Dear Carolina (4 page)

NOBODY FROM NOWHERE

Asparagus is one back-flipping tricky vegetable. Some people can it, store it, pull it out and eat it like their last meal in the joint before they meet their maker. But I wouldn't give you two grubby cents from the car cup holder for canned asparagus. Now, when I was coming up, I wouldn't touch fresh asparagus with one of them clubs we played trailer park golf with. I didn't like that light green crunch I'm so crazy 'bout now. I'd down that slimy goop straight from the can. But, like them sparkle high-tops the ladies down at the Salvation Army brung to the house one Christmas, I grew outta canned asparagus.

I reckon Ricky and that asparagus was kin; I grew outta him too. In any sorta crisis, any time you needed your man to stand up, take charge, Ricky, he shriveled up on you like that poor, limp canned asparagus.

When I told your birth daddy that we was having a baby, he looked me up and down, sighed, and said, “I thought you had that shit taken care of.” Then he turned and said real low like,
though he knew I was in earshot, “Should've known she was too stupid not to get pregnant.”

I hope you're wonderin' why I would let a man treat me like a maggot-filled garbage bag. But that's how my momma done my daddy. And I was all wrecked from drinking and not even thinking I deserved Ricky, that flea-bitten dog.

Right straight from rehab and clean raw like an asphalt scrape, I walked outside, sat down in front of all them rich-looking red flowers that Khaki and me planted like we was gonna be happy, and cried. I kicked myself like Mr. Simms done them poor dogs down at the trailer park before the animal control people come in and took 'em away. I sat up real straight and said out loud, “Jodi, you get to leaving that sorry-ass man. Trailer's in your name anyhow on account a' his sorry credit.”

But here's the thing about worthless men: They know how to behave right well enough that every time you're right on the verge of scraping 'em off your shoe, they do something that makes you ignore how awful they been.

About that time, that truck I cosigned for come up the road, dirt flying out from bald tires. Ricky scrambled out, holdin' one a' them gas station roses with the baby's breath. He jumped outta the truck and kissed me good and hard. “I'm so sorry I said that, baby. I think I might like to have a youngen.”

And damn if I weren't right there again, thinking the devil was a saint. Why I let him pull me in and reel me back out over and over again like a fly rod on a riverbank, I cain't say. I can say it was on account of my age, but I think it was something more like fear. I was nobody from nowhere and didn't have nobody. What decent guy was ever gonna want me?

So I think it was a blessing from heaven when Ricky didn't show up at that ultrasound appointment. I had to stand in line with that Medicaid card, face burning with shame. I had to lay
down on that rough, white paper sheet with no one holdin' my hand. I had to see my baby all alone.

Khaki, she had some life-changing moment when she saw Alex for the first time, one of them visions from heaven that gets people to thinkin' they can make it through dern near anything.

But me, I saw a jelly bean, reckoned it didn't look like a person, and decided to take care of it once and for all. Khaki, she tried to talk me out of it, but my mind was made up.

I had carried my friend Marlene to have two abortions already, so I got to figuring she'd be the best person to call. But before I could even pick up the phone, I heard a knock at the door and, lo and behold, wouldn't you know it? There she was.

I know she cain't help it, and, heaven knows, she's my best friend. But some people are just born looking cheap and stay that way 'til the worms get done with 'em. A sorry excuse for a dye job from Antonio's salon right there in the trailer park and makeup done up tall like so much cake frosting weren't good no matter how you looked at 'em. But that weren't it. Khaki could take Marlene on up to New York City and get her plucked and brushed and trimmed and scrubbed and clothed by the fanciest people in the world. But one look right hard and you'd know she'd grown up on the rough side of the trailer park.

“Girl,” she said when I opened the door. “You gotta do something to yourself.”

I knew my hair was greasier than them fast-food fries my momma was always trying to pass off as home cooked. And wouldn't no amount of makeup cover up them dark circles. But, for Pete's sake, I was fixing to make the biggest decision since rehab. Marlene squinted brown up at me from under blue shadow, and I could smell the Aqua Net holding her curling-ironed ringlets in place.

She cocked her hip and pointed at me, them dark eyes gettin'
even squintier. “You been drinking again, Jodi Ann? 'Cause if you been drinkin', you cain't hide it from me of all people.”

Watermelon breath flew clear across the trailer, and I could see that wad of gum hiding in the corner of her mouth. I'd been knowing Marlene for sixteen years, since her momma left her daddy and moved into the trailer right beside ours. And I couldn't think up one time I ain't seen gum in her mouth. I asked her 'bout it one time and she said, real cocky like, “It's my diet plan. If I got gum in my mouth I ain't puttin' a brownie in it.”

“Ain't being poor our diet plan?” I had said.

That day, I peered back at her. “I ain't drinking again, Marlene.”

“Oh good,” she said, shimmying past me through the door and plopping down on my couch. “'Cause I started selling Shaklee, and I think it's gonna go real good. You gotta do it too.”

I sighed. Marlene was always climbing up on one moneymaking pyramid or another. She'd get all happy and carryin' on for a week or two, realize she couldn't sell water to a man on fire, and go back to waitressing while figuring how she could get the government to give her more money for community college. She handed me the brochure all official like and said, “See, it's environmentally friendly cleaning products.”

I looked at the brochure, and I near about dropped my teeth when I saw that a “starter pack” was getting at $100.

“Who in their right mind's gonna pay more than a day's wages for some Windex?” I asked.

Marlene smacked her gum, twirled a piece of hair around her finger, and rolled her eyes. “Jodi,” she said, like I were denser than poor old Mikey that swept the floors at the market. “You don't understand. They're
concentrated
.”

“I don't care if they clean the dag dern house. We don't know
nobody who can spend a hundred dollars on some cleaning mess.”

Marlene wasn't listening, same as usual when I tried to talk her out of these harebrained schemes. First it had been Tupperware. Then Mary Kay. Then prepaid legal. Now this.

“Jodi, I just don't know why you gotta be so negative all the time. All we gotta do is sell to rich people who don't want chemicals in their house.”

I leaned back on the couch. “We don't know any rich people.”

Marlene shook her head. “You know Graham and Khaki. They can send us on over to all their rich friends, and we can get them hooked on supplements and weight loss products and cleaning supplies.” She snapped her fingers. “Before you know it we'll be living in big houses like theirs thinking expensive, fancy cleaning supplies ain't nothing.”

My head was hurting good now. “Look,” I said, setting the Shaklee pamphlet down beside me, thinking that it sure did look fancy. I sighed. “I'm pregnant.”

Marlene squealed. “Yay! A baby!”

Before I could even get to tellin' her that I weren't having the baby, she was going on down the line about streamers we could get from the party supply store and who she was gonna invite to the shower she was throwing and how much fun it was gonna be to have a baby.

“Marlene,” I finally broke in. “If you're so in love with babies, why the heck didn't you have the two you got pregnant with?”

Marlene looked at me like I just told her I ain't been washed in the blood after all. “Because, obviously, Jodi, I got a
career
to think about.”

Like Marlene was some Erin Brockovich saving the world and I was sitting up here on my ass watching soaps all day. “Well, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I ain't exactly shining my
diamonds over here.” I took a sip from the glass of water beside me. “I ain't some pampered housewife. I gotta work too.”

“But you got a man to take care of you,” Marlene protested. “Nobody's ever took care of me.”

My chin got to quivering, and Marlene was across the room faster than a twin-diesel pickup at a green light. “Oh, sweetie. Where is Ricky?”

I leaned my head onto Marlene's shoulder and sobbed good. “He's gone. He left when he found out about the baby.”

Marlene jumped up again and said, “That no-good bastard! How could he leave you all alone like this?”

I shook my head. “That's why I have to have an abortion,” I whispered. “There ain't nothing else to do.”

Marlene stomped her foot. “No. No, no, no. I'll help you. You always been the smart one. I ain't lettin' you ruin your life over some asshole cain't even make his own damn truck payment.”

I hadn't let Marlene talk me into one dern thing before. Not Mary Kay or prepaid legal or any a' that mess. But I got all weepy and girly when Marlene started going on and on about tiny socks and hair bows and having someone to love you no matter what.
Having someone to love me no matter what.

Now, Marlene cain't sell a tube of lip gloss to her own momma. But she got me all stirred up and believin' that having you was gonna be some great adventure. Having you was gonna be the thing that turned my life around. Sometimes, when we want to believe something bad enough, even a second-rate salesman can close the deal.

HAPPY CLAMS

Here's something I know: Homes with small children should forgo white sofas, regardless of how much Scotchgard they have. Here's something else I know: Men don't like fertility clinics. Cups and small rooms and other things that you're too young to hear about are involved. Graham might have been “sure” that that Sunday morning baby-making session had taken, but, a week and another negative test later, I thought I might disintegrate into a puddle of tears on the Stark area rug–covered ground. I reminded myself about a million times a day how lucky I was to have one healthy, beautiful child. But I felt like another baby was the missing piece in our family puzzle.

I had waited as long as I could to broach the subject. As the edge came off the cool and the whole world felt like it was going to burst into bloom on the first warm day, I knew my time had come. I wasn't going to be the only one who hadn't blossomed. So I said, “Honey, I'm making us a doctor's appointment, you know, to make sure everything is okay.”

He gave me an Elvis lip and replied, “We're young and healthy, babydoll. We've just got to keep trying.”

I crossed my arms, looking down on him where he was lounging shirtless on the couch, watching
SportsCenter
. His tight, toned abdomen and upper body, sculpted by nothing more than good genes and sweaty, manual labor, almost distracted me enough that I let him win. Almost. I got my wits about me and sighed loudly, and, when he saw my serious expression, he said, “Fine. Make the appointment, and I'll go.”

Truth be told, I simply assumed something was wrong with him. I had, after all, successfully created one offspring with another man. So it shocked the daylights out of me when a doctor who looked young enough to be one of Graham's summer high school farmhands said, “Mrs. Jacobs, I'm so sorry to tell you this, but according to your preliminary tests and ultrasounds, it appears that you have a condition called endometriosis.”

I only half listened to him chattering on about tissue surrounding my ovaries. I was stunned because I hadn't let myself consider that something might actually be wrong with
me
. I think I came back into the space across from the huge, mahogany CEO desk that made my physician look even more like he was playing pretend right about the time he said, “A simple laparoscopic surgery could both diagnose the extent of the disease and clean it up so that it would be easier for you to conceive.”

Without so much as thinking, I said, “Great. I'm available tomorrow.”

Graham looked at me skeptically and said, “Khaki, let's not be so hasty.”

I glared at him and, I must admit, raised my voice a bit. “Hasty? I'm fairly sure that after three years making this decision isn't hasty. I want to be pregnant
now
.”

I knew I sounded like a spoiled child, but I didn't care. I
turned my raised, worked-up voice to the doctor. “This surgery will mean I'll get pregnant, right?”

He looked a little scared of me, which was logical. I was something to fear.

“Well,” he started, “it will certainly increase your odds, but . . .”

I set my hand on the desk and peered at him. “But what? Spit it out. What are you trying to tell me?”

He leaned back farther in his chair, and said, “There's some evidence that women with endometriosis have difficulty carrying a child. Uterine muscle cells lose their ability to expand and contract—”

I inhaled sharply and loudly, cutting him off. “What's the bottom line?” I asked, far too irritated to sit through an hour's worth of medical jibber-jabber.

“The uterus isn't . . .” He rubbed his fingers together, looking for the right word. “Stretchy.”

My OB-GYN had just used the word
stretchy
when referring to my uterus, and I might not be able to have a baby. Not the news I had dreamed of. Instead of asking for a Kleenex, I looked at Graham and said, “I am happy to discuss this with you further when we get home.” Then I looked back at the doctor and said, “Theoretically, how quickly would I be able to get in for the surgery?”

“Well,” he said, and I could tell by his body language that he was fully prepared to put both hands up to cover his face in case I launched a pointy object at him. “Dr. Stinson is one of the foremost experts in the country in this disease, so I would assume you would want him to do the surgery.”

“Of course,” Graham responded before I had the chance to say that any old resident would be fine with me as long as he or she could un-gunk my ovaries.

“Honestly, you're probably looking at seven to eight months before he can work you in.”

I pulled my thick sweater tighter around my waist and practically spat at him, “What!”

I thought about Alex, like I do about every thirty seconds when I'm not with him. Finding out you're pregnant with your dead husband's baby pretty much classifies as a miracle no matter how it happens, so I wasn't one bit above believing that his conception was an act of God. But I asked all the same, “So if I have this condition, why did I have such an easy time getting pregnant and carrying my son?”

The doctor just shook his head. “I wish I had a clear answer to that question.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was starting to calm down a bit, realizing how lucky I was to have Alex, how I had taken for granted how simple and natural it had all seemed, like it was my right as a woman to automatically get pregnant.

The doctor continued, “The disease affects every woman differently, so you may have had it all along and it didn't affect your fertility, or it may have started after you already had your son. We may be a little bit clearer on that after the surgery, but there's no way to really know for sure when it began.”

I nodded and looked at Graham, wondering how difficult it was for him to look unfazed by all of this. But I wasn't surprised. He was always, always my rock.

I stood up, grabbed my toy- and Goldfish-full Lanvin tote off the floor and said, “Thank you so much, but I think I'll try to find someone who can work me in a little more quickly.”

I was already Googling “endometriosis experts NC” on my phone as Graham followed me out the door saying, “Sweetheart, I know you're upset, but let's calm down for a second.”

I crossed my arms and huffed, “I don't have time to calm down. I have to find another doctor, and Daniel is coming to town today to help me buy for the store and I have to get a blog post done in the car on the way back to Kinston, and I promised Father John that I'd design the event hall for the church bazaar this weekend.” I sighed, let my shoulders fall, and said, “And all I want to do is climb in bed with my little boy and take a nap.”

In the midst of that freezing parking lot, my breath billowing around me like the steam I needed to blow off, Graham, as he so often does, wrapped his strong arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. He was as rock-solid and even-keel as I was crumbling and hysterical.

“It's going to be okay, you know,” he said. He kissed the top of my head. “If this is supposed to happen for us, it will.” He kissed me again and added, “And if it's just the three of us, I'm happy as a clam.” I could feel his jaw shift into a smile as he said, “We'll get a bigger boat.” He squeezed me tighter. “Hell, maybe we can even upgrade you to a little larger work apartment in the city.”

He was trying to cheer me up, and I didn't want him to know I was crying, so I didn't say anything. I pulled back, turned away quickly so that he wouldn't see me wipe my eyes, and said, “How do we know those clams are even happy?”

He smiled and opened my car door for me. As I stepped up on the running board of the Suburban, I said, “Do you think this is why my stomach hurts so badly all the time?”

Graham shook his head. “Your stomach hurts all the time and you didn't think to have it checked out?”

I shrugged. “I thought maybe it was from having a baby.” I leaned my head against the window, the freezing pane soothing my hot head. “Plus, who has the time?”

As I looked out the window, the sky appearing again after
the level after level of concrete parking garage, I realized that maybe I had been in denial all this time. Deep down, I knew something was wrong. But considering that I might not be able to have any more children was like considering moving to another country. For some people it might have been just right. For me, it felt completely foreign.