bite my lower lip to keep my emotions in check. I have never wanted to be with a man with as much intensity as I want to be with Matt Ryan.
I don’t bother to blame the hormones.
* * *
“Hi, Dad.”
“Well, Meggly-weggly. What a nice surprise! I didn’t expect to see you today.”
Obviously, since he isn’t wearing a shirt. The hair on his torso looks like a curly grey sweater. At least he’s wearing pants.
“Who is it, Buddy-wuddy?” comes the voice of an older woman from the back of the condo. Oh fuck.
“It’s my girl,” he calls proudly. “My Meg.”
I shrink away from my father and take one step off the landing.
“Where the heck are you going?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, Buddy. I just wanted to stop by and say—”
“Oh, peeshaw! You’re not interrupting a darn thing. We did that hours ago.” He winks at me and I cringe. “Bettina was just ironing my shirt.”
Sure enough, an attractive, older woman with impossibly red hair appears at the doorway holding a Tommy Bahama knock-off. She wears a Betsey Johnson floral dress with a bodice snug enough to show off some fairly spectacular sixty-something cleavage.
“Bettina, this here’s my daughter, Meg. She’s a famous radio personality in New York City, isn’t that something?”
“I’m not famous,” I say under my breath. Bettina tosses the shirt to Buddy, then throws her arms around me.
“My goodness! Meg! Your daddy just goes on and on about you! It’s so nice to meet you finally, after all I’ve heard about you!”
I stand rigid as she squeezes me, lets me go, then squeezes me again.
“I just made some stuffed shells for lunch. You must come in and join us, they are divine. A new recipe I’m trying out.”
“No, thanks. I really can’t stay. I just wanted to say goodbye to my dad.”
“Goodbye?” Buddy looks confused as he buttons up his shirt. “What do you mean?”
“I’m heading back to New York tomorrow.”
“But I thought—”
“I have to go, Dad. You said it last night. My life is there. I need to be there.”
I watch my father’s face crumble and his eyes go all sad-puppy-dog, his formerly sprite manner evaporates and a lethargy overcomes him. I clench and unclench my fists while I count to ten.
I will not feel guilty. I will not feel guilty.
Bettina sighs heavily, then reaches out and places a hand on Buddy’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that a shame, Buddy?”
“Well, damn,” he says, swiping at his eyes. “I sure will miss you, honey.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Before I can escape with my breathing intact, he gathers me into his usual bone-crushing hug. This time, I hug back. A lump rises in my throat and my eyes well up. Luckily, the faux Tommy Bahama shirt absorbs my tears before anyone can see them.
* * *
“What’s this?” Caroline asks, taking the Bloomingdale’s bag from me.
“It’s just a little present for you. More importantly, what’s that?”
She follows my gaze to the monitor beside her bed. An electronic line runs steadily across the screen, arcing at regular intervals.
“Oh, that. We had a little excitement this morning. Euthalia’s blood pressure dropped so they’re keeping an eye on it.”
“Oh my God.” I feel my shoulder tense.
“It happens. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Did you tell Danny?”
“God, no. He’d freak out and come over here and I wanted the kids to have a good day today.”
I take a breath and let it out on a sigh. If Caroline isn’t worried, there’s no reason for me to worry. But when I look at her, I detect the slightest hint of fear in her eyes.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she states adamantly. “I’m sure.” She absently rubs her belly.
“Where’s the, uh, electrode things that takes the baby’s blood pressure?”
“Do you really want to know?” I have no idea why she’s grinning at me so I nod. “They shove it up your cooch and screw it into the baby’s head.”
Oh dear God.
“Too much information, Caroline, but thanks for that. I may never sleep again. So, wait, can we just go back for a minute? Did you say the baby’s name is Euthalia?”
“Don’t you just love that name? It’s Greek. It means blooming or flourishing. If it’s a boy, we’re naming him Zeus, but I know it’s a girl. I can feel it. Euthalia.”
“Caroline, what are you trying to do to your daughter? It’s ridiculous. It sounds like Eut
hanasia.”
She frowns good-naturedly at me. “It does not. And anyway, we haven’t decided yet. I’m going back and forth between that and Aspasia, which means welcome.”
“And all the school kids will call her Spaz for short.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What’s wrong with Laura or Elizabeth or Janet?”
She fakes a yawn. “Boring. So, what’s in the bag?”
“Check it out,” I tell her.
She reaches in and pulls out the soft pink striped PJ Salvage pajamas I bought but didn’t wear. The price tag hangs from the cuff and I quickly tear it off before Caroline can see how much I spent.
“Oh, I love them! Thank you so much.” She lifts the pajama top to her cheek and nuzzles against it. “So cozy. But, they’re brand new. I won’t be able to wear them until I get this stupid cast off.”
“Just cut the leg, Caroline. I’ll get the nurse to do it. Seriously. If you’re stuck in this place, you deserve a nice pair pajamas.”
“That was really thoughtful of you, Meg.”
“Look, before you get all sappy, you should know that I bought them for myself.”
She looks puzzled. “Why aren’t you keeping them?”
“Because I don’t need them. I bought this pair as a backup, but I’m going home tomorrow and I have a whole drawer full of clean pajamas there. So I thought I’d give them to you.”
“Wait a minute, what? You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“I know, I know,” I say before she can get the words out. “I was staying until Wednesday, but some shit went down at work and I have to get back or I’m going to lose my show. And don’t worry, I’m hiring someone to take care of the kids until Thanksgiving. From an actual agency. With great reviews on Yelp.”
She considers this for a few moments, then shatters my expectations when she says, “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say, Meg? I mean, the kids’ll miss you. Danny, too. Even I’m going to miss you a little bit. You’re the closest thing I have to a sister, you know? And now that we’re getting along, it’s been kind of nice…Anyway, you have to do what you have to do.”
“I do.”
Ironically, Caroline’s easy acceptance makes me feel worse than my brother’s indignation and my father’s dejection.
“Maybe we can email each other occasionally. Like sisters do.”
“Yeah. We can.”
I say the words, but I know I’m lying. Once I’m back at work, all of this, this family business will get tucked away on a corner shelf of my closet where I won’t find it again until somebody graduates, gets married or dies. I recognize how much this sucks, but I’m just self-aware enough to own it.
Caroline folds the pajamas and tucks them back into the bag. As she reaches over to set the bag on the side table, an alarm sounds. Our heads simultaneously jerk toward the monitor. The baby’s blood pressure line has dipped below the median and the spikes on the screen are erratic. Caroline glances over at me, her eyes wide. In the next moment, a large Hispanic nurse charges into the room and descends upon Caroline, pushing me out of the way to get to her patient.
“Meg?” Caroline’s voice is high-pitched and panicked.
“I’m here.”
“What’s happening?” Caroline asks the nurse, but the woman doesn’t respond, just watches the monitor closely. Caroline repeats her question with the same result. I feel my own blood pressure soar.
“Yo, excuse me,” I say, practically sideswiping the nurse. “Tell my sister-in-law what the fuck’s going on before I lay you out!”
“She’s from New York,” Caroline comments, and I’m relieved to see that, despite her concern, she’s grinning.
“And I’m from El Salvador, chica. Good luck laying me out.”
Her nametag reads ‘Grace’ and I reflexively start to formulate a commentary on the discrepancy between her name and her manner. Before I can give voice to my scathing words, the door opens again and a tall African-American man dressed in slacks, tie and white doctor’s coat walks briskly into the room. His manner is calm and collected, but his eyes are sharp and alive. He squints at the monitor, then looks down at Caroline.
“Hi, Caroline. Remember me? I’m Dr. Laramy. Listen, your baby is in fetal distress. I’m not certain why it’s happening, you’re not in premature labor, but the bottom line is we have to get the baby out of there. Do you understand?”
Caroline nods rapidly, then reaches out to me. I clasp her hand and feel it shaking.
“It’s too soon,” she says, her voice barely a squeak.
“No, Caroline. You’re at thirty-six weeks. The baby’s going to be fine, no problems at all. If we get him or her out safely.”
“This isn’t a hospital.”
“We specialize in neonatal care, which is why you came to us in the first place. And we’ve delivered plenty of babies here. Your baby is not the first. And I’ve done several crash C-sections. I know I’m not your regular OB/GYN, but I’m not comfortable waiting for her to get here.”
“Oh, God.” She grips my hand so tightly I’m afraid she’s going to cut off my circulation. “So, we’re setting everything up now. The difficulty is that we need to give you a spinal block.” His voice remains even as he continues. “But that requires that we move you into a position where the anesthesiologist can get in to do what he needs to do. And with your injury, this might cause some discomfort.”
“How much discomfort?” I ask before I can stop myself. The doctor eyes me suspiciously, then glances at Caroline’s cast.
“Some,” he says. “But once the block takes effect, you won’t feel a thing. So, are you ready, Caroline?”
“My husband. Danny.”
“I’ll call him,” I tell her, trying to pull my hand out of her grasp.
“You’d better do it quickly,” Dr. Laramy says, “if you’re going to be in the room with her.”
“No!” I blurt. “No, no, no. No way. I’m not going to be in the room with her, not while you slice open her abdomen and uterus and—”
“Meg!” I look down at Caroline. My sister-in-law, who always seems so unflappable, looks like a frightened rabbit. “You have to come in with me. Please.”
“No fucking way!” I yank my hand away from her and stumble backward, almost falling on my ass. Grace makes no move to assist me. If I weren’t so desperate to get the hell out of this room, I’d slap that nurse silly.
* * *
“Danny!” I yell into the phone. The hallway is bustling with activity, a bevy of pregnant women wandering the halls, some in wheelchairs, some with crutches. A couple of orderlies hurry to Caroline’s room.
“What is it, Meg? I can’t hear you very well.”
“Danny, the baby. You have to come back. To the rehab. You have to come to the rehab.”
“What? What the hell—heck are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath. “The baby is in distress and they have to do a crash C-section.”
“What the fuck?”
I hear the screech of tires and possibly a couple of children shrieking in the background.
“Do not crash the car, Danny. Do you hear me?” I’m using my big sister voice, the one I called up whenever I thought my brother was acting like a weenie or doing something stupid. “Listen to me, Danny. Do not speed. Do not run any red lights. What’s going down is going down whether you’re here or not. But it would be better for everyone, including your new baby, if you remained alive.”
“Holy shit, holy shit. Where is she? Where’s Caroline? Why is this happening? Is the baby going to be all right?”
The orderlies emerge from the room, wheeling the gurney carrying my sister-in-law. I can hear her calling my name.
“They’re just taking her into the OR, or whatever they call it.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe this. Can I talk to her?”
“No, Danny. They have to give her a spinal bl
ock, and time is of the essence. Just take a deep breath and calm down. And get here as soon as you can. Okay?”
“I’m so glad you’re there, Meg. I’m so glad. Tell her I love her, okay? Please. Tell her I love her more than anything and she is the brightest star in my heavens and the frosting on my cake and the pearl in my oyster and I can’t live without her. Tell her that.”
Is he kidding me?
“I’ll tell her, Danny. Just get off the phone and drive safe.”
“Hey, sis,” he says before I can hang up.
“What?”
“I love you.”
I roll my eyes, but then I answer him. “I love you too, bro.”
Twenty-three
Caller: Planned C-sections have become an epidemic! Women are cheating themselves out of the miracle of childbirth just to keep their husbands sexually satisfied.
Meg: Look, caller, no matter how they come out, the result is the same. A lifetime commitment to someone who’ll drain your bank account, drive you crazy, and make you prematurely grey. Does that sound like a miracle to you?
* * *
As I move toward the double doors marked EMERGENCY, I have a strong sense of déjà vu from yesterday with McKenna. How could this be happening to me again? I swear, six days in Southern California, and I feel like I’m in fucking ‘Nam.
Nurse Grace steps into my path, barring my entrance from the ER.
“Scrubs,” she growls, pressing a set of green hospital scrubs in my hands.
“No, I’m only going in there to deliver a message,” I explain. Then I’m getting the hell out.
“Rules are rules,” she says. “You wanna go in, you gotta wear the scrubs.”
“I don’t want to go in.” I grab the lime green scrubs from her. “Please tell me these are from Anne Klein’s summer collection.”
The nurse gives me a sardonic grin.
From within the operating room, I hear Caroline’s moans. I peer through the glass pane and see her lying on her side, a couple of nurses gingerly holding her cast while the anesthesiologist stands at the ready behind her.
Oh. My. God. I’d give anything for a cigarette right now.
If the poopy diapers and the projectile vomit and the tantrums weren’t enough to put me off childbearing, the sight of the anesthesiologist piercing Caroline’s back with a six inch needle aimed at her spinal cord makes me grateful for my impending menopause. And Caroline’s not even in labor. I bet labor is a million times worse.
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