It Had To Be You (31 page)

“Can’t blame you there,” Rosa said with a shake of her head. “I guess I’d better write all of this down. How many of these weddings am I baking cakes for?”

I gave her a knowing look, and she nodded. “Aha. I see. Including the one in two days?”

“Well, that one’s up in the air. Twila knows you’re just getting back in town, so she has a bakery on speed dial, just in case.”

“A bakery?” Rosa looked horrified at that suggestion. “We will have no bakery cakes at Club Wed. Not for a friend’s wedding, anyway. I will call her this afternoon and get to work.”

“Speaking of cakes …” Sophia’s eyes sparkled, and she clutched Rosa’s hand. “Wait till you hear my plan for our Tiffany’s-themed cake. Each level is going to look like a present, Rosa. A gift box. Can you do that?”

“Well, sure. I’m getting pretty good with fondant, and I have square baking pans.”

“It’s going to be glorious,” Sophia said. “Oh, I just know you’ll make it so pretty, Rosa. You’re the best!”

Sophia lit into a conversation about the design of her cake, which led to a conversation about the food at her and Tony’s wedding, which led to a lengthy dissertation about the need for better serving utensils. While I found all of this enlightening, I had other things to take care of. At the appropriate moment, I dismissed myself and headed next door.

As I made my way across the lawn, I dealt with that same strange sensation in my chest. It wasn’t pain, really. More of a gripping feeling followed by an erratic heartbeat. Though I did my best to dismiss it, it would not be dismissed. So I worked around it. Spent a lot of time praying through it. Surely God was big enough to handle a little erratic heartbeat, right?

That evening my symptoms intensified, and by the time I awoke the next morning, I felt a little breathless. Still, I pushed things off. Who had time to fret over the physical right now?

I had a wedding reception to coordinate! And hopefully, once Twila and Terrell boarded the cruise ship afterward, I could get back to planning for my own big day.

The morning of January 18 dawned cold and clear. After attending the morning service at church, Mama and Rosa worked with me to prepare the reception hall for Twila’s reception.

“What did you think of that ceremony up in Splendora last night?” Mama asked.

I couldn’t help but smile as I reflected on Twila’s emotional wedding. “I thought it was beautiful. It was so sweet to see all of the tears from the bride and groom. And didn’t you think the ladies did a fabulous job with that trio?”

“No kidding.” Mama nodded. “The audience was speechless.”

“I talked them into repeating the song today,” I said. “Just had to hear it one more time.”

“You know, Bella,” Rosa interjected, “I really love those ladies. I find it interesting since we’re all so different.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve thought about that a lot over the past few months. God has really broadened our family circle, physically and culturally.”

“I love Twila’s beauty secrets,” Mama said, showing off her soft hands and silky smooth elbows.

“And I love Earline’s chicken-fried steak,” Rosa said. “Might have to learn to make it myself.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I love cowboys.” I giggled at this confession. “And cowboy boots.” I lifted the hem of my pants and showed off my latest pair.

“We’re just a bunch of Tex-Italians, I guess.” Rosa nodded. “It’s about time. Only took us sixteen years to make the jump.”

Her words led to a conversation about how we’d all come to live in Texas, which led to a bittersweet talk about family members who had walked the road before us. As Rosa and Mama talked about their parents, I listened closely. As much as I hated to see the passage of time, I knew there would come a day—hopefully years and years from now—when Sophia and I might gather in a room just like this one to talk about the good old days, the days when our family members were gathered around us and we felt sure that life as we knew it would go on forever.

Blinking away tears, I decided not to let my mind go there. Not today, anyway. No, today I had an incoming bride. And caring for her needs was all that mattered. Tomorrow I could think about other things.

The next several hours passed in a blur. The reception hall filled with friends from both Splendora and Galveston, and though the event was simple—no band, no over-the-top decor—everyone in attendance had a lovely time. Twila looked glorious in her soft pink dress and heels. And as she and Terrell danced to a familiar country tune, I felt that same lurching in my heart. Maybe I was just emotional. I had a lot to be happy about. And now that this wedding was behind me, I could truly focus on the one that mattered most—my own.

I somehow made it through the end of January, though my workload increased daily. Finding myself overwhelmed more often than not wasn’t unusual. Still, I convinced myself it would all be worth it once Valentine’s Day approached. On that wonderful Saturday night, D.J. and I would link hands and hearts.

If I made it that long. Every day I grew more exhausted and frazzled than the day before, and though I loved my sister, she was getting on my last nerve. Who had thought bunking together would be a good idea? I never had a moment to myself, never got to talk about my wedding without the discussion shifting to hers. Still, I did my best to plaster on a smile and keep going—for all of our sakes.

On the morning of February 9, Mama and I met with Marcella at the flower shop. She seemed a little out of sorts this morning, but who could blame her? Now a full eight months pregnant, she was carrying around a tummy for the record books. She’d also put on a few extra pounds in some strange places. Her ankles, for instance. I’d never seen ankles like that before. And her face looked puffy. I hadn’t noticed the phenomenon with her other two pregnancies, but I didn’t want to mention it in case she hadn’t noticed.

We met at 10:00 in the morning to talk through the bouquets she would be making for my wedding. The roses had been ordered weeks ago, but I had special plans for how they would be pieced together. As we met in her back office, I noticed a strange look cross her face.

“What is it, Marcella?” I asked, worry setting in.

“Oh, nothing, I—”

I looked over, stunned, as she doubled over in pain. “Oh no!” I rushed her way, trying to offer assistance. She held up her hand, likely trying to allay my fears.

“It’s okay, Bella,” she said, making a curious panting noise. “Don’t worry. I’ve been down this road before. These are just Braxton Hicks contractions. Nothing—” Her face tightened for a moment, then relaxed. “Nothing to worry about.”

“O-okay.” I nodded, unsure of what to do next. Sure enough, she straightened her posture a minute or so later and smiled broadly. “There. That wasn’t so bad.”

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital or something?” I asked. “Just to be safe?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got work to do. Can’t stop just yet.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Nothing is going to stop me.”

“Mm-hmm.” I led her over to a seat, and she eased herself down into it. “You sound just like me.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. No worries.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed any concerns.

Half an hour later, however, things were not fine. Oh, sure, we had a plan for the bouquets and boutonnieres, but I could tell from the look on Marcella’s face that she was still struggling.

“I’d feel better if you called your doctor,” Mama said at last. “He will know best what to do.”

“Might not hurt.” Marcella rose and reached for the phone. Minutes later—under doctor’s orders—we drove her to the hospital. Just a precautionary thing, of course.

How would we know the next two hours would be spent in all-out chaos mode? That the doctor would admit her, no questions asked?

Turned out Marcella’s blood pressure was elevated. Extremely elevated. And blood work revealed protein in her urine—never a good thing, as the nurse explained. When the doctor arrived at last, we received an official diagnosis.

“Preeclampsia,” he said. “You’ve got to be on complete bed rest until this baby comes.”

“Oh, no, no,” she argued. “You don’t understand. This baby isn’t due for another month, and I’ve got work to do. I can’t possibly stay in bed that long.” She swung her legs over the edge of the hospital bed and reached for her purse.

“Marcella.” Mama gave her a stern look. “You are going to do what the doctor says.”

“But it’s so silly.” She shook her head. “I worked up till the minute both of the boys were born.”

“You didn’t have preeclampsia with those two,” the doctor reminded her. “And not only that, these contractions are concerning me. I want to check you to make sure you’re not dilated.”

Mama and I scooted out of the room, praying all the way. A few minutes later we were ushered back in. I could tell from the look on Marcella’s face that the news wasn’t good.

“I’m dilated three centimeters.” Her words were followed by a groan. “It’s true. I have to be on complete bed rest. Can’t even get up to go to the bathroom. How humiliating is that?” She pointed to the bedpan and grimaced.

My mind reeled at this news. “So you’re staying here? At the hospital?” Somehow I’d envisioned her lounging around her own house in her pajamas, not strapped to a bunch of machines with a bedpan tucked underneath her.

“Yes, it’s the safest thing for Marcella and the baby,” the doctor said. “Preeclampsia can be very dangerous. We take it seriously.”

I chided myself at once for being so selfish. Of course Marcella would stay. She would do whatever it took to ensure a healthy delivery—which was weeks from now.

I pulled in a few deep, cleansing breaths, trying to put this in perspective. Marcella needed us right now, and we would be here for her. No questions asked.

Surely a few days in bed would do her good. Besides, arranging flowers was easy-breezy work. Maybe she could put them together here in the hospital. Might give her something to do to pass the time. We weren’t talking hard labor here.
Hard labor. Funny.

The doctor scribbled some things on Marcella’s chart, then turned to face her. “I’m going to start you on magnesium sulfate. Sometimes it can give moms-to-be flulike symptoms, but we find it does a great job of slowing down contractions.”

“Lovely.” Marcella did not look pleased.

“And we’ll monitor these contractions around the clock,” the doctor continued. “You’ll be in good hands if this baby decides to come early. And just in case, we’re going to give you an injection of steroids to beef up the baby’s lungs.”

For whatever reason, his words reminded me of Twila, Bonnie Sue, and Jolene and their Where’s the Beef? T-shirts. Thinking about them reminded me to call Bonnie Sue and ask her to pray. Surely the prayers of the righteous would avail much, as Jolene always said. Yes, we would pray our way through this. God would bring everything into alignment in his time and his way.

I rubbed my brow, feeling a headache coming on, and my stomach felt a little funny. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realized I hadn’t eaten.

Standing at the end of Marcella’s bed, I did my best to listen as the doctor went on and on about his plan to keep her quiet and still over the next few weeks until the baby arrived. I heard the words, sure, but they didn’t register. No, I was too distracted by the strange fluttering sensation in my chest. And the weird whooshing sound in my ears. Why did the doctor’s voice sound so loud? Was he amplified? And why was he speaking in slow motion?

Suddenly I was overly aware of the smells in the room. The alcohol swabs the nurse had used. The disinfectant. And the noise! The ticking of the clock nearly drove me mad, as did the booming words coming from the doctor.

My queasiness increased, and I wondered if I might throw up. Beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip, and I gripped the railing on the end of the bed, feeling a little wobbly.
Lord,
what is going on here?

The doctor droned on—something about the risks associated with early delivery. How Marcella needed to follow his orders to a T. How her sole job from this day forth was to rest.

I reasoned this out in my mind. The wedding could move forward without a florist. Sure it could. Norah was pretty good with flowers, right? And Rosa. We could still manage, even without Marcella in the picture.

As the doctor continued to talk, my sister-in-law cast a terrified glance my way. “Bella?”

“Y-yeah?” I held the railing of the bed even tighter, the room now spinning out of control and the crazy cacophony of sounds pitting themselves against each other.

“Bella, are you okay? You look as white as a ghost.”

I shook my head in slow motion—my only option, since it suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. A fog wrapped me in its embrace, a strange, gray fog. Terrifying but inviting. It beckoned, and I gave myself over to it.

Very strange. I seemed to be falling asleep standing up.
Don’t go down, Bella. Don’t go down.

Funny how I couldn’t seem to convince my legs to cooperate. Gravity caught up with me, and as the room spun out of control, I found myself dropping down, down, down … to the cold, hard floor.

There’s something about waking up in a hospital bed with hysterical family members gathered around that makes a girl wonder what she ever did to deserve such attention.

Apparently I had been out long enough for Mama to call the rest of the family. When I came to—a slow and weighty process—all of the Rossi women were clustered around me, wrapping me in a cocoonlike embrace of love and attention.

I tried to bring their faces into focus but could not. One blurred into the next. And that crazy whooshing sound in my ears continued, as did the sensation in my chest.

“W-what … happened?” I finally managed, trying to sit up in the bed. The last thing I remembered was standing at the foot of Marcella’s bed. Now I was in a strange, unrecognizable room with the scent of hospital disinfectant overwhelming my senses.