Amanda Bright @ Home (33 page)

“Thanks.”

“Can you talk?”

“Sure. I have to fetch the kids shortly but I’ve got a minute.”

He lowered his voice furtively. “I’ve finally got some good news. I didn’t want to say anything to you—I didn’t want to get your hopes up or anything, but …”

Amanda heard someone knock on his door.

“Wait a sec.” He placed his hand over the receiver and a muffled exchange took place.

“I’m sorry, but now I have to call you back. Will you be there?”

“Bob!”

“I can’t help it—what time can I call you back? I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, so it will have to be after that.”

“I’ll probably be picking up the children by then—and I was going to take them to Rockville. There’s a sale on baby equipment. I should be home by four-thirty.”

“I’ll be in another meeting. It’ll have to wait until I get home.”

“Now you’ll have me dying of curiosity all afternoon!”

“I’ll try to get home early. Gotta go.”

Amanda crossed the icy parking lot carrying Sophie on one hip with Ben tugging on her other arm. To Amanda,
the kid outlet
, as the ten-foot letters screamed, was a hateful convenience—a noisy, ill-serviced warehouse packed with inventory and jammed into a strip mall—but to her children, its automatic doors opened onto the riches of Aladdin’s cave.

“I’m going to the Space Rangers aisle
first
.”

“Stop pulling, Ben. We’re going to slip. And watch for cars.”

Once inside, Amanda took a cart and tried to orient herself. She felt another headache building, and she wanted to get her shopping over as quickly as possible.

“This is our plan, kids,” she said, lifting Sophie into the child’s seat and restraining Ben from a display of marked-down Christmas ornaments. “Mommy has some things to get for the baby. If you both behave—”

“I want—”

“Shh! Let Mommy finish. If you both behave, I’ll buy you
one treat
each—a
small
one—but only when I’ve got what I need. Understood?”

“Dollies!”

“No—Space Rangers!”

Amanda heaved the cart in what she guessed was the direction of the baby equipment, trying to sort out what it was she needed. The pain in her left temple was increasing. She turned down one aisle, which dead-ended at a wall of party favors.

“This isn’t it.”

“Can I get these, Mom?” Ben reached for a package of ghoulish rubber skeletons.

“No, Ben! Not till I’m finished!”

She craned her head over the racks to look for a sign. Distantly—it seemed a quarter mile away, through a maze of bicycles and toy aisles—Amanda saw what appeared to be a painted icon of a baby above some cribs.

“Let’s try over there.”

She wheeled the cart back around and pushed it through an area in which every package, shelf, and bit of plastic was fuchsia. Her right temple now chimed in with pain, like the wind instruments joining in the overture of strings. Sophie strained in her seat, her hands grasping at every glittering box.

“Printheth! I want the printheth! Oh, Mommy, there’s a
car
for dolly—I want the car!”

Ben, for the moment, had gone blind. “Let’s hurry,” he said impatiently.

They came to the baby section. Amanda hesitated, unsure where to start. The bassoons were now kicking in, along with the timpani and bass. A car seat was what she needed—she remembered that much despite the booms going off in her head—and she paced back and forth, trying to decide which of the many car seats, chaotically arranged, seemed best for its price (
all 40% off as marked!
). This one was $49.99, but looked complicated to install; here was one for $59.99, but its pattern resembled vomit. Come to think of it, that might hide a lot—wait, here was a plain blue one, for $63.99, but she couldn’t figure out where the seat belt attached …

“Mom,
c’mon
.”

“Don’t rush me, Ben. Please. Remember our deal.”

Sophie was squirming in the cart. “Let me out! Let me out!”

Perhaps Amanda should get a clerk to help her—but there was no clerk in sight. She lifted Sophie down, and the little girl shot off toward a cradle.

“Stay with me, kids—don’t run away—”

A sudden stab in Amanda’s side joined in concert with her head. It was the same pain from the night of the curry, the same pain from lunch, but worse, much worse. Her vision grew watery. She stumbled toward a rocking chair—
solid pine buy right away in stock!
—and slumped in it.

“Mom!”

“Just a
second
, Ben.”

And a new diaper bin. She needed a new diaper bin. Along with the car seat. And another stroller, just a cheap one … Amanda tried to rock herself in the chair but with every motion, the pain grew worse. Nursery music crackled over a loudspeaker. It worked its way into the rhythms of her headache like an organ-grinder accompanying the grand instruments of the parade. The lights suddenly seemed too bright. Why were the lights so bright? Now it felt as if someone were jabbing a burning poker into her skull, stoking her brain. The edges of her vision started to curl and blacken. Orange sparks flew in front of her eyes.

“Mom!”

She knew that it was Ben’s voice, but she couldn’t answer. It was too far away.

“Mommy!” Sophie was crying, but she too was far away.
I’m sorry, darling, Mommy can’t help you right now
. A hot fissure ripped up Amanda’s side, thrusting her forward onto the floor. She gasped; her tongue lolled out; it tasted the filth of the linoleum. The floor felt cool but not cool enough. The flames were leaping higher, she could not breathe …

Distantly Amanda heard the loudspeaker, cutting off the nursery music. It said, “Emergency. Aisle ten. Emergency. Aisle ten.”

Inexplicably, Bob is here. But where is here?

The orchestra of pain still plays in her head, but it is muted, everything is muted, it is as if she is lying deep inside a cave and voices reach her as echoes. Through the darkness of the cave she can see a round opening leading to the outside, and filling this opening is Bob’s face.

His brown eyes look worried. He is saying something to her.

“You were unconscious.”

“You collapsed in a store.”

“We’re at the hospital now.”

“They’ve given you some painkillers.”

His words float to her, bounce off the walls of the cave. She does not comprehend them. She must play them again. The rewind takes effort. All she wants to do is to block out the light and drift off to sleep in the nice peaceful darkness. But there is Bob’s face. If she blocks out the light, she will block him out. Blinking, she draws nearer to the entrance of the cave, and as she does so, the lights grow more intense and she hears other noises and other voices. Hospital noises. Doctors’ voices.

“Blood pressure is one eighty over one twenty. It’s not stabilizing.”

“Clear signs of toxemia—”

“I’ve administered magnesium sulfate.”

“The patient is severely anemic.”

“Have we got the blood work back?”

“It shows bleeding in the liver.”

“Let me see.”

“We need another ultrasound.”

Something is very wrong, but Amanda does not have the strength to ask what. The only thing she understands is Bob’s face, and Bob’s face is so troubled. He is trying not to look troubled. He is trying to smile at her, but his eyes don’t change, only the shape of his mouth.

Please, please tell me
. Somehow she transmits the question to him.

“We’re waiting for some tests to come back. It looks like you have a pretty bad case of toxemia, but they’re treating it. You’re in good hands. Everything will be fine.”

He anticipates, too, her next question. “Ben and Sophie are fine. They’re down the block, at Marjorie’s. It’s all taken care of.”

This is good news. She takes a few steps back from the edge of the cave, but pauses. There is something else, something else that is wrong, but she can’t remember what it is. Then it comes to her.

“The baby?” she manages to say ever so faintly.

Bob’s lips straighten. His words don’t flow so easily.

“The doctors are discussing right now what to do. They may have to operate. We’ll know in a little bit. Just rest, sweetheart, don’t worry. I’m here.”

Yes, Bob is here, she tells herself, and she drifts off under his watch as if in the shade of a mighty tree. He rests his head near hers on the pillow, and she is soothed by the gentle rustle of his breath. She does not know how long she sleeps. She is wakened by another sharp pain in her right side, and a loud familiar voice entering the room.

“Where is my client?”

Amanda opens her eyes. She finds if she shifts the aperture of the cave slightly, she can see a battery of machines—a frightening mass of wires and computer screens, each displaying a moving pattern—and beyond them, the blurry figure of Sarah Blumstein surrounded by doctors.

“Are you her obstetrician?”

“I’m her
midwife
. I got here as soon as I could—you sure as hell took your time calling me.”

Bob rises, and Amanda instantly feels the loss of his presence beside her. The cave is open and exposed. She wants him back. She hears his voice—it’s too far away!—talking to Sarah.

Sarah’s face now fills the mouth of the cave.

“Amanda, hon, I’m sorry about all this … It seems to have happened so quickly. Toxemia can do that … Never seen a case as bad as this before … They don’t want me in the room—male doctors!—but I’ll be right here, okay? … I’ll be just outside in the waiting area, so Bob and you can consult with me when you need to. Everything will be fine, okay, Amanda? …”

Her face vanishes, and is replaced by Bob’s. He looks serious and tries to speak slowly, and as he does he grips her hand, the one without tubes stuck in it.

“They want to deliver the baby right away, Amanda.”

This does not make sense. The baby is not ready to come out.

“It’s—it’s our best hope. They think the baby is strong enough—and they’re going to give you some more blood to make you strong enough and then—they’re going to put you under general anesthesia. You won’t feel anything—”

Bob’s voice falters. “But I’m here, Amanda, I’m always here. You’ll be asleep—for a long time, maybe even for a day or two, they can’t say—but I’m not leaving your side, except when they operate—I’m not leaving your side.”

She nods. She has heard everything that matters.

The doctors start fussing around her. They inject fluids into the tubes. Someone fastens what feels like a clamp on her nose, and air begins pumping into her nostils. Her body gradually lightens, as if she is levitating slightly above the bed.

Throughout this, Bob holds her hand; he tethers her to him. So long as she is tethered to that hand, she knows she will be okay. She clings to his hand as she clings to the present moment; that’s all there is now, the present moment, but it, too, contains everything. It is here, it is this person, it is this life they have created, it is this life struggling within her, it is this love …

She yearns to convey this to him, but she can’t speak. She tries to tell him with her eyes, this surge of everything, but they are moving her away. His fingers loosen but remain locked in hers, and he keeps up alongside, with all the equipment swinging around her, the doctors shouting; past the nursing station, past the masked faces in the corridor; past closed doorways and empty gurneys to the operating theater where other masked figures are waiting and the bed veers suddenly and stops.

“I’m sorry—you can’t go beyond here,” she hears a voice say, and Bob lets go of her fingers. The doors swing shut and her last glimpse of him is through a porthole, watching.

He will be watching, she tells herself, he will always be there, and this thought sustains her as a man wrapped in green sheets introduces himself as the anesthesiologist and prepares to make a fresh hole in her arm. The doctors chatter, but she understands not a word, it is talk about levels and numbers. She can still feel the touch of Bob’s hand in hers.

“You can start the anesthesia.”

There is an icy sensation in her arm, and then her body is awash with a feeling of pure joy such as she has never known. The joy touches every point in her; it races through her veins to her fingertips and toes; it floods her heart; it breaks into the darkness of the cave and for a moment illuminates her entire being.

The words come back to her, the words she could not tell Bob.
There is this moment, there is this person, there is this love, there is this life. That’s all there is, and it is … enough.

Chapter Twenty

LIGHT FALLS on boxes. A whole city of them, arranged as if by some mad municipal planner. Towers of cardboard reach to the ceiling of nearly every room. The living and dining rooms are impassable, and only a small allowance has been made for a path up the stairs to the bedrooms, where mattresses and blankets rest directly upon the scuffed floors.

In the middle of what used to be Bob’s and Amanda’s bedroom, a tiny life struggles to make sense of the patterns of sunlight. She lies in the center of the double mattress, her fingers waving abstractedly in the golden beams like a sea anemone, oblivious to the tumult of the ocean’s surface. Down here it is quiet; down here the cool spring breeze through an open window ruffles her silky hair as gently as a passing current.

Close by, as invisible and yet as necessary to the life as air, lies the infant’s mother. Amanda is curled into a semicircle, her legs drawn up protectively around the baby. Half of her mind is attentive to the baby’s cries; the other half drifts in and out of consciousness. The packing has exhausted her, but it is nearly done. She has managed a few boxes a day over the course of two weeks, and if she’d ever fretted that her life was not organized, it was now: virtually every object they possess is categorized, wrapped, and labeled with black marker.

Most of the boxes will follow them to Bothell, Washington. There is a large subgroup of boxes, however, marked for charity—as well as their sofa, kitchen table, and an assortment of old chairs. The new owner of their house, a single professional woman who pronounced everything “totally perfect,” nonetheless plans to gut the place and “open it all up.” Amanda overheard the woman discussing her plans with the real estate agent when they thought she was out of earshot: Ben’s and Sophie’s bedrooms were destined to become part of the “new master suite,” while the kitchen and bathroom would be done over in granite and marble, respectively.