BEST BOOK BITE... ABOUT FAMILY & LOVE

(...)

 

She took another sip and repeated in a choppier tone, “Well, do you want to or not?”

“Come on, already. What do you have in there, Mom?”

“Hush, now.” She looked in the direction of the front door. “Living room has ears, you know.” She tried to wiggle her ears, making pretty much everything else wiggle instead.

“What?” I leaned back and took another sip, eyeing the crazy woman I call Mom.

“Okay, let me put it this way; Dad’s watching the Seahawks DVD I got him, and we didn’t have time to catch up last night, so, um, I thought we could, you know?” She looked at me and nodded down at the housecoat pocket, patting her hand on it. “Letter. In. Here,” she explained, with pride in her voice like a cat that just caught the only mouse in the house.

 “For real?” I could already feel the excitement mix in with the smooth feeling of caffeine and sun on my face.

She nodded. I guess she was even more nuts than me.

“But Dad?” I pointed toward the living room window.

“Bacon and Seahawks. Need I say more?”

“Nope.”

While looking over her shoulder, she pulled the letter out and placed it in my hand. “You read,” she said, nodding at the cup in her hand.

I unfolded the letter and started reading with my quiet voice.

 

June 1981.

 

Frederick, I still can’t believe it. I still can’t believe that I’m...

 

I stopped reading out loud and looked up at Mom. I had already read the next few lines.

“What?” she said, eyes the size of donuts.

I looked down at the words again and swallowed. “She’s, um, pregnant. Eight weeks.” I looked up to gauge Mom’s reaction.

“Pregnant?” Mom cried as she jumped down from the fence, spraying herself with black coffee. “Pregnant?” she repeated, this time a little less loud. “How wonderful,” she gasped. She set her cup on the table and sat down next to me on the bench, smiling. She pulled down the big fuzzy housecoat hood and leaned back. “Go on, read more,” she pleaded.

 

I’m pregnant. Eight weeks today. Writing it on paper right now makes me feel both happy and scared at the same time. Dr. Griffith called me this afternoon and had me come to the office for yet another blood test (I’m almost a pro now; I even watch when they insert the needle). When I was done at the lab, he came by and suggested we do a sonogram. Boy, was I taken by surprise! I mean here I thought I was only going in for some blood work, and then all of a sudden I find myself lying there. And there it was—a tiny little pulsating dot. It felt like someone had punched me hard, right in the stomach, and everything went black from there. When I got my senses back I could hear Mom sobbing behind me. At that point I had actually forgotten that she was there with me. See, I had called her only a few hours earlier and asked her to pick me up since I was too anxious to drive. It had been raining the entire morning and when driving down to the hospital, out of nowhere, the sun came out (here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo. John, I think?) leaving a beautiful rainbow behind. Mom almost crashed into the truck in front of us. “It’s a sign,” she said and grabbed my hand. I know Mom has been very skeptical about this whole fertility business, but I guess something changed after that night at the Italian restaurant… Remember? I told you about it not long ago. The night when I finally sat down and told Mom and Dad everything—about all of those long and hard years of us trying to become pregnant, all the years and cycles when it just wasn’t God’s will (to use Mom’s words) to bless us with little feet. And I explained to them that we now, thanks to advanced technology, had been blessed in another way. I told her that my gynecologist had referred us to a colleague from Boston who’s conducting a fertility study, looking for couples having infertility issues like us. Well, finally I think they understood. She says she just wants me to be happy. And I think she really supports the idea now (even if it is “playing God”). Maybe she supports it even more now with Dad being sick and all. Poor Dad. He looks okay, but you can already tell he has great difficulties doing even the simple stuff like opening up a container of milk. And he is in pain all the time, though he never complains about it. You know Dad. Oh, it breaks my heart so much, even though my heart has never been happier. Isn’t it just weird how the heart can be both happy and sad at the same time? It’s almost like half of the heart (the happy half) is overruling the other half in order to survive. And I am so happy. I am pregnant, and this time there is actually a little heartbeat to prove it! Again, I finally dare to believe in those three magical words: I am pregnant. I own those words now. Mom is already planning what to get for the baby. She is even talking about throwing a huge baby shower at her house, pink ribbons and all, but I have told her to hold the horses for a while. We are not there yet, but we are as close as we have ever been. Oh, Frederick, words are not even enough right now to describe how I feel. Call you later just to hear your voice and to tell you all about the ultrasound. Wish you could have seen the little dot—the most beautiful tiny dot in the world.

 

Love you, my second (better) half.

Martha.

 

I folded the letter and looked at Mom. She was still wearing the hood, almost disappearing in the big old fuzzy housecoat. “They are having a baby. Isn’t this just wonderful?” she mumbled from inside the housecoat. I could tell she was on the verge of crying. She peeked out and moved closer to me. “Come here, my big baby.” She wrapped her arm around my waist and leaned against me. “Go get another one. Just one!” She wiped her nose in the purple housecoat and looked up at me.

I nodded. “Okay. One!” I got up and tiptoed all the way to my room—destination mailbox—and grabbed a few letters. On my way back down the hallway, I took a peek at Dad, who was sitting with his back to me in the living room. As always, he was having a conversation with one of the NFL commentators.

“Come on now. He was way out of line. I totally disagree. What do you have to say about that?” Obviously, the commentator had no comments. Dad grabbed a piece of bacon and pointed at the screen. “Well, I guess that says it all, right there.”

I smiled and looked at the little curls on the back of his neck. If he only knew what we were up to. I looked down at the letters in my hand and took a deep breath. “No comments,” I quietly whispered to the back of his neck as I closed the front door behind me.

Mom was pouring herself another cup of coffee while blowing her nose—this time in a proper napkin. “Coffee?” she said, holding out the thermos.

“Yes, please.”

She grabbed my cup and poured. “I’m not quite sure whether it’s from this morning or last night,” she said, laughing.

“What?” I looked at the thermos and covered my mouth. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I shook my head.

“It’s not really that cold,” she said, like it was a good thing. I shook my head again and grabbed the top letter and waved it in front of her.

“It’s a Martha letter.”

“You read again, please,” she said as she disappeared in her house coat again. I nodded and cleared my throat.

 

Seattle, June 1981.

 

Dear Hubby,

 

I didn’t want to worry you when we spoke so briefly on the phone this morning (my time) but I have been spotting a little so I went to see Dr. Griffith. And I’m just fine. I feel fine and happy, so I guess there’s nothing more to it. He says a lot of pregnant women will experience some kind of minor bleeding during their pregnancies and there is nothing to worry about. Mom comes around every other day with freshly squeezed orange juice. She says it’s good for me and the baby. She has almost put me on bed rest. I keep telling her I’m only ten weeks pregnant and it’s a bit too early for bed rest. Anyway, we’re both fine. How strange to write this on paper; “we” as in a different version of “we.” I don’t think I quite fully understand that there is a little Frederick or Martha Junior on its way. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in all of my life. Can you believe it’s going to be a winter baby? My favorite season.

 

I stopped reading and looked at Mom all curled up in her housecoat. The coffee stains had formed a nice pattern on the upper part. It almost looked like it had been done on purpose—like one of Mom’s old tie-dyed t-shirts.

“Mom?” I couldn’t see her face, let alone the beginning or the end of her. She was one big purple cotton flannel ball. “Mom?”

She turned and gave me an intense look, her eyes darker than usual. “It’s just … it’s so weird, you know. Sometimes her letters are so ... so me,” she said in a hushed voice.

“I know.” I looked down at the words. Even the choice of words had that feeling of Mom—the feeling of being present. I smiled. “I know.”

“Just go on.”

“But that’s pretty much it. Well, there is the usual ‘Love Martha. Miss you, yada yada yada.’” I peeked inside of the housecoat. “I guess that’s it, Mom.”

“Read the next then.”

“One more?”

She nodded. “We can’t let this go now. We need to know about Martha, about the baby.”

I nodded and grabbed the next letter and started to read, but before I had even read the first line out loud, I had already jumped down to the next three terrible lines. I stopped and looked at Mom. I didn’t want to read this out loud. I couldn’t.

“Is it that bad?” She took off the hood and looked at me like she already knew.

I nodded. I looked down at the words again. How could a few tiny italicized letters be so powerful, so hurtful?

“Come here, give it to me. I’ll read it.”

I gave her the letter and moved closer to her, close enough to see Martha’s elegant handwriting.

“Oh God.” Mom gasped. “Oh God, she lost it.” She looked up. Tears were already welling in her eyes.

“I know.” I looked down at the words I had just read myself. “I know.” She sat up straight and cleared her throat and whispered, “Let’s read it. We have to.” I nodded.

 

Dear Frederick,

 

I don’t know how to break it to you. I really tried this morning on the phone, but my voice and my heart just weren’t strong enough. I lost the baby. I lost our baby. Oh God, I wish this wasn’t the truth, but it is, and I have no words to describe how I feel and can’t imagine how you must feel right now. Please come home soon. I can’t stand to be so far away from you. Not now. This is going to be my shortest letter ever, forgive me for that and forgive me for bringing you such bad news and so few words. Talk to you later. If you call later and I can’t speak, you will know why.

 

Love you.

 

Come home.

 

Carefully, Mom folded the letter and slid it into the housecoat pocket. Her voice was still barely audible. “Poor Martha.” She sighed. “I just wish I could have been there for her, but I can’t. I couldn’t. I mean I was like…” She stopped to wipe her nose. She looked at me and forced a smile. “It’s kind of silly, really. I would have been ten or something back then.”

I nodded and thought that even at the age of ten, I was sure Mom would have wanted to help anyway. She always does.

She nodded. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking; I’m that old.” She rolled her eyes at me.

I smiled. “I wasn’t thinking anything,” I said, lying. I was thinking about all of those times Mom had gone through this herself, and how I had never really understood or even showed her—as I got older—that I was sorry, too. I guess, at some point, Mom’s miscarriages had just become a part of our everyday lives and no one ever made a big deal about them, that is, at least me—the other child, the winter baby. I never made a big deal out of it.

“You don’t look one day older than thirty-two.”

“Ha ha ha. Nice try.”

“But it’s true.” I leaned back and looked at her, pretending to size her up. Even in that ratty old housecoat, she looked even more beautiful than ever, maybe not in a Heidi Klum kind of way, but beautiful in a universal yet undefined way. And to imagine that she, of all people, had been through so much heartache, it almost broke my heart right then and there, two decades too late.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I never realized how much … I should’ve…” I reached for her hand and held it tight.

She looked down at our intertwined hands and smiled. “I know, baby. I know. You don’t have to...” She wiped off a silent tear with the other hand. “I know, baby, but is he coming or not? Please, I need to know.”

I looked at her and smiled. Whether back in eighty-one with Martha or here in another century with me, Mom was always thinking of everyone else, and I suddenly realized that that was what made her so beautiful; she’s the true image of love.

♥♥♥

 

The next couple of letters had been written a few months later. We figured that Frederick stayed a while, or maybe they didn’t feel like writing letters altogether.

The first letter was a Martha letter, and even though there was an overall sadness about it (even the choice of paper—a plain grayish piece), Martha seemed ready to move on. The next three letters to follow (back-to-back Martha letters) were written only two days apart, and when we saw they all had a couple of smileys on them, we decided to go to bed early so we could get up early and celebrate with extra burning-hot chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven.

It was kinda silly what the mere sight of two yellow smileys on the left side corner could do for us, but it was also a little scary how much the lives and emotions of Martha and Frederick back in eighty-something were beginning to affect me and Mom in 2012. Bad news brought us tears. Good news called for cookies and smiles. Dad, who was living in one time zone only and still had no idea what we were up to late at night (thank God), was starting to make funny comments on what he perceived to be normal female behavior.

“You look more and more like you mother,” he said the next morning at the breakfast table, looking at me and Mom both wearing cookie-dough-covered aprons.

Since Dad had started his new job, we hadn’t had one single breakfast together as a real family (real as in a family sitting in someone else’s chair, at a foreign table, eating cereal out of the “heirloom china”). Dad had left every single morning before we got up, and even though Mom and I were busy moving around the “new” furniture and adding a few real new items from Target, I kinda missed having Dad around—especially for breakfast. He and I have always had breakfast together as long as I can remember, with or without a job.

I looked at Dad and smiled. “Is that a good thing?” I asked, teasing.

Mom peeked down at him from the kitchen sink.

“Well, when she’s grouchy, you’re grouchy. When she gets upset, you look like it’s the end of the world. She laughs, and you laugh. I guess it’s true what they say.” He said it like it was an absolute truth.

“What?” Mom and I said at the same time. I looked at Mom and covered my big smile.

“See. You are even saying the exact same word at the exact same time,” he said, shaking his head.

“What do they say? We’re dying to hear this, Frank,” Mom said all solo, looking at me with her arms crossed.

“You know … when …. um … female creatures live and breathe in the same house their um … menstrual cycles become synchronous. There!” He pointed in no particular direction. Apparently, the truth was presenting itself somewhere between the stove and the coffee maker? He leaned over and grabbed a cookie from my plate. “Ouch, I don’t know how you can eat these. And for breakfast?” He looked at Mom and shook his head with disapproval.

“Said the fuzzy little man who ate an entire bag of bacon yesterday during the Seahawks game.” Mom grabbed the kitchen towel and tossed it over her shoulder.

“Very impressive, Dad. Synchronous? Did you just look that up?” Mom and I exchanged looks and started laughing.

Dad got up from the table. “See, you are doing it again. I’m out of here. Too many hormones. Too many women eating cookies that are way too hot.” He walked over and kissed Mom briefly on her lips and then he left with my plate of cookies.

“Men,” we both said at the same time, and burst into laughter again.

“I heard that,” Dad yelled all the way from the mudroom. “You even laugh in the same key. It’s too much.”

Mom opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “Want one?”

I nodded.

“He is right, you know. We are pretty awful these days, either crying up a storm together or laughing hard at Dad’s jokes. And we both know how bad they are.” She opened up the dishwater and grabbed the empty plates from the table. “But I think he might be right on this one…” She paused and looked me over from head to toe. “I think you are turning into a, um, woman … just like me.” She jumped up on top of the counter and sat down in one of her yoga poses. “And I can’t believe I just said that to my own daughter.” She shook her head, closed her eyes and exhaled loudly.

I had never been called a woman before—maybe “young lady” or “young woman” as in a formal way of approaching people, but never “a woman.” Am I, like, really? I looked up at her and blushed. “And I can’t believe my own mom just said that, too, but thanks, um, I guess.”

She looked down between breaths. “And thanks for doing this with me, the letters I mean. It really means a lot to me,” she said with a voice running out of air. She closed her eyes again and continued. “You know, I always told Dad that if I never got another child I would still be the happiest mother in the world. Having you was enough to fill my heart with love forever. But once we started the whole number-two-pregnancy thing, I guess it was hard to let go. In some ways the miscarriages reminded me that I could have more kids and it only made me want another child even more. Kinda silly, I guess.” She opened her eyes and looked down at me and shrugged. “But you know what they say; what you can’t get...”

“But what happened? Why did you stop trying?”

“We never really stopped, but nothing ever happened and so I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” She looked into her coffee cup and smiled. “You know, reading Martha’s letters made me go through it all again up here.” She pointed a finger at her head. “And here.” She placed a hand on top of her chest. “And yes, it has kept me up a few nights—thinking what if, you know, but somehow I also feel a sense of relief. And for the first time in years I don’t feel that I’m wasting my time—waiting for something’s that’s not here. Something that’s not going to happen. I don’t know exactly how or why, but somehow Martha made me realize that I am whole, we are whole as a family and nothing is missing. I guess I have what Dr. Phil would call closure. And you helped me get there too, you know.” She looked down at me and smiled, and I couldn’t help thinking that if she had been one of Martha’s letters, she would have been green—for the color of hope—with five smileys in the top left corner. My favorite kind.

I was about to get up and give her a hug when Dad and the empty cookie plate suddenly reappeared in the door.

“Goodness gracious, here they go again. I smell female hormones. Time for me to go to work, thank God!” He walked over and handed me the empty plate, winked, and hurried out the door.

Mom jumped down from the counter and sat down on the table in front of me. Then she whispered, “I love you, Ella, my winter baby,” and tucked a few curls behind my ear.

“I love you too, my spring mom.”