Seventy-Two Hours (16 page)

“That’s ironic,” I replied from over my
shoulder as I began walking away. “Last night, you told me how much you hated
me.”

“I was drunk, Jen.”

I didn’t want to stay and argue with him. My
door closed with a rattling slam. I pulled my duffle bag out from under the
bed and put it on top. After yanking the dresser drawer open, I grabbed
handfuls of clothing and began stuffing them inside. I wasn’t satisfied until
everything was packed.

Why did I talk him into staying? If I
hadn’t, we would have gone home and the rest wouldn’t have happened. He
accused me of only wanting to stay out of guilt and that about summed it up.
Little did I know I wasn’t the only one carrying around something to feel
guilty about. And there lay the reason for the overwhelming anger that had me
in the mindset I was in since I found out. He tried to use time as an excuse.
Time didn’t matter. We were married and he permitted another woman to perform
a sexual act on him. Then he tried to blame it on his alcohol consumption.
Under the influence or not, it doesn’t make it okay.

I pulled out my phone. I’d given his weekend
away a chance. Now it was time to go home. I had every intention of calling
my mother for a ride when I discovered my phone battery was deader than a
doornail. Worse yet, my charger was at home on the kitchen counter.

Talking to Chris in general was beyond my
emotional ability at the moment. Talking to him about taking me home was going
to make it even worse. I felt so alone. Alone and helpless. Once I started
crying, I didn’t stop. Instead, I buried my head in my pillow and let it out
until I fell asleep.

April 6, 1994 – Sayre, Pennsylvania

I waited until the last minute to take Hudson
to the Easter egg hunt our church was hosting. Chris promised me he would be
back in time because all he had to do was “drop a report off at the office.” I
should have known better. Even though it was a Saturday, weekend days were
never off limits from his job responsibilities.

I watched Hudson as he did his best to keep
up with the older children involved in the egg hunt. He was wearing a pair of
navy blue chinos and a white dress shirt with a cute yellow and blue polka-dot bowtie
clipped at the collar. His chestnut hair bounced with each of his steps that
resembled bounding leaps. Every once in a while, he’d look up to see where I
was. Hudson was outgoing, but he always kept track of his mommy. When he found
his second egg, he turned and held it up proudly for me to see before putting
it in his basket. I clapped and cheered him on. The smile he gave me next
melted my heart.

Granted Chris couldn’t be around for every
special event, there were some things he was missing that couldn’t be
duplicated. This was one of them. Last year, Hudson wasn’t old enough to
participate. This year, he was 21 months old and enjoying it immensely. So
was I.

“Hey, Jen, how are you!”

I took my eyes off of my son long enough to
see our priest’s wife making her way over to me. “Hello, Molly. I’m great.
How are you?”

She got up beside me and held her hands out
to me. “I’ve got this funny skin rash and I don’t know what it is,” she joked
over the Easter egg dye staining her hands.

I laughed. “That’s some rash you have
there. At least it’s a pretty rash.”

Molly was 33 and, as far as wives of clergy
members went, she was pretty laidback. She was a teacher, but chose to take
subbing jobs since her husband’s could potentially move them to a different
parish. It also allowed her to spend more time with their two school-age
children; Emma, nine, and Caleb, seven.

“Did your mom tell you how many eggs we
colored?”

“Twenty dozen,” I answered as Hudson fell and
I tensed ready to spring into rescue mode.

“Relax, Momma, he’s okay,” Molly soothed as
an older child helped him up. “See that? All forgotten.”

She was right. My son had returned to the
mix searching for hidden eggs.

“He seems so little yet,” I confessed. “I
can’t help but have this overprotective feeling all the time.”

“He’s your first. All moms are
overprotective with their first.” It was out of her mouth and then the most
horrified expression hit her face. “Oh, Jen, I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

I brushed it off. “No, you’re fine, Molly.
Really. I know what you meant,” I assured her as I began rubbing my burgeoning
belly.

Molly’s eyes went right to it. “Your mom’s
so excited. Do you know what you’re having yet?”

I nodded. “A boy.” And I felt my face break
into a huge smile.

“Congratulations! Have you and Chris picked
out a name?”

“Not yet.”

“You have less than a month to go. That baby
will be here before you know it.”

When I looked out at Hudson, I found him
posing for my mother as she looked at him through the viewer of her 35mm
camera. Every time I turned around she was taking pictures of him. He had to
be the most photographed toddler on the planet. I loved watching my mother
with him. She’d been there that terrible day when Spencer was born. I knew
that event stayed in her mind all the time because it did mine as well. As far
as tragic life experiences go, that one ranked right up there as the hardest.
But having experienced it, we had learned to appreciate the gift we received with
Hudson all the more.

My mother and Hudson began making their way
back to me. She held his hand as he half-carried, half-dragged his basket. He
looked so adorable. A miniature Chris walking beside her. He was his father’s
son no doubt about it.

“How many eggs did you find, Hudson?” Molly
asked as she knelt down in front of him. He held his basket up for her to
see. “Wow! You have three eggs. What a great job!”

I couldn’t tell who was happier about his
cache, my son or my mother. She was grinning from ear to ear.

“Mommy, scared,” Hudson declared as he
dropped his basket and wrapped his arms around my leg with a death grip.

I had no idea what had changed his bubbly
demeanor from seconds ago until I caught a glimpse of pale blue fuzz out of the
corner of my eye. The Easter Bunny had shown up and was making his rounds. As
he came closer, Hudson turned his head and buried his face into my leg.

“Hudson sweetie, it’s just the Easter Bunny.
Don’t be scared,” I crooned to him. “He won’t hurt you.”

Despite my reassurance, Hudson didn’t budge.
He’d made up his mind about the rabbit with the permanent, menacing smile,
cottony tail, and strange coloring. He was rather imposing in size, too. From
his floppy ears down to his oversized feet, he had to stand seven feet tall. A
giant in Hudson’s eyes.

“Hudson, look at Grandma,” my mom called to
him. “Grandma’s giving the bunny a hug. He’s a nice bunny.”

Hudson stole a glance, but wasn’t convinced.
As a matter of fact, the sight of the rabbit patting my mother on the back made
Hudson start crying. He struggled against my legs trying to climb up me.
Without haste, I swept him up and tried to console him.

Molly was sending the Easter Bunny on his way
so he could terrorize another unsuspecting child. He wouldn’t go without leaving
a small bag of m&m’s behind for Hudson.

“I think it’s safe to say Hudson isn’t a big
fan of the Easter Bunny,” Molly said as she brushed Hudson’s wispy, full bangs
back from his tear-stained face.

My mom got a tissue from her pocket and
dabbed at his button nose. “That’s okay. That bunny is pretty big for such a
little boy.”

Hudson wasn’t so little anymore. He was in
the 90
^th
percentile for his height and weight. At 37 weeks
pregnant, it was increasingly hard for me to hold him for any length of time.
I readjusted my son on my hip and that’s when it happened.

“Crap.”

“What is it?” my mom asked with a smile.
“You look funny.”

“My water just broke.”

“That’s not possible. You have another three
weeks,” she told me with a head shake.

I groaned, “Jeez, Mother,
it
did
so I guess the baby has other plans.”

“Oh my goodness!” Molly replied. “This is so
exciting! What can I do to help? Do you want me to follow you home and help
out with Hudson for a while?”

My mother took Hudson out of my arms and the
first thing he did was look for the Easter Bunny and start crying again.
Great. I’d traumatized my son with a make believe holiday character. I was
certain it would all come out in therapy someday when he was an adult.

“Are you having contractions?” my mother
asked while rubbing comforting circles on Hudson’s back.

I had been having some minor cramping, but
I’d attributed it to Braxton-Hicks contractions like I’d had with Hudson the
month leading up to his birth. Since my water broke, they were slightly more
intense. I explained it to the two older women as we made our way to my
mother’s car.

“At this point, it would be easier having
Chris go directly to the hospital. We’ll have to stop by the house first, get
my bag packed, grab the baby’s bag, and call my OB/GYN,” I said, thinking out
loud.

By the time we arrived at the hospital an
hour later, my mother was still unable to contact Chris. He wasn’t answering
his work phone or his cell phone. I was mildly miffed with him, but she kept
telling me not to worry he had plenty of time to get there. I was still
miffed. And nervous.

The baby was early and with my amniotic sack
rupturing on its own, there was no putting it off. The baby was coming. When
the nurse checked me she announced I was a solid four centimeters. Dr. Steiner
was on call and on his way. I was settled into the labor and delivery room one
down from where I gave birth to Spencer. Call me morbid, but I couldn’t stop
thinking about it. Maybe it was a common plight for moms who had lost infants.
Even with Hudson’s easy delivery and good health, I still focused on what could
happen when things went wrong. I knew I came off as paranoid when I began
interrogating Dr. Steiner upon his arrival. He patted my arm and calmly told
me he needed to read my chart and do my exam before he could even begin to
answer every question I posed to him.

Dr. Steiner was an older man. The founding
doctor of the woman’s health center I went to. This would be the first time I
had him for a delivery. Dr. Calder delivered Hudson as well as assisted with
Spencer. I liked the birthing philosophy of the center. They believed in a
relaxed, calming atmosphere for the mother-to-be while welcoming family and
friends to be involved in the birthing experience. If I wanted, I could have
up to eight people in the room for the delivery. Of course, I wasn’t going
to. I was more of a private person. More reserved. I’d permitted my mom to
join us for Hudson’s birth and, provided everything went well with baby number
three, I’d consider letting Marti in. With any luck, my husband would make it
in time.

Chris finally breezed in at 3:30 delivering apologies
and kisses. Apparently they were on the verge of something “cutting edge” in
the lab and he got caught up in it. I wasn’t progressing nearly as quickly as
I had with Hudson so my anger abated not long after he said his tenth apology.

Even though Dr. Steiner wasn’t sure the baby
would get the full benefits of the dosage, I was given a corticosteroid
injection to promote lung development. At 37 weeks, the baby just made the cut
off for full term. Other than taking that precaution, he felt the baby was
ready to be born.

At 8:00PM, my nurse asked most of our
visitors to leave my room so I could get some rest for the night. I was only
at six centimeters and absolutely miserable. In all honesty, I was relieved
when she cleared them out. She encouraged me to try and get some sleep. It
wasn’t likely. Not with the pain I was experiencing.

Chris sat beside me when we were alone and ran
his fingers through my hair. “Just close your eyes, babe. You need your
rest.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Can I get you anything? Are you warm
enough?”

“A glass of chardonnay sounds great.”

He bent down and kissed my forehead as he
chuckled softly. “I don’t think they allow that in the hospital.”

“Will you rub my back?” I asked hoping the
action would bring me some comfort.

He helped me roll onto my side and began
focusing his hands along the sides of my spine. Kneading the tense muscles.
Chris was great. Not only did he rub my back, but he talked to me softly about
his latest scientific breakthroughs at work. A subject he was quite passionate
about and I always enjoyed listening to when he got going. It brought him to
life. I appreciated his passion even more so now as he took my mind off of the
contractions.

At two in the morning, I began to push our
son out. Even with my hair a tangled, wet mass and my face contorted with
pain, Chris told me how beautiful I was and how much he loved me as he coached superbly.
His undivided attention was focused on me and making me comfortable. He never
stopped his kind words even as my own may have been less than genial.