“Can I help you?” A little teenager who makes me
feel
like Vin Diesel stops in front of me.
“How do I get this to my car?”
And then, more importantly, how do I get it out?
“Just let me know what you need. It goes on a flatbed, and we take it to your car.”
“I think you need to diet,” I tell Rhett. A flatbed? Really now.
The kid looks at me. “So what kind do you want?” Lamb & Veal, Lite Formula, Senior Formula, Puppy Formula, Chicken Blend, Organic, Vegetarian
. Vegetarian? What are his teeth for?
Now, I am a person who doesn't generally panic over a shopping choice. I'm decisive. I'm brand-conscious and yet value-oriented. But I stand here without a brain cell to my name because I don't know what to buy this dog. Honestly, does it really matter?
“I don't know yet. I'll call you when I'm ready.”
“I can help you if you're confused.”
“I'm not confused.”
He's questioning my mental status?
I'm just thoughtful here. “I need to ponder a minute.”
“I'll be in the reptile section when you're ready.”
I look over, and yep, there is a reptile section. Lots of green things crawling about. There's a visual I could do without before my coffee. Meanwhile, Rhett has grown tired of the turtles and he's found the food section with interest. Duh? Let the dog pick. So Rhett goes along, sniffing the bags, and stops at . . . everything.
“Big dogs generally need less protein,” the kid says to me as Rhett heartily inhales the pleasures of a Beef and Lamb combination.
“He's not really a big dog,” I say hopefully.
“Look at those paws. He's going to be.”
Can I bind these feet like they used to do in China? No, probably not. “I'll take this one.” I point to a bag, and the kid gives me that
Really?
look.
“What's wrong with that one?”
“Nothing,” he says unconvincingly. He relents. “You probably want something lower in fat to keep him from growing too fast. It's hard on the skeletal system.”
“You know what? You pick.” I give him free rein and walk to the counter to pay.
“Do you need a storage bin for the food?”
“The bag's not good enough?”
“It will stay fresher in a bin, like Tupperware.”
“Oh, by all means. The dog needs Tupperware.” Kay ought to like that.
“And a scoop.”
“Actually he needs one of those blue sparkle collars.” My eyes get big at the sight of the cubic zirconia fashion for dogs.
“They don't come that big. How about a silver stud in the shape of a diamond model?” He lifts a blue nylon collar with cowboy studs on it.
I nod. “Perfect. A little bit country. A little bit rock 'n' roll.”
We get to the register and I hear, “$64.53.”
“Sixty-four dollars?” I clarify.
A roll of the eyes and an outstretched palm. “Credit card or cash?”
I look down at Rhett. “That's a great pair of marked-down shoes. Are you worth it?”
His brown eyes meet mine, and I could swear he's saying,
I feel for you, babe.
So I hand over the credit card and watch as they load my TT to low-rider status. I race home and leave the car loaded until later. Church starts in five minutes!
Sitting in the front row of church feels like a light down comforter surrounding me. It seems eons since I've been in a body of believers, and it's like warm honey to my soul. The familiar music takes me to a place I'd forgotten existed: wrapped in the security of my God's warmth. Worship is such an integral part of my life, and when I come home, it seems like my best friend welcoming me like the constant prodigal I am.
Naturally, there's a sense of sadness, too, because Seth is missing, and Arin is singing her heart out on the altar. I don't know what to think of Arin any longer. There's the human part of me that just wants to hate her guts, but then the Christian within me hopes she'll eventually get things figured out.
Arin definitely has a missionary heart, but it's hard to see it beating under her Juicy! sweatshirt. Up on the altar, despite her DKNY jeans, she is just completely with Jesus. Her eyes are closed, hands raised to the sky and an expression that is lost to Him. Unfortunately, I'm reminded I'm no better or worse than her. Arin's long blonde hair is swept up into a loose bun, and she doesn't wear a stitch of makeup except for a clear lip gloss, and you're still distracted by her beauty. I realize she loves the Lord, but she also wants what
she
wants. And isn't that the human in all of us?
The sermon is “Living Out Loud,” about living your faith out in the real world, not just at Christian potlucks and social events. I can't remember the last time I had time to live
in
Christian fellowship. Silicon Valley is stripped of religion, unless it's transcendental meditation, Islam, or Buddhismâsomething politically correct for the time. I don't know how you live anything else but
out loud
here. Just the fact that you own a Bible makes you suspect.
I try to imagine what Hans thought in Taipei. Did he assume I was more shopper than Christian? Faith should do more than high-light your faults, so I take out my notepad and I scribble furiously. Hans's name is on my heart. He needs the Lord, and so does Sophia, and my soul grieves every time I think about her eager welcome at the airport, and his apathetic response. It's so easy to see in someone else. I suppose I look just like Sophia to Seth, and his trademark retreat is evident.
Just as the last worship song is ending, my cell phone rings. I look around, mortified that I forgot to turn it off. How utterly tactless and Silicon Valley. I run out of the church like the loser I am and notice it's Brea's cell number. And Brea should be here.
“Brea?” I say into the phone.
“It's John, Ashley. Brea's having early labor pains. Her mother's at home with Miles, but she wants to be at the hospital. Can you go stay with Miles?”
“Absolutely!” My heart is pounding. “Can they stop the labor?”
“We don't know, Ash.” I'm mortified because I don't remember how far along she is, and I don't want to ask. What kind of best friend forgets these things? It's been ages since I've seen her, and with the puppy and the trip . . . “She's only thirty-two weeks, Ashley,” John says and then starts to break up.
“She's going to be fine,” I say with conviction. “I'll get everyone praying.” Brea's miscarriage is fresh in our minds. The idea of her losing another child is too much to bear, and I'm going to tell God so. “Tell your mother-in-law I'll be there ASAP.” My stomach lurches. “John, I hate to do this, but I've got to stop and get Rhett.”
“Can you get Miles first? I've left his car seat for him.”
“No problem. Oh wait, there is a problem. I have an air bag. I can't put Miles in my car. Look, never mind. I'll figure it out. I'll be right over. You just get to the hospital.” I run back into the gym we call a sanctuary, and everyone is walking out. “Wait. Wait!” I jog up toward the stage and ask everyone to pray. Arin is beside me and she seems intent on arresting my attention.
“Ashley, I really need to talk to you,” Arin says.
“Not now,” I tell her bluntly. The last thing I want to do is relieve Arin's guilt. If Arin has guilt, let her wallow in it. My best friend needs me. I race my car to Brea's house, and Mrs. Browning, her mother, is waiting at the door, with Miles in her arms facing out toward me. I take the baby, and he looks up at me nervously. His little lip is protruding, and he's working up a good scream. “Don't cry, Miles. It's Auntie Ashley.” I take his binky from Grandma and put it in his mouth. “Any instructions?”
“He just ate. He should be ready for a nap soon. The dogs need to be in their crates if you take Miles out for a walk. They are in there now.”
“Lucy and Ricky,” I say aloud. Brea's pugs. I never thought about the pugs. “Mrs. Browning, would you mind if I took your car so I can take Miles out?”
“Where would you need to go?” Her tone is such that I feel like she's asking me why I would need to eat.
“I have to get my dog. He's been home alone all morning, and my roommate has had it. She's doing a lot of demolition work, and I don't want the dog hurt.”
Mrs. Browning purses her lips, and I brace for the barrage. “You know, Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale, ever since you came into our lives, you've had one event of theater after another. Why don't you get married and have yourself a real crisis for once?”
“It's not for a lack of trying,” I mumble.
“Maybe if you'd think of someone besides yourself once in a while . . .”
Brea's mom has never exactly liked me. And I guess that doesn't need explaining. I was always the little urchin who followed her charmed daughter around. The portly girl, who never seemed to have a home of her own. Which I did, but my brother Dave lived there too, so I avoided it. While Mrs. Browning ran a Christian household, outreach wasn't exactly her focus. She wanted her daughter to grow up and imitate her life and grow other little Christians. That's where her evangelism started and ended.
Mr.
Browning loved me though, and he took me everywhere he took Brea, much to the missus's chagrin. We went to ball games, Pizza & Pipes to see the Wurlitzer organ, we hiked the Golden Gate Bridge, and we fed ducks at the Baylands (before that was environmentally wrong). And when I graduated from anything, Mr. Browning was there in the front row shouting my name, with Mrs. Browning by his side, assuring his loyalty to her. When he died of a stroke this year, I felt it as acutely as if my own father had gone.
But here is Mrs. Browning, bringing up the selfish single argument when her daughter suffers. I've heard the selfish thing more than a few times. She could at least be original, don't you think?
“I am thinking of Brea, Mrs. Browning. That's why I'm here.” Miles cuddles into my chest as if to tell his grandmother to can it, and I hold him tightly. “This is my baby, my sweet baby Miles.”
“Don't hold him like that. He likes to look out,” Mrs. Browning dictates.
She's upset.
If there's anything I've learned in twenty years of this family, it's not to push Mrs. Browning when she's upset. I turn Miles around and hold him across his chest, and his little rolypoly legs and arms flail in deliberate kicks.
“There's Grandma's boy,” she says with cheer; then her demeanor changes, and she stares at me coolly. “The dogs have colds. Keep Miles away from them, and if you take him out, be sure and put his jacket on, and a blanket in the stroller.”
“Remember all those years Brea and I played with dolls?”
Like way past the age of acceptability. Geeks that we were.
“Well, we learned a thing or two about babies,” I say.
“I also remember the huge messes you made.” She sweeps her hand across the perfectly picked carpet as if to show me what a clean house looks like. “Brea is going to have enough stress, so could you do your best to keep the house maintained the way Brea would?”
Now, I love Brea, but she is the worst housekeeper on the planet. It's not unusual to find a folded-up dirty diaper on her dinner table because she got distracted on her way to the garbage can. And her laundry area usually looks like a dorm room, with wrinkled clothes in chaotic piles that fail to define themselves as clean or dirty. Trust me, keeping up with the housekeeping by Brea's standards would not be hard. Mrs. Browning's standards, however . . .
I suppose John has finally deciphered her laundry method, either that or he's found a good dry cleaner. The house is extremely organized now, and Mrs. Browning thinks I should believe it always looks like this. Brea's house looked cleaner before Miles came along, but now I guess it's too much effort, with his being the daily fashion-model baby. Anyway, her old ways are back in spades.
Mrs. Browning marches out the door and turns with one last cold stare. “If you must get your dog, use John's car. The keys are on the hook near the garage door. Don't keep Miles out gallivanting on your wild schedule. He's a baby. He needs his rest, and you could do with a little relaxing yourself. You look entirely too haggard for your age.”
I'm waiting for a plastic surgeon's card, but she walks out with-out another word. When I see her drive off, I take Miles in and set him on his homemade quilt that Brea designed for him. It's green with little roads, and cars and airplanes everywhere. I put him on his tummy, and immediately he rolls over to his back, kicks his legs and arms, and giggles.
“Oh, so my big man is turning over now.” I put him back on his tummy, and he turns over again, giggling like a slumber party attendee. We do this for about ten minutes, and he starts to rub his eyes with a balled-up fist. “You're getting tired. Now's a good time to go get Rhett. Do you want to meet Rhett?”
I get a gummy smile. Which must mean yes. Buckling him into the car seat of John's SUV, I hand him his quilt, and he leans into the car seat, smashing his face against the wall of it for comfort. I place the binky with him, and by the time I get the car packed, he's sleeping peacefully. Wouldn't it be great to sleep like that? His stomach is expanding and contracting, and he is just contentment personified. I just wish I could watch him up front, but he's facing backwards and the little mirror in front of him doesn't do him justice in the rearview mirror.
The dogs are yapping at me from their crate when we back out of the garage. I leave the garage door open an inch or two for their comfort and away we drive. I'm dying for an espresso. My mind is racing in constant prayer for Brea, and I can't focus on everything I need to accomplish. It dawns on me that I can't just stop for an espresso with a baby in the car. Simple concept, but really frustrating when you're dying for a caffeine high. I remember the drive-thru in the next town, and go three miles out of my way for bad espresso.
So this is parenthood.