The Perils of Pauline Page 29

  It’s too late to google shower games; the doorbell is bonging again and the guests are arriving. Mackie arrives with a bottle of champagne, and she and Bibienne and I watch from the door of the living room. A girl with braces is telling everyone that she drove over here in her dad’s car as she passed her driver’s license today, and she only hit the curb once. She looks about 12 years old. I’m tempted to run outside to check my car for dents.

  Serenity comes downstairs and lifts up her t-shirt to show them Bump, covered with Shae’s graffiti drawings of seahorses, dolphins and a spouting whale. They all squeal and pull out their phones to take pictures of Bump so they can upload them to the Internet.

  “Oh God, they all look so young,” says Mackie.

  “That’s because they’re so young.”

  “Are you ready for this?” Bibi asks.

  “What? The shower?”

  Bibienne shakes her head and looks me straight in the eye.

  “Oh. Right. Am I ready for my baby having a baby? I don’t know. Some days I think my daughter is hopelessly immature, and completely unprepared for the world. And then other days she surprises me with how smart and resourceful she can be.”

  Bibienne hugs me. “It’ll work out. She’s a good kid. We weren’t that much older when we got started, remember?”

  True. I was 20 when I had Serenity. A lifetime ago. Yesterday.

  None of the kids are of legal age so army-style drinking games are out of the question. But I’m more than old enough for combat, and so are Mac and Bib. We go back out to the kitchen where I pop the cork from Mackie’s bottle and pour three glasses. “Chin, chin,” I say. “A baby shower is as good as any other day.”

  The kids were all happy with soda pop and pizza, worm balloon games and hanging out. Easy peasy. In a year or so, when the baby turns one, we can run this same party formula all over again.

  Serenity loved her gifts. Mom and Brian stopped over and brought over a rocking chair that Brian refinished himself, and I threw in a bassinette filled with swaddling blankets. Jude’s friends all gave the cutest little girly outfits while the girls all gave toy cars and trucks.

  “No dolls,” Serenity warned us all in advance. “And no pink ponies.”

  “Are you sure you’re having a girl?” asked Bibienne as she surveyed a set of pink Matchbox racecars.

  “Only unless it’s a boy,” said Jude.

  Serenity is adamant. “It’s a girl. I’m craving orange juice. And I did the wedding ring test.”

  “But you aren’t married. Maybe it doesn’t count,” said Wendy.

  “Does too. We used Shae’s silver skull ring.”

  “Why not just get a blood test?” asked Mackie.

  Serenity shrugged dismissively. “It’s a girl.”

  At that moment George limped into the room and everyone rang in with their opinions on George’s paw.

  Jude thinks it’s allergies while Wendy thinks maybe George has scurvy. Wendy had scurvy when she was little but her mother used crystals and now she’s cured. I was afraid to ask if she meant vitamin C, amethysts, or crack.

  “Maybe it’s early onset arthritis,” suggested Bibienne.

  “But George is barely two years old,” I said.

  “Osteo issues aren’t unheard of in a young animal.”

  She went on to say that if I plug him with glucosamine now, I may be able to delay, for a couple of years anyway, the inevitable hip dysplasia that comes with arthritic pets. In other words, in a few short years, Bibienne figures I’m going to be carrying George up and down stairs, and supporting his butt when he has to pee and poo.

  4 a.m. Serenity is standing beside my bed. “Mom, I feel funny.”

  I sit up, fast. That’s new mom speak for “the baby is coming.” This is only the third week of March. Serenity’s due date is still a month away but I knew this baby would come early, I knew it. I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing.

  I snap on the light and peer at Serenity’s face, which is crimped in pain.

  “A contraction?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. My back hurts like crazy. Wait, it’s getting better now.” She sighs, and sits on the end of my bed.

  “And these pains in your back? How far apart are they?”

  “I don’t know. They started coming yesterday but now I can’t sleep, it hurts too much.”

  “Where’s Shae?”

  “I paged her but she isn’t answering. She’s out plowing. It’s snowing again.”

  “Did you call your midwife?”

  “Wait. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  I run downstairs. The baby is coming! I better alert Bibienne. She said she would watch Jack and Olympia. And Jude. I better call Jude first. Wait, no, I still don’t know if Serenity paged the midwife. What’s her name again? Wait. First, I should call Mom. And maybe I better try to page Shae again. I wish I could call Donald. It’s been a week since I texted him my messages. Nothing came back. It’s over.

  On the way to the phone, I peer out the window. My car is buried under a plodge of snow. A major clipper blew in last night, and the snow is still falling. I grab a broom and, throwing on my boots and coat, I run outside in my nightgown to sweep snow off the hood of the car. By the time I finish clearing the back window, the front is covered again. I should’ve grabbed a hat. My legs are freezing off and my hair is frozen solid. The bottom of my nightgown is stiff with snow. Nothing I can do about it though. The baby is coming.

  I have to call Bibienne. Or I could run over to her house to wake her, rather than phone over and rouse her whole household.

  I struggle through drifts of snow, and wade around to Bibienne’s side door. I knock and then knock again, harder. No answer. The door is locked. I think my knees are getting frostbite. I thump on the door with my fist.

  Lights come on and the door cracks open as far as the chain will allow.

  Bernie stares out at me warily, as if I’m offering him a religious pamphlet. Bibienne and all the kids appear behind Bernie. They’re all in their pajamas. The door swings wide; Bernie is clutching a baseball bat. He looks like he would like to use it, even after I tell him the baby is coming.

  “Please come quickly, Bibi.” I run back out into the storm. As I race down her driveway, my foot hits an icy patch. My gown flies up, and I flip backwards, crunching down hard on my spine. A sickening little twist curls up my discs.

  How peaceful and quiet it is to lie in Bibienne’s driveway in the middle of the night staring up into a flake-filled sky, bare buttocks pressed to the cold ground. I think I’m supposed to go phone somebody. I remember now: the midwife’s name is Janice! The baby is coming. I have to go call Janice. I limp back to my driveway to find the car socked in under the snow mountain again.

  I better hurry and get changed out of my wet gown and make my phone calls. My tailbone hurts like crazy but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I hobble up the stairs to check on Serenity. She’s still in the bathroom, the door is locked and she’s moaning. Loudly. I can hear splashing and thumping sounds.

  “Don’t tell me you’re in the bathtub. Are you in the bathtub?”

  In a strangled voice she finally answers, “Yes. Where were you?”

  “Never mind, can you unlock the door?” No response. Silence. She must be having a contraction.

  “Are you all right? Have you paged the midwife?” More silence.

  “Serenity?”

  “No,” she howls. Then the moaning resumes. Another contraction. That’s, like, barely ten seconds apart.

  The midwife number must be listed on Serenity’s phone. I run down to her room to find the phone and scan through the directory. But which entry is it? It’s all coded gobbledygook. There are no entries that could make sense to anyone but Serenity. I find a j on the list and press dial. Jude answers. “Serenity’s in labor. Better come now.” At last I’ve done something right.

  I run back down the hall and call through the bathroom door: “He
llo? I can’t figure out which one is your midwife’s number.” Serenity is still moaning and unable to speak. Unable to speak through a contraction: I know what that means.

  It’s time to panic.

  Fine, I can do that.

  “You have to unlock the door,” I shout.

  It’s quiet in the bathroom. “Are you okay in there?”

  The door opens and Serenity emerges, dripping wet. She attempts to wrap a bath towel around her belly and says, “What’s it like when your water breaks?”

  “It’s wet when your water breaks.” Kind of like how I feel right now. My nightgown is defrosting, and it’s a real toss-up who is dripping more water on the floor.

  Jack comes out of his bedroom, and steps in the puddle around Serenity and me. Now we all have wet feet. “Why are you two yelling so much? What’s going on?” He glares at me. He looks exactly like Donald at this moment.

  “The baby is coming. If you want to help, go back to bed.”

  He goes downstairs instead, making damp amniotic fluid footprints on the stairs, and turns the television on.

  Serenity’s face is white. I hold up the phone. “We have to call your midwife.”

  Serenity grabs the phone from my hand, goes into my room and curls up on my bed clutching the phone between her legs. She starts moaning again. I hope she isn’t going to give birth on my prized matelassé bedspread. I kneel beside her and attempt to rub her back.

  “Harder!”

  “I’m pressing as hard as I can.” Her phone rings between her legs. “Move your leg a tad, Serenity.” I pry the phone out from between her rigid thighs and then her even more rigid fingers. It’s Shae. “I paged Janice. Don’t worry, I’m on the way.”

  Serenity grabs the phone, shoves it underneath her ear and bites her lip. Shae must be trying to coach her because she starts screaming into the phone, “Don’t tell me to breathe, Shae. Fuck you, Shae, fuck you, I AM breathing. Are you kidding? It hurts!”

  A minute later, the doorbell rings but Serenity gloms onto my arm and screams, “Stay with me.”

  A moment later, Bibienne enters the room shaking snowflakes out of her hair. “Bernie’s out there shoveling your drive. But the roads look horrible. I don’t think the midwife is going to be able to get through.”

  Just when I’m about to say, “Can this get any worse?”… the power goes out.

  Where the hell is Janice? I grab the cell and scan the directory again. It has to be here. There’s a B here. B is for baby. Makes sense. I dial. A sleepy voice answers. It’s Wendy. I apologize for waking her. “I was trying to contact Serenity’s midwife and”… the exactly stupidest thing I could say. “No, wait,” I shout, but it’s too late. Now Wendy is on her way over to help out.

  Bibienne takes over massage duty while I go in search of blankets, candles and flashlights. I have to sneak into Olympia’s room to borrow her pink kid flashlight as none of the seven assorted grown-up ones in the emergency storage box have juice.

  Serenity doesn’t want blankets, candles or a flashlight. She wants me to massage her back again. She complains that Bibienne’s hands are too soft and warm. “I like your hands—they’re all cold and bony and that feels awesome.”

  I kneel back into position to rub Serenity’s back. My own back is starting to hurt bending over like this. I think my lumbar region was shortened by a couple of vertebrae during the fall. That’s bad news for anyone who is already short-waisted. As it is, I can never wear bolero jackets and sagging boobs are the kiss of fashion death for women like me. This thought reminds me that I’m overdue for a visit to the bra store.

  “Mom!”

  Apparently I am slacking off. I have to press harder, harder, HARDER. I accept Bibienne’s offer to rub my back while I work on Serenity. We all feel like cheering when Shae comes in. “Janice says she’ll meet us at the hospital. We’re taking the plow.”

  Serenity wants me to ride beside her and keep applying the counterpressure. I’ve had no time to change, which means I’m heading to the hospital wearing a soaking wet flannel nightdress, my hockey jacket and boots with no socks. So what? Won’t be the first time.

  Halfway to the hospital Serenity turns to Shae and says, “Wait! Turn around! We forgot the birthing bag.”

  Oh yes, now I remember, Serenity packed her bag last week and set it beside the door. It contains her slippers and dressing gown plus essential labor aids: her favorite stuffed animals, a selection of gummi candy and chocolate bars, a magnum of Pepsi, and a sleeve of tennis balls in case of back labor.

  Shae is disgruntled. “Do you know how hard it is to turn a plow around?”

  Serenity responds with equal disgruntling: “Do you know how hard it is to birth a baby?”

  By the time we are ushered into a birthing suite, Serenity’s contractions have stopped. I sit in a chair in the corner. The chair is slippery and ergonomically designed to prevent comfort. My back is killing me. Maybe I could ask for a little gas or something. The nurse sets up a monitor and an IV stand as Janice listens for the baby’s heartbeat. The room grows quiet as everyone focuses on the stethoscope pressing into Serenity’s bump. Janice listens for a long time and, finally, says, “The heartbeat is normal. I’d like to check your cervix now.”

  Oh god, poor Serenity, that’s the absolute worst part. I remember the doctor checking my cervix once during a particularly nasty contraction with Jack. The doctor looked like a pirate and his big hairy hand was wider than a plank. He used forceps to jam his fist up there. Then it felt like his fingers turned into five big hooks that ripped straight through my cervix. He tore me open more going in than Jack did coming out.

  Janice stops poking around and says, “Your water sac is still intact. It’s probably false labor. Possibly early labor. You might as well go home and rest. It could be days, even weeks, before your baby comes.”

  I try to rise but my back is so crippled I can’t stand up straight. I bend over while holding tightly to the arms of my chair. Serenity flings aside her hospital gown and pulls her clothes back on. Together with Shae, the two take my arms and support me over to the ER so I can see a doctor. The nurse shoots me a mean look when she sees my hugely pregnant daughter helping to lower me into a wheelchair.

  An x-ray and three prescriptions later, we are back in the plow, heading home. The doctor says I’ve pulled a few muscles; I should rest for a couple of days. Streaks of dawn light up the snow in the driveway as Shae drops us off. The power is back on. In the living room, Wendy is sprawled on the couch, asleep, and Jack and Olympia are owl-eyed in front of the TV. Bibienne helps me upstairs and I crawl into bed.

  CHAPTER 29

  Zone of Fire

  Zone of Fire: An area into which a designated ground unit or fire support ship delivers, or is prepared to deliver, fire support.

  —Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  By mid-morning I can barely lift my head, let alone my torso. Even frowning causes pain to ripple up and down my spine. Lying in bed motionless, eyeballs straight and unmoving, is the only way to keep the pain in check.

  George keeps me company for a while but eventually he begins to whine and prance back and forth in his I’m Going Straight Downstairs to Pee on the Good Carpet If You Ignore Me dance. Finally he gives up and heads for the stairs. I shout after him, “Jack? Olympia? Anyone? Someone please let George out.” The yelling tortures my back.

  Serenity comes up to see what all the racket is about. She says she checked her own cervix first thing this morning. “Janice was wrong. I’m at least four centimeters and halfway effaced,” she says with an indignant lilt in her voice. Then she waddles back down to the kitchen to make me lunch: mini-marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches. They taste so super-scrumptious, I think for a horrified moment I might be pregnant.

  Then I remember: it’s impossible to conceive if you haven’t had any sex in what is beginning to feel like forever.

  Dozing off and watching daytime television is dr
iving me to distraction. I toss the remote aside and tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling. I’d happily trade in my wrenched spine for a week of Johnny Rotten days. Wendy opened up the store this morning while Shae and Serenity are minding Jack and Olympia. The kids have it all under control.

  They have it all under control and they don’t need me.

  I have nothing to do but lie here with my thoughts.

  I’ve ruined everything. Michael is gone and Donald is gone. My marriage is over. I’ve ruined everything.

  Donald is gone. My eyes burn.

  Dad’s voice comes into my head: A good soldier displays tenacity and mental toughness in stressful situations.

  I can’t do this anymore. I let the tears roll. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of everything.”

  I see Dad, in his full dress uniform, sitting at the end of my bed. His face is gentle. It’s true you’re down but you aren’t beaten, soldier. And I never said you can’t cry. Soldiers do cry sometimes. It’s good for the heart. My heart gave out but that’s because I ate too much of your mother’s good cooking. Go ahead, cry it out. That’s an order.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  You’re welcome.

  I reach for the tissue box. I’m going to need all of them. “I miss you, Daddy.”

  I miss you too, Kitten. When you’re done with all your snuffling, you know it’s time for you to clean up your act. You can start with the Caddy. Get it back on the road. After you change the oil, don’t forget to buff up the chrome and scrub the whitewalls.

  I lift my hand to my forehead in a salute: I promise.

  CHAPTER 30

  Special Cargo

  Special Cargo: Cargo that requires special handling or protection, such as pyrotechnics, detonators, watches, and precision instruments.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Two days go by in a haze of muscle relaxers and codeine, and I’m finally able to walk without clinging to the walls and furniture.