Heart's Desire (32 page)

Chapter Sixty-six

BEFORE WE LEAVE FOR THE AIRPORT BERNARD INSPECTS THE house and grounds as if foreign dignitaries from a dozen countries will arrive soon. It’s a soft gray day with heavy clouds working their way across the sky. In the hedges the silvery spiderwebs tremble with dewdrops. The gardens are bursting with flowers of all different heights and sizes. The bright blooms and the green grass have a gemlike intensity that will last for about another week before it all starts to fade. The only failure has been the inexplicable verbena blight. Last week the tall spiky plants with the different-colored flowers developed white spots and then keeled over as if they’d organized a mass suicide.

Bernard has calmed down slightly since yesterday, or more likely, the enchanting serenity of the lush backyard, which seems to be taking on the very color of hope itself, is having a temporary relaxing effect on him. He even stops to pull a few half-wilted blooms off here and there, and rinse out the birdbath before refilling it.

Together we stroll over to the pond, which Craig had finally finished the day before, and admire the tranquil preserve with colorful fish gliding through the water as dragonflies pirouette above and whirligig beetles skim the surface. Raindrops hang from the pampas grass around the edges like tears clinging to eyelashes. Bernard had given Craig free rein on the shape of the pond and Olivia had secretly convinced him to make it into a replica of Cuba, in order to protest US government sanctions that prevent the common citizens from raising their standard of living. A lion-head fountain pours a slipstream of water out of its mouth, making a constant ripple to mark the capital, Havana. Near the banks Craig had installed plants that thrive on water—hostas, ferns, Himalayan poppies, candelabra primulas, rhododendrons, irises, bamboo, and dozens of Asian lilies.

When Olivia came inside early this morning she said that with the mist rising off the pond and the lily pads appearing a bit blurry around the edges, it reminded her of a painting that Monet did of his water garden in Giverny.

Bernard clutches his chest and says, “It takes my breasts away.” This is the highest compliment he gives to anything.

A faint rainbow starts to spread across the sky in the east. We both look at it appreciatively and then Bernard turns to me and gives the impression that he’s scrutinizing my acid-washed jeans and T-shirt with JOE’S CAR WASH emblazoned on the front. Nodding back toward the rainbow, he uses the moment as an opportunity for a fashion lesson. “You see, even God accessorizes with colorful little touches here and there for special occasions.”

I return to the previous subject. “Craig did a terrific job on the pond. I’ll sort of miss having him around.”

Bernard gives me an
I told you so
glance and then innocently states, “Of course, I didn’t mean to
throw
the two of you together. I merely thought that as long as you were so determined to do this . . . this
thing
. . . that he’s such a nice young fellow. And no matter what happened, you’d never be sorry about it.”

“You still want me to wait.”

“Yes, of course. But I’d have you waiting until you were forty, so you can’t listen to me. It’s just that men can be such . . . well, it’s not as important to them, that’s all. Make sure it’s what you want and that you’re not trying to please somebody else.”

From the kitchen window Gil signals us that we have to leave for the airport
now.
Once again a look of dread crosses Bernard’s face, and by the time we’re in the car I’m pretty sure he’s developed a nervous tic on the left side of his face.

Mrs. Farley meets us at the airport with mounds of paperwork that Gil ends up having to take care of since Bernard is too rattled to cope. However, she assures everyone that “preadoption jitters” are perfectly normal. Then she proceeds to terrify us by explaining that the girls are going to be slightly malnourished, small for their ages, and developmentally behind. But she says this is typical for children who have been in these orphanages and that with the proper care they’ll catch up in no time at all. Mrs. Farley passes Gil an index card containing the names and numbers of two pediatricians in Cleveland who specialize in this sort of thing, since Bernard is now pacing in front of the snack bar and muttering to himself at a volume that is arousing the interest of a nearby security guard.

The rest of us stare at the jetway, which has finally begun disgorging tired-looking passengers. I’d thought the babies would be sent off first, but we end up waiting until all the regular travelers have disembarked, and then there’s ten long minutes where nothing happens. Eventually we turn to Mrs. Farley, wondering aloud if there’s a chance they could have missed the flight.

Meantime, the airport security guard has approached Bernard as a possible terrorist suspect. Olivia is called upon to explain why he’s behaving so erratically, and that it’s not his intention to plant a bomb. Though Olivia can’t help herself when a metaphor is within range, and proceeds to tell the guard how the writer Nora Ephron once equated having a baby to a bomb going off in a marriage. Between Olivia’s free-associations, Bernard’s muttering, Gil’s hand-wringing, and my jumping up and down on my toes to see above the crowd, the guard begins backing away. It’s apparent from his expression that he’s decided we’re not armed and dangerous, just slightly crazy.

When we’re about to give up hope, and even Mrs. Farley is biting her lower lip while checking the notes on her clipboard and shifting her weight from one Bass Weejun to the other, two nuns in light brown habits carrying baby-shaped bundles in yellow blankets seem to magically appear in front of the gate.

As the children finally come within reach, Bernard suddenly snaps to. While Olivia, Gil, and I are still exclaiming and cooing over the sleeping little girls, he begins barking orders about bibs and bottles. However, the nuns calmly assure him that the babies have been fed and are ready to go home.

When we get in the car, I notice the little tags around their ankles that say “Ling” and “Ming.” “Oh my gosh, we forgot about the names.”

“Those names are kind of cute,” says Gil. “We could keep them.”

“Heavens, no!” Bernard bristles at the very idea. “They sound like
pandas
at the
zoo.
”

“Just tell me you’re not still considering Hermione and Ethel,” pleads Olivia.

“Close,” replies Bernard. “I’ve chosen Gigi and Rose. Hermione Gingold starred in
Gigi,
and Ethel Merman played the part of Mama Rose in
Gypsy.
”

“Gigi and Rose,” repeats Gil, testing out the names.

“Or else Cosette and Fantine,” says Bernard, “From
Les Misérables.
”

“Gigi and Rose are perfect!” exclaims Gil.

Chapter Sixty-seven

THE GIRLS ARE ADORABLE, WITH THEIR MOON-SHAPED FACES, cheeks the color of pink impatiens, and dark almond-shaped eyes. The older one, Rose, has thick black hair and red, red lips that make her look like a porcelain doll. She babbles away and we don’t know if it’s Chinese or baby talk, or more likely, Chinese baby talk. Little Gigi looks like a tiny version of her older sister, but with chubbier cheeks and short spiky hair that Gil claims makes her look like a punk rocker. He sings Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” while rocking her in his arms.

The first night goes smoothly enough. We feed them baby food and bottles and they’re sweet and all gurgles and smiles. Gigi is the happiest infant I’ve ever seen and has a sweet little laugh that could probably summon the sparrows right out of the trees. Bernard’s most pressing concern turns out to be what music he should play in order to foster their development—Mozart or a Chinese opera called
The Lute Song.

The next day I have to drive to Cleveland and attempt to dig up a new roommate, since one of ours fell through and we can’t afford the apartment without a fourth person. When I arrive home at a quarter past five, Bernard is quick to tell me that having children is the easiest thing in the world. In fact, he is actually criticizing the way Olivia picks up Gigi and Gil’s handling of bottle-warming, and generally putting on airs suggesting that after twenty-four full hours on the job he’s the new nationally recognized authority on the subject of parenting.

However, after dinner baby Gigi starts crying and
will not stop.
Not even Olivia’s gentle rocking and soothing voice can calm her down. And Bernard’s rendition of Ethel Merman singing “The Lullaby of Broadway” seems to only make matters worse. Rocky is the first to defect. He heads outside, grinding his teeth and covering his ears with his hands. Though whether he’s fleeing because of Gigi’s wailing or Bernard’s high notes is difficult to determine.

“Maybe she has colic,” suggests Gil. “My dad used to have to drive me around in the car for an hour every night in order to put me to sleep.”

Gigi continues her howling. Bernard tears through all the baby books. “Look it up on the Internet!” he pleads with me. But all my search reveals is that “Crybaby” is a rap song featuring Snoop Dogg.

After a solid hour of Gigi’s nonstop wailing, Bernard is one baby step away from The Nervous Hospital, and announces that he’s going to call a pediatrician. And if the doctor can’t be reached, they’re checking in at the Emergency Room, both of them. That’s when I get a truly brilliant idea.

“My mom!” I practically shout, though more to be heard over Gigi than out of sheer excitement. “What an idiot! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? She could have written a dozen books on babies, only she’s been too busy
having
them! I’ll call her right now and ask her to come over.”

Relief spreads across Bernard’s face and he quickly wraps a blanket around the sobbing child. “We deliver. It’s only half past seven. Do you think she’s at home?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “You don’t
go anywhere
when you’re pregnant and raising six kids on a budget.”

Gil stays behind to put Rose to bed while Bernard and I bring Gigi to my old house. By the time we arrive, the baby is bright red all over from wailing and I’m surprised she has any energy left at all. Sometimes she’ll stop for a few seconds to catch her breath and you think it’s going to quiet down but then she gets going again, louder than ever.

We don’t even have a chance to knock before the door flies open, as if Mom is St. Peter working the gates and our names are next on the list. She doesn’t have to ask why we’re there, either.

My mother smiles down at little Gigi and takes the suffering child into her arms. We follow her inside the house. Fortunately, Bernard is too distracted by the baby to be frightened by the decoupage situation. Simply put, between rainy-day projects and Mom’s final few weeks of every pregnancy, the house has been hit hard.

Mom sits on the couch, positions Gigi facedown in her lap, and gently rolls her back and forth. “Gas,” she diagnoses with quiet authority. Soon some loud sounds emerge from the baby’s snuggly and she stops crying. “It has to come out one of two places,” Mom instructs us. “Either the basement or the attic.”

When Mom lifts Gigi up again, the infant’s complexion has reverted to its normal pink-cheeked ivory. The baby glances over at us with eyelids drooping and promptly falls asleep.

Darlene screeches through the room carrying a handheld video game, with her twin brother, Davy, in hot pursuit, only he’s slightly hampered by having his foot in a cast and trying to run on crutches.

Mom shushes them and warns, “Give him back his game right now, Darlene, or you’re both heading off to bed this second.” Darlene relents and they scamper out of the room. Or rather, Darlene scampers off and Davy hobbles after her while attempting to trip her with his crutches. They’ve only been out of sight for a second when it’s obvious from Davy’s penetrating scream that Darlene has snatched the game right back.

“What happened to his foot?” asks Bernard, his voice filled with concern.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” my mother says offhandedly. “They’ll never tell you the truth when it involves the other children. Probably wrestling.” It isn’t that my mother doesn’t worry about us, but with a total of eight kids, there’s always one in a cast, one getting flu, one with flu, and one just getting over flu. Teeth are knocked out or pulled out almost daily. It’s hard to believe that Mom was actually overprotective when Eric and I were toddlers. But a dozen broken bones and forty trips to the emergency room have turned her into something of a fatalist with regard to health and safety.

Dad enters the room, carefully stepping over a large ant farm and a Lego robot, and then around a blanket fort, which ends up tripping him because a chair leg is sticking out.

“Teddy!” my mom calls toward the back of the house. “Clean up this fort right now or you’re not playing baseball tomorrow!”

“So how’s fatherhood?” Dad claps Bernard on the back in comradely fashion. Granted, it’s taken Dad a year to warm up to the Stocktons, but the fact that I miraculously ended up going to college after living in their house for nine months has had the effect of casting them in an extremely favorable light.

“There are a few things that aren’t in the books,” Bernard says, and shoots an appreciative glance toward my mother. “I had no idea that parenting is more of an art than a science.”

“You learn as you go,” Dad says with encouragement. Teddy reports for fort-removal duty and Dad gives him a pat on the head.

“Who dinged the car?” I ask Dad. I’d noticed it in the driveway. There isn’t much chance it was my father. Then again, he rarely lends his car to us kids.

“Louise. On the last day of summer school she missed the bus. Your mother says that’s what insurance is for.” He shrugs and gives a wry smile. “I’m just relieved your sister isn’t staying out until all hours and hanging out with those
people
anymore.”

“Yeah.” I say. “She did really well in her classes.”

“And this new boyfriend, Brandt, he doesn’t play sports but he’s going places. Very academic.”

Dad loves a young person who’s sensible and “going places.” Especially if the places happen to be high school, church, the library, and then college. And the fact that Louise is still hanging around with Brandt now that exams are out of the way and her science project is finished, not to mention
introducing him to our parents,
must mean that she truly does like him. Because I don’t think it’d be worth marrying him just for his
Star Trek
DVD collection.

Mom hands the sleeping Gigi back to Bernard. “She’s still a tiny thing. After every meal you have to keep bouncing her until you get that burp.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” Bernard is practically tearful with gratitude. I’m sure the day Mom first came to lunch at the Stocktons he never dreamed he’d be asking
her
for advice.

“Give us a call anytime,” says Mom. “The door’s always open. And fortunately babies aren’t as fragile as they look.”

“You think this is bad,” jokes Dad, “wait until the girls get to be teenagers.” He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say. “Let’s keep in mind who will be choosing your nursing home.”

A fight breaks out at the top of the stairs and Mom looks over at Dad to indicate that he’s in charge of fights, the same way he looks at her when one of the kids pukes. My parents have been doing this so long that they don’t even need to exchange words anymore.

“Excuse me, but the troops are restless.” Dad hitches up his pants and heads toward the stairs. However, he steers me under the archway in front of him. In a quiet voice he says, “Al Santora was laid off six weeks ago.”

“Oh no,” I say.
Oh no,
I think. That’s why he was at Cappy’s poker game, probably trying to win money for the mortgage. His wife stays at home with the kids and doesn’t have any sort of income.

“It’s terrible.” Dad shakes his head. “The government is cutting money to the states left and right. This fall the school may only have a four-day week. And it’s a tough job market out there.”

“What’s he going to do?” I ask.

“He’ll get unemployment for a while and if worse comes to worst the church will help. I’ve spoken with Pastor Costello.” Then he brightens slightly. “But if things pick up and the state passes a new budget, he could eventually get his old job back, with all the benefits.”

The yelling upstairs suddenly becomes louder and there’s a crash followed by accusations. “Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .” Dad heads up the stairs while counting as a way of announcing his arrival, so hopefully they’ll break it up on their own and he can save his energy for stopping the pillow fights after lights-out.

I reenter the living room just as the ruckus upstairs stops, and Bernard observes, “Oh, I like the way he does the counting thing, very clever.”

As we head out the door, Mom advises, “Forget all the books. Threats and bribery are your two basic child-rearing tools. Remember that and you’ll be just fine.”

Threats and bribery? I can’t believe these words came out of the mouth of my Christian mother. People really aren’t kidding when they say that motherhood changes a person. Though I suppose by the time your ninth child is on the way you have to operate with an eye toward efficiency. And this doesn’t always incorporate taking into account the views of the child.