Bygones (38 page)

Forty-one—lord. And her skin getting a little droopy and soft like a maiden aunt's.

Forty-one and no gifts, no calls.

Tiny lines lurking at the corners of the eyes. A faint jowl beginning to show if she forgot to keep her chin high.

At 11 P.M. she turned off the television and lamp in her bedroom and lay with the windows open, listening to a thousand crickets and the bishop sleeves fluttering faintly against the sill, smelling the dampness of deep summer thread in from the yard, recalling nights like this when she was sixteen and went with mobs of kids to the drive-in theater. Always, there was company then.

The neighbors across the street came home, Elaine and Craig Mason, married probably forty years or more, slamming their car doors and talking quietly on their way into the house. Their metal screen door slammed and all grew quiet. Bess had stacked up her pillows as if knowing sleep would be reluctant, and reclined with her eyes wide open, intent upon the fretwork of shadows on the opposite wall, cast through the maples by the night light in the yard.

When the phone rang her body seemed to do an electric leap that shot her heart into fast time. The red light on the digital clock said 11:07 as she rolled over and grabbed the receiver in the dark, thinking,
Let it be Michael.

“Hello, Bess,” he said, his familiar voice at once raising a sting in her eyes.

“Hello.” She went back against the pillows, touching the receiver with her free hand as if it were his jaw.

Outside, the crickets kept sawing away, their song throbbing in the summer night while on the telephone a lengthy silence hummed. She knew it meant he was not entirely pleased with himself for having broken down and called her after vowing he would not do so again.

“It's your birthday, huh?”

“Yes.” She pointed one elbow to the ceiling, covering her eyes to stop them from stinging.

“Well, happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

They remained silent for so long her throat began to ache. The crickets continued their rasping.

Finally Michael asked, “Did you do anything special?”

“No.”

“Nothing with the kids?”

“No.”

“Didn't Lisa come over or anything?”

“No. She said we'll get together soon, maybe this weekend. And Randy's playing out in South Dakota, so he's not around.”

“Damn those kids. They should have done something for you.”

She dried her nose on the sheet and forced her voice to sound normal. “Oh, what the heck. It's just one birthday. There'll be lots of others.”

Please come over, Michael. Please come over and just hold me.

“I suppose so but they still should have remembered.”

Another silence came and gripped them, and beat across the telephone wire. She wondered if he was in his bedroom, what he was wearing, if the light was on. She pictured him in his underwear, lying in the dark on top of the covers with one knee up and the balcony doors open.

“I ah . . . I got that mess straightened out down on Victoria and Grand.” She formed an image of him watching his own fingernail scratching a groove into a sheet while he spoke. “Building's going to get under way soon.”

“Oh, good!” she said, with false brightness. “That's . . .” Softer, she ended, “. . . that's good.”

Why are we in separate bedrooms, Michael?

If she didn't invent some perky conversation soon, he'd surely hang up. She stared at the indigo leaf shadows on the opposite wall and searched for some clever dialogue to keep him on the line.

“Mom's gone on a trip to Seattle.”

“Seattle . . . well.” After a pause, “So she wasn't around today, either.”

“No, but she sent a card. She's having a grand time with all her friends.”

“She always seems to manage that, doesn't she?”

Bess turned on her side with the receiver pressed against the pillow, her position going slightly fetal while she coiled the phone cord around the tip of her index finger. Her chest felt ready to splinter into fragments. Oh God, she missed him so much.

“Bess, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, listen, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I just thought I'd call. Force of habit on this day every year, you know.” He laughed. Oh, such a melancholy laugh. “I was just thinking about you.”

“I was thinking about you, too.”

He fell silent and she knew he was waiting for her to say,
I want to see you, please come over.
But the words stuck in her throat because she was afraid all she wanted to see him for were sexual reasons, and because she was so utterly lonely and it was her birthday, and she was forty-one and dreading the possibility of spending the rest of her life alone; and if he came over and they made love she'd be using him, and nice women weren't supposed to use men that way, not even ex-husbands, and then what would she say afterward, if he asked her again to marry him?

“Well, listen . . . it's late. I should go.”

“Yes, me too.”

She covered her whole face with one hand, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips bitten to keep the sobs from falling out, the telephone a hard knob between her ear and the pillow.

“Well, 'bye, Bess.”

“ 'Bye, Michael . . . Michael, wait!” She was up on one elbow, frantic, her tears at last running. But he'd hung up, leaving only the throb of the crickets to keep her company while she wept.

 

LISA CALLED THE BLUE IRIS at 11 A.M. on August sixteenth and said she had gone into labor. Her water hadn't broken but she was spotting and cramping and had contacted the doctor. There was no reason for Bess to come to the hospital yet; they'd call when she should.

Bess canceled two afternoon appointments and stayed in the store near the phone.

Heather said, “It brings back the days when you were waiting for your own kids to be born, doesn't it?”

“It really does,” Bess replied. “Lisa took thirteen hours but Randy took only five. Oh, I must call him and tell him the news!” She checked her watch and picked up the phone. Her relationship with Randy had been bumping along since the day she'd slapped him. She talked, he grunted. She made an effort, he made none.

He answered on the third ring.

“Randy, I'm so glad you're still home. I just wanted you to know that Lisa's gone into labor. She's still at home but it looks as though this is the real thing.”

“Yeah? Well, tell her good luck.”

“Can't you tell her yourself?”

“The band's heading out for Bemidji at one o'clock.”

“Bemidji . . .” Her voice registered dismay.

“It's not the end of the world, Ma.”

“No, I suppose not, but I hate your having to travel so much.”

“It's only five hours.”

“Well, be careful, dear, and be sure you get some sleep before you head back.”

“Yeah.”

“And no drinking and driving.”

“Aw, come on, Ma, jeez . . .”

“Well, I worry about you.”

“Worry about yourself. I'm a big boy now.”

“When will you be back?”

“Sometime tomorrow morning. We're playing in White Bear Lake tomorrow afternoon.”

“I'll leave a note at home if the baby is here. Otherwise call me at the store.”

“Okay. Ma, I gotta go.”

“All right, but listen . . . I love you.”

He paused too long before replying, “Yeah, same here,” as if pronouncing the actual words was more than he could manage.

Hanging up, Bess felt forlorn. She remained with her hand on the phone, staring out the front window, feeling like a failure as a mother, understanding how Michael had felt all these years, wondering how to mend these fences between herself and Randy.

“Something wrong?” Heather asked. She was dusting the shelving and glassware, working her way along the west wall of the shop.

“Ohhh . . .” Bess released a deep sigh. “I don't know.” After a while she turned to Heather and asked, “Do you have one child who's harder to love than the others? Or is it just me? Because I feel very guilty sometimes but I swear, that younger one of mine is so distant.”

“It's not just you. I've got one who's the same way. My middle one, Kim. She doesn't like being hugged—never mind kissed—never wanted to do anything with the family after she reached age thirteen, disregards Mother's Day and Father's Day, criticizes the radio station I listen to and the car I drive and the movies I like and the clothes I wear and only comes home when she needs something. Sometimes it's really hard to keep on loving a kid like that.”

“Do you think they eventually grow out of it?”

Heather replaced a bowl on the shelf and said, “Oh, I hope so. So, what's wrong between you and Randy?”

Bess shot Heather a glance. “The truth?”

Heather continued her dusting indifferently. “If you want to tell me.”

“He caught me in bed with his father.”

Heather started laughing silently, her mouth open wide, the sound at first only a tick in her throat until it crescendoed and resounded through the store. When the laugh ended she twirled the dustrag through the air above her head. “Hooray!”

Bess looked a little pink around the edges. “You're spreading dust all over the stuff you just cleaned.”

“Oh, big deal. So fire me.” Heather returned to her task, smiling. “I figured it was getting serious between you two. I knew you weren't spending all that time on business, and I for one am glad to hear it.”

“Well, don't be, because it's only caused problems. Randy's been bitter about the divorce ever since it happened, and he finally told his father so but I stepped in and things got out of hand. I slapped Randy and he's been withdrawn and unaffectionate ever since. Oh, I don't know, Heather, sometimes I hate being a mother.”

“Sometimes we all do.”

“So what did I do wrong? His whole life long I loved him, I told him so, I kissed and hugged him, I went to school conferences, I did everything the books said I should but somewhere along the line I lost him. He just pulls farther and farther away. I know he's drinking, and I think he's smoking pot but I can't get him to admit it or to stop.”

Heather left her dustrag on the shelf and went around behind the counter. She took Bess in her arms and held her caringly. “It's not always us doing something wrong. Sometimes it's them, and we just have to wait for them to grow out of it, or confide in us, or hit bottom.”

“He loves this job so. His whole life long he's wanted to play with a band but I'm so afraid for him. It's a destructive way of life.”

“You can't make his choices for him, Bess, not anymore.”

“I know . . .” Bess held Heather tighter for a second. “I know.” She drew away with glistening eyes. “Thanks. You're a dear friend.”

“I'm a mother who's tried her damnedest, just like you but . . .” Heather raised her palms and let them drop. “. . . all we can do is love 'em and hope for the best.”

* * *

It was hard to concentrate on work knowing Lisa was in labor. There were designs to be finished in the loft but Bess felt too restless to be confined upstairs. She waited on customers instead, tagged some newly arrived linens and hung them on an old-fashioned wooden clothes rack for display. She went outside and watered the geraniums in the window box. She unpacked a new shipment of wallpaper. She checked her watch at least a dozen times an hour.

Mark called shortly before 3 P.M. and said, “We're at the hospital. Can you come now?”

Bess barely took time to say good-bye before hanging up, grabbing her purse and running.

Lakeview Hospital was less than two miles from her store, up to the top of Myrtle Street hill and south on Greeley Street to the high ground overlooking Lily Lake. Though there were other hospitals closer to Lisa and Mark's apartment, her pregnancy had been confirmed by the physicians she'd known all her life, so she'd stayed with the familiar names and faces who practiced right here in town. Bess found it comforting to be approaching the hospital where Lisa and Randy had been born, where Lisa's broken arm had been set, where both of them had been given their preschool physicals, and countless throat cultures, and where their height and weight and periodic infirmities had been recorded and were still safely filed away in metal drawers. Here, too, the whole family had seen Grandpa Dorner for the last time.

The OB wing of the hospital was so new it still smelled of carpet fiber and wallpaper. The hall was indirectly lit, quiet, and led to a hexagonal nurses' station surrounded by a circle of rooms.

“I'm Lisa Padgett's mother,” Bess announced to the nurse on duty.

The young woman led the way to a birthing room, where both the labor and birth would be carried out. Lisa and Mark were there, along with a smiley nurse wearing blue scrubs, whose nametag read JAN MEERS, R.N. Lisa was lying on the bed holding up a wrinkled patient's gown while Jan Meers adjusted something that looked like a white tube top around her belly. She picked up two sensors, slipped them beneath the bellyband, patted them and said, “There. That'll hold them.” Their leads dropped to a machine beside the bed, which she rolled nearer.

Lisa saw Bess and said, “Hi, Mom.”

Bess went to the bed, leaned over and kissed her. “Hi, honey, hi, Mark, how's everything going?”

“Pretty good. Getting me all hog-tied to this machine so we can tell if the baby changes his mind or something.” To the nurse, Lisa said, “This is my mom, Bess.” To Bess, “This is the lady who's going to put me through the seven tortures.”

Ms. Meers laughed. “Oh, I hope not. I don't think it'll be so bad. Look here now . . .” She moved aside and rested a hand on the machine where an orange digital number glowed beside a tiny orange heart that flashed in rhythm with a sound like a scratchy phonograph record. “This is the fetal monitor. That's the baby's heartbeat you hear.”

Everyone's eyes fixed upon the beating orange heart while beside it a white graph paper began to creep into sight, bearing a printout of the proceedings.

“And this one”—Ms. Meers indicated a green number beside the orange one—“shows your contractions, Lisa. Mark, one of your jobs will be to watch it. Between contractions it'll read around thirteen or fourteen. The instant you see it rising you should remind Lisa to start breathing. It'll take about thirty seconds for the contraction to reach its peak, and by forty-five seconds it'll be tapering off. The whole thing will last about one minute. Believe it or not, Mark, you'll often know there's a contraction starting before she will.”

Ms. Meers had scarcely finished her instructions before Mark said, “It's going up!” He moved closer to Lisa, his eyes on the monitor. Lisa stiffened and he reminded her, “Okay, relax. Here we go now, remember, three pants and one blow. Pant, pant, pant, blow . . . pant, pant, pant, blow . . . okay, we're fifteen seconds into it . . . thirty . . . hang on, honey . . . forty-five now and nearly over . . . good job.”

Bess stood by uselessly, watching Lisa ride out the pain, feeling her own innards seizing up while Mark remained a bastion of strength. He leaned over Lisa, rubbed the hair back from her forehead and smiled into her eyes. He whispered something and she nodded, then closed her eyes.

Bess checked the clock. It was 3:19 P.M.

The next contraction came fifteen minutes later and by the time it arrived, so had Mark's mother. She greeted everyone, giving Mark a quick squeeze.

“Is Dad coming?” Mark asked her.

“He's at work. I left a note on the kitchen table for him. Hi, Lisa-honey. Today's the day you get your waistline back. I'll bet you're happy.” She kissed Lisa's cheek and said, “I think it's going to be a boy. I don't know why but I have the strongest feeling.”

“If it is we're going to be in trouble because we haven't thought of a boy's name yet. But if it's a girl it'll be Natalie.”

The contractions came and went. It was hard for Bess to watch Lisa suffer. Her child. Her precious firstborn, who had, as a youngster of five, six, seven, mothered her baby brother the way little girls do: held his hand when they crossed the street together; lifted him up to reach the drinking fountain; soothed and cooed when he fell down and scraped a knee. And now she was a grown woman and would soon have a baby of her own. No matter that the pain was the means to eventual happiness and fulfillment, watching one's own child bear it was terrible.

At moments Bess wished she'd decided to delay coming here until the baby was safely born, then felt guilty for her selfishness. She wished she were needed more, then felt grateful that Mark was the one Lisa needed most. She wished Lisa were a little girl again, then thought, No, how foolish; I really wish no such thing. She was enjoying having an adult daughter. Nevertheless, often during those minutes of travail, she pictured Lisa as a kindergartner, walking bravely up the street alone for the first time—absurd, how fragments of those bygone years kept insinuating themselves into this hour that was so far removed from the days of Lisa's childhood. Perhaps it was peculiar to the stepping-stones of life that at those times an underlying sadness was rekindled.

Sometimes when the contractions ended, both Bess and Hildy released their breaths and let their shoulders slump, then glanced furtively at each other, realizing they'd been copying Lisa's breathing pattern as if doing so could make it easier on her.

At 6:30 Jake Padgett arrived, and Bess left the birthing room for a while because it was getting too crowded. She walked down to the pop machine by the cafeteria, got a can of Coke and took it to the family room, adjacent to Lisa's birthing room, a spacious, restful place with comfortable chairs and an L-shaped sofa long enough to stretch out and nap on. It had a refrigerator, coffeepot, snacks, bathroom, television, toys and books.

Bess found her mind too preoccupied to be interested in amusements.

She returned to the birthing room at five to seven and watched two more contractions, before rubbing Mark's shoulder and suggesting, “Why don't you sit down awhile. I think I can do this.”

Mark sank gratefully into a recliner and Bess took his place beside the bed.

Lisa opened her eyes and smiled weakly. Her hair was stringy and flat, her face looked slightly puffy. “I guess Dad's not coming, huh?”

Bess took her hand. “I don't know, sweetheart.”

From his chair, Mark murmured sleepily, “I called his office a long time ago. They said they'd give him the message.”