Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life (7 page)

“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“It is. But you know what? Even though we could have paid them back—it would have just taken us a while, but we could’ve done it—they wouldn’t hear of it. All three
of them said that it was ‘Magic Money,’ not meant to be
paid back but to be passed on. The only thing they told us was that they expected us to pass on that exact amount to other folks who were in need.”

Rochelle and Melissa looked up to see two cars pull up close to the café door. Customers. It was time to get back to work.

But Rochelle placed her hand on Melissa’s arm before Melissa had a chance to get up. “That was six years ago. Melissa, this hundred is the last of that five. I’ve kept it in an envelope and given it out whenever I saw a need. Some folks have needed just ten dollars, others twenty. Today, you need a hundred. This should be enough for your office visit and prescription. If it’s not, I’ll give you some more.”

Melissa began to weep. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t you want this envelope?”

T
URNS OUT
,
Melissa did have a raging bladder infection. Dr. Strickland said it was a good thing that she came in. Once she got about a day’s worth of antibiotics in her system, she got over the infection just fine.

What she didn’t get over was Rochelle’s generosity and the tale of the Magic Money. Today, Melissa still has the envelope. It’s even more ragged looking than it was when Rochelle gave it to her. Even though she’s taped it up on all sides, Melissa has taken to putting it inside a Ziploc plastic bag for extra protection.

The envelope is ragged because Melissa opens and
closes it every payday and some days in between. She puts money into it when she gets paid, and she takes money out of it when she sees someone in need.

There’s something funny about the whole thing. It’s been five years, and that envelope has never run out of money. Not even close. That seems like a pretty amazing thing to me. But Melissa? When I ask, she tells me that she doesn’t think too much about it. She just considers herself blessed to walk around every day knowing that there is magic in her purse.

5

S
PANISH
L
ESSONS

B
ECAUSE SHE WAS LOATH
to raise his repeatedly dashed hopes, thirty-three-year-old Patricia Scutter didn’t tell her husband, Todd, that she thought she might be pregnant.

After more than a decade of childless years, Patricia knew better. For the first few years of their marriage, she and Todd had tried to make a baby on their own.

But nothing happened.

Back then, they weren’t too worried. Being high-achieving, ready-to-take-on-any-challenge firstborns, they read a few books and articles and concentrated their efforts.

Still nothing.

It was not until months of trying turned into five years of trying—with zero results—that Todd and Patricia sought the help of the specialists at a fertility clinic.

What an ordeal that turned out to be! Neither Todd nor Patricia was prepared for the humiliating, painful, and bank-breaking fertility tests and treatments that the doctors prescribed. Todd and Patricia endured getting stuck, poked, prodded, scanned, and sampled. But then quickly—way more quickly than they’d been led to expect—all discomfort and embarrassment were forgotten. Neither Todd nor Patricia had any doubts that all they’d been through had been worthwhile when, within three months of beginning treatments, Patricia became pregnant.

According to the doctors, her off-kilter reproductive system had just needed a bit of tweaking. (“Like Uncle Freddy’s old Ford,” Todd teased, hiding his relief that the blame for their infertility had not fallen on him.) Celebrating the good news with toasts of apple cider in wine glasses, Patricia and Todd wondered why they had waited so long to seek help. What
had
they been thinking? Medical science had truly come through.

And life was good until, early in her third month, Patricia suffered a miscarriage.

“Try not to worry,” Todd and Patricia were told by professionally sympathetic physicians. “Happens in a high percentage of first pregnancies. Miscarriage occurs so often that it’s hardly considered abnormal. Having one is not necessarily an indication that there’s anything wrong. Try again. Next time will most likely result in a healthy child.”

And so Patricia and Todd did try again.

And again.

And again.

Actually, they produced many initial successes. Under the care of the specialists, Patricia and Todd managed to get the
becomin
g pregnant thing down pretty good. It was the
staying
pregnant that they couldn’t manage.

One miscarriage followed another, which followed yet another.

It was after their fourth heartbreaking loss that Todd, chin trembling but jaw set, told Patricia enough was enough. He was done. No more fertility treatments. No more shots, no more pills, no more taking her temperature. If they had been meant to have a baby, it would have already happened. He could bear no more loss.

Patricia, weary, pale, and anemic, was too sad to disagree.

But despite all the loss and heartbreak, she and Todd, both blessed with optimistic natures, held to the notion that when the time was right, they would somehow get pregnant on their own. If that happened, they convinced themselves, things would be different, more natural, more meant to be. That was it, they told each other. It was the treatments. They had gotten in a rush. Given time, nature would take its course.

Not so. Without the boost of fertility treatments, Patricia didn’t get pregnant again. Over time, babies, a topic that for so long had been worked into every conversation, became something that neither one of them brought up anymore.

Yet here it was, three years past their last fertility treatment, and Patricia was late. Late as in
late.

Unwilling to be disappointed again, Patricia let three weeks pass before she broke down and opened a leftover home pregnancy test she found behind the towels in the bathroom. There was a time when she’d done so many of these things that she’d had the instructions memorized. This time, since it had been so long since she’d done such a test, Patricia was extra careful to follow the directions correctly.

Positive?

No way. She didn’t believe it. She dug the box out of the
trash. Expired. Well, of course. That explained it. She was
just late. Simply, explainably late. Like thousands of other not pregnant women who were late each month.

Three days later, with sweat on her hands, Patricia tested again. This time, the positive result could not be explained away by an expired test. She’d used a fresh test and had
sprung for a name-brand product, not some generic or
store brand. The package even boasted an expiration date a good six months away.

When she saw the results, Patricia found it hard to draw enough breath to speak. “Todd,” she squeaked. “Honey. Could you come here a minute?”

“Whatcha need?” Todd called from the kitchen, where he was pouring milk on his oatmeal. “Help zipping up?” He hoped that she did.

“Todd,” she pleaded,
not
in her please-zip-me-up voice, “I think you better come have a look.”

Shoot. That voice meant something else. Bathroom sink was probably stopped up again.

“Just a minute. Lemme get the plunger.” Tool in hand, Todd stepped into the bathroom. “Whoa! Is that a . . . ? I mean,
that looks like a . . . Patricia! What are you doing with a . . .
?” Todd stopped speaking and stared, as slack-jawed as his breathless wife, at the pink plus sign clearly visible in the center of the little plastic device sitting on the edge of the sink.

“We’re pregnant!”

Days later, with Todd in the room, Patricia’s status was officially confirmed. “Yes. I do believe you are,” said the doctor upon examination. “Not sure how far along. Let’s do a sonogram and see. Ready now? Okay. When I squirt this jelly, it’s going to feel cold.”

Bump-a-bump-a-bump-a-bump. A heartbeat—so soon? Patricia and Todd couldn’t make out much of their baby on the screen, but they could certainly hear its tiny heart.

“Is it supposed to be that fast?” Todd could neither tear his eyes from the monitor nor hide his concern.

“Not to worry, Dad,” the doctor said with a grin, not pausing from the job at hand. Over and over he moved the imag
ing wand around and across Patricia’s tummy, pausing at spe
cific intervals so as to gauge the fetus’s growth and development. “Your baby’s heart is beating just as it should. Everything else looks good too. I’m thinking, Patricia, that you’re about ten weeks into your pregnancy. Let’s see. That would make you due close to Valentine’s Day. Uh-huh, I’d say about the fifteenth of February.” He
turned off the machine, handed Patricia a tissue, and
helped her sit up. “Any questions? All right. Before you leave, my
nurse has a video to show you
and some information I
want you both to take home and
read. Congratulations. See you in a month.”

At home, munching a take-out dinner in front of the TV, Todd said, “See! I knew all along that if we gave ourselves some time, we would have a baby.” (He had never been one to refrain from an I-told-you-so.)

Patricia cut him some slack. “Oh, shush,” she giggled. “Hand me the TV controller, will you? I’m pregnant. I have to take it easy. And while you’re up, could you make me a cup of tea? With a ring of lemon? Thank you, dear.” She smiled at him and swatted his bottom as he walked by.

O
NE MONTH LATER
,
Patricia stood as lightly as she could on the scale in the doctor’s exam room.

“Hmm. Five pounds,” he said. “That’s a little bit much for this early in your pregnancy. Let’s think about cutting back a bit on meals and snacks.”

Patricia tried to suck her still-flat stomach in.

“Told you!” teased Todd at her side. “She’s been eating ice cream every night before bed. Claims it’s to get the calcium. ‘Cookies and Cream?’ I say. Skim milk will do the same thing, won’t it, Doc?”

The doctor winked. “Sweetie, it’s okay to eat ice cream. But we also want you to have plenty of good, nutritious food. Another thing—it’s true that you’re eating for two. But just remember,” he said as he held his thumb and forefinger apart. “One of you is very, very tiny. He does not eat much!”

Chagrined, Patricia climbed up onto the table and lay back.

“Blood pressure’s good,” said the doctor. “Don’t see any swelling in your feet.” He studied her chart. “No sugar in your urine. Good, good. Now let’s take a listen at this critter’s little ticker.” He lifted Patricia’s shirt and placed the listening device on her tummy.

No sound.

“Hiding out, are you? Let’s try over here.” He moved the device over a bit.

Still no sound.

Patricia and Todd watched while he tested to make sure the machine was working properly. They watched him thump on it, adjust a dial, even change the batteries. The thing was working just fine.

The doctor put the device back on her tummy, but this time he didn’t speak. Intent on his task, he methodically moved the device from one spot to another. Over, across, up, down, and back again. Over and over and over again. Took a good five minutes.