I never like it when a question begins that way. Usually it involves a raise or a loan.
“Would you come into the delivery room when it’s time?”
That’s the last thing I expected her to ask. “Me? I don’t know anything about babies.”
“You don’t have to. I’d just like someone to talk to and be with me when the baby comes.”
“What about Mother?”
“I’ll arrange for someone to come and sit with her.” She laughs. “Maybe Simon.”
“Mom would love that.” Strangely, her wanting me to be with her touches me. “I’d be honored to talk to you and be with you when Frankie enters the world.”
“Thank you, Lou Ann. You’re a good friend.” She breathes a sigh of relief and heads for the door. “And you’re a good daughter. I know you don’t hear it enough, but Patricia is lucky to have you.”
I’m tempted to list all the ways she is wrong, but I say, “You’re welcome, Lindsey,” because the knot in my stomach is gone and I think she and Frankie have something to do with it.
I crawl into bed and shut off the lamp. I’ve never felt a baby move inside the womb, and Lindsey’s right, it’s wild. There’s a real baby in there, and I can’t imagine giving birth to something that size. Obviously, women do it every day, but it’s not for me.
Sure, Tony and I talked about it in a general “someday” sort of way, but never seriously. Now I’m thirty-eight. I don’t have a boyfriend or marriage prospects. Giving birth looks painful and exhausting, and for all of that trouble, they make you leave with the baby and take care of it for eighteen years.
I can’t think of one good reason why I’d sign up for that. I come from at least two generations of women whose maternal instincts are wishy-washy at best. Personally, I’ve never heard the tick of a b
iological clock, and I’ve never had an urge to push a baby out of my vagina.
At my age, if I haven’t heard the clock or felt the urge, I think it’s safe to say it’s not going to happen.
I’m fine with that. Lulu the Love Guru is my baby. We’ve had our ups and downs, good times and bad, but I’m very proud. We’re going through a little rough patch right now, but I’ll figure it out. Mom and I are going through a rough patch, and I’m taking care of that, too. I’m the ringmaster. I can run both shows at the same time. I can do anything, and everything will be okay.
I fall asleep feeling better after my little pep talk and wake up radiating positive energy. Like I tell Lulu fans: what you project out into the world is what you will attract back to you. I meant it in terms of loving relationships, but I think it applies to life in general.
By the time I get downstairs, Lindsey’s already spoken to the hospital. Mom had a restless night but is asleep now and doing okay. Lindsey and I have breakfast at the table in the kitchen off paper plates. It’s a refreshing change. No formal settings or hand-washing old china and crystal.
“I’ll take the first shower,” I say as I dump our paper plates in the garbage.
“Frankie wants the first shower.”
“Tell you what, I’ll race you and Frankie for it.”
“No fair.” Lindsey laughs. Her phone rings, and she’s still smiling as she looks at the number. She holds up one finger and answers. “Hello, this is Lindsey Benedict.”
I lean a shoulder in the doorjamb and fold my arms over my chest.
“Yes. Okay.” She puts a hand on her belly and looks down. “When?… I have to look at her history to be sure, but I believe that is correct. What are you giving her?… Yes.” She glances up at me. “We will. Yes.”
“What’s up?”
Lindsey hangs up and answers, “Patricia’s temperature spiked again.”
“Didn’t they just say she was doing okay?” I push away from the door, and my hands fall to my side. “That was only an hour ago.”
“The cultures just came back from the lab. The infection is worse than we thought and has spread to one or both of her kidneys.” Lindsey holds up a hand before I can ask any questions. “The doctor ordered stronger antibiotics and an ultrasound of her upper and lower tract.”
That doesn’t sound good, and a familiar knot of anxiety replaces any optimism I woke up with.
* * *
I don’t know what I was expecting when I walked back into Mother’s hospital room, but it wasn’t a cannula in her nostrils or another bag hooked to her IV machine. Her eyes are closed, and her dark hair starkly contrasts with her pale cheeks and white sheets. She looks smaller, older, and more fragile than when I left her last night. My heart sinks, and I grab onto the raised bed rail. “Mom.” I watch her chest move up and down as her vital signs scroll across a monitor. “Mom.”