The Blue Cotton Gown (35 page)

I’ll move to the country alone. I could do it. Get a little house at the edge of Milton, become a photographer or open a flower shop. I’m sick of this worry and I’m sick of Tom Harman closing himself off, avoiding problems, telling me over and over that everything will be all right. It’s not all right! I back down the narrow lane, barely missing a white pickup truck, and turn toward Torrington.

At Riverside Park I drag out my bike and pull on my bike gloves and nylon jacket. I decide to forget my helmet. Who gives a damn? The air smells like rain again, and there’s a line of towering gray clouds building up in the west. From the corner of my eye I see a distant flash of lightning. Unusual, the lightning, this time of year. Then I push off with no particular mission but to ride as far and as fast as I can until dark. To ride off this anger. To ride off this fear. I ratchet the gears down and lean into the wind.

I’m calmer now, concentrating on the rhythm of my breathing, the rhythm of the pedals going around and around. I see dogwoods in bloom, graceful, white four-petaled flowers blowing against the dark foliage, and the sun slanting in under the clouds. There’s no birdsong, no voices, but the smell of the rain is still miles away. I’m riding through a green tunnel shut off from the world.

The trail is abandoned, and I like it that way; no jock bikers, wandering college students, or rugrats on tricycles. Good thing. I’d be likely to run them down, the mood that I’m in. I ride hard with my head down, concentrating on speed, imagining I’m in a race with other middle-aged women. The fans cheer me on as I make gains on the female in front of me.

Behind, there’s a low, distant rumble. When I look back, mountains of black thunderheads are massing on the horizon, with the sun setting crimson and gold underneath. For a moment, I stop to stare at the spectacle. It’s bad weather coming, but a long way off. I ride on past the waterfalls, carved into the stone on the hillside, swollen now and dashing down to the river. I fly past the lumberyard and the boat ramp where the Jefferson spills over the banks. Then the tops of the trees begin to bend.
Maybe the storm’s not so far off,
I think, but keep riding.

It just isn’t worth it, living this way. Life is too short. I think of Nila and Kaz, changing boldly, living their dreams. I think of Trish and Holly and Rosa, crying in the night for their children, then ris-ing at dawn each day to go on. I ride harder. It’s getting dark fast. Lightning flashes again, this time closer. The whole trail lights up. I count the seconds, “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—” then thunder cracks. I lower the gears and push harder, struggle forward. The mass of gray storm clouds is gaining

on me.

When the rain finally comes, it’s a sprinkle at first, but the sky lights up almost purple, and thunder booms at the same time. I’ve ridden in rain before, but the temperature’s dropping fast. Then the storm breaks for real, big drops, almost hail.

I pull under an oak and wipe my face on the back of my bike glove. In the darkness I can’t see anything but huge forks of lightning through a sheet of water. The sky flickers like strobe lights, white then red. I’m soaking wet and freezing. I’m exposed near a river in a lightning storm, holding a metal bike, standing under the

only tall tree around. This doesn’t sound smart. Thunder rolls up through the valley again.

Now lightning is attacking the earth, as in a continuous war zone. Branches fly past like shrapnel. Nothing has hit me, but something will if I don’t find shelter. Before me is five miles of trail to the gazebo near the lumberyard, but it’s six miles back to town and my Civic, and to get there I’ll have to go through the eye of the storm. I make my decision.

Now I’m riding hard directly into the wind with my head low, wishing I’d worn my bike helmet. If this is a cloudburst, I’ve never seen anything like it. Each time I pass a waterfall, roaring over the path, I think of flash floods. Dead leaves and mud have plugged up the culverts. Water pours like a stream down the bike trail.

Near the boat ramp I narrowly avoid breaking my neck where a tree has blown over in front of me. As I struggle to find a way through the branches, my slacks catch on a branch and rip up to my knee, but this is the least of my worries. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go but forward.

Then I’m riding again, riding through the most frightening elec-trical storm I’ve ever been exposed to. My life is a mess, and I’m risking it because of a quarrel. Nothing will change by my running away, not my husband or our financial situation. Not the threat of lawsuits, the abuse of women and girls, or the loss of young life to drugs.

A gust of wind almost pushes me over. I pedal harder, trying to stay upright. Then a branch flies by and I fall. I’m sliding down the ravine on my side toward the river. My bike is on top of me and my face in the mud. I scrabble for a foothold, grab at blackberry vines and multi-floral roses, tearing my hands on the thorns. Then I stop. My shoulder is braced against a sapling on the 70-degree slope.

For a minute I just lie there, assessing the damage. My knee hurts like hell and is bleeding, but my four limbs still work. My shoulder sears where it rests against the young maple that broke my slide.

The Jefferson River roars ten feet below me. Thunder growls up the valley again, shaking the earth.

I carefully roll on my back, staring into the strange dark violet sky, and smile. My life is a mess, but no worse than others’. And my marriage? Maybe not perfect. I picture the gob of mayo sliding down Tom’s silk Beatles tie. Not perfect.

I am so
hyperreactive,
so quick to respond. Tom is so calm, so

overly
calm, but we fit together. At the first sign of trouble, I go into battle, brandishing words like a sword. He hunkers down to assess the danger, plan a strategy, or wait the enemy out. While I am planning my route of escape, he is steadily moving forward.
Okay
—the words come to me—
I will follow you.
I’m trying to decide if the
you
means Tom Harman or God. If I knew what God was . . . sure, that would be easy.

Tom Harman, a man who trusts; a man whose cup is always half full. Tom Harman, I may not follow you (and if I do, it’s unlikely I’ll be quiet while doing it), but I will go
with you,
through the exulta-tion of birth, the defeat of death, the humiliation of lawsuits. I will go with you.

I rest, looking up into the black branches laced together across the sky, like our marriage. I smell the dirt and the leaves and the nitrogen released in the air and I’m thinking,
This
. . .
this rain is holy water.
Holy water. It washes me clean . . . and for a moment I understand forgiveness.

My marriage is a complicated contra dance. When Tom steps forward, I step back. We aren’t always graceful. We take turns leading. Sometimes neither of us wants to lead and we flounder, almost fall over, but we catch each other and dance on.

The anger is gone, not just at Tom, but at Dr. Burrows, who left us precipitously; at the lawyers and patients who sue; at the screwed-up accountants, Bob Reed and Rebecca; at the IRS. I lie in the mud, not cold or afraid. The universe is endless, without a center and without an edge. We are all little specks in the cosmos, some of us

more damaged than others, most of us trying to do some good on this planet.

The ground beneath me quakes, and when the thunder cracks again, I sit bolt upright, my hair standing on end. I’ve seen this somewhere on television, and it wasn’t a cartoon. When your hair stands on end you are in imminent danger of being struck by lightning. Frightened, I rise, blood dripping down my leg, and pull my bike up the steep slope, amazed at my strength. I climb on again and push forward into the storm.

It may be the ozone, but I’m feeling great. Even the gash on my leg doesn’t hurt. My troubles, like the lightning, strike before and be-hind me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m exultant, dancing on a ridge in the moonlight, swimming naked in the lake by starlight. I’m riding through the worst storm I’ve ever been in, by no light.

I could be struck dead tonight, but it doesn’t matter. The lightning flashes again. The thunder cracks at the same instant, and for a minute I’m sightless. I tip my head back into the rain and I don’t stop laughing.

I keep riding, blind, going on faith that the trail is still there.

ackno wledgments

This book is dedicated to my patients, and I thank them for their re-silience, their courage, and their willingness to share.

I thank too my early readers, who assured me that these tales needed to be told; my many midwife colleagues for inspiration; my staff and coworkers who make each workday fun; my writing con-sultant, Dorothy Wall, who encouraged me to make my words sing; my agent, Barbara Braun, and her team for their endless enthusiasm; my editor, Helene Atwan, for her faith in the project and firm yet gentle suggestions; and the wonderful, hard-working professionals at Beacon Press who showed me that writing the memoir is just the beginning of making a book.

I want also to thank my family for allowing me to tell our story. Mica, Orion, Zen, and Tom, my husband and partner, who is the bravest, steadiest, most optimistic man I know—my metronome. There’s a debate going on about the state of health care in the United States. Everyone agrees the system is in crisis. Meanwhile, health-care providers, physicians, nurses, nurse-midwives, nurse-practitioners, and physician’s assistants—along with their loyal staff—soldier on. To those who devote their lives to healing, let us

all give thanks.

And finally to you, dear reader, a reminder: In the darkest hour of the night, as you walk the floors with troubles on your heart, remember, you are not alone.