yesterday morning and I am beginning to be
afraid. What if I go into labor and he's not here? What if I have the baby and he
still isn't back? What if he's hurt? What if he's dead? What if I die? These thoughts
chase each other like those weird fur pieces old ladies used to wear around their
necks with the tail in the mouth, circling around until I can't stand one more
minute of it. Usually I like to fret in a whirl of activity; I worry about Henry while
I scrub down the studio or do nine loads of wash or pull three posts of paper. But
now I lie here, beached by my belly in the early evening sun of our backyard
while Henry is out there.. .doing what-ever it is that he is doing. Oh, God. Bring
him back. Now.
But nothing happens. Mr. Panetta drives down the alley and his garage door
screeches open and then closed. A Good Humor truck comes and goes. The
fireflies begin their evening revels. But no Henry.
I am getting hungry. I am going to starve to death in the backyard because
Henry is not here to make dinner. Alba is squirming around and I consider
getting up and going into the kitchen and fixing some food and eating it. But then
I decide to do the same thing I always do when Henry isn't around to feed me. I
get up, slowly, in increments, and walk sedately into the house. I find my purse,
and I turn on a few lights, and I let myself out the front door and lock it. It feels
good to be moving. Once again I am surprised, and am surprised to be surprised,
that I am so huge in one part of my body only, like someone whose plastic
surgery has gone wrong, like one of those women in an African tribe whose idea
of beauty requires extremely elongated necks or lips or earlobes. I balance my
weight against Alba's, and in this Siamese twin dancing manner we walk to the
Opart Thai Restaurant.
The restaurant is cool and full of people. I am ushered to a table in the front
window. I order spring rolls and Pad Thai with tofu, bland and safe. I drink a
whole glass of water. Alba presses against my bladder; I go to the restroom and
when I come back food is on the table. I eat. I imagine the conversation Henry
and I would be having if he were here. I wonder where he might be. I mentally
comb through my memory, trying to fit the Henry who vanished while putting
on his pants yesterday with any Henry I have seen in my childhood. This is a
waste of time; I'll just have to wait for the story from Himself. Maybe he's back. I
have to stop myself from bolting out of the restaurant to go check. The entree
arrives. I squeeze lime over the noodles and scoop them into my mouth. I picture
Alba, tiny and pink, curled inside me, eating Pad Thai with tiny delicate
chopsticks. I picture her with long black hair and green eyes. She smiles and says,
"Thanks, Mama." I smile and tell her, "You're welcome, so very welcome." She
has a tiny stuffed animal in there with her named Alfonzo. Alba gives Alfonzo
some tofu. I finish eating. I sit for a few minutes, resting.
Someone at the next table lights up a cigarette. I pay, and leave.
I toddle down Western Avenue. A car full of Puerto Rican teenagers yells
something at me, but I don't catch it. Back at the ranch I fumble for my keys and
Henry swings the door open and says, "Thank God," and flings his arms around
me.
We kiss. I am so relieved to see him that it takes me a few minutes to realize
that he is also extremely relieved to see me.
"Where have you been?" Henry demands.
"Opart. Where have you been?"
"You didn't leave a note, and I came home, and you weren't here, and I
thought you were at the hospital. So I called, but they said you weren't-"
I start laughing, and it's hard to stop. Henry looks perplexed. When I can say
something I tell him, "Now you know how it feels."
He smiles. "Sorry. But I just-I didn't know where you were, and I sort of
panicked. I thought I'd missed Alba."
"But where were you?"
Henry grins. "Wait till you hear this. Just a minute. Let's sit down."
"Let's lie down. I'm beat."
"Whadja do all day?"
"Laid around."
"Poor Clare, no wonder you're tired." I go into the bedroom and turn on the
air conditioner and pull the shades. Henry veers into the kitchen and appears
after a few minutes with drinks. I arrange myself on the bed and receive ginger
ale; Henry kicks off his shoes and joins me with a beer in hand.
"Tell all."
"Well." He raises one eyebrow and opens his mouth and closes it. "I don't
know how to begin."
"Spit it out."
"I have to start by saying that this is by far the weirdest thing that has ever
happened to me."
"Weirder than you and me?"
"Yeah. I mean, that felt reasonably natural, boy meets girl..."
"Weirder than watching your mom die over and over?"
"Well, that's just a horrible routine, by now. It's a bad dream I have every so
often. No, this was just surreal." He runs his hand over my belly. "I went
forward, and I was really there, you know, coming in strong, and I ran into our
little girl, here."
"Oh, my god. I'm so jealous. But wow."
"Yeah. She was about ten. Clare, she is so amazing-she's smart and musical
and just...really confident and nothing fazed her...."
"What does she look like?"
"Me. A girl version of me. I mean, she's beautiful, she's got your eyes, but
basically she looks a lot like me: black hair, pale, with a few freckles, and her
mouth is smaller than mine was, and her ears don't stick out. She had long curly
hair, and my hands with the long fingers, and she's tall.... She was like a young
cat."
Perfect. Perfect.
"I'm afraid my genes have had their way with her.... She was like you in
personality, though. She had the most amazing presence...I saw her in a group of
schoolchildren at the Art Institute and she was talking about Joseph Cornell's
Aviary boxes, and she said something heartrending about him.. .and somehow I
knew who she was. And she recognized me."
"Well, I would hope so." I have to ask. "Does she-is she-?"
Henry hesitates. "Yes," he finally says. "She does." We are both silent. He
strokes my face. "I know."
I want to cry.
"Clare, she seemed happy. I asked her-she said she likes it." He smiles. "She
said it was interesting!"
We both laugh, a little ruefully at first, and then, it hits me, and we laugh in
earnest, until our faces hurt, until tears are streaming down our cheeks. Because,
of course, it is interesting. Very interesting.
BIRTHDAY
Wednesday, September 5-Thursday September 6, 2001 (Henry is 38, Clare is 30)
Henry: Clare has been pacing around the house all day like a tiger. The
contractions come every twenty minutes or so. "Try to get some sleep," I tell her,
and she lies on the bed for a few minutes and then gets up again. At two in the
morning she finally goes to sleep. I lie next to her, wakeful, watching her breathe,
listening to the little fretful sounds she makes, playing with her hair. I am
worried, even though I know, even though I have seen with my own eyes that she
will be okay, and Alba will be okay. Clare wakes up at 3:30.
"I want to go to the hospital," she tells me.
"Maybe we should call a cab," I say. "It's awfully late."
"Gomez said to call no matter what time it was."
"Okay." I dial Gomez and Charisse. The phone rings sixteen times, and then
Gomez picks up, sounding like a man on the bottom of the sea.
"Muh?" says Gomez.
"Hey, Comrade. It's time."
He mutters something that sounds like "mustard eggs." Then Charisse sets on
the phone and tells me that they are on their way. I hang up and call Dr.
Montague, and leave a message with her answering service. Clare is crouched on
all fours, rocking back and forth. I get down on the floor with her.
"Clare?"
She looks up at me, still rocking. "Henry...why did we decide to do this
again?"
"Supposedly when it's over they hand you a baby and let you keep it."
"Oh, yeah."
Fifteen minutes later we are climbing into Gomez's Volvo. Gomez yawns as he
helps me maneuver Clare into the back seat. "Do not even think of drenching my
car in amniotic fluid," he says to Clare amiably. Charisse runs into the house for
garbage bags and covers the seats. We hop in and away we go. Clare leans
against me and clenches my hands in hers.
"Don't leave me," she says.
"I won't" I tell her. I meet Gomez's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"It hurts," Clare says. "Oh, God, it hurts."
"Think of something else. Something nice," I say. We are racing down Western
Avenue, headed south. There's hardly any traffic.
"Tell me..."
I cast about and come up with my most recent sojourn into Clare's childhood.
"Remember the day we went to the lake, when you were twelve? And we went
swimming, and you were telling me about getting your period?" Clare is
gripping my hands with bone-shattering strength.
"Did I?"
"Yeah, you were sort of embarrassed but also real proud of your-Setf- ?.. You
were wearing a pink and green bikini, and these yellow sunglasses with hearts
molded into the frames."
"I remember-ah!-oh, Henry, it hurts, it hurts!"
Charisse turns around and says, "Come on, Clare, it's just the baby leaning on
your spine, you've got to turn, okay?" Clare tries to change her position.
"Here we are," Gomez says, turning into Mercy Hospital's Emergency
Unloading Zone.
"I'm leaking," Clare says. Gomez stops the car, jumps out, and we gently
remove Clare from the car. She takes two steps and her water breaks.
"Good timing, kitten," Gomez says. Charisse runs ahead with our paperwork,
and Gomez and I walk Clare slowly through ER and down long corridors to the
OB wing. She stands leaning against the nurses' station while they nonchalantly
prepare a room for her.
"Don't leave me," Clare whispers.
"I won't" I tell her again. I wish I could be sure about this. I am feeling cold
and a little nauseous. Clare turns and leans into me. I wrap my arms around her.
The baby is a hard roundness between us. Come out, come out wherever you are.
Clare is panting. A fat blond nurse comes 