Harvesting the Heart (28 page)

The
first drops fell, heavy and cold, as I turned the corner away from my
home. By the time I was halfway to the Flanagans' Mobil station, the
wind shrieked through my hair and knotted my jacket around me. Rain
battered my cheeks and my bare legs, so violent that I might not have
found my way if I hadn't been going there for years.

Jake
pulled me in from the storm and kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my
wrists. He peeled the soaked coat from my shoulders and wrapped my
hair in an old chamois. He did not ask why I had come; I did not ask
why he had been there. We fell against the dented side of a Chevy
sedan, skimming our hands over each other's faces to learn the
hollows, the curves, and the lines.

Jake
led me to a car waiting to be serviced, a Jeep Cherokee
4X4
with
a broad open compartment in the back. Through the fishbowl rear
window of the Jeep, we watched the storm. Jake pulled my shirt over
my head and unfastened my bra, moved his tongue from one

nipple
to the other. He traced his way over my ribs, my stomach, unzipping
my skirt and tugging it over my hips. I could feel the rough rug of
the car against my legs, and Jake's hand on my breast, and then I
felt the pressure of his lips against the thin film of my underpants.
I shivered, amazed that his breath could burn hotter than the ache
between my thighs.

When
I was naked he knelt beside me and ran his hands over me, units of
measure, as if I were something he owned. "You are beautiful,"
he said, as quiet as a prayer, and he leaned close to kiss me. He did
not stop, not even as he undressed himself or stroked my hair or
moved between my legs. I felt as if there were a thousand threads of
glass woven in me, a million different colors, and they were
stretched so tight that I knew they would snap. When Jake came inside
me, my world turned white, but then I remembered to breathe and to
move. At the moment when everything shattered, I opened my eyes wide.
I did not think about Jake or about that quick sting of pain; I did
not think about the heady scent of Marlboros and pomade that clung to
the Jeep's interior. Instead I squinted into the frenzied night sky
and I waited for God to strike me down.

^chapter
1
2

_Nicholas

_T
he
women lay on the blue industrial carpet like a string of little
islands, their bellies swelling toward the ceiling and trembling
slightly as they panted and exhaled. Nicholas was late for Lamaze
class. In fact, although it was the seventh class in a series of ten,
it was the first he'd attended, because of his schedule. But Paige
had insisted. "You may know how to deliver a baby," she had
said, "but there's a difference between a doctor and a labor
coach."

And
a father,
Nicholas
had thought, but he didn't say anything. Paige was nervous enough,
whether or not she chose to admit it. She didn't need to know that
every night so far during the third trimester, Nicholas had awakened,
sheets soaked in sweat, worrying about this baby. It wasn't the
labor; he could deliver a baby with his eyes closed, for Christ's
sake. It was what happened afterward. He had never held an infant,
except for his routine swing through pediatrics as an intern. He
didn't know what you did to make them stop crying. He didn't

have
the first idea how to make them burp. And he was worried about what
kind of father he would be—certainly absent more than he was
home. Of course Paige would be there day and night, which he far
preferred to the idea of day care—at least he thought he did.
Nicholas sometimes wondered about Paige, doubtful about the kinds of
things she might be able to teach a child when she herself knew so
little about the world. He had considered buying a stack of colorful
books—
How
to Make Baby Talk, 101 Things to Stimulate Your Baby's Mind, The
parents
'
Guide to Educational Toys
—but
he knew Paige would have taken offense. And Paige seemed so
distressed about having the baby that he had vowed to stick to
safe topics until she had given birth. Nicholas gripped the edge of
the doorway, watching the Lamaze class, and wondered whether he had
actually become ashamed of his wife.

She
was lying in the farthest corner of the room, her hair spilled around
her head, her hands resting on the huge round mound of her stomach.
She was the only person there without a mate, and as Nicholas
crossed the room to join her, he felt a quick stab of remorse. He sat
behind her quietly as the nurse teaching the class came over to shake
his hand and offer him a name tag.
Nicholas
!
it said, and in the corner was a chubby, smiling cartoon baby.

The
nurse clapped her hands twice, and Nicholas watched Paige's eyes
blink open. He knew from the way she smiled at him, upside down, that
she had not really been relaxing at all. She was faking it; she'd
known the very second he'd entered the room. "Welcome," she
whispered, "to Husband Guilt Class."

Nicholas
leaned back against pillows he recognized from his own bedroom,
listening to the nurse recount the three stages of labor, and what to
expect during each one. He suppressed a yawn. She held up
plastic-coated pictures of the fetus, arms and legs crossed, its head
squeezing through the birth canal. A pert blond woman on the other
side of the room raised her hand. "Isn't it true," she
asked, "that your labor will probably be a lot like your
mother's?"

The
nurse frowned. "Every baby's different," she mused, "but
there does seem to be a correlation."

Nicholas
felt Paige tense at his side. "Oh, well," she whispered. He
suddenly remembered Paige as he'd seen her the night before when he
came home from the hospital. She'd been sitting on the couch, wearing
a sleeveless nightgown although it had been cold outside. She
was crying, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
He'd rushed to her side and taken her into his arms, asking over and
over, "What is it?" and Paige, still sobbing, had pointed
at the television, some insipid Kodak commercial. "I can't help
it," she had said, her nose bubbling, her eyes swollen.
"Sometimes this just happens."

"Nicholas?"
the nurse said for the second time.

The
other fathers-to-be were staring at him, smirking, and Paige was
patting his hand. "Go ahead," she said. "It won't be
so bad."

The
nurse was holding up a padded white bowl-like thing crossed with
straps and ties. "In honor of your first class," she said,
helping Nicholas up from the floor. "The Sympathy Belly."

"For
God's sake," he said.

"Now,
Paige has been toting this around for seven months," the nurse
scolded. "Surely you can make do for thirty minutes."

Nicholas
shrugged into the armholes, glaring at the nurse. It was a
thirty-four-pound contraption, a soft false belly whose insides
sloshed from side to side unpredictably. When Nicholas shifted, a
large ball bearing dug into his bladder. The nurse fastened the
straps around his waist and shoulders. "Why don't you take a
walk," she said.

Nicholas
knew she was waiting for him to fall. He carefully raised and lowered
his feet, undaunted by the shifting weight and the strain in his
back. He turned back to the crowd, to Paige, triumphant. The nurse's
voice came from behind him. "Run," she said.

Nicholas
spread his legs wide and tried to move faster, half jogging,
half hopping. Some of the women began to laugh, but Paige's face
remained still. The nurse tossed a pen onto the floor. "Nicholas,"
she said, "if you wouldn't mind?"

Nicholas
tried to ease toward the ground by bending his knees, but the liquid
in the Sympathy Belly swished to the left, knocking

off
his sense of balance. He fell to the floor on his hands and knees,
and he bowed his head.

Around
him, laughter swelled, vibrating against his knees and ringing in his
ears. He lifted his chin and rolled his eyes. He scanned the other
husbands and wives, who were clapping now in response to his
performance, and then his gaze fell on his wife.

Paige
was sitting very quietly, not smiling, not clapping. A thin silver
streak ran the length of her face, and even as he watched, her palm
came up to wipe away the tear. She rocked until she was on her knees,
then she heaved herself up to a standing position and came to
Nicholas's side. "Nicholas has had a very long day," she
said. "I think we've got to go."

Nicholas
watched Paige unfasten the Sympathy Belly and slide it over his
shoulders. The nurse took it from her before she could support
the full weight. Nicholas smiled at the others as he followed Paige
out the door, and followed her to her car. She wedged herself behind
the steering wheel and closed her eyes as if she was in pain. "I
hate seeing you like that," she whispered, and when she opened
her eyes, clear and cerulean blue, she was staring right through her
husband.

^chapter
1
3

Paige

I
gave
birth in the middle of a class four hurricane. I was just at
the
end of my eighth month. All day long I had sat on the couch, weary
from the sluggish heat, and listened to news reports of the
coming storm. It was a freak weather pattern, a string of odd monsoon
rains across the Northeast, coming three months too early. The
weatherman told me to tape my windows and store water in the bathtub.
Ordinarily I might have, but I did not have the energy.

Nicholas
did not come home until midnight. The wind had already picked
up, howling through the streets like a child in pain. He undressed in
the bathroom and slipped into bed quietly so he wouldn't wake me, but
I had been sleeping fitfully. I had a low, moaning backache, and I'd
gotten up to pee three times. "I'm sorry," Nicholas said,
seeing me stir.

"Don't
worry," I told him, rolling myself into a sitting position. "I
might as well hit the bathroom again."

As
I stood, I felt drops of water at my feet, and I stupidly assumed it
was the rain, somehow come inside.

Two
hours later, I knew something was not quite right. My water had not
broken, not the way they'd said it would in Lamaze class, but a thin
trickle of fluid ran down my legs every time I sat up. "Nicholas,"
I said, my voice trembling, "I'm leaking."

Nicholas
rolled over and pulled his pillow over his head. "It's probably
a tear in the amniotic sac," he murmured. "You're a whole
month early. Go back to sleep, Paige."

I
grabbed the pillow and threw it across the room, fear ripping through
me like the violence of winter. "I am not a patient,
goddammit," I said. "I am your wife." And I
leaned forward, starting to cry.

As
I padded toward the bathroom again, a slow burn crept from my back
around my belly and settled deep under my skin. It didn't hurt, not
really, not yet, but I knew this was the thing the nurse at Lamaze
could not describe—a contraction. I held on to the Corian
counter and stared into the bathroom mirror. Another gripping knot
shook me, hands deep inside me that seemed to be clutching from the
inside, as if they would surely pull me into myself. It made me think
of a science trick Sister Bertrice had done when I was in eleventh
grade—she'd blown smoke into a Pepsi can until none of the
oxygen was left and then capped the top with a rubber stopper, and
when she lightly touched the side of the can it crumpled, collapsing
just like that. "Nicholas," I whispered, "I need
help."