Dear Carolina (6 page)

NEARLY STARVED IN THE YARD

Coming up, I used to eat so many carrots my skin turned right orange. I'd run on out into the field behind Grandma's, yank one of them green stems, and crunch away. Then, one day, I got to where I no more liked eatin' carrots than my momma liked cleanin' the trailer. Crunchin' on 'em hurt my teeth, the taste turned my stomach inside out, and that fresh-from-the-ground craving quit real quick.

The same thing when I was pregnant with you, only, praise the Lord Jesus, it were booze I quit wantin' so hard. That psycho lady the state made me go talk at once a week said, “Jodi, you don't want to drink because drinking is the coping mechanism you use when you want to run away. Somewhere, deep down inside yourself, you don't want to run away from this pregnancy.”

More like not craving that drink deep down in my soul was the bone God finally threw me even though He'd kept me right thirsty and nearly starved in the yard for years.

When you're poor like me and you come up in a small town
like Kinston, people, they want to help you. The church Momma got herself to when she was sober—the one that been praying hard for her all along—they brung over a whole mess a' stuff for you.

That sweet old pastor, I wouldn't never in a million years have taken a handout from him. So it was Buddy, who been working on the farm for Graham long as I known him, that came a-knockin' at my door with two big black trash bags flung over his shoulders.

“Who is it?” I hollered.

In the ignition crank before he answered back, I thought the damn craziest thing: It was Ricky. He was comin' to wrap me up sweet and kiss me hard and tell me the only thing a girl wants to hear: “Baby, I've changed. Let's make things right for our youngen.”

And, oh my Lord, I had longed for him to come back like a farm boy pines for his first hunting puppy. But I wouldn't let on. No. I'd act like maybe I'd be a little interested.

When the voice said, “It's Buddy,” I was still going on in my head like it were Ricky gonna be answering me. The mind is one tricky vehicle when it gets going good down a dirt road with a dead end.

I hauled myself up off the couch where I'd been napping all day. I still got to feeling every now and then like I should be working. But it's like how that old oak tree at the trailer park must've felt like the swing wrapped around its branches had always been there. We all just got to learn to adjust.

Buddy dumped them giant black yard bags on the floor between the kitchen and family room with a thud like a pair a' work boots going off over the side of the bed.

“What's that?”

He shrugged. “Just a bunch a' old junk the church sent over.
I brought it in trash bags 'cause half of it will probably be going straight to the Dumpster anyhow.”

I sat down on my knees. My mind wandered to this yoga lady I flipped by on the TV earlier that mornin'. She said this sittin' on your knees'll make you be able to digest so good you can eat rocks. I said to the TV, like she could hear me, “I don't care how thick a accent you got, lady, I ain't buyin' that nobody can eat rocks.”

I got to pulling things outta that bag, and I wasn't trying to look happy or nothing, but I held a beautiful soft white cotton dress with a tiny pink bow right to my chest like it were a baby its own self.

I kept on pulling mess out, and I got to realizing that them clothes, they were all new. I wadded them all back in the bag, scooted it across the floor, and stood up, wiping my hands on my maternity leggings.

“I don't need no handout from your church.”

Buddy crossed his arms. “You got some sort of baby fund stored up?”

I peered right hard at Buddy, knowing that he was as straight a shooter as I'd ever run across.

I went to get a glass of water and said, “I don't think that's any of your dern business.”

Buddy knew well as he knew how to drive a cotton picker I didn't have no baby money stashed away.

He followed me into the kitchen and said, “I think it would be nice if you would offer me a cold cup of water too.”

“This one's for you,” I said, shoving it at him all annoyed like. I darn near forgot about my condition for a minute, feeling that heat rising up my spine when our hands met. That was one damn fine-looking cowboy on my green linoleum.

“So how's you giving me a cup a' water that you don't need any different than the church folks giving you some old stuff they don't need.”

I didn't realize Buddy was talkin' 'bout scripture or I would've acted nicer. “I ain't taking no handout even if I do think it's a nice thing them people's doin'.”

Buddy sat down on the couch and said, “Instead of being so self-righteous and acting like you don't need nobody, why don't you write a thank-you note and call it a day?” He pointed over at them bags. “I'm sure as hell not carrying all that stuff back over there, and I doubt you can do it in your condition.”

I looked down at my belly, remembering that we wasn't just flirting here. I was knocked up, poor, and all alone.

“Fine,” I said. “Motherhood's making me soft,” I muttered.

Buddy laughed.

I was giving up pretty easy mostly 'cause any fool could see I worried about how I was gonna get all that baby stuff all day long.

“You know you can come to church any time you want to,” he said. “It's a nice group a' folks, and we'd sure be happy to have you.”

I nodded. But it was one of them times that life had got me down so hard I weren't sure God even remembered my name. “So that why you came over here?” I asked. “You trying to get somebody new in your church?”

I was baiting, but that Buddy, he weren't biting, not one bit.

“If you ever want to come,” he said, “just let Graham or Khaki know.” He tipped his hat before turning around. “They'll get word to me.”

I couldn't keep from watching his tight backside in a pair of worn Levi's stroll out my door. Much as I thought Jesus had forgotten about me, sometimes a slow smile from a real cowboy is all it takes to make a girl a believer.

A YELLOW JACKET ON A CAN OF CHEERWINE

One thing I always steer my clients away from is any preconceived notion about design. Maybe they think they hate pattern, but pattern is what a room needs to enliven it. Perhaps they think wood floors feel cold, but they would make the room feel grounded and sophisticated. They think black is morbid, but just a touch would make the other colors in the palette come alive as if illuminated by a spotlight.

That's not to say, of course, that I don't believe in preconceived notions about other things. If you've never been to North Carolina, for instance, you've never had proper barbecue. There's a big debate in our state about whose barbecue is better, the western part or the eastern. But it's not much of a competition. Anyone can slop a thick, syrupy sauce over meat. When you can make a pork butt fall off the bone and melt in your mouth with proper seasoning, perfect cooking, and a little vinegar, then you know you've got talent.

I was telling Daniel all about that controversy that was as big
a part of Southern politics as the War of Northern Aggression as we sat across from each other at a red-and-white checked tablecloth in the middle of the lunch rush at King's Barbecue. He put down his slaw- and barbecue-filled bun and asked, “What's the matter, Fran?”

I stopped my hush puppy, almost tasting the crispy, golden fried batter, right before it got to my mouth and said, “What do you mean? I'm great.”

I was lying, of course. I'd hardly been able to raise my paddle that morning at the furniture auction we'd gone to in nearby Wilson; my head was so full of the information I'd stayed up all night reading. As it turns out, surgery for this condition I had was somewhat controversial, some saying it actually made it spread faster. I had read heartbreaking tales of women who had gone through surgery after surgery and in vitro after in vitro only to never have a baby of their own. On the other hand, I'd read about women whose doctors had discovered the disease had ravaged their insides only when they were performing a C-section for third or even fourth children. I knew already that life was unexpected, and, as I lay in bed beside my husband, iPad with tab after open tab, I made a command decision: It would hurt and it would be hard, but I was going to be thankful for my child and refuse to let what I didn't have overshadow what I did.

That's not to say I would give up; I simply promised myself that I wouldn't let a struggle for another baby define Graham and me. I thought back to that Doogie Howser doctor patting my shoulder and saying, “Don't worry, Mrs. Jacobs. We'll get you pregnant.”

“They'll get you pregnant,” Graham had snickered on his way out of the office. “
I'll
get you pregnant.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Arrogant ass.”

I thought I might as well tell Daniel what was going on; he
would find out sooner or later. But before I could detail my encounter at the doctor the day before, my phone rang. Graham, breathless as a boy in a game of touch football, said, “I have to talk to you.”

I mouthed
Sorry
to Daniel, and he grabbed the check and went around the corner to stand in front of the same cash register that had been in the lobby of King's since I was a little girl. I leaned back in my wooden-slatted chair and said, “What are you so excited about?”

“It's fate,” was all he said.

“What's fate?”

“I just ran into Amy Perkinson at the farmer's market. You know, from Cowlick Farms?”

I laughed every time I heard the name Cowlick Farms because I thought their slogan was so cute: “No hormones. No drugs. Our cows don't miss a lick.”

But this time, I was too anticipatory to even laugh.

“I was asking her about the new baby, and, out of the blue, she started telling me about how she had endometriosis. She and Bill had tried for years to have kids when she got referred to an herbalist by a friend.”

My mind flashed back to Virginia making me go see a psychic with her one time. I felt pretty sure that going to an herbalist would be about the same thing. But Graham was so excited that I didn't want to pop his balloon.

“This is it,” Graham said, using the same voice he used when he wanted to get Alex pumped up to go grocery shopping or something equally boring. “This is a sign, and this herbalist is going to be the one that helps us get our baby.”

I was skeptical at best. I could feel the tears of failure and frustration gathering in my eyes as I hung up, and Daniel, with a fresh sweet tea, said, “There's no way anybody in this town
could keep their weight under control knowing there's a Pig in a Puppy right around the corner.” When he saw my face he paused. “Oh, I didn't mean you, Fran. You're a fox.”

I smiled a little, and he put his hand on my arm and said, “See. I knew something was wrong with you.”

I sighed and stood up, picking up my bag as I did to keep the chair from toppling over. “I'm having a hard time getting pregnant.”

“Ohhhh.” He nodded. “I'm so sorry, shug.”

“Shug. Y'all. We better get you home before you turn into a full-blown Southerner.”

Daniel led me toward the door saying, “I read an article in the
Times
about how popular Indian surrogates are right now.” He took another sip of his tea. “But that would never work for you.”

“Why not?”

“Fran, you can barely let me, a trained professional, pick out a piece of furniture by myself. No way you could let some woman you've never met carry your baby without being there to criticize everything she ate and make sure she was following your strict rules.”

He was teasing me, of course. But it made me realize that I needed to let go a little. Flying back and forth between Kinston and New York had seemed fun at first, but with a child, a working farm, a household to run, aging parents, an antiques store, a design business, volunteer projects, blogging, and a new coffee table book on the way, sometimes the bi-state schedule felt daunting. The idea that I needed to unload something from my very full life, simplify a bit, lingered like a yellow jacket on a can of Cheerwine. I caught myself thinking,
After all, I am about to be a mother again
. And, for the first time in a while, I realized that I trusted my gut feeling more than what I read on WebMD.