Shelter Us: A Novel (25 page)

I spend the next hour imagining my calls to Carolina and Josie, their enthusiasm, their gratitude. As the green, glowing numbers close in on 5:30 a.m., I melt into a satisfied slumber.

I
dial
Carolina’s number. I hope she likes this idea. I’m calling her first so I can call Josie afterward with the good news. Izzy is playing with a toy parking lot, driving small cars up a red plastic ramp, then back down the winding yellow exit ramp. A green elevator that used to carry the cars up and down is missing, a casualty of Oliver’s frustration when he couldn’t make it work right. It’s a wonder the ramps are still attached.

The phone rings three times before Carolina picks up. “Sarah Freakin’ Shaw! How are you? Oh my gosh, I miss you.” Caller ID. I still make the cut.

“Hey! I’m so honored not to be screened.” I laugh, and it sounds forced. “How are
you
feeling?”

“My butt’s tired from lying in bed, but at least I get to work in pajamas.” Neither of us wants to talk about babies. We dance around it, courteous of the other’s feelings. I hear her fumble around, reassembling herself on her bed.

“You’re still working?” I ask.

“They won’t let me stop.”

“How’s the firm handling you not being there?”

“Are you kidding? They’re thrilled. Since I’m on bed rest, I have no excuse not to be near my phone at all times. They call me nonstop.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got
Ellen
on mute.”

She laughs. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“It’ll be our secret.” I vamp for time, nervous about my proposition. Suddenly I fear that this is the craziest idea I’ve ever had, something that would make sense only in a dream state. “Well, try to rest. It’s going to be a fond memory when you’re up every two hours.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to arrest the tears. Talking with an old friend exfoliates feelings.

“Too true,” she says. This is the moment for me to make my pitch. I try to drum up the courage to go forward. “So, how are Robert and the boys?” she asks, beating me to the next topic. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen them since Izzy was born.” Years ago, it was Carolina I first told about meeting Robert, Carolina who teased me for “slutting it up with some guy in a bar.” For a split second, out of habit, I feel like I could tell her about the indecorous incident with Brian. But that would compound my unfaithfulness to Robert and make her complicit.

“They’re good. Robert loves teaching. And being asked for his expert opinion.”

“Of course,” she laughs. I have always loved her laugh, like a flute trilling.

“And the boys are great. Oliver’s at school, still very serious about everything, and Izzy follows him around, trying to do whatever he does. Izzy’s home with me right now.” Hearing his name, Izzy comes over to where I’m standing at the kitchen counter and begins pulling on my pants. “I’m talking to my friend, sweetie.”

“I’m hungry, Mommy!”

“Just a sec.” I dismiss him. “Of course now he says he’s hungry. As soon as I’m on the phone, right?”

“Of course. It’s like they’re programmed,” she commiserates.

My speaking about him only encourages him. He pulls harder on my pants, nearly pulling them off. I have to put my hand around the waist to keep them up. “Mommy, I’m hungry!”

I cover the receiver and say, “Hang on a sec,” and look for a quick snack for him. I don’t want to lose my nerve to tell Carolina my idea. I grab a banana out of the fruit bowl, peel it all the way off the way he likes, and hold it out to him. To Carolina, I say, “Actually, I’m calling
because something very interesting has come up that I wanted to talk with you about.”

“No, not a banana!” Izzy whines.

“You love bananas!”

“No! No banana!”

“Just take it. Sorry, Carolina.”

“It’s fine. What’s up?” I can hear impatience creeping into her voice.

“Well, as I was saying,” I begin again, distracted by the search for an acceptable snack. I lay the naked banana on the counter and open the fridge. I grab a string cheese and try to open it for him, holding the phone with my head and neck as I talk. “I wanted to tell you about an unbelievable young woman I met a few months ago.” I like the sound of this. I practiced this in my head before I dialed, but that was as far as I got. The phone drops to the floor as I peel the cheese. “Sorry, Carolina!” I shout toward the floor. “Hang on!” I finish opening the tight plastic and hand the white cheese to Izzy, hoping this will appease him. I bend to pick up the phone. Before I can speak to Carolina again, Izzy screams, “No cheese.
No cheese!
”

“I am so sorry—can you hold on one more second, Carolina?” Exasperated, I bend to Izzy’s eye level and say, with not an ounce of kindness, what all of us know: “I am on the phone.” He holds my gaze, all two feet of him covered in footed pajamas. He lowers his head and looks up at me with his round eyes, his lower lip jutting out just enough to be sincere. “What do you want, Iz?”

Seconds tick by, during which I know I may lose Carolina to a call from her office or to sheer annoyance. Izzy is thinking, very slowly, very carefully, about what he wants to eat. We both know he’s not hungry, that he wanted (and brilliantly got) my attention, and now he’s milking it as long as he can. He sees impatience crawl across my face and he knows his grace period is just about over. This pushes him to action: “Goldfish!” he pronounces.

Thank God we have goldfish crackers. I pour him a cupful and hand it to him, and, victorious, he returns to his cars and garage. “Carolina, I am so, so sorry.”

“That’s fine. I know how it is.” Her pace is brisker now, her tone more matter-of-fact. “Now, what about this woman?”

I make my pitch for her to consider hiring Josie as a live-in nanny. I tell her all of Josie’s best attributes, her experience as a day-care teacher, how she is with Tyler, but I try to keep it brief. I can tell she is ready to get on with her work, or with
Ellen
.

She listens, and when I finish, she says, “Let me think about it. I already have someone I like, but maybe we’ll need extra help when the baby comes. Can I get back to you?”

“Sure, of course.”

This is not how I had imagined it would be. In the darkness of my room I had imagined Carolina thanking me for saving her, praising my goodness. “It’s just an idea. It’s fine if you can’t . . .” I trail off.

“It’s a good idea, Sarah. I’ll call you back next week. That’s the office beeping in.”

“Okay, take care. Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do. Bye.” She cuts me off as she clicks over to the other line.

I hang up, disappointed that I can’t call Josie with great news. I turn my attention back to Izzy. I watch him driving the same cars up one ramp, then down another. A few feet away from him, the cup of Goldfish crackers sits on the floor, untouched.

“T
ime to go
, Izzy!” One hour later, I’m trying to wrangle Izzy out of the house and into the car. We’re supposed to be at Oliver’s preschool recital. I try everything in my arsenal, and finally resort to bribing him with a cookie. Before I can buckle him in, something on the floor of the car piques his interest and he climbs out of his car seat to examine it.

“Izzy, get into your seat!” I shout. I have no patience left. I hear a door close nearby and am reminded I’m in public. Embarrassed to be caught yelling at a toddler, I take a break from our skirmish. I look up to discover that it’s Susie who has interrupted my less-than-proud moment. She is walking down the front path to her house, sporting an undeniably pregnant bump on her toned body. The sight nearly knocks me over.

She breaks her tradition of avoiding me. “Hi, Sarah!”

“Hi, Susie.” I feel the ground move in waves under my feet. Izzy crawls on the floor of the backseat. He sings, “Mommy, Mommy, la la tee dah tee!” to make sure I know that he has triumphed. I cannot take my eyes off Susie’s belly, swollen with life under a skintight tank top. An undeniable jealous rage pulses through me. How can
she
have another baby? I squeeze my mouth into a smile and fight off the urge to cry. “Are you . . . ? I didn’t know . . .”

“Yeah, I know—isn’t it exciting?” she replies, her voice cloying. “I just felt like I had another one in me. Like I’m not done being a mother.”

Not done? I can’t imagine what expression is on my face. I try for
a smile, but I’m sure it comes off as a twisted sneer. She has two children the same ages as mine. How—
how?—
can she feel like she’s got anything left to give, when I feel so depleted? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I handle what she can?

My thoughts jump to Oliver, at this second standing with his class in the little auditorium, looking for me. I can’t deal with Susie. I can’t deal with myself. I turn back to Izzy. I am all out of diplomacy. I lean over to the far side of the backseat, where he is on the floor, grab him under the armpits, pull him toward me, and heave him into his seat. I use my right shoulder to immobilize him and buckle him in. There. I close his door, take a breath, and ignore Susie, who is now pretending not to watch. I get in, check the rearview mirror and see Izzy’s red, pouting face, and proceed to Oliver’s recital.

Izzy calms down after a few minutes in the car. I try to do the same. My heart pumps fast. It’s the exertion of wrestling Izzy. It’s the frenzied rush of being late. It’s Susie and her belly. We get to school, park, and hurry in. Izzy is heavy on my hip as I jog up the stairs. We burst into the auditorium just as Oliver’s class stands to sing. Susie is not the only one having a baby. Half the mothers here are sporting round bellies. It’s this season’s must-have accessory.

The seats are taken by the early and on-time arrivals, so we settle in front on the carpet. I wonder how many parents in this room had to manhandle a child to get here. There must be more than me. I pull Izzy into my lap. We cuddle; I make amends. Our wrestling match is forgotten. I point to Oliver. “Do you see Olly? There’s your brother! Hear him singing?” I’m Nice Mommy again.

Oliver sees us and waves. His face lights up with a smile and my heart somersaults. His smile makes me feel like I’m falling in love. He watches his teacher for clues to the lyrics, many of which he knows. My heart could not contain another ounce of love. It spills out onto Izzy and pools around us. Izzy hums and bounces on my lap. I hold him tight. I kiss his head. We clap hands together.

I look around at all the children, the siblings, the mommies, a few grandparents and nannies. And then I feel Ella sit with me. It happens
like this, at times of joy. It’s not that I picture her—she inhabits me. I hear a voice that might have become hers. She rings in my ears, vibrates in my chest.
I want to be with you
, she says.
Let me be with you. Let me hear my brother sing. Let me sit in your lap
.

I look down at my lap, and it is Izzy who occupies it. He is holding my veined hands in his small, soft palms, his fingers exploring mine, clapping my hands together with his.
If she had lived
, I begin to think, but it hurts to finish the thought, hurts with a visceral pain in the maze of organs that all three children once inhabited. My two living children are what I can manage. If Ella had lived—I force myself to complete the thought—then Izzy would not have. This is the sacrifice she made.

I hear her again. I hear her in the discordant, enthusiastic singing, in the soft shushing of babies, in the cries of newborns who can’t be shushed, in the applause of enamored adults. I hear my daughter calling to me:
If you have another baby, it will be me. I’ll come back to you. Let me be with you
. And I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t. I can’t take care of another baby. Maybe someone else could, maybe Susie knows how, but I don’t. It’s too much.

I hold Izzy tighter. I wipe my eyes and let people think I’m moved by the sweetness of the moment. When the last song is sung, Oliver runs toward us. I pull Izzy to my left knee and hold my right open to Oliver. He jumps and lands in my lap, knees first, one leg covering Izzy’s feet. I pull them both in, kiss Oliver’s neck, and delight in his laugh as Izzy palms his face, both hands. “Hi, Izzy Pizzy Wizzy Fizzy!” he greets his brother. “Did you like it?”

Izzy answers him by opening his mouth wide and trying to cover Oliver’s nose with it. Oliver squeals and rolls out of my lap, pulling Izzy down on top of him. Izzy’s face gleams like a full moon from his brother’s attention. They pretend-wrestle, playful as puppies, on the short-haired khaki carpet of the auditorium, as families all around us congratulate their singers and begin their exit.

I marvel at their intimacy, pray for it to last, to outlive me. Feeling the joyful abandon of the moment, I ask, “Who wants ice cream?” Right this instant, it is a perfect day.

T
he next morning
, I awaken without dread for the first time since I returned from Berkeley. The lead in my belly has dissolved. I feel nearly normal. I have slept late. I hear Robert downstairs, asking Oliver if he wants a bowl of cereal. The monitor by my bed registers Izzy’s quiet breathing. I can’t remember the last time I felt this restored by a night’s sleep.
I’ve made it
, I think. I stretch my arms and legs, let out the delicious yawn of the newly rested, and prop myself up. I swing my legs down to the floor, put on my slippers and robe, and head downstairs to greet my family.

Robert is already showered and dressed for his day. I wonder how long he’s been up. His back is toward me as he pours a second round of Cheerios into Oliver’s bowl. “Good morning, my loves,” I say to the backs of their heads. I walk over to give them each a kiss.

“Hi, Mommy.” Oliver cheers me. Robert doesn’t turn around. When I place my hand on his shoulder, he is as still as stone. Oliver leaves to go to the bathroom, and I come around to see Robert’s face, which he has been hiding from me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask in a quiet voice, so Oliver won’t hear.

He looks at me with disdain. “What’s wrong with
you
? That’s the question!”

“What are you talking about?” Fear and guilt burst back in.