I’m sorry if it made a mess of things,
Mom.
* * *
And with that, Jane wrote a counterpart letter to Hazel.
Letter 5
Telling (or not telling) Silas about you
Jane
Dear Hazel,
The first time I said “I’m pregnant” out loud, I was on the phone making a doctor’s appointment. I felt dizzy when I did it. The woman on the other end of the phone congratulated me exuberantly. She was the first person to do so.
She instructed me to come right in because they had a cancellation.
The nurse was wearing bubblegum-pink scrubs and had a smile across her face when she greeted me and began preparing the sonogram machine.
She shared her name through an unwavering smile and explained that she would be prepping the room for my sonogram that day.
I hated everything about that room. The hard plastic on the machines. The frigid air wandering out of the vents. The smell of sterility. I had imagined soft light and tranquility. I had imagined warmth. What else was I supposed to expect from the moment of seeing you for the first time?
She asked if my husband would be joining us. I should have foreseen that question but I hadn’t. It caught me off guard.
I explained that he wouldn’t be, the words catching on my throat. The nurse smiled and nodded and went about her preparations on the other side of the room.
I winced at my own mini deception. Why did I lie like that? What was I trying to prove about myself and my life? What was I afraid that the nurse would think? I put my hands over my belly and inhaled.
I felt ashamed of not telling the whole story. I didn’t want to feel ashamed and the words kept busting out of me. I told her that I didn’t have a husband. I must have said it too loudly and too frantically because she just smiled even wider and nodded and then fiddled with the contraptions in the corner of the room.
I wondered what that smile meant. I replayed the response in my mind over and over again, searching for signs of judgment, disapproval, reproach, condescension. I laughed nervously and just kept going. I explained that it would be just me. And how fun I thought it would be. I couldn’t stop the spilling of words. I think I asked her who needed a man anyway. I’m a bit embarrassed the way I just let my insecurities pour out of me like that.
I pulled my lips together so I couldn’t talk anymore and lay back in my chair. I could feel my own heartbeat. The rising and falling of my chest.
Finally the nurse put an end to the madness when she told me the technician would be in soon. She exited the room pretty swiftly after that.
Surely these were social interactions I was going to have to tolerate for the rest of my life. Surely these were conversations I would be forced to have as my belly grew for the world to see.
The quiet of the room set in. The machines hummed around me and I thought of my mother. I wished she was there. I was mad that she wasn’t.
And then the door swung open again with a whoosh of air and another woman, this one taller and wearing glasses, took a seat right next to my chair.
The doctor eventually came in and introduced herself to me in an energetic and earnest tone. She explained the process of the ultrasound and how the gel would feel cold, but seeing the baby would be a thrill. The words flowed too easily from the doctor’s mouth as she scanned the room and the ultrasound machine, making sure everything was in place. I could tell it was a well-rehearsed introduction, but I still welcomed the soothing voice. She sounded like my mother to me.
The technician hovered the tube of gel over my belly. Then she, too, asked me if my husband was going to join.
I was much more prepared this time. I told her it was just me. I liked the sound of saying that. It would be just me. Just me, your mother.
As the cold gel hit my belly, my fingers curled. The transducer glided across my tummy and I looked up at the screen. Suddenly, the darkness of the screen was replaced with what could not be mistaken for anything but a little head. The sleeping head of a little, little baby. Her eyes and nose and cheeks and mouth filled the screen. It looked pale and ethereal. Like a ghost suspended, waiting to be.
The doctor asked if I wanted to know the sex of the baby.
I was barely breathing, barely thinking, as I nodded.
She told me I was having a little girl. I felt stunned and in love already.
I walked out of the doctor’s office with shaky legs and a printed sonogram in hand. I couldn’t help but think of my mother again. I got in my car and closed the door behind me. I sat behind my steering wheel and breathed and rubbed my belly and breathed and rubbed my belly and breathed some more.
I felt hot and angry in my loneliness there in the parking lot. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel. I slammed my hands and stomped my feet and yelled and screamed and shook my long hair all around. I felt rage and passion and hopelessness and excitement and confusion and loss and heat, but mostly love. Mostly, I just felt love. Love for my parents. Love for the baby girl inside me. Even love for Silas.
Everything at once became calm again. My heartbeat slowed and my ears cooled down and my legs and arms stilled.
I knew I shouldn’t be surprised at these violent contrasts stirring inside me. All of those things, all of those feelings, are just part of love. With this love, though, I felt in control. In charge of it all. The powerlessness of my old loves melted away in that moment. The loss of my parents. The loss of Silas. I vowed to love you completely and unambiguously. Mercilessly. Relentlessly.
I fixed the image of the sonogram below the rearview mirror and admired my little girl floating there. I pressed my lips into the shiny paper.
As I started the car, I looked down at the duplicate of the sonogram in my lap and thought about where this one belonged. And then I drove straight to the post office and mailed it to Silas. Before I slipped it in the envelope, I wrote on the back my favorite poem from memory. I think you’ll recognize it.
Sleep little baby, clean as a nut,
Your fingers uncurl and your eyes are shut...
No questions, no requests. Just a grainy picture of his baby, our baby, and that poem.
I didn’t have the courage to do it any other way.
I’m sorry if it made a mess of things,
Mom.
14
It was one of those days when Jane just wanted to melt into the couch and do nothing.
She wanted to get lost in a book or complete a movie uninterrupted or treat herself to a glass of wine and a bowl of ice cream in silence. But Cam was working late tonight, so after a full day with the twins, Jane was left to cook and feed them dinner.
Getting them to eat on this particular day was a challenge. Any bit of food placed on the tray was swiped off by Griffin, which made Trevor cry, which made Griffin cry, which made Trevor cry louder, which made Griffin cry louder, which made Jane want to scream. If one began to calm down, the other riled him right back up. It was one of those days when the reality of motherhood was grating.