The Perils of Pauline (30 page)

On the way to the phone, I peer out the window. My car is buried under a plodge of snow. A major clipper blew in last night, and the
snow is still falling. I grab a broom and, throwing on my boots and coat, I run outside in my nightgown to sweep snow off the hood of the car. By the time I finish clearing the back window, the front is covered again. I should’ve grabbed a hat. My legs are freezing off and my hair is frozen solid. The bottom of my nightgown is stiff with snow. Nothing I can do about it though. The baby is coming.

I have to call Bibienne. Or I could run over to her house to wake her, rather than phone over and rouse her whole household.

I struggle through drifts of snow, and wade around to Bibienne’s side door. I knock and then knock again, harder. No answer. The door is locked. I think my knees are getting frostbite. I thump on the door with my fist.

Lights come on and the door cracks open as far as the chain will allow.

Bernie stares out at me warily, as if I’m offering him a religious pamphlet. Bibienne and all the kids appear behind Bernie. They’re all in their pajamas. The door swings wide; Bernie is clutching a baseball bat. He looks like he would like to use it, even after I tell him the baby is coming.

“Please come quickly, Bibi.” I run back out into the storm. As I race down her driveway, my foot hits an icy patch. My gown flies up, and I flip backwards, crunching down hard on my spine. A sickening little twist curls up my discs.

How peaceful and quiet it is to lie in Bibienne’s driveway in the middle of the night staring up into a flake-filled sky, bare buttocks pressed to the cold ground. I think I’m supposed to go phone somebody. I remember now: the midwife’s name is Janice!
The baby is coming
.
I have to go call Janice.
I limp back to my driveway to find the car socked in under the snow mountain again.

I better hurry and get changed out of my wet gown and make my phone calls. My tailbone hurts like crazy but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I hobble up the stairs to check on Serenity. She’s still in the bathroom, the door is locked and she’s moaning. Loudly. I can hear splashing and thumping sounds.

“Don’t tell me you’re in the bathtub. Are you in the bathtub?”

In a strangled voice she finally answers, “Yes. Where were you?”

“Never mind, can you unlock the door?” No response. Silence. She must be having a contraction.

“Are you all right? Have you paged the midwife?” More silence.

“Serenity?”

“No,” she howls. Then the moaning resumes. Another contraction. That’s, like, barely ten seconds apart.

The midwife number must be listed on Serenity’s phone. I run down to her room to find the phone and scan through the directory. But which entry is it? It’s all coded gobbledygook. There are no entries that could make sense to anyone but Serenity. I find a j on the list and press dial. Jude answers. “Serenity’s in labor. Better come now.” At last I’ve done something right.

I run back down the hall and call through the bathroom door: “Hello? I can’t figure out which one is your midwife’s number.” Serenity is still moaning and unable to speak. Unable to speak through a contraction: I know what that means.

It’s time to panic.

Fine, I can do that.

“You have to unlock the door,” I shout.

It’s quiet in the bathroom. “Are you okay in there?”

The door opens and Serenity emerges, dripping wet. She attempts to wrap a bath towel around her belly and says, “What’s it like when your water breaks?”

“It’s wet when your water breaks.” Kind of like how I feel right now. My nightgown is defrosting, and it’s a real toss-up who is dripping more water on the floor.

Jack comes out of his bedroom, and steps in the puddle around Serenity and me. Now we all have wet feet. “Why are you two yelling so much? What’s going on?” He glares at me. He looks exactly like Donald at this moment.

“The baby is coming. If you want to help, go back to bed.”

He goes downstairs instead, making damp amniotic fluid footprints on the stairs, and turns the television on.

Serenity’s face is white. I hold up the phone. “We have to call your midwife.”

Serenity grabs the phone from my hand, goes into my room and curls up on my bed clutching the phone between her legs. She starts moaning again. I hope she isn’t going to give birth on my prized matelassé bedspread. I kneel beside her and attempt to rub her back.

“Harder!”

“I’m pressing as hard as I can.” Her phone rings between her legs. “Move your leg a tad, Serenity.” I pry the phone out from between her rigid thighs and then her even more rigid fingers. It’s Shae. “I paged Janice. Don’t worry, I’m on the way.”

Serenity grabs the phone, shoves it underneath her ear and bites her lip. Shae must be trying to coach her because she starts screaming into the phone, “Don’t tell me to breathe, Shae. Fuck you, Shae, fuck you, I AM breathing. Are you kidding? It hurts!”

A minute later, the doorbell rings but Serenity gloms onto my arm and screams, “Stay with me.”

A moment later, Bibienne enters the room shaking snowflakes out of her hair. “Bernie’s out there shoveling your drive. But the roads look horrible. I don’t think the midwife is going to be able to get through.”

Just when I’m about to say, “Can this get any worse?”… the power goes out.

Where the hell is Janice? I grab the cell and scan the directory again. It has to be here. There’s a B here. B is for baby. Makes sense. I dial. A sleepy voice answers. It’s Wendy. I apologize for waking her. “I was trying to contact Serenity’s midwife and”… the exactly stupidest thing I could say. “No, wait,” I shout, but it’s too late. Now Wendy is on her way over to help out.

Bibienne takes over massage duty while I go in search of blankets, candles and flashlights. I have to sneak into Olympia’s room to borrow her pink kid flashlight as none of the seven assorted grown-up ones in the emergency storage box have juice.

Serenity doesn’t want blankets, candles or a flashlight. She wants me to massage her back again. She complains that Bibienne’s hands
are too soft and warm. “I like your hands—they’re all cold and bony and that feels awesome.”

I kneel back into position to rub Serenity’s back. My own back is starting to hurt bending over like this. I think my lumbar region was shortened by a couple of vertebrae during the fall. That’s bad news for anyone who is already short-waisted. As it is, I can never wear bolero jackets and sagging boobs are the kiss of fashion death for women like me. This thought reminds me that I’m overdue for a visit to the bra store.

“Mom!”

Apparently I am slacking off. I have to press harder, harder, HARDER. I accept Bibienne’s offer to rub my back while I work on Serenity. We all feel like cheering when Shae comes in. “Janice says she’ll meet us at the hospital. We’re taking the plow.”

Serenity wants me to ride beside her and keep applying the counterpressure. I’ve had no time to change, which means I’m heading to the hospital wearing a soaking wet flannel nightdress, my hockey jacket and boots with no socks. So what? Won’t be the first time.

Halfway to the hospital Serenity turns to Shae and says, “Wait! Turn around! We forgot the birthing bag.”

Oh yes, now I remember, Serenity packed her bag last week and set it beside the door. It contains her slippers and dressing gown plus essential labor aids: her favorite stuffed animals, a selection of gummi candy and chocolate bars, a magnum of Pepsi, and a sleeve of tennis balls in case of back labor.

Shae is disgruntled. “Do you know how hard it is to turn a plow around?”

Serenity responds with equal disgruntling: “Do you know how hard it is to birth a baby?”

By the time we are ushered into a birthing suite, Serenity’s contractions have stopped. I sit in a chair in the corner. The chair is slippery and ergonomically designed to prevent comfort. My back is killing me. Maybe I could ask for a little gas or something. The nurse sets up
a monitor and an IV stand as Janice listens for the baby’s heartbeat. The room grows quiet as everyone focuses on the stethoscope pressing into Serenity’s bump. Janice listens for a long time and, finally, says, “The heartbeat is normal. I’d like to check your cervix now.”

Oh god, poor Serenity, that’s the absolute worst part. I remember the doctor checking my cervix once during a particularly nasty contraction with Jack. The doctor looked like a pirate and his big hairy hand was wider than a plank. He used forceps to jam his fist up there. Then it felt like his fingers turned into five big hooks that ripped straight through my cervix. He tore me open more going in than Jack did coming out.

Janice stops poking around and says, “Your water sac is still intact. It’s probably false labor. Possibly early labor. You might as well go home and rest. It could be days, even weeks, before your baby comes.”

I try to rise but my back is so crippled I can’t stand up straight. I bend over while holding tightly to the arms of my chair. Serenity flings aside her hospital gown and pulls her clothes back on. Together with Shae, the two take my arms and support me over to the ER so I can see a doctor. The nurse shoots me a mean look when she sees my hugely pregnant daughter helping to lower me into a wheelchair.

An x-ray and three prescriptions later, we are back in the plow, heading home. The doctor says I’ve pulled a few muscles; I should rest for a couple of days. Streaks of dawn light up the snow in the driveway as Shae drops us off. The power is back on. In the living room, Wendy is sprawled on the couch, asleep, and Jack and Olympia are owl-eyed in front of the TV. Bibienne helps me upstairs and I crawl into bed.

Zone of Fire: An area into which a designated ground unit or fire support ship delivers, or is prepared to deliver, fire support.

—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

By mid-morning I can barely lift my head, let alone my torso. Even frowning causes pain to ripple up and down my spine. Lying in bed motionless, eyeballs straight and unmoving, is the only way to keep the pain in check.

George keeps me company for a while but eventually he begins to whine and prance back and forth in his I’m Going Straight Downstairs to Pee on the Good Carpet If You Ignore Me dance. Finally he gives up and heads for the stairs. I shout after him, “Jack? Olympia? Anyone? Someone please let George out.” The yelling tortures my back.

Serenity comes up to see what all the racket is about. She says she checked her own cervix first thing this morning. “Janice was wrong. I’m at least four centimeters and halfway effaced,” she says with an indignant lilt in her voice. Then she waddles back down to the kitchen to make me lunch: mini-marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches. They taste so super-scrumptious, I think for a horrified moment I might be pregnant.

Then I remember: it’s impossible to conceive if you haven’t had any sex in what is beginning to feel like forever.

Dozing off and watching daytime television is driving me to distraction. I toss the remote aside and tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling. I’d happily trade in my wrenched spine for a week of Johnny Rotten days. Wendy opened up the store this morning while Shae and Serenity are minding Jack and Olympia. The kids have it all under control.

They have it all under control and they don’t need me.

I have nothing to do but lie here with my thoughts.

I’ve ruined everything. Michael is gone and Donald is gone. My marriage is over. I’ve ruined everything.

Donald is gone. My eyes burn.

Dad’s voice comes into my head:
A good soldier displays tenacity and mental toughness in stressful situations.

I can’t do this anymore. I let the tears roll. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of everything.”

I see Dad, in his full dress uniform, sitting at the end of my bed. His face is gentle.
It’s true you’re down but you aren’t beaten, soldier. And I never said you can’t cry. Soldiers do cry sometimes. It’s good for the heart. My heart gave out but that’s because I ate too much of your mother’s good cooking. Go ahead, cry it out. That’s an order.

“Thanks, Dad.”

You’re welcome.

I reach for the tissue box. I’m going to need all of them. “I miss you, Daddy.”

I miss you too, Kitten. When you’re done with all your snuffling, you know it’s time for you to clean up your act. You can start with the Caddy. Get it back on the road. After you change the oil, don’t forget to buff up the chrome and scrub the whitewalls.

I lift my hand to my forehead in a salute: I promise.

Special Cargo: Cargo that requires special handling or protection, such as pyrotechnics, detonators, watches, and precision instruments.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Two days go by in a haze of muscle relaxers and codeine, and I’m finally able to walk without clinging to the walls and furniture.

I put the kettle on and start wiping counters and loading the dishwasher. I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my dressing gown waiting for the kettle to boil. There’s a tapping at the door. It opens and in comes Donald. Just like that.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I stand up and gesture at my dressing gown. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Donald has a look of concern on his face. “Serenity told me you hurt your back. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s much better now.” I run my hand through my hair, still damp from the shower. The kettle starts whistling. “I’m making tea. Want some?”

Donald shakes his head and sits at the table.

I unplug the kettle and pour water into my mug.

“I turned down Calgary.”

“You did?”

“I told them I want the directorship here. Or forget it.”

“And?”

“I have to meet with the CEO this afternoon. We’ll see.” Donald shrugs. “So, anyway, I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“About us. You and me. Our relationship.”

Holy smokes. Donald said the word relationship. Without mumbling or prompting or careful steering from a couple’s counselor. He has my attention now. “Our relashunship?” Now I’m the one mumbling.

“I guess it wasn’t much of a relationship, was it?”

I shake my head. “No. It wasn’t. Not lately anyway. Definitely more shun than ship.”

I stir the teabag around in my mug with a spoon. We both watch the tea seep into the water. “Well, Donald. What do you want to do?”

Donald leans forward in his chair. “I miss us. I miss you. And I love you.”

I am speechless.

“Calgary was nothing to me without you there. I wasn’t being fair. I know that now. I made some huge mistakes. I am sorry. Maybe it’s too late for us but I’m more than willing to try, if you are.”

“You got my text messages?”

“Yes. I got them. But I already knew. Serenity told me some guy was coming over here. And I opened your suitcase. At that point I almost called a lawyer.” Donald’s face changes to a look of incredulousness. “What the hell was all that crap?”

“What the hell was all that crap with Lindsay?”

Donald stares at the table for a minute and then looks me directly in the eye. “I was an idiot. It’s over.”

“Since when?”

“Since the day I got on the plane to Calgary. That’s the day I realized you were the most important person to me in the world, and that I had screwed everything up.”

I sit and try to digest Donald’s candor. At last. Even though I knew the truth about Lindsay, the words sear. My chest is roiling and sore
and some monstrous thing inside is threatening to engulf me. I don’t know whether to scream at him, throw my mug at his head, or simply accept that we’ve both been idiots. And try to mop up our mess. Why make a bigger mess? I take a gulp of hot tea, and then one gulp of air after another until my breathing slows down again. I think I will hold on to my mug, and hold on to Donald too. “We’re going to have to talk. We have to come clean with each other. It won’t be easy,” I say.

“I know. Maybe we could get a counselor?”

Donald lays his forearms flat on the table and dunks his head down so he can peer up into my eyes. “Do you want to start over? Do you want me to come home?”

And now I really have to finally decide.

And it takes about half a second: “Yes. Come home.”

By the time Donald returns from his meeting, Shae, Serenity, and I have slam-shifted through every sticky gear in the house and brought the place from a full reverse into a nice throaty hum. We cleaned the bathrooms, folded towels, changed all the beds and passed the vacuum. Not because Donald is home, but because Serenity is nesting. It’s too bad this useful urge never kicked in before today but it’s better than nothing. Shae and I are afraid she’ll overdo so we raced around behind her, picking up baskets of laundry and making her sit down for a break every half hour.

We’re chopping the garlic, onions and carrots for stew when Donald comes home. Olympia and Jack leap on him and then he tells them his news: “I got the promotion.”

All through dinner, Donald keeps giving me his Scot’s taber toss face. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking about a taber toss too, and we work in tight accord to hustle Jack and Olympia to bed. He reads them one last story while I slip into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Forgotten on the floor are two sets of wet towels, Jack’s and Olympia’s. I scoop them up and run downstairs to add them to the last
load in the washing machine. For once, I’m all caught up with the laundry and, with the whole house all shiny and ship-shape, I’m determined to try to stay caught up. As I pass through the living room, I straighten all the couch cushions and deliver Jack’s library book to his backpack. Which leads to looking over his daily report. Wow.
Jack had a very good day
is written across the top of his behavior sheet. Then I check Olympia’s backpack, which also lacks alarming notes. I wash out their lunchboxes and set them in the sink to drain. As I wipe a puddle from the counter, the phone rings. It’s Mom: “So Donald is home again, how nice.”

“What? How the …? What color is the dishcloth I’m holding?”

By the time I get back upstairs, Donald is freshly showered and shaved and wearing his favorite bathrobe. I can smell aftershave. He winks at me and whistles into the bedroom. I sashay in after him, close the door, and pull the curtains across both windows, tightly. Donald reaches for me but as he does, I spy his wet towel lying on the carpet in front of the closet door.

“Wait a sec,” I deke away from him and, snatching up the towel, I wave it in front of his nose. “Remind me again why I love you?”

“I’ve got that big fat director’s bank account now, remember, Dollface?”

He flips the towel aside and grabs me, all masterfully, scooping his arms under me to throw me down, but in a gentle way, onto the bed. He leans in to kiss me and I puff up my lips in anticipation. This action is immediately interrupted by a loud rapping on the door, followed by Shae yelling, “It’s time. Her water broke. See you at the hospital.”

As Donald and I step through the double doors of the birthing wing, we can already hear Serenity: she’s somehow yelling and swearing and moaning all at once. We hurry down the hall and three tennis balls come rolling and bouncing out through an open door. “Keep those stupid fucking balls away from me,” she screams and through the door I can see Serenity pacing up and down the room. Between
tears and gasps of breath she says, “Shae, my ass hurts. A lot. Call the anesthetist now. I need drugs. I need drugs.”

Janice is waving a blood pressure cuff. “Serenity, listen to me. You have to calm down. I need to check your vitals first before we can give you anything.”

“No!”

Serenity stops pacing, bends over, clutches her knees and bawls: “Here comes another one. Fuuuuck ….”

Shae reaches out to rub her back. Serenity screams, “Don’t touch me.”

Janice slips up beside Serenity and deftly wraps the cuff around her arm while donning her stethoscope. A nurse is adjusting the dials on a heart monitor machine; she has an IV pole and a tray of scissors and syringes and she looks like she means business. As soon as the contraction ends, while Serenity is still huffing, they hustle her over to the bed and get her to sit. She looks up, sees me and tries to get up. “Mom!”

“Hey, baby. I’m here.”

The business-like nurse glares at us, holds up her hand and says, “Are you family?”

“That’s my daughter.”

“Then you better go find the change rooms and get gowned up.”

By the time I get back in the room, I find Serenity leaning over the back of a chair, chewing on Shae’s arm. Janice studies the screen of a handheld Doppler, which she’s pressing into the side of Serenity’s bump. As the contraction ends, Serenity pants for breath. “I want an epidural now,” she shrieks, wild-eyed.

From the look of Shae’s arm, covered in bite marks, I can tell she’s in almost as much pain and may need an epidural too.

Janice looks up from the Doppler screen, smiles at me and says, “She’s almost fully dilated. Baby is doing fine.”

Within a minute or two, Serenity howls and bends over again. I can tell she’s having a huge contraction by the way she’s bearing down on Shae’s arm and Shae’s eyes are bulging out.

I time the contraction on my watch. It lasts almost two minutes. When it ends, Serenity clings to Shae and closes her eyes. She’s swaying with exhaustion but refuses to sit or lie down. Shae holds her upright. I find a damp washcloth and dab gently at her forehead. Her hair is damp with sweat. Soon her face contorts again and she begins to moan, this time in a deep growl of pain. She hangs onto Shae’s neck and lets Jude rub her back this time. Jude is careful to keep his limbs away from Serenity’s teeth.

Janice crouches between Serenity’s legs and, with two gloved hands, reaches up to massage Serenity’s perineum.

“Those huge contractions are doing the job. Your baby’s head is almost down,” she says straightening up as the contraction ends. “Are you feeling an urge to push yet?”

Serenity keeps her eyes closed and shakes her head. Janice reaches into her bag and pulls out a small three-legged stool saying, “This is a birthing stool. Do you want to try it?”

Serenity opens her eyes and shouts, “No! Get that thing away from me. I don’t need it. I’m going home now.” She throws off the hospital gown and turns toward a chair where she has piled her clothes. Shae picks the gown up from the floor and says, “You can’t go now, the baby is coming.”

“I don’t want to have a baby. I want to go to sleep.” At this she takes a step toward the bed and then stops, a look of sheer confusion upon her face. She looks at me and opens her mouth to say something but then goes ooohhhhhhh and sinks into a deep squat. Janice snatches up the birthing chair and shoves it under her while Shae slides in close to support her from behind. Within seconds, Janice is masked, gloved, and kneeling, her head bent way down to see, her cheek grazing the floor. She continues massaging the perineum and coaching: “You can push now, but go easy Serenity. Just think, out like butter, that’s it, beautiful, you’re doing great.”

I race from the room, down to the lounge where Donald is waiting with Jack and Olympia, watching TV: “If you guys want to see the baby being born, you better come now.”

Jack and Olympia come running, slipping masks over their mouths. They both have cans of root beer in their hands. They perch on the edge of the window-sill and look on like they’re watching an action-adventure movie. Without taking their eyes off Serenity, they occasionally push the masks up to sip from their cans of pop. All they need is a bowl of popcorn.

I’m holding my breath with each push. Serenity’s face is screwed up into a tight ball of concentrated pain and power.

Donald catches my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back.

We can see the baby’s head bulging, wet and urgent, and Serenity gives one more primitive groan, and in one long push out comes a chubby peach with vigorously waving arms and legs. Everyone pretends not to see the girly bits and holds their breath as Janice holds the baby up for Serenity to see. “It’s a girl,” Serenity announces. “See, I knew it all along.”

And then the chubby peach opens its tiny mouth and lets out an indignant squawk. I know what she’s saying. She’s saying: “Hey ya, you don’t know nothing, nohow, anymore, know what I’m sayin’, Mommycakes? Now go buy me a pink pony.”