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The pastor’s young. Not fresh-out-of-college young, but pretty close to it. Mid-twenties is my best guess. He’s got darker skin. Maybe Hispanic. Or Native American. It’s hard to tell. I wonder if he has kids. I know he’s got a wife. I spotted her less than two minutes after I sat down. I didn’t see her talk to him or anything, so I couldn’t tell you how I knew who she was. Maybe the way no one else is sitting next to her except for that white-haired granny lady in the atrocious blouse. Or the way she kind of leaned forward when the pastor stepped up to the podium, or whatever that tall thing up front is called. And he just seems like the kind of man a mouse like her would go for. Strong. Confident, maybe even a little cocky if pastors are allowed a hint of arrogance. And she’s this shy little thing sitting in the third row. I hate it when women slouch, by the way. It makes them look so weak. She’s got these frail shoulders with this thin lilac sweater wrapped around them. Christmas is in a week and a half, and she’s dressed for spring.
Part of me feels sorry for her, truth be told. She’s not even my age, hardly out of her teens by the looks of her. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have kids. I can’t be positive, though. She might have a baby she drops off in the nursery or something, but she seems like the type of mom that would keep her brood close by. One on the hip, one in a front pack, and a third in the oven.
That kind of mom.
Which means she doesn’t have kids. Not yet. I’m sure she will soon. Those razor-straight hips will broaden out, and that flat chest will miraculously fill with milk. She could afford to gain a good ten pounds, pregnant or not. I wonder what the pastor thinks of her. Skinny’s all the rage, but that doesn’t mean men have stopped appreciating curves.
I stare down at the front panel of my maternity pants. I don’t have to wear them anymore. I could fit into a few of my pre-pregnancy clothes by now. God knows I’ve been trying hard to lose that last fifteen pounds. With Jake’s mom moving in and taking over the cooking, it’s a wonder I’m not anorexic-skinny. That woman cooks the same way she doles out affection — sparingly. I thought hospitality was a big stinking deal in Asian cultures. But every night when I reach for a second helping of whatever stew or casserole she’s constructed, I feel her iron gaze of disapproval. I should be used to it by now. I’ve seen it every day since she barged into our home.
I think deep down she’s probably like “Elder” Tom McMahon, probably secretly convinced that what happened to Natalie is my fault. Of course, Patricia isn’t religious, so she doesn’t have misogynistic Bible stories to back her up, but she’s spent the past year telling her son he could do better than me.
Every once in a while, I wonder what would happen if I just leave. Patricia is so stoked at the chance to play house in my kitchen. Change the bandages on my baby. I can’t even pump breast milk anymore without giving Natalie colic, so she’s on a totally synthetic diet. Straight up amino acids poured directly into her feeding pump.
The family would be just as well off without me. Maybe even better. Patricia’s the one with all the medical experience, and she and Jake never fight.
Ever.
Maybe I sound like a martyr, but isn’t church the place to be honest with yourself? Jake doesn’t need me. He’s got Mama there to do all the cooking, all the cleaning, and to do it better than I ever would. Patricia made that clear the day she pulled fuzzy leftovers out of the fridge, narrowed her almond eyes. I swear that woman’s fifty-five if she’s a day, but her complexion is nicer than mine will ever be. But she gave me such a snotty look when she tossed the moldy Tupperwares into the trash, so disapproving. As if she’d forgotten I’d been in the hospital for months. As if she thought I had nothing better to do once we brought Natalie home than clean out the grody food left in my fridge.
I know Patricia wants me gone. She never says so, but those glares make it perfectly clear. I don’t even have to be looking at her to sense the hot disapproval boring into me, right between my shoulder blades.
And she’s always there. I mean always. I’m already four months postpartum. It’s high time Jake and I had the chance to enjoy a little alone time in the bedroom, but we can’t because that woman never leaves. Man, I wish she were the religious one so she’d go to church once a week and at least give us a few hours’ privacy.
I should be grateful for Patricia and everything she’s done. Jake reminds me of that all the time. Patricia does too, come to think of it. Of course, she never comes right out and says so. That woman has mastered the art of the haiku insult. So understated but with that bitter twist at the end.
Kind of like her cooking, now that I mention it.
“Tiff,” she’ll say, “were you sick often as a child?” As if Natalie’s problems could get passed down from your genes. Because nothing like this has ever happened on the Matsumoto side of the family, she points out every few days. Then she wants to know if my mom had any issues delivering any of her babies. As if she’s forgotten that I’m a foster brat. As if Jake hadn’t already told her that my mother was a crackhead and hooker who abandoned me in a high-school bathroom stall and who I’m sure is rotting away right now. Whether in jail or the grave is anybody’s guess.
Patricia knows all this, and she still asks. It’s always when she’s doing something with Natalie, too. Those physical therapy stretches that are supposedly going to keep my daughter’s muscles from decaying from lack of use. Rubbing her cheeks in a vain attempt to wake up damaged nerves in hopes that she might one day learn to smile. Changing the bandages around her G-tube site, still tender from surgery. I can tell Natalie hurts, because she scrunches her face up in such a gut-wrenching way that even someone as cold as Patricia should feel sorry for her. But Patricia had training as a nurse, as she tells me at least a dozen times a day, and she’s used to this kind of work, which means she doesn’t have an ounce of empathy left for my little girl. A whirlwind of efficiency. That’s what Patricia is. Or maybe a monsoon.
Natalie’s making some progress, though. The pastor’s talking about thanking God during hard times, and I know I’ve got plenty of reasons to be grateful. I mean, she wasn’t supposed to make it out of the NICU at all. The hospital social worker even scheduled a meeting for us to talk with this lanky man in a drab suit about funeral arrangements when the time comes.
That’s why I don’t need a pastor to remind me to count my blessings. Because in spite of all we’ve gone through, Natalie is a blessing. She’s a blessing, I would remind myself back in Seattle when I woke up at five in the morning to pump a couple ounces of breastmilk and make it to the NICU by the time the night nurses went off duty. She’s a blessing, I told myself when the neurologist showed us the hemorrhages on the scans. Who would have thought there’s an actual difference between brain-dead and vegetative? You learn something new every day, right?
I’m staring at my fingernails, trying to remember the last time I had them done. I wasn’t in the third trimester yet. Funny, isn’t it, that when the doctors put me on bed rest, all they worried about was whether or not Natalie’s lungs were developed enough to breathe outside of the womb. They gave me tons of fluids and set up nurses who looked like Olympic rugby players to guarantee I never got out of bed. Everyone was shocked that I didn’t go into labor until thirty-six and a half weeks. I was so sick of hospitals by then. Which is ironic if you think about it now. I was so ready for Natalie to come out, ready to take her home.
Man, what a fool I was.
I glance from my grubby fingernails to Jake. It’s still so hard to think of him as my husband. We haven’t even bought rings yet. He’s fidgeting more than usual. I can tell he’s bored with the sermon. Which I guess is a good thing, since it means he probably won’t haul us here next week, trying to appease God just by showing up. As if we could trick him into thinking of us as devoted believers.
I’m staring at the pastor now, distracted by the way the purple stripes on his tie clash against the maroon base of his shirt. But he finally invites the congregation to bow their heads in prayer, the sign that it’s almost over. I should get home, go check on Natalie. This is the longest I’ve been away from her since we came home from Seattle. But part of me wants to ask Jake to stop somewhere for lunch. Of course, he’ll be thinking about his mother, who by now has a dish of something or other browning in the oven.
I ask him all the time how long Patricia will stick around, but he never gives a definite answer. I swear that woman treats us like we’re a couple of twelve-year-olds. I’m sure she’s convinced that if she were to leave now, Natalie would starve to death by sunset. As if Patricia is the only one in the family who knows how to dump a bottle of formula into a feeding bag.
The pastor says amen, and I realize I forgot to bow my head. It’s just as well. There’s no fooling God. He already knows how pathetic of a Christian I really am.