The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [59]
“But it doesn’t hurt? How can you have contractions that don’t hurt?”
“Well, I certainly feel it, but I wouldn’t call it painful. It’s hard to describe.”
Exactly. Iona makes what she hopes is a reassuring sound, but she can’t imagine it at all. Doesn’t Lori have some young friend to discuss this with? Some peer who’s recently given birth and knows all about it? Apparently not. “When I go into the hospital,” she tells Iona, “I hope you’ll come, too.”
“To the waiting room?”
“Into the labor room. You can stay for the whole birth.”
Perish the thought. Iona has no wish to observe some slimy, not-even-kin child slither into the world, her head misshapen from the birth canal, face streaked with blood. She once watched a delivery on television. It was awful.
“I’m flattered, Lori,” she says, “but it wouldn’t be right. This is something you and Jeff should share, just the two of you.” She gives herself an A for tact.
“It’s different than it used to be, Iona. Whole families stay. It’s not unusual.”
I am not family, she refrains from saying. Her morning has already been sufficiently trying.
An hour ago, at Lowe’s, where she was picking up hi-hat lighting frames for Jeff because he’s supervising three different jobs and she felt sorry for him, a grizzled salesman paled—literally paled—when she asked where the lighting section was. With stiff politeness, he directed her to the proper aisle, his eyes fixed the whole time on the space above her right ear. Iona is accustomed to men not wanting to make eye contact with older women for fear the women might be coming on to them, but this guy was no young hunk to begin with, and so rude as to be insulting. She steamed her way to the checkout counter, where she received the same space-above-the-ear treatment from the female cashier. Only when she was ready to zip her sweatshirt to leave did she realize she’d unzipped it when she came in and also undid the top of her shirt, revealing her freckled chest and the upper portion of a favorite, tattered old bra.
She’s not going to set foot in Lowe’s for the next twenty years or until death, whichever comes first. She’s not going to run any more errands for Jeff, period. If she doesn’t put an end to this, he’ll turn her into a regular gofer. She needs to make him manage his time more efficiently.
“Well, think about it,” Lori says. “Jeff and I have talked about it. Both of us would like you with us for the delivery.”
“Let’s not decide until the time comes.” Iona figures by the time Lori is having actual labor instead of Braxton Hicks contractions, she won’t care if Iona is in the room or anywhere else on the planet.
She’s just hung up and is wiping her slick-with-sweat hand on her slacks when she sees out of her office window that Marie Coleman is swaying up her walk once again, like one of those old Chinese women with the bound feet. Such a beatific expression lights her face that Iona knows they’ve gone from birth to death in the blink of an eye. This is about Paisley. This is about church. Iona is thinking of excuses even before she opens the door. “Don’t ask me to go to some special service,” she blurts before Marie has time to speak.
“Of course not. I know you’re not religious.” Marie’s manner is as placid as Iona’s is disturbed. “But I hope you’ll do something for me anyway.”
Bingo. “What?” Iona growls.
“I’m having a prayer meeting for Paisley tomorrow at my house. At ten. It’ll probably take twenty minutes. You won’t miss much work.”
“A prayer meeting?” This is even worse than church. The last thing Iona wants is to go to a prayer meeting. Not only is she not religious, as Marie so accurately pointed out, she’s not sure she believes in God at all. And certainly not a benevolent one you ought to pray to. People think this is because of her barrenness or Richard’s cruel death, but it’s more than