Chapter Thirty-two

“No, absolutely not. Tell them my schedule is committed,” Valen replied while going over his schedule for the upcoming week with his staff.

“Done. One other thing. Let’s not worry, but this is definitely something to put on our radar,” Ed told his boss, handing him an article titled, “Whites Take Flight on Election Day.”

“Can you bottom-line it for me?” Valen asked, trying to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his upcoming appearance at New York University.

“Analysis by a Yale economist shows nationally that white Republicans as well as independents are twenty-five percentage points more likely to vote for a Democrat when the GOP candidate is black. The bottom line is, this could mean an additional one or two percent of the vote going to the other side.”

“That’s sobering,” Valen said, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “So much for party loyalty.”

“But the Dems are just as fickle. White Democrats are thirty-eight percent less likely to vote along party lines if their candidate is black.”

“Okay, so what do we do about this?”

“Well, we’ve spent a lot of time reaching out to the African American and Hispanic voters who are disappointed with the Democrats, and to moderate Republicans tired of the inefficiency of partisan politics. It’s October fifth. We’ve got one month until the election; maybe we need to concentrate more on the GOP’s base and let our final push be to the conservatives,” Ed suggested. “Talk more about some of the basics such as abortion, gay marriage, and faith-based initiatives. Let them know we haven’t forgotten their needs.”

“But those have never been my issues. I mean, that’s out-and-out pandering.”

I find it difficult to see you as anything more than an opportunist. Again Pia’s words, this time from their initial meeting at the Marriott Marquis, came back to him. In their short time together, with her sincerity and penchant for telling it like it is, she’d become a major sounding board and source of comfort and inspiration. Valen still didn’t understand how they’d gotten to this empty place. She’d been so honest about everything else. Why had she chosen to lie about her pregnancy?

“Valen, we’re talking twenty-five percent GOP flight,” Ed said, bringing him back to the present.

“We’re also talking about my integrity and character. I have campaigned this far on what I believe, not what I thought people wanted to hear. I’m not about to start now. I’ve got to get this speech finished,” Valen said, dismissing his staff.

Once they’d departed, Valen put his head in his hands and tried to exhale the feeling of being alone and overwhelmed. It seemed no matter how much progress he made in trying to open closed minds and alter negative opinions, it remained a one step forward, two steps back proposition. Feeling the gurgling in his stomach, he opened his desk drawer to retrieve his antacids and instead grabbed a handful of blue fuzz.

Valen pulled the Cookie Monster puppet from the drawer and ran his hand across the soft fur. As always, his face betrayed him with a childish smile. The day it arrived, its juvenile quality had hit way too close to home, mocking him about Pia and her pregnancy. But with the passing time, the toy had become a sentimental reminder of a woman he still loved and desired.

So often these past four months, when the craziness of his day had finally quieted and he was alone, the ache for Pia’s touch or the sound of her voice became overwhelming. Many times he wanted to call and ask her opinion about something that had popped up on the campaign trail, or just slip into her calming embrace and put the day behind him.

Having the benefit of hindsight, Valen realized now what a treasure he’d lost. Pia was not only insightful and intelligent but amusing and entertaining as well. She had a charmed quality about her that had rejuvenated his zest for living life in all its fullness and had brought a sanity to his hurry-up-and-work existence. Pia Jamison was the only woman he’d been involved with—including his ex-wife—who made experiencing joy as important as pursuing his ambitions. She had made him stop and smell the roses, but now he was standing in the garden all alone.

But she lied. Told you she was celibate when her pregnancy proved otherwise, his mind argued.

She had been wrong for not telling him about the baby, but he so regretted not giving her the opportunity to explain herself. He should have been more accommodating and fair. Instead, he’d let his sense of betrayal consume him. Looking back, he was sure she was neither part of some dastardly plot to ruin him nor some unwed mother out to trap a husband and father for her child. Pia was an intelligent, sensible woman of a certain age. It was not uncommon these days to run across successful professional women who had opted for single motherhood. She must have had a good reason, but, after so decisively and unkindly cutting her out of his life, he would never know the truth behind her decision.

But what about the baby?

Good question. Even if she had the best possible reason for not telling the truth, Pia still came with baggage—living, breathing baggage that would in many ways dictate his life for the foreseeable future. He was fifty-two years old. Valen was not interested in raising any more children, his or otherwise. That stage of his life was over.

So the truth that he loved Pia remained, but so did the question: Was having the woman he adored and who made him feel alive again worth eighteen more years of child rearing?

Pia woke up early on the morning of her shower and, as she did every new day, spent a few minutes talking in bed to her unborn child. She was due in less than a month, and her body had now taken on a highly uncomfortable beached-whale quality.

“So, Pom, Valen is going to be a grandfather soon,” she said, discussing with the baby things she refused to utter to anyone else. “And the election is coming up. It’s going to be close, but I hope he pulls it off. Between you and me, for the first time in my life I’m voting Republican. It’s the least I can do to make up for everything.

“I miss my pal, Pom, but he and I just weren’t meant to be. I was meant to have you instead.”

Though Pia had given up a lot in order to have this baby, she’d come to terms with the enormous reality of maternal commitment and sacrifice. No matter what regrets or disappointment she might have in her own life, the comfort and happiness of her baby were now paramount. Still, it seemed cruel that her timing had been so off. If she’d waited a few more months to be with Grand, she would have met Valen first and maybe things would have been very different.

“Pom, you’ve been awfully quiet these past few days. Getting kind of tight in there, huh?” she said, pushing away her guilty thoughts and stroking her tummy. “Well, not much longer, sweet pea. In just a few weeks from now we’ll be spending our mornings face-to-face.”

She rolled her cumbersome body out of bed, took her first of the day’s many bathroom breaks, and headed into the kitchen to fix her now standard pregnancy breakfast of toast and deviled eggs.

Pia ate her breakfast and climbed back into bed to watch her favorite weekend program, Sunday Morning. She was enjoying a story on the creative designers behind functional art when the phone rang.

“Good morning, sweetie. How are you feeling?” Maizelle’s voice rang through the receiver.

“Big, bloated, and exhausted, but okay. I think the baby is worn out from all the work I’ve been doing trying to get things tied up at the office. Pom’s been very quiet.”

“How quiet?” her mother asked.

“I don’t know, I haven’t felt a kick or anything for the past day or two.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine, but pay attention to it.”

“I will,” Pia responded, feeling the flush of concern. “It’s normal though, right? I mean, the baby is getting bigger and there’s not that much room to move around.”

“I’m sure that’s all it is, Pia. Now, what time are you and the car picking me up to go to the shower?” Maizelle asked, changing the subject and hoping she hadn’t needlessly alarmed her daughter.

“It starts at two, so I figured the car could pick us up at two-thirty. No need for the guest of honor to arrive before everyone else.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then. And Pia, don’t worry. The baby is fine.”

Bothered by the suggestion, Pia hung up and immediately went to her computer and Googled the words “fetal movement.” The first entry she looked at did nothing to put her mind at ease: “A fetus that is not well will move less. Mothers should pay attention to their baby’s activity, particularly in the third trimester.” The article also suggested that the expectant mother lie down and if five pokes, kicks, or wiggles were not felt within two hours she should call the doctor.

Pia promptly went back to bed, taking the burn of fear and helplessness with her. She stayed there all morning, watching television and catching up on her magazine reading, but it was difficult to focus, and Pia found herself begging both the baby and God to let her know things were okay.

“Please, Pom, give Mommy a kick or a hiccup. Anything to let me know you’re well,” she pleaded. Pia tried not to panic, but intuitively she knew that something was terribly wrong and she felt powerless to fix it.

Ninety minutes later, with still no movement, a quietly hysterical Pia first called Dr. Montrae, who insisted she get down to her office immediately, and then her mother, who promised to rush right over and meet her.

Pia got dressed and went outside to hail a cab. She felt as if she were inside a bubble, totally oblivious and removed from the activities occurring on the street around her. She purposely tried to stay in this state in order to keep the frightful thoughts circling her head from swooping down and overtaking her.

She and Dr. Montrae arrived within minutes of each other. Pia undressed and waited on the treatment table while her obstetrician quickly prepared for this unexpected examination.

Please, God, let the baby be all right, she prayed frantically as Dr. Montrae spread the cold gel on her skin and moved the transducer over her belly. The concerned look on her face while she studied the screen was obvious, and Pia immediately started crying. She reluctantly looked over at the monitor and saw for herself flat lines where the baby’s vital signs should be.

“I’m sorry, Pia. The baby died,” Dr. Montrae said, holding her patient’s hand while delivering the devastating news.

“But how? Why? What did I do wrong?” Pia sobbed.

“You did nothing wrong. But we won’t know for sure what happened until you deliver,” the doctor said, crossing the room to retrieve a box of tissues.

“Deliver?” Pia screeched. The idea of going through labor and delivery to produce a dead child seemed unjustly cruel. “How does one deliver death into the world?”

“I know, I know,” the doctor said, giving Pia a supportive hug. “But at this point we don’t have much choice. We can either induce labor or you can wait for it to occur naturally, which typically will happen within two weeks. I would not advise surgery.”

“I can’t carry around my dead baby for two weeks. I just can’t. I can’t,” Pia said, sobbing on Dr. Montrae’s shoulder.

“That’s perfectly understandable. We’ll schedule the procedure as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for something to help you relax. I’m so, so sorry, Pia. I know how much you wanted this child. Lie here for a few moments. I’ll be right back.”

Dr. Montrae left the room, trying not to cry herself. This part of her job never got any easier. She walked into the waiting room, where Pia’s mother sat anxiously awaiting some report. She could tell by the doctor’s face that the news was not good.

“She needs you right now. Take all the time you want.”

Maizelle followed the doctor back to the examination room and found Pia curled up on the table, rocking gently and crying. She lifted herself into a sitting position as soon as her mother walked into the room and immediately collapsed into her arms. Maizelle said nothing but prayed to her God, asking for an explanation for this spirit-crushing event and for the strength and wisdom to guide her broken child through it.

An hour later, Pia was back in her bed, resting, thanks to the prescribed sedative. Maizelle was there watching over her daughter when she called Valen Bellamy’s name. Pia had convinced her that he was not the baby’s father, but she had not been so convincing about the true nature of their relationship. Mai had suspected all along that there had been more between them than work, but whatever it was or wasn’t, it was apparently over.

It wasn’t until nearly two o’clock that Mai remembered the baby shower. She called Dee’s cell phone and broke the sad news, asking her to discreetly inform the guests that the shower was canceled.

“No details, Darlene,” Maizelle insisted. “Let’s protect Pia’s privacy. We’ll let her decide how to handle things when she’s ready.”

“Okay, Mrs. Jamison. Please tell her I’ll call and check on her tomorrow. I’m so sorry,” Dee said, shedding sad tears for her friend. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

“Maybe there is one thing,” Maizelle said. “Do you know how to reach Valen Bellamy?” A tear for her daughter rolled down Maizelle’s face. To be heartbroken twice in such a short period of time seemed so unfair.