< Apart From Love: Chapter 20 >

Above All, Survival

I don’t know how we got to this place, Lenny and me, and I don’t really care to know. Let’s just say that what’s happening between us isn’t exactly clear. Yes, let’s leave it at that. At first I told myself he won’t touch me because of the pregnancy. The heat between us has been cooling off even before that—but now, like, there’s no warmth left here no more. 

Like ma used to say, when she called her customers to offer her usual special—I mean, the three dollar palm reading special—she said, “No, really? No warmth left? Trust me, it just looks that way—till you touch them embers. Red hot passion like that, it can’t never die out; but see, it can change its color and blacken him inside, and like, turn to hate, or contempt, or jealousy.”

“You better be careful,” she said, “because when you least expect it, it’s gonna flare out again.”

Which forces me to take a hard look at where I stand, and like, avoid wasting time dreaming, or wondering about matters of the heart, fluid matters which may take me nowhere in a hurry, and which no one—not even ma—can’t never predict. I have a hunch that I must be real careful now, and stop acting on a hunch. From now on I’m gonna knock myself out doing something totally different, like planning every one of my next moves.

At this point there’s one worry which is, like, blocking everything else in my head, and this is it: I’ve fainted once, I may faint again; so I can’t go on alone. And even if I could, I shouldn’t, really.

I must find someone here I can trust, someone willing to hold my hand and steady me, in case I’m too weak to stand straight. I don’t give a damn what this someone thinks of me. I swear I can take it, because now that I’m pregnant, it’s more than just me. My little one is curled here inside me. I must take care of him, keep him alive. That is all that matters.

Above all, survival.

I so wish ma was here. Without her, the place I’m gonna hear the sound—the sweet sound of my baby’s heartbeat—is gonna be among strangers.

With her gone, where can I go? To whom shall I turn? Don’t laugh, even if—on the surface—my solution may seem absurd, totally absurd to you. I figure I must win the trust of the women in this family, which is to say them Rosenblatt sisters, armed with their knitting needles, and spearheaded by dear old aunt Hadassa.

At the time I told her not to trouble herself with coming to my wedding, and to stay as far as she could from me, which may have been the wrong thing to say to the old witch—but boy did it feel right!

You may think me crazy to even consider her. And maybe I am, because how can I forget: It was aunt Hadassa who came up with the bright idea of abortion. With the sweetest fake smile you could imagine, she told me that for sure, there was still time, it wasn’t too late to have it, and like, it could make things so, so much easier for me, because the way she sees it, I like to run around, and have my fun and stuff.

So right there and then I had the best fun I’ve had in a long while: It was like, such a pleasure for me to let her have it! I swear, I was rude as hell! I shouted at her with such delight, so she would know who’s who in this place, because guess what: The future of this family is right here, in my womb. Now don’t you forget it!

From now on I must swallow my pride—even if it chokes me to death. I must hold my tongue with them sisters, and like, be nice, and show respect, which isn’t gonna be easy for me, because you can look far and wide—but for sure, you can’t find no witches more uglier than them.

But I remind myself: Above all, survival. So I must do something to stop them, and turn them around, somehow, from hating me. I must, like, charm them into thinking of my baby as one of their own—even if to them, I’m always gonna remain the stranger.

Me, I’m used to being the enemy; but if they know what’s good for them, they’re gonna come around real soon and make peace.

It’s in my power to bring them out of that slow death—that endless, idle boredom of old age, and make them come alive again, just like it must have been back then, twenty-seven years ago, when Ben was a newborn baby.

I can just picture them spinsters, crowding around the crib, fat bellies hanging over the little wool blanket, trying to walk on tiptoe, stepping over each other’s warts, and carrying a bucketload of free advice, for which they wasn’t even asked, let alone thanked, because you see, there he was, so, so frail, and always crying it seemed.

So they must have wondered, like, was the little bundle of joy hungry or wet or sleepy, or was he just too cold or warm or sick or something. I can just see it in my head: They would tell his mama to burp him, and to clean his little tush and powder it—even though the three of them hadn’t taken care of one, I mean, not even once in their life.

And Natasha, she must have been close to tears, because like, being new to being a new mama, I bet she wasn’t sure if she’d done things right, and she couldn’t tell if there was enough milk in her breasts, because the baby won’t stop wailing. And them nipples, I’m sure they was hurting like hell.

It would be just like aunt Hadassa to say that if she was in Natasha’s place—which thank God, she wasn’t—she would ignore just the pain. My, my, she would say, never mind a little discomfort, because you know, breast feeding is not for sissies, dear. And she won’t back down, I’m sure—even though the three of them hadn’t done nothing even slightly close to anything of the sort.

And when all that advice won’t do much in the way of calming the baby down, they would tell Natasha that it was fine, just ignore the crying, because anyway, it was meant to make his lungs strong and healthy—even though aunt Hadassa had to stuff her big ears with a couple of cotton wads, because in spite of her own advice, I bet she couldn’t stand hearing it no more.

Now I could make her feel needed again. I could even stun her, by inviting her right in, to meddle in my affairs in full view; which is what I did last night, when I couldn’t take that noise in my head no more, I mean the old alarm clock, out there in the hall, which had become awful pesky with that loud tick, tick-tock.

First I switched the light off, and sat there in the darkening kitchen for a quite a long while, trying to amuse myself by touching my belly, and thinking about my baby, and about his future, about the long years ahead, which helped me tune out the minutes, ticking away.

Then I stood up trying to find my reflection, which looked real small and buckled right there, on the round surface of that black bulb. I wiped my tears—even though I didn’t have no sleeves on me—after which I went to the hall and piled some papers and stuff, right on top of the alarm clock, to muffle that sound.

Then I called her up, and said, like, “Aunt Hadassa, I need you—”

“What for?” she said, real cautious.

And I said, “I have an appointment, like, tomorrow at ten—”

And she said, “You do, dear? What for?”

And by the acid tone in her voice I figured she was thinking that by now, it was too late anyway, and that I should’ve listened to her when there was still time, time for a proper abortion, because my, my, now it was week number twelve already.

So I said, “It’s a real surprise, aunt Hadassa; you’ll see. Anyway, let me ask you this: Can you come here, like, early tomorrow morning, and help me get ready?”

And she answered by asking, “You not feeling well?”

And I had to say, “No, not that well, Aunt Hadassa.”

“My, my,” she clicked her tongue. “I’ll be there, dear. We all will.”

“I’m awful glad,” I said, and meant it. “Don’t know what I would do without you.”

And I thought, In a few months from now, I’m gonna steal her heart. Aunt Hadassa is gonna feel, like, the grip of a little hand around her wrinkled finger. She’s gonna pinch a chubby little cheek, and listen for a thin, ringing voice calling her name.  And me, I’m gonna smile at her, and place my baby right there, in her lap, and watch her droopy eyes light up. She’s gonna know that I know that she knows that from now on she owes me, because like, I can make her feel wanted again, which is a mighty strong thing to feel.

It’s in my power. Without having to say any of it, it’s gonna be awful clear to both of us. Up to now she hasn't give it much thought; but with a little help from me, she will. And then, then she’ll change. She’ll be my aunt—the stolen aunt Hadassa—whether she knows it at this point, or not.

I can’t wait till tomorrow. I bet I ain’t gonna forget the place where—for the first time—I’ll hear the sound, the sweet sound of my baby’s heartbeat. Only I wonder now, like, Will it be among strangers.