*Forever Changed*

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white. I leaned forward to watch the pink dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

            He glanced over. “May I speed?”

            I winced and nodded. “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

            He snickered as he ran a red light. I stared out the window and murmured. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

            “What’d you say?”

            I spoke louder. “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

            My husband shook his head as he skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance at Christ Hospital.

            “Nope,” he said. “Today everything changes.”

~~~

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched beside me on the hospital bed. She picked up my hand and flipped it over, traced the creases of my palm with a maroon fingernail as she talked.

            “Did no one give you an enema?”

            My eyes bugged out. “No, ma’am,” I said. Kinda glad about that, I thought.

            She huffed. “I swear. So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies. It’s not sanitary.”

            I heard a gagging noise. I peeked in my husband’s direction. He stared at a spot on the ceiling and cleared his throat.

~~~

When Dr. Lum arrived, I immediately noticed the peace signs on his socks. He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show. He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

            “Sorry I’m late. Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

            He stood suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

            “We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

            He grinned as he tugged on latex gloves.  “You feeling okay, missy?

            I felt fine. I’d had my epidural. Tall, pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated. I hadn’t checked out the needle, but my husband did. When his eyes bulged, I gulped and leaned over the bedside table, did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us. Sniff in with the nose, ta out through the mouth.

            “Husbands,” the instructor had said, “you can use this technique too. Like when you’re in line at the grocery store and you have to go to the bathroom—number two.”

            I liked my epidural. A lot. Too much really. Because of it I never had the urge to push.

            Dr. Lum waved stainless steel tongs like a conductor’s baton. “These are forceps,” he said. “If need be, we can use these to yank baby out.”

            I squeaked. “Fine!  I’ll push.”

            I couldn’t feel pain but I could feel pressure, and its absence. I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

            “It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said. “Nancy’ll take her over and shine her up, bring her back in a jif.”

            I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year. I pressed my fingers in as far as they'd go. My flesh felt like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

            “I need you to bear down one more time,” Dr. Lum said, “to deliver the placenta.”

            I wrinkled my nose. “Ew!”

            I pushed half-heartedly. Surely the exodus of an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

            The blob Dr. Lum held up resembled a large man ’o war jellyfish. “What’s your baby’s name?”

            “Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

            Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side—first left, then right.

            “This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built. This is the house that Josy built—” He paused to look at his watch, “on December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

            I tilted my head and squinted. Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

            He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler. “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

            My stomach lurched. I cupped my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

~~~

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl. Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet. Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap. The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

            “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

            I gazed down at her. How long had it been since I’d held a baby? Was it my niece? Six years ago? I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

            “She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I told my husband. “You know, like on Saturday Night Live?”

            Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers. I glanced over at her. "What?"

            She came close and gripped my face, rotated it toward the baby's. Josy seemed even redder than before and her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me then retreating, over and over.

            I turned to Nancy. “What do I do? What’s she want?”

            Nancy cocked her head. “You really don’t know? Did you never babysit?”

            I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I had a paper route.”

            She grimaced. “Oh, my.”

            Making tsk, tsk noises, Nancy placed one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

            “How do I say this, honey? Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you, ever again.”

(Happy 21st birthday, Beauty!)

Chessie Bites the Dust

We never realized what a heart Mom O. had for animals until the day Mark had to leave the warehouse to help Charlie bury his dog. After lunch, Van had phoned the office, hysterical as all get out. Mom O’Dell held the phone away from her ear so Van’s volume wouldn’t damage her hearing. We heard every detail of the conversation.

            “Now, Vandalia,” Mom O. said. “Calm down. I can’t make out a word you’re saying. Who is dead?”

            Van’s tone made us all wince. “Chessie is!” she said. “Charlie’s dog. He’s had her since he was sixteen and I swear, sometimes I think he loves her more’n me. Now she’s dead. Strangled and hanging over the chain link fence. Tell Charlie to get home right now. He’s gotta get her down before the kids wake from their nap!”

            To us, as soon as Van said the bit about strangled and hanging, Mom O. seemed to come perilously close to fainting dead away. Adam scooted his folding chair closer to her desk and patted her shoulder. Not a touchy feely gal, Mom tolerated it that day. Appeared to maybe even derive strength from it.

            Right before Mom O. spoke, she reached out and grabbed her blood pressure monitor. Latched onto it so tightly the skin on her age-spotty knuckles looked bleached.

            “You need to stay calm, Vandalia,” Mom said. “For the children. Now tell me, how exactly did the poor thing manage to choke itself?”

            Van’s huff was easy for us to hear. “She runs away all the da— dang time, Mom O.,” Van said. She paused a moment and when she resumed, her voice sounded slightly more collected. “She digs out under the fence. She busts through the gate. And here lately she’s taken to trying to climb over. So this morning, I tied her up. Inside the dog run.”

            Mom O. was now blinking non-stop, to try to staunch the flow of her tears, we’d surmise later. When a stream of snot began to creek toward her mouth, Adam plucked a tissue out of the box on the desk and dabbed at her face. She swatted him away.

            “Well, surely Chessie barked or howled or something,” Mom O. said.

            “But that’s the problem, Mom,” Van wailed. “She didn’t. Because . . . Because . . .”

            Mom O.’s steely eyebrows tangled together and her raisin eyes practically disappeared.           

            “Because why, Van?” Her words marched out individually and defined.

            Van didn’t answer right away. When she did, it sounded as if she was reading from a Hollywood script.

            “Oh, Mother O’Dell,” she began. Her voice was nearly impossible to make out at first. A wheedle really. “Do you remember what it was like? To have a house to care for? And animals? And babies? And a husband? And—” Her questions crescendoed and each item she added was imbued with more drama than the last.

            Mom O. cut her off, almost without moving her lips. “Get to the point, Van.”

            Our eyebrows lifted in unison as we heard Van draw a trembling breath.

            “Well,” she said, “at the beginning of summer when Chessie started staying outside the better part of the day, it occurred to me her howling might keep the kids from their naps, and you know they need their naps.”

            Mom yacked her free hand and rolled her eyes. “The point, Van,” she said. “The point.”

            “So last week I drove to the pet superstore up at the strip mall and bought a . . . bought a . . .” Van seemed to run out of gas about then.

            Mom O.’s gaze drilled a hole in the paneled wall over our heads. “A what, Van? What did you buy?”

            We leaned in to hear Van’s answer.

            “A barker breaker kit.”

            In one motion, Mom O. both stood and knocked her rolly chair to the ground. She gripped her considerable waist with one hand and clenched the phone with the other. Her eyes were squenched shut as if she was picturing the whole scene play out on her eyelids. After a minute, she transferred her free hand from her waist to her cheek. To scrape a tear away.

            “And this morning,” Mom said, “poor Chessie didn’t dare make a peep for fear she’d get the living daylights shocked out of her. That’s what you’re saying, Van, right? Right?”

            At that point the only thing coming from the phone was that blubbering racket girls make when a serious crying fit takes hold. Mom O. sneered and slammed the receiver into its cradle. Headed toward the warehouse door, her elbows pumping something fierce.

            “Mark!” she called from the doorway. “Charlie. Get over here. Now!” When she didn't get a response she ventured into the cool shadows of the warehouse.

            We followed close enough to hear her mutter. “Wouldn’t surprise me if that harlot was entertaining visitors of the male persuasion ‘round about the time Chessie choked. Wouldn’t surprise me a-tall.”

            We dropped back lest Mom O’Dell discover our proximity and aim her anger at us.

            “Her’s pissed,” Adam said as he shouldered the office door for us.
            "Her's most definitely pissed," Jason said as he reached for the treat bowl.

(This is an ongoing short story. If you'd like to read the whole thing, click here: "Vandalia and Charlie." That's where the saga starts.)

The Woman in Red--Part IV

The rising sun warmed the man’s broad shoulders. Stroked the sky scarlet, violet, and gold.

            “Today is the day,” he told the treetops. “She is once again aware of me. As she has been from time to time throughout the years. In her heart.”

            He smiled as he pictured the woman in his mind’s eye. Watched her massage a palmful of olive oil into her waist-length, ox-black hair. She’d braid it, coil it atop her head, and conceal it.  Then she would smooth her dark tunic, always dark. Blacks. Browns. Cast offs from the village. More often that not from widows who remarried. Without fail she stitched a bright stripe along each of the hems. The corners of his mouth lifted at the thought.

            “She longs for, and yet does not covet, the things she does not possess,” he said. “A husband to call her blessed. Children to dance around her feet as she goes about her tasks. Today she will begin to lay hold of these things.”

            He stooped and cupped his hands in the stream. Drank deep the coolness. Shook the water droplets from his beard. He straightened and gazed toward her dwelling. Spied the luminous oval of her face at the window. Watched her eyes sweep the thicket on either side of him. He retreated a step.

            “You see me,” he whispered across the way, “but you do not realize I am here, that I have always been. Longing for you. You need only . . .” His voice trailed away as he remembered the fragrance of her. The shape of each of her fingers. But that was a lifetime ago. Longer even.

            He wandered through the woods behind the house for some time. Tarried to see if she might come to him. Finally he turned to go but first he knelt and caressed the ground. Laughed softly as flowers, brilliant pinks and purples, sprang to life. He hovered his hands over them.

            “Remain. Be beautiful. Until she finds you.”

The Woman in Red--Part II

At the well, Eunice clutched Ada’s forearm. Leaned in. “You shouldn’t give that woman provisions.”

            Ada turned slowly. Lifted the old woman’s hand. Let it fall.

           “What woman do you speak of?”

            The older woman huffed. “The woman with the issue, of course. She fancied your Dan at one time. And he her.”

            Ada reached for the rope. “It’s been years. I don’t worry for my husband’s affections.”

            “But she still has a fine form and a lovely face. Creamy skin as opposed to our brown.”

            Ada wrapped the rope around her palm twice. Laughed. “And you know a man who would dare touch her?”

            The old woman’s face clamped in on itself. “Passion can turn a man a fool.”

            Ada grunted as she brought up the bucket. “I will continue to assist the woman with the issue as I believe she would me if I were in need. She is my neighbor. Yours too.” She filled the woman’s water vessel. “You would do well to abide by the scriptures, Mother.”

            Eunice snorted. “And you would be wise to protect what is yours, daughter. What Yahweh has given you.”

            Ada perched the bucket on her hip. “I prefer to hold my gifts in an open hand not a fist, Mother. How can God give me more if my hand is closed?”

            The old woman shook her head. Filled and emptied her cheeks of air.

            “You’re just like your father.”

            Ada smiled at the clouds. “Thank you, Mother,” she said as the woman turned to go. “Don’t be late for supper.”

The List

What was that?  I turned the volume down on my car stereo.  Listened.  Nothing.  I checked the rearview mirror.  Blue and red lights flashed.  I stuck my lower lip out.  Again?  Twice in one day?  Dang!  After I pulled over, I rolled down my window and stuck my head out. 

"Is that you, sweet boy?"

The officer squinted, then grinned as he walked toward me.

"Aw.  I'm sorry, m'am.  I didn't see it was you."

I looked up at him.  "I have my driver's license with me now, but I still don't have my registration sticker on.  It's not  my fault though.  It's--"

He held  up his hand.  "I know.  Never is."

I laughed.  "You don't know what I was going to say."

He rolled his eyes.  "What were  you going to say?"

"I was gonna say, it's my husband's fault."

He shook his head.  "I don't know much, ma'am, but I do know blame shifting isn't good for a marriage."

I huffed.   "You're telling me how to do marriage?" I said.  "How old are you?"

His mouth fell open, and he shut it.  "I'm--"

I opened my car door and climbed out.  "That does it.  Now I have to tell you a story."

He glanced back at his cruiser.  "I don't know.  I'm on traffic detail.  I've got a quota and--"

I swatted at the air in front of him.  "Quota.  Shmota," I said.  I pointed to the curb.  "Have a seat."

I leaned in my car window and got a notebook and pencil out of my totebag.  I walked over and sat beside him.  I opened the notebook to a fresh page and drew a line down the middle.

"You married?"

He wiggled his wedding band with his pointer finger.  "Yes'm."

"What's your name?"

"Michael."

"Does your wife call you Mike or Michael?"

"Either.  Or Mickey."

I nibbled the pencil eraser.  "I like Michael.  Sounds handsome.  Strong.  And you are."

I wrote Michael at the top of the left column.

"What's your wife's name?"

"Cynthia.  Or Cyndi."

I printed Cynthia over the right column.  I laid my hands on the notebook and turned so I could look him in the eye.

"I'm going to tell you my marriage theory.  You ready?"

He nodded.

"Now, Michael, whether they know it or not, every bride and groom carries a milk crate of expectations down the aisle at their wedding.  A honey-do list for the other person.  Let's start with you.  What do you want, or expect, from Cynthia?"

Michael stared at the tree across the street.  My eyes followed his gaze.  The leaves were half green, half gold.  Fall's almost here. 

"Let's see.  Cook dinner.  Do laundry.  Keep the house nice."  He counted on his fingers.  "Stuff like that."

I jotted his items under Cynthia's name.  "And what do you think she wants from you?"

Michael's eyes narrowed, and his mouth pulled to the side.  "Fix broken things.  Change lightbulbs.  Take the garbage out."

I handed him the notebook and pencil.  "Write those under your name."

When he finished, I reached across him.  "It's too short. Here, let me."

I wrote on his side.  Yard work,  removal and/or burial of dead critters (bugs or animals), car issues. 

Michael reached for the pencil.  "May I?"  I handed it back to him.

He scribbled at the bottom of Cynthia's column.  Pay bills, make appointments, remember my mom's birthday.

I grinned.  "You've got the hang of this, don't you?"

"Yeah," he said.  "I see what you're saying."

I  held the list at arms' length so we could both read it.  "Now, Michael.  This is the list.  The Boy and Girl List.  In order for a marriage to work, you need to know what your spouse wants and expects of you, and vice versa.  Believe me, when either of you slacks on your list, sooner or later, there's gonna be trouble."

I tapped the Michael side of the paper with the pencil.  "Now, tell me why my out of date registration sticker is not my fault."

He scanned the list.  "'Cause anything to do with cars is on the Boy List." 

I chuckled.  "That's right."

Michael stood.  "How many years you been married, ma'am?"

He held his hand out to help me up. 

"Twenty," I said.

"Then this list thing really works."

I nodded as I tore the page out and handed it to him.  "I think so."

He folded it up and tucked it in his breast pocket.  "Awesome.  Thank you, ma'am."

He started to leave, and I tapped him on the shoulder. 

"One more thing," I said when he turned back.  "Let me tell you one more thing that'll make your wife really happy."

His eyebrows went up, and he caught his lower lip with his top teeth.  I felt my cheeks burn. 

"Come on now.  I'm not gonna talk about that," I said.  "I hardly know you.  What I was gonna say is, do stuff on her list."

He squinted.  "But--"

I lifted my chin.  "Trust me," I said.  "Nothing says I love you more than my husband doing the dishes."

Michael's brow furrowed.  I lifted my hair and let it fall behind my shoulders.  "Just try it."

Michael headed for his car.  He waved before he got in.

I rolled my fingers.  "Guess what I'm gonna do now?"

He shrugged.

I opened my car door.  "I'm gonna go home and put my registration sticker on my license plate.  Oh, and Michael?  Cologne."

It took him a minute, but then he let out a belly laugh.  "Have a good day, ma'am.  And thanks."