Separate Beds (31 page)

They bought a spooled crib and matching chest of drawers. He set it up in the second bedroom where the walls still wore that masculine paper of brown designs, totally inappropriate for a nursery.

But when the baby was born, who would stay and who would go?

Her suitcase appeared on the bedroom floor, packed, ready to go at a moment's notice. The first time he came in and saw it, he sank down heavily on the edge of the bed and buried his face in both hands, utterly miserable. He thought about Jill—willing Jill who understood his needs so well, and wished that it were she who was expecting his child. But Jill didn't want babies.

April Fool's Day came, bringing bursting buds and the redolent scent of moist earth that marks spring's arrival. Catherine was given a lavish baby shower by Angela, whose pleasure over the upcoming arrival of her first grandchild was a burning wound to Catherine.

Claiborne surprised Catherine by stopping by one afternoon with “a little something” he'd picked up for the baby: a windup swing Catherine knew the baby wouldn't be big enough to sit in until long after she and Clay were apart.

Ada was back home and called every day to ask how Catherine was. Catherine, grown now to enormous proportions and slothlike slowness, answered, “fine, fine, fine,” until finally after hanging up one day, she burst into a torrent of tears, not understanding at all any more what it was she wanted.

She awakened Clay in the middle of the night, hesitant to touch his sleeping form.

“What?” He braced up on an elbow, hazy yet from sleep.

“The pains have started. They're ten minutes apart.”

He flung back the covers and sat up on the davenport, finding her hand in the dark and tugging at it. “Here, sit down.”

She got back up immediately, if clumsily. “The doctor said to keep on the move.”

“The doctor? You mean you've called him already?”

“Yes, a couple of hours ago.”

“But why didn't you wake me?”

“I . . .” But she didn't know why.

“You mean you've been walking around here for two hours in the dark?”

“Clay, I think you should drive me to the hospital, but I don't expect you to stay with me or anything. I'd drive myself, but the doctor said that I shouldn't.”

Her words caused a sudden stab of hurt, followed by another of anger.

“You can't keep me out, Catherine; I'm the baby's father.”

Surprised, she only answered, “I don't think we'd better waste time arguing now. Do whatever you want when we get there.”

They were greeted in the maternity ward by a young nurse whose name tag identified her as Christine Flemming. It did not occur to Ms. Flemming to question Clay's presence. She assumed he would want to stay with Catherine. And so, he was asked to have a seat in a well-lit room with an empty bed in it. When Catherine returned after being blood-typed, she was having a contraction and Ms. Flemming spoke in soothing instructions to her patient, telling her how to breathe properly and how to relax as much as possible. When the contraction ended she turned to Clay and said, “Your job will be to remind her to relax and breathe properly. You can be a big help.” So rather than try to explain, Clay listened to her instructions, then stayed in the labor room when the nurse left, holding Catherine's hand, reminding her to keep her breathing quick and shallow, timing the length of contractions and the minutes between.

Soon the gentle-voiced nurse returned and spoke soothingly to Catherine. “Let's see how far along you are now. Try to relax, and tell me if a contraction should start while I'm checking you.” It happened so fast that Clay had no time to gracefully withdraw nor to be embarrassed. Neither was he asked to leave, as he thought he'd be at this time. Instead, he stood on the other side of the bed, holding Catherine's hand while her dilation was checked, amazed to find how appropriate it felt to be included in such a natural way. When the nurse finished her examination she pulled Catherine's gown back down, sat on the edge of the bed and lightly stroked the wide base of Catherine's abdomen.

“Here comes another one, Catherine. Now just relax with it and count—one, two three . . .” Catherine's hand gripped Clay's like the jaws of a trap. Sweat broke out under his arms while beads of perspiration gathered into runnels on Catherine's temples and trailed into her hair. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was tightly shut.

He remembered what he was there for. “Open your mouth, Catherine,” he reminded softly. “Pant, pant, little breaths.”

And through her pain Catherine knew she was happy Clay was there. His voice seemed to calm her when she was most afraid.

After the pain was over, she opened her eyes and asked Ms. Flemming, “How could you tell it was coming?”

Christine Flemming had a pretty face with a madonnalike smile and a very patient way about her that made both Catherine and Clay feel comfortable in her presence. Her voice was silken, soothing. She was a woman well-suited to her profession.

“Why, I could feel it. Here, give me your hand, Catherine.” She took Catherine's hand and curved it low around her stomach. “Mr. Forrester,” she instructed, “put your hand here on the other side. Now wait—you'll feel it when it starts. The muscles begin to tighten, starting at the sides, and the stomach arches and changes shape during the height of the contraction. When it ends, the muscles relax and settle down again. Here it comes; it will take half a minute or so until it's at its peak.”

Catherine's and Clay's fingertips touched, their hands forming a light cradle around the base of her stomach. Together they shared the exhilaration of discovery as the muscles tensed and changed the contours of Catherine's abdomen. For Clay, it made her pain a palpable thing. He stared, big-eyed, at what was happening beneath his hand. But in the middle of the contraction, Catherine's hand flew above her head and Clay tore his eyes away to her face to find her lips pursed, jaw clenched against the pain. He leaned to soothe her hair back from her forehead, and at the touch of his hand, her lips relaxed and fell open. He spoke his litany again in quiet tones, reminding her, and felt a curious sense of fulfillment that he had the power to ease her, even in the height of her labor.

“That one was longer than the last,” Christine Flemming said when it was over. “As they get closer, it's more important for you to relax between them. Sometimes it helps to have your tummy rubbed lightly, like this. I like to think that the baby can feel it, too, and knows you're out here waiting to welcome him.” With a gentle palm the nurse stroked the outer perimeter of Catherine's stomach. Catherine's eyes remained closed, one wrist over her forehead, her other hand in Clay's. He felt her grip slacken as the nurse continued those featherlight strokes over her distended abdomen. With a smile, Christine Flemming looked up at Clay and said softly, “You're doing very well, so I'll let you take over for a while. I'll be back in a few minutes.” Then on silent white shoes she was gone and Clay was left to stroke Catherine's stomach.

He understood things in that time of closeness with Catherine, things as deep and eternal as the force of life trying to repeat itself in her body. He understood that nature had planned this time of travail to draw man and woman closer than at any other time. Thus the pain had purpose beyond bringing a child into the world.

When they took Catherine to the delivery room, Clay felt suddenly bereft, as if his role was being usurped by strangers. But when they'd asked if he'd taken the classes required for fathers to be in the delivery room, he'd had to answer honestly, “No.”

The University of Minnesota Hospital did not use delivery tables any more. Instead, Catherine found herself placed in a birthing chair, which allowed gravity to pull while she pushed. Christine Flemming was there through the delivery, supportive and smiling, and once Catherine even joked with her, saying, “We're not so smart. The Indians knew this secret long ago when they squatted in the woods to have their babies.”

The daughter of Catherine and Clay Forrester was born with the fifth contraction in the birthing chair, and Catherine knew before she faded off into blessed sleep—lying flat now—that it was a girl.

Catherine swam upward through a lake of cotton fuzziness. When she surfaced and opened heavy-lidded eyes, she found Clay dozing in a chair, his cheek propped on one hand. His hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. He looks terrific, she thought through a crazy, disoriented fog. Her mind was still moony and wandering as she studied him. The rhythm of his breathing was lengthened by her drug-induced lethargy. Between pains, hazily she thought, I still love him.

“Clay?” The word was a little mumbled.

His eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet. “Cat,” he said softly, “you're awake.”

Her eyes drifted closed. “Barely. I did the wrong thing again, didn't I, Clay?” She felt him take her hand, felt the back of it pressed against his lips.

“You mean having a girl?”

She nodded her head which felt like it weighed hundreds of pounds.

“You won't think so when you see her.”

Catherine smiled a little bit. Her lips were very dry and he wished he had something to put on them for her.

“Clay?”

“I'm here.”

“Thanks for helping.”

She drifted into oblivion again, her breathing heavy and rhythmic. He sat on the chair beside her bed with his elbows on his knees, holding her hand long after he knew she was asleep again. Then with a heavy sigh he lowered his forehead against her knuckles and closed his eyes as well.

Grandmother Forrester's cane announced her imminent arrival. When she rounded the doorway, the first thing she said was, “Young lady, I am seventy-eight years old. The next one had better be a boy.” But she limped to the bed and bestowed an honest-to-goodness kiss upon the consummate perfection of her firstborn great-granddaughter.

Marie came, laughing as ever, with the announcement that she and Joe are going to get married at last, as soon as he graduated from high school in a couple of months. She added that she'd been inspired to “give it a whirl” by Catherine and Clay's success.

Claiborne and Angela came daily, never empty-handed. They brought dresses so absurdly frilly the baby would surely get lost in all those ruffles, stuffed toys so big they would dwarf an infant, a music box that played “Eidelweiss.” Although they both fawned over Melissa, Claiborne's reaction to her was heart-touching. He would stand at the nursery window with his fingertips against the glass as if transfixed. Walking away, his head was the last to be turned forward. He even stopped on his way home from work one day, although it was decidedly inconvenient for him to do so. He said things like, “When she's old enough to ride a trike, Grampa will see that she gets the best one in town.” Or, “Wait until she walks—won't that be something?” Or, “You and Clay will have to take a weekend away by yourselves soon and leave the baby with us.”

Bobbi came. She stood in front of the window with her thumbs strung up on her rear jeans pockets, her feet rolled over until she was almost standing on the sides of her shoes. “Well, wouldja look at that!” she exclaimed softly. “And to think I had a hand in it.”

Ada came with the news that she'd signed up for a course in driver's education so she could come to Catherine and Clay's house to see the baby now and then. Herb had disappeared.

Steve wired an enormous bouquet of pink carnations and baby's breath and followed it with a long-distance phone call in which his main message was that he'd be getting leave again in August, and when he got to Minnesota, he wanted to see Cathy and Clay and Melissa all living under one roof.

And, of course, there was Clay.

Clay, who was just across the river at the law school and popped in at any time of day. Clay, who stood at the end of Catherine's bed when they were alone together and couldn't seem to think of anything to say. Clay, who played the father's role well when other visitors were there, laughing at their jokes about waiting until Melissa was bringing boyfriends home, turning his smile on Catherine, exclaiming over the neverending stream of gifts, but spending long minutes at the nursery window alone, swallowing at the lump that never disappeared from his throat.

Ada came and helped out for three days after Catherine and Melissa went home. During that time Ada slept on the davenport. It became particularly hellish for Clay, sleeping with Catherine. Each night he would awaken to the tiny sounds of suckling from the other side of the bed and he wanted more than anything to turn the light on and watch them. But he knew Catherine would be bothered by both the light and his watching, so he lay silent, pretending to be asleep. How surprised he'd been at the news that she intended to breast-feed the baby. At first he supposed she made the choice out of a sense of duty, for there was a lot of propaganda on the subject. But as the days wore on, he realized that everything Catherine did for and with Melissa was done instead from a deep sense of mother-love.

Catherine began to change.

There were times when he came upon her with her face buried in Melissa's little tummy, cooing to her, talking in soft expressions of love. Once he saw her lightly suck on Melissa's toes. When she gave the baby a bath, there was a steady stream of talking and light laughter. When the baby slept too long, Catherine actually hounded her bedroom doorway, as if she couldn't wait for Melissa to wake up again and want to be fed. Catherine began singing a lot, at first only to Melissa, but then seeming to forget herself and singing absently when she worked around the house. It seemed she had found her source of smiles, too, and there was always a ready one waiting for Clay when he got home.

But while Catherine's contentment increased, Clay's virtually disappeared. He astutely refrained from getting involved with the baby, though it was beginning to have a growing, adverse effect on him. His temper flared at the slightest provocation while Catherine's seemed as unassailable as Melissa's—for Melissa was truly a satisfied baby with a flowery disposition. As graduation neared, Clay blamed his crossness on the pressure of finals, and the bar exams coming up shortly.