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When Jake finally pulls up, I can’t tell from where I am if he’s mad or not that he had to wait at work. I’ve got the bulky car seat in one hand and the even bulkier suction machine in the other, and in the back of my mind I hear Sandy’s husband lamenting about how chivalry is dead.
I slip into the backseat and make sure the car seat clicks in place. The suction machine’s on my lap, but now that I’ve examined its contents, I’m a little worried about some of that marshy muck spilling onto me if Jake hits a bump or takes a corner too fast.
Patricia’s sitting primly in the passenger seat like she’s the stinking Queen of England, and all I can do is fixate on the worry I heard in Dr. Bell’s voice when she told Barb to bump up our next appointment.
They’re anxious about infection. I guess that’s what the green color can mean, but Natalie doesn’t have a runny nose or a cough or anything like that. And she was bundled up even though the heater in the clinic was on, so that might explain why her temperature was a tad high.
I know I’m going to feel like this — like I just downed a four-shot espresso with about a cup of extra sugar — until I get back to Dr. Bell’s on Friday.
“How’d the appointment go?” Jake asks, and I can tell by his voice he’s not ticked off about waiting. Good. I couldn’t add one more stress to my day.
“Wants us to come back Friday morning. Her secretions are kind of green, so she just wants to make sure it’s cleared up by then.” I know Jake’s an even broodier worrywart than I am, so I try to sound casual, like I’m talking about a girlfriend who wants to stop over for a cup of coffee. It helps having some reason to pretend I’m not about to die of panic.
Patricia twists around in her seat like a yoga guru. She’s got that lecturing professor look on her face. “Green could mean infection.”
I don’t bother to tell her she might have shared that useful information as soon as she noticed the change in the color of Natalie’s secretions. It would only turn into an argument about how she handles all of Natalie’s care and I’m the ungrateful mom who’s too lazy to parent my own kid. Like she doesn’t realize I’d be more than willing to rinse out the saliva canister each day if she didn’t always beat me to it.
I try to change the subject. “The good news is we can start feeding her every three hours during the day and cut out that feeding in the middle of the night.” Nobody responds. I’m glad Patricia isn’t droning on about how much sleep she missed when she was nursing the twins.
I want to ask Jake about his shift, but I feel so stupid here in the back seat. I’ve only driven a car a handful of times since the doctor put me on bed rest. I don’t even know how many months it’s been. I already told you how I can’t keep it in my head that we’re already in December. Christmas is in what — about a week? Heck if I know. The mommy mags make it out like baby’s first Christmas is just as exciting as the first word or the first step or all those other firsts that Natalie may never achieve in her lifetime. As for me, I just want to get past Christmas and on to New Year’s. My resolution? Get Patricia out of our house.
I know she’s pitching in with the baby and all, but seriously. She’s been here two stinking months. Time to pay rent if she’s going to stay. My vote would be to keep on living dirt-poor but at least have the trailer to ourselves again.
I haven’t thought of a Christmas gift for Jake. I haven’t thought of a Christmas gift for anyone. I wish I could look back to Natalie’s delivery day and find someone besides myself to blame. A million-dollar settlement sounds pretty good right about now.