Susan Henderson - Up from the Blue: A Novel

Up
FROM THE
Blue

A NOVEL

Susan Henderson

To David, who knows everything about me, and
hes still here

I T STARTS LIKE A tingling at the top of my abdomen. And then, as if Im wearing control top pantyhosewhich Im not, Ive never been that girlieit begins to shrink in around me, tighter and tighter, until my belly feels rock hard. Nervous, I pace our new apartment, hoping to simply walk it off. Its not a contraction. I wont allow itnot now. The baby isnt due for six more weeks.

When my belly relaxes again, the tingle fading, I dig through the moving boxes trying to find my address book and a telephone to plug in. Im not even sure if we hooked up the service or not. I try to breathe slowly. The boxes are packed randomly, my husbands idea to keep it simple and take the stress out of moving. Its all going to the same place, he had said. He knows I have issues with too many orders and too many rules. Unfortunately, I also have issues with chaos.

I peel the tape off one box and find oven mitts, books, and shoes. Another has cups, a tape dispenser, and a notebook of unfinished poems that were better in my head than they are on paper. My hair, far past my waist, drips into the next carton filled with a lampshadeand stuffed animals from the baby shower. No phone. No address book. My breath comes faster as I scan the stacks of boxes lining this room Ive only known for two days, and when I consider the time and the amount of lifting it would require to go through them all, I realize I could be in trouble.

I cant reach Simon because hes still midflight to Paris, where hes helping to choose art pieces and oversee their shipment for the modern art museum that just hired him. He didnt want to travel this late in the pregnancy, but hes lucky to have this job. Majoring in art history is a lot like acquiring an expensive degree in unemployment, and now more than ever he wants to bring stability to our family.

I slam the cardboard flap closed on another box. And now Im scared. I shouldnt have been going up and down the stairs so much. If something hurts this baby, its all my fault.

Next door is a row house that looks like ours, Queen Anne style, brickthough ours is red with a round bay window and the other is white with a square bay window. I see glimpses of my neighbor moving from room to room, tidying up, sipping her coffee or tea. She looks about my age, and is the perfect image of how I planned to spend my dayslowly unpacking and cleaning, and later scoping out local restaurants to find a way to reclaim this town I thought Id never live in again.

Theres another tightening in my belly. Out of options, I open the door to the bustle of traffic and fast-walking men and women with briefcases. I hold the rail and walk quickly down our steps and up the neighbors, knocking normally at first and then more frantically.

As I listen to her footsteps approaching, Im stunned by my reflection in the glass on either side of her door. I was wrong to think I resembled this woman Id seen through the window in any way.

Can I help you? she asks. She looks as if she dressed from an L.L. Bean catalog, professionally relaxed, makeup and hair done, but lightly. We may both be in our midtwenties, but with my wet, stringyhair, gray maternity jumper, and untied, red high-tops, once again, I look like the kid without a mother.

I just moved in next door, and I think I need a doctor. Can I use your phone?

Of course. Of course.

We move quickly through her immaculate house, past knickknacks and tapestries from Africa, Russia, China. This neighborhood is filled with young diplomats. The only reason we could afford something here is because we got a fixer-upper we have no immediate plans to fix up. I follow the woman into the kitchen, where she points to the telephone hanging on the wall.

Ill be in the next room if you need me, she says. I wonder if shes told me her name. I simply nod, take the receiver in my hand, and freeze. I dont have anyone to call. I dont know the name of the local hospital. I havent memorized my former doctors number and havent yet found a new one. I was going to get to all of that.

Im aware that the woman who owns this house is listening for me to do something, and because Im afraid, I dial the number of my childhood home, wishing I could talk to my mother, but of course she doesnt answer.

Hello? General Harris speaking.

I havent heard my fathers voice in two or three years, maybe a call a few Christmases ago, and at first I say nothing. Then, because my belly is tightening again and Im standing in a strangers house I say, Im scared.

Tillie?

I never officially cut him off. There was no big falling out. Life just got busy, and the less we were in touch, the more peaceful I felt. I didnt even tell him I got married.

Tillie, is that you? Talk to me.

Im in Dupont Circle. And I need a doctor.

Youre in D.C.? Whats wrong?

Ill tell the doctor whats wrong. I just need to get to a hospital, and I dont know which one or how to get there.

This is what hes good at, ignoring the emotions of the moment and solving a problem. After four or five minutes of him trying to give me directions Im too panicked to follow, he decides to call me a cab that will take me to G.W. Hospital.

Where are you? he asks.

And I dont remember that either. I havent memorized the new address yet, and when I ask the woman of this house where I am, Im keenly aware that Im giving her a very bad, though fairly accurate, first impression.

As I hang up the telephone, the neat, closed box that held my past is smashed open and oozing into the present. I had felt it coming though. This whole year it seemed that the world was conspiring to bring us together: First, it was the television coverage of Desert Storm this winter that flaunted my fathers satellite-guided bombs dropping on targets with the accuracy of a video game. Then it was Simon finding the rare opening for an assistant curator at an art museum here in D.C. Now this.

Still holding the phone to my ear I stand motionless, hoping to feel that little upside down foot kick my rib cage. I press in different spots to see if the baby will push back. Nothing.

I dont want to have a full-on panic attack in a strangers house, but Im definitely on my way. When I spot a pan of brownies on the stove top, I take just a pinch, hoping the sugar will get the baby moving. I turn to the wall, pretending Im still on the phone, and say, M-hmm, eating one bite at first, and then going ahead and eating the entire brownie.

Okay. And thank you, I say to no one, then hang up. I only nod my thanks to my neighbor, afraid there might be brownie on my teeth.

Waiting on her front steps, I work my fingers through my wet hair, letting the loose strands float away in the breeze. I dont dare turn aroundto see if shes watching me from her doorway. Instead, I think how good the sidewalk will be for hopscotch, what a nice climbing tree we have in the front yard, what a normal childhood we can offer this baby, if he or she will just hold on.