Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (20 page)

“You mean monosodium glutamate,” Andrew said.

“That's right, Andrew,” she said, stroking his arm again, “but its initials are MG. And Wilene said if you don't take your fortune with you, they take that little slip of paper right off your plate and bake it up in another cookie. She's got the same one three times. It said, “The fool only talks. The wise man only listens.'”

“Maybe there's some truth,” Andrew said, looking straight at Donna.

“Maybe so,” Aunt Kate added, looking straight at Andrew.

“Aunt Kate, I almost forgot,” I said, “I brought something for you.” I pushed back from the table, reached for my purse, and pulled out the small brown bag of fireballs.

Aunt Kate took the bag and carefully unrolled the end. Her face lit up and for an instant she looked like the little girl in the portrait with Mama. “Hot damn!” she said. Andrew looked at her hard and nodded toward the twins. She ignored him. “I haven't had any of these in forty years!” She popped one in her mouth.

“What are they?” Donna asked, straining toward our side of the table.

“Fireballs,” Aunt Kate said. She looked around the table. Her eyes settled on Andrew. “Y'all want some? How about you, Andrew? Bet you didn't have these in Massachusetts.” She stretched her arm toward him and shook the open bag.

Andrew looked suspicious. He peered in cautiously, then relaxed. “Jawbreakers,” he said. “We called them jawbreakers and they came in fruit flavors.”

“These are different,” Aunt Kate said, rolling the ball with the tip of her tongue. “Try one.” She smiled and shook the bag again.

Andrew looked around the table. We were all watching him. He reached inside the bag, selected one red ball, and slipped it into his mouth. He tucked the candy into his left cheek, smiled, and nodded at Kate. She was still rotating her fireball with her tongue. Andrew quit smiling. He shifted the ball to his right cheek. It looked like he was rubbing the inside of his left cheek with the tip of his tongue.

He reached for his tea glass. Half-full. He emptied it in one gulp. He shifted the ball again and searched the table.

“What you looking for, Honey?” Donna asked. She was folding her napkin into smaller and smaller squares.

“The pith-er,” Andrew mumbled.

“The what?” Donna asked.

“The tea pith-er,” Andrew said. Daddy was starting to make little noises, coughing-like noises but not exactly.

“Pit-cher, Andrew, we call it the pitcher. It's in the kitchen.” Donna didn't make a move to get up.

Andrew stared at her, his eyes wide, they were starting to tear. “Plea-th, get it!” he tried to whisper, “now!”

Kate looked at her own glass. It was full. She kept her fireball rolling. Donna rose from the table, slower than usual, and headed for the kitchen. Andrew crammed his hand in his glass and trapped an ice cube. He threw it into his mouth. His nose was starting to run. He dapped at it with his napkin.

“You didn't spit out, did you?” Aunt Kate asked, suspicion in her voice.

Donna reappeared with the tea pitcher. “Why Andrew, you're almost out of ice,” she said. She set the pitcher in front of him and whisked away his glass. “Get anybody anything while I'm up?”

“I-th!” shouted Andrew. Then he started chewing, more biting than chewing, like Bilo after fleas. He swallowed hard. Reached for Charlotte's glass, drained it and swallowed three or four more times. Then he opened his mouth and panted—“Haa, haa, haa, haa.”

“Oh, Andrew!” Donna said. “You sound like you're in labor!” Andrew mumbled “fresh air” and rushed from the table. No one laughed, not until we heard the front door slam.

I start to laugh now just remembering. Another contraction stops me. You can make it, I tell myself. Make it. Make it. Make it. Make it … I'm as dry as Andrew must have been. Something in the shot they gave me or maybe I'm panting like Donna and Andrew.

“May I have some water?” I ask.

“Sorry, no water,” Debbie answers with nurse-pleasantness, “but I'll get a moist towel and hold it to your face.”

I close my eyes. Rest.

Another pain awakens me. Sharper … longer … longer … longer … like all the miscarriages clumped together. I try to separate from my body … float my brain up to the light … look down and watch myself. It doesn't work. Dear God, it hurts! The sound of pain rises in my throat. I grit my teeth, try not to cry out. I hear movement. A male voice, shouting. “Give her something! Can't you give her something?”

Debbie's words float in and out, “Better … not too sedated … better for both.”

It eases. I open my eyes. Jack stands over me, pressed against the bedrails. He strokes my arm. “I'm here to stay,” he says. “Don't argue with me, Sarah.”

I start to open my mouth. Another contraction. From my soles to my scalp, pulling me in a ball. I grip the bars to keep from folding up, hold my breath, squeeze my eyes hard. I rock myself like a baby trying to fall asleep. Rock … rock … back … and forth … and back. I feel Jack's hand against my cheek. The bed begins to move. I open my eyes again. Jack holds on to the side.

“We're taking her,” Debbie says, trying to pry Jack's hand loose from the rails.

“I'm staying with her,” he says.

“Did you make arrangements?”

“I'm staying,” he repeats.

Debbie looks from Jack to me, then back to Jack. “Okay,” she says, an edge to her voice, “but you can't go like that. Wait here until I get back.” She grabs the foot of the bed and starts to pull again. Jack holds on a second longer like he's in a tug of war. Then he lets go.

More pain. Both faces fade as the bed rolls into the hall. Light after light after light whirls above me. Another room. A huge circle of florescent light. So bright I can hardly keep my eyes open. Voices. People in green gowns, caps, masks. Nothing showing but eyes. Suddenly I want Jack, need Jack. I want to scream his name. More eyes rush in. Lean over me. Blue, deep blue. “Jack?” I say. He nods. A brown curl escapes from underneath the green cap. He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. “You look silly,” I whisper. He nods again. His eyes squinch up at the corners in a smile.

Another set of eyes hang over me. Brown! Dark as night! I panic. Michael's here! How did he know? I look at Jack. He doesn't seem to notice. “You're doing fine, Mrs. Brighton,” the brown eyes say. I recognize the voice. Dr. Fleming.

I relax. But only for a second. Another contraction grips me, so strong I feel I'm being squeezed in two. I nearly sit up with the pressure. “Keep pushing, Mrs. Brighton,” someone says. I close my eyes, catch my breath, and bear down with all my strength, with the energy of the universe ringing in my ears. Again and again.

“It's here!” a male voice shouts. A female voice cheers. Someone presses hard on my empty abdomen. I rest my head, afraid to open my eyes, afraid to hear any more.

A hand strokes my forehead, pushes back my wet hair. I look up with blurred vision. Blue eyes, bright as the sky, fanned out in a line like a geometric pattern, blue touching blue touching blue. I blink a few times and focus. Jack's eyes hold mine.

“Congratulations!” a voice shouts. I recognize Debbie. She lays a squirmy, wet, beautiful creature across my heart. “Mr. and Mrs. Brighton,” she says, “you have a boy.”

I look from the baby to Jack. Jack closes his eyes. His lashes glisten in the florescent light.

PART V

DEPARTURE

DONNA

Little Sammy's got the weirdest eyes. Sarah's baby. Not that he isn't beautiful. Samuel Joseph Brighton—that's what they named him. Brighton after Jack. Joseph after Daddy. I'm not sure where they got Samuel. Sarah said it was from Aunt Kate. Of course, Aunt Kate could have suggested a whole lot of men's names. But I don't remember a Samuel.

Sammy hadn't opened his eyes good until Andrew and I were guessing at the color. See, most babies start out with blue eyes. But after a while the color changes if it's going to be green or brown. Take my own Scarlet. Her eyes were clear blue, blue as Windex—and they stayed that way. But Charlotte's had these little gold flecks in them. They turned brown like Andrew's.

Andrew and I couldn't agree on what color Sammy's eyes would be. I said they'd stay blue. His left eye was as blue as Scarlet's. But Andrew said brown because of the other eye. We were both right. And wrong. One stayed blue and the other turned brown, pale brown like a hazel nut. The pediatrician says they're rare, but they both work. Sarah thinks they're wonderful. Those eyes. Sometimes I don't understand her way of thinking. But then again, I'm understanding more than I used to.

Sarah's cowboy is back. The veterinarian. He comes riding up to Aunt Kate's farm this morning, almost a year ago to the day Mama died. He's pulling a horse trailer. And if my eyes don't deceive me, Sarah's horse is in it. I was over there at the farm giving Aunt Kate some of Daddy's garden stuff so I wouldn't have to fool with it anymore. He's about to drive me crazy. Andrew doesn't understand. He just says, “Quit doing so much for him. You've got your own family to think about.” See, that's it. Andrew thinks I should be doing things for HIM instead of Daddy. I'm dog tired of doing for BOTH of them. Sarah would understand but she's so busy with little Sammy she doesn't half listen. That leaves Aunt Kate.

But getting back to the vet, I'm pulling out when he comes riding up. I have to admit he looks good. Dark and kind of mysterious, a full beard, and a Charlie Daniels' type hat shading his eyes. I'm beginning to see what moved Sarah. I watch him in my rear-view mirror.

I haven't told anybody about seeing him. Not even Andrew. I don't want to hear his analysis of the situation. He analyzes my family all the time like they're some kind of wack-O's. He should study his own relatives, the Websters. They're plenty strange, let me tell you. He's got this aunt that lives with his mama, Aunt Ruth. She swallows toothpaste water. I've seen her do it. The stuff most people spit out, she swallows. And she walks sprattle-legged up and down the halls where they live. The first time I saw her do it, I thought she was deformed. Andrew said she walks that way to keep from wearing a path on the carpet. Is that not weird? And then there's Mrs. Webster, Andrew's mother. The very first time she had dinner with my family, it was right before the wedding, she asked for unsweetened tea. Mama was in the kitchen, thank goodness. I told Mrs. Webster we didn't have any made up without sugar. So she asked for water to “thin it down a little.” I was embarrassed to death until Aunt Kate spoke up real fast. She said, “Around here our tea is like our men, sweet and strong.”

See why I don't tell Andrew about Sarah's vet? And to be honest, I enjoy knowing things Andrew doesn't. Like with Aunt Kate's new boyfriend.

Andrew didn't find out about that till Sunday dinner. It had been going on almost a week by then. That was July, already hot as August. Thought I'd have a light dinner—just ham, potato salad, rolls, corn on the cob, tomatoes, blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream. Sarah and Jack brought little Sammy. He was about three months old then. That cute stage when they have a little more backbone and aren't so jerky. Scarlet and Charlotte made a big fuss over him and wanted to hold him but Daddy wouldn't let them. He held Sammy the whole time. Sarah seemed comfortable enough, but Jack watched Daddy like a hawk.

I have to tell you, Daddy's really blossomed since this spring. With little Sammy around and his own vegetable garden, he came back to life. It was good to see him digging around in the dirt again, burying seeds, watching them break, grow, leaf out. He gets real satisfaction sharing with all of us and having me cook up his vegetables for Sunday dinner. There's just one thing about Daddy's garden I didn't like—I guess you could say I've come to hate. That's canning and freezing all that stuff Daddy hauls into the kitchen. I don't see how Mama stood it. I don't mind boiling a little of this and bagging a little of that. But, my Lord! Daddy comes dragging these bushel baskets full of green or orange or yellow stuff and says “Donna Jean, this needs to go into the freezer today,” or “Donna Jean, these would make some fine pickles,” or “Do what you want with these. I just grow 'em, but I sure hate to see 'em go to waste.”

Getting back to the “subject at hand,” as Andrew would say, it was Sunday dinner in July before he knew about Kate's new boyfriend. Andrew kept looking around the table. “What you need?” I asked.

“Kate,” he said.

“What? You need Aunt Kate?” I couldn't help laughing. I looked at Sarah and she laughed too. Daddy was busy watching Sammy and Jack was busy watching Daddy.

“I mean—where is Kate?” he said. “She hasn't missed a Sunday dinner in over a year.”

Sarah and I quit laughing but we couldn't help smiling. For just an instant, I heard the theme to “Bonanza” humming around in my head.

“What is it?” Andrew asked. “What are you two smiling about?”

“Sarah, how about helping Daddy to some ham and potato salad since he's all tied up with Sammy.” I pushed the rolls toward Andrew, “Why don't you start these?”

“I always start the rolls,” he said. “You don't have to say that every Sunday.” I thought I saw that little muscle in his jaw twitch. He reached for a roll and tore it in two with more force than was necessary. “Now what's your and Sarah's secret about Kate?”

“New boyfriend,” I said, helping myself to a roll. I tore mine in two, gently so as not to ruin the consistency, just like I was tearing sliced bread. The halves separated perfectly. It's all in the wrists. Then I spread on a little butter. Actually it's fake butter that's fake margarine, all whipped and colored so that it looks better than the real thing. They say it's better for you. I'm not so sure.