We looked at a different house not long ago, something smaller, a better fit now that the kids are out of the house, a little ranch with an open living room, kitchen, dining area--vaulted ceilings and sky lights, lots of windows. Great place.
Dodgeville is small enough that you pretty much know everybody, and both of us knew this place came up for sale because the Freiberg's marriage shook loose and ended just horribly in the kind of scandal that becomes, for better or for worse, the talk of the town. We looked over that house, and when we walked into the bedroom, I told Sandra that if we could know exactly what happened in that room, we'd understand why that marriage failed.
She said, "You are beyond hope."
"What I mean is intimacy, not just sex," I told her. "Think about the nights we've spent in bed"--and I meant it because we have, long silence-filled talks, then sudden emptiness. Then again, all too well I remember waking up, the bed shaking beneath me as if we were on water; and I'd know right away, even though I'd been sleeping, that Sandra was crying. Not out loud, because she wouldn't have wanted Carrie to hear her, wouldn't have wanted her daughter to know that she couldn't be as strong as she tried to be all during that difficult time. For months, I'd wake up, the bed rolling from Sandra's silent crying, her body in the throes of concern and sadness.
Our daughter Carrie was pregnant then, just 16 and, I don’t need to say, unmarried. I could write a book about that. We'd thought we'd done everything right with her--open and honest about adoption, about everything. We loved having Jeff around, a sweet kid, the mayor's son, and we were proud of the match, two such fine kids. Sandra fell in love with him herself, and why shouldn't she? To watch those two together, to watch them swoon the way kids do, bug-eyed and fawning--even though they were so young--it was sweet, and, really, never particularly worrisome. Such a nice kid. Great couple, but so young.
Because both our kids were adopted, Sandra says she was naive about all the upchucking Carrie was doing, what is it now--seven years ago? Sandra says that not until she sat in the waiting room did the possibility of Carrie being pregnant ever occur to her; that's how far it was from her mind, and mine. When Sandra called me that morning, she told me the doctor had told her that Carrie wasn't pregnant. "Well, I know that," I told her, almost angrily, terribly concerned about whatever bug had her clenched in its fist for nearly a week.
Dr. Burten said he wanted to check her into the hospital for tests. When he said it Sandra and I both nearly died because immediately we thought the worst --something degenerative, something to rob us of this daughter who had been such a miraculous gift.
What the tests turned up what was he'd missed earlier--Carrie got herself pregnant. I shouldn't say it that way. What I should say is that Jeff got her pregnant, which is not to blame it solely on him either. That's what his parents did: "I wish your daughter hadn’t given in to our son. You know how boys are."
How stinking hard would it be for them to crawl out of the stone age?
I'm rambling. I was remembering the day we found out Carrie was going to have a child. Dr. Burten called me himself late that afternoon, told me to come to the hospital. I was in the store, alone. It was late afternoon, almost five, I remember, and I felt like I should at least stay until closing.
Sandra says I'm too principled, and she may be right--I don't know. But I stayed in the store for the worst ten minutes of my life because in that short while I reviewed every last cancer species I'd ever heard of. I saw my daughter hairless, pictured Sandra and I on a hundred trips to Rochester, even picked out a casket--I'm sorry, but I’m in the business. Tears welled up simply because I was so convinced our daughter--I'll never forget getting her--our precious, beautiful daughter was going to die.
When we got to the hospital, the two us went into his office. Dr. Burten had been talking to her. "I want you to tell your folks," Dr. Burten said, looking at her.
Carrie had been crying, but the moment he turned to her I knew it wasn't cancer because he wouldn't have announced it that way.
"Mom," she told us, firmly, really, as I remember, "I'm going to have a baby."
My heart leaped. I was overjoyed.
"Honey," Sandra says to Carrie, right out of nowhere, as if she'd been prepared for it, "we'll get through this, okay?"
And then our Carrie says, "I love you." Just like that, she says, "I love you," and one more thing. She looks up at her mother and says, "Let's move, please?"
I could sit here all day with this pad and pencil and not get down what I felt at that moment. "Let's move," Carrie said. “Can we?”
Way back, when I was talking about Sandra's crying, remembering how it was when I'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel the bed shaking, all of that was seven years ago, a time when all four of us would sit around the table after supper in profound silence that would have been more painful if we didn't know that talking about most any stupid other thing was even worse. Sometimes we'd hold hands for prayer, and I still can't believe the way the Lord gave me words. Today I think of those family prayers as being the most blessed we ever had, because most intimate. Those prayers soared way above the ceiling.
I'm rambling. I was remembering the day we found out Carrie was going to have a child. Dr. Burten called me himself late that afternoon, told me to come to the hospital. I was in the store, alone. It was late afternoon, almost five, I remember, and I felt like I should at least stay until closing.
Sandra says I'm too principled, and she may be right--I don't know. But I stayed in the store for the worst ten minutes of my life because in that short while I reviewed every last cancer species I'd ever heard of. I saw my daughter hairless, pictured Sandra and I on a hundred trips to Rochester, even picked out a casket--I'm sorry, but I’m in the business. Tears welled up simply because I was so convinced our daughter--I'll never forget getting her--our precious, beautiful daughter was going to die.
When we got to the hospital, the two us went into his office. Dr. Burten had been talking to her. "I want you to tell your folks," Dr. Burten said, looking at her.
Carrie had been crying, but the moment he turned to her I knew it wasn't cancer because he wouldn't have announced it that way.
"Mom," she told us, firmly, really, as I remember, "I'm going to have a baby."
My heart leaped. I was overjoyed.
"Honey," Sandra says to Carrie, right out of nowhere, as if she'd been prepared for it, "we'll get through this, okay?"
And then our Carrie says, "I love you." Just like that, she says, "I love you," and one more thing. She looks up at her mother and says, "Let's move, please?"
I could sit here all day with this pad and pencil and not get down what I felt at that moment. "Let's move," Carrie said. “Can we?”
Way back, when I was talking about Sandra's crying, remembering how it was when I'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel the bed shaking, all of that was seven years ago, a time when all four of us would sit around the table after supper in profound silence that would have been more painful if we didn't know that talking about most any stupid other thing was even worse. Sometimes we'd hold hands for prayer, and I still can't believe the way the Lord gave me words. Today I think of those family prayers as being the most blessed we ever had, because most intimate. Those prayers soared way above the ceiling.
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