Chapter 24
I don’t mention the sliver. I scrub an alcohol pad across the tiny indentation in my skin, reassure myself it can’t be a cockroach leg.
A remnant of a stick that Stanley loves to carry on his walks.
A fibrous-stalk sliver from one of our garden plants, perhaps.
I expect I’ll have nightmares, cockroaches all I see every time I close my eyes.
The click-clack of their exoskeletons rubbing together in the swarm, their oily, musty smell that still lingers in my nose.
Miraculously, I have one of my deepest sleeps in ages.
You hit your sleep goal, my watch buzzes in the morning. A gold star appears on the screen, spinning in circles. Well done, Tilly!
We have a nice Sunday. Clementine is invited to a classmate’s birthday party.
Wyatt and I brainstorm plans for the studio conversion.
Shelby and Stanley attend a seniors’ meetup at a local coffee shop.
By Monday, I’m well rested, clearheaded, and ready for a productive workday.
It’s easy enough to blame dehydration for the unpleasant events earlier in the weekend; I’m glad for the extra electrolyte packets.
I feel good.
While I get ready for work I mull over the tendril, and likely explanations.
Perhaps a minuscule tear in the canvas, and it came loose…
Room D’s robust air circulation causing the flap to lengthen, then lift from the surface…
an illusion of purposeful movement. Definitely possible.
Don’t overthink it, Tilly. You need to focus. The painting needs your best work.
The house is quiet—I’m the last to leave this morning. Tugging on my underwear and bra, I hear something unfamiliar. Not the usual creaks and sighs our old house makes, but a sound that reminds me of a straw broom brushing across a wood floor. Swish…swish…swish.
I pause, listening closely, holding my breath.
Then I realize the swish, or more accurately a rhythmic whoosh sound, is coming from inside me—it’s my heartbeat.
Strange to be so aware of it, but I know that during pregnancy the amount of blood pumped by the heart increases by thirty to fifty percent (it was in last week’s MotherWise e-zine).
I tap my watch, checking the rate. Seventy beats per minute, the tiny red heart on the screen pulsing in time. Nothing to worry about.
—
When I get the call, I’m still only half-dressed, in the bathroom running a brush through my damp hair. My phone, resting nearby, flashes the incoming call. I touch the speaker icon.
“Hello?”
“Hello there, is this Mrs. Mathilde Crewson?” Mat-hildEE. The voice is male, friendly. Southern, and based on the name he uses for me, someone I’ve never spoken to before.
“Speaking.” I rub in the SPF moisturizer I’ve dotted onto my forehead and cheeks.
“This is Mack Jenkins, from the medical center? I’m with the MotherWise program.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Jenkins. What can I do for you?”
“Just so you’re aware, Mrs. Crewson, this call is being recorded for quality and educational purposes. May I proceed?”
“Yes,” I reply, my answer rote. The statement is ubiquitous—everything is recorded.
“Excellent. I’m not sure if you remember me from the other day? You were in a bit of a woozy state when you were brought in, and I wanted to check in on how you’re doing.”
I have no clue who Mack Jenkins is, or any recollection of meeting him. But faking recognition seems the best approach.
“Oh, I remember,” I reply. “I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”
I rub the moisturizer in circles until it disappears into my skin, only half-listening. Then I dab some on my ears and the back of my neck, knowing that I no longer have time to style my hair. A low bun it is.
“I am sure glad to hear that, Mrs. Crewson,” Mack says, his already energetic tone ticking up another few notches. “Now, I’ve got a couple of things to send over to you. Your follow-up appointments. Your first momma meeting location. We need you to fill out the list for preferred times for—”
“That all sounds great, thank you. And please, call me Tilly.” I cut him off, as I still need to put on pants and makeup. “I’m racing to get ready for work. Can you send it through and I’ll respond when I get a moment?”
“Oh goodness. We must have our wires crossed!” Mack laughs and I join in, though it’s only to be polite.
I’m irritated with Mack Jenkins and his inability to get to the point.
I miss the days of communicating exclusively by text, or email, or even with a direct message on social media.
Our phones were used sparingly as actual telephones then, most often to speak with those who never fully embraced digital communication.
Aging parents. School administrators. Insurance companies.
“You’re on home rest, Mrs. Crewson—pardon me, Tilly.”
I stare at the phone. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’ve been placed on home rest.” Mack’s voice slows, and he enunciates home and rest. “Says here your blood pressure was a tad higher than we like to see, and your husband—I presume you’re married to Mr. Wyatt Crewson?”
“I am.” My watch buzzes. Time for breath work, Tilly? My heart rate is up to eighty-one beats now.
“I have a note here that Mr. Crewson requested additional support for your pregnancy.” There’s a pause.
I almost hear a tsk-tsk in the silence. As though this Mack Jenkins person thinks Wyatt shouldn’t have had to make the request; as though I should have been more careful in the first place about my blood pressure, so he didn’t have to ask.
“So doctor’s appointments, meetups with your MotherHelper group, and daily neighborhood walks are the only approved outings you’ll be enjoying for a time. Breath work and meditation classes can be done at home, for now.”
I start sputtering a response, and he interrupts me. “This is temporary, Tilly. Until we’re sure here at MotherWise that you and that little nugget of yours are healthy as can be.”
“But I am healthy! And so is the plum.”
“The who?” he asks.
“The baby. We call it that because…It doesn’t matter. The point is, we’re doing really, really well.” I try to relax, to make my voice sound smooth and unbothered. But I’m upset, especially by the news that Wyatt is the reason for this. “I’m confident I don’t need to be on home rest, Mr. Jenkins.”
Was this what Wyatt was speaking with Dale about? In the medical center Friday, when they were outside the room and my earshot. Asking Dale’s opinion, perhaps, about how Raoul might respond to this home rest request?
“Mr. Jenkins, can I ask when my husband called in for this extra ‘support’?” My annoyance rises along with my heartbeat. Time for breath work, Tilly? I touch the ignore box on the screen.
“Hmm, let’s see here. Looks like Saturday evening, eight twelve p.m.”
Saturday evening. After Jenn and Maeve’s visit, after he ran me a bath, before saying he had an email to send and would be right back.
“I’m feeling great.” I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, notice the new lines at the corners of my eyes. “Can’t I just…cancel this home rest, or something?”
“I am sure glad you’re feeling well, Tilly, but these are your ob-gyn’s orders.”
“Dr. Fillia?” Again, why has no one told me anything about this? Not to mention, I’m her patient, not Wyatt—so why didn’t I get a notification from the office about this change?
There’s a clicking of computer keys. “Oh, Dr. Fillia isn’t in the Enhanced Care program, Tilly. You’ve been assigned to Dr. Rice. Lovely man. He took care of my wife. You’re in great hands.”
More key clicking. What is he typing? I envision the note in my file: Mrs. Mathilde Crewson appears resistant to her home rest order…regular check-ins to ensure compliancy are strongly recommended…
“Since you had two spells in a row, Dr. Rice wants you to prioritize rest,” Mack says.
Two “spells.” Damn it. Also, who is this Dr. Rice now making decisions about my ability to work?
“Mr. Jenkins, is there someone I can speak with? I have an important project at work right now, and it’s impossible for me to be away.”
“I can ask Dr. Rice to call you, Tilly, but I’ll let you in on a teensy secret.” Mack Jenkins lowers his voice. “It won’t make a lick of difference. The MotherWise guidelines are there for a reason, and I’ve rarely seen exceptions made.”
His intonation changes on the word “guidelines.” “Rules” would be a more accurate term. Mack Jenkins has likely been trained on using “sensitive” language, for everyone’s comfort.
“All we want is to take the best care of you and the baby. That’s MotherWise’s only goal. I’m sure you want the same thing, Tilly.”
What can I say to that? Mack Jenkins has my medical file in front of him.
He knows about Poppy, or if he doesn’t, this Dr. Rice does.
I’m infuriated by the restrictions, but I do understand what I signed up for.
If I want to participate and reap the benefits, I have to comply.
After passing out on Friday, and the hallucination Saturday, it’s hard to argue the extra layer of medical care isn’t reassuring.
This fills me with shame. What sort of mother doesn’t put the health of her unborn child first?
But then I think of the painting, in Room D, waiting for me.
I can’t let anyone else work on the Leclerc.
It’s not an option. One, the money—we can get by without it, but it’s a nice cushion.
Two, this is the final Leclerc—there will never be another opportunity like it.
Three…the painting needs me. This sudden knowing is like when Clementine calls out in the dark, after a bad dream.
My presence and whispers of “there, there, sweet girl” the only way to lull her back to sleep.
In those moments I’m the one she needs—“Momma magic,” Wyatt calls it.
“I’d like to speak to someone either way, Mr. Jenkins. Perhaps your supervisor?” I don’t care what he’s typing into my file. Call me “difficult” or “demanding”—have at it, Mack Jenkins. The painting needs me. “Like I said, I have a project I can’t leave right now.”
—
It takes another four phone calls and half my morning, but things are set. I’m partially victorious, even though the home rest requirement remains in place.
The Leclerc will be moved to my studio at home. Dr. Rice (who is quite lovely and understanding) said that while I’m on “home rest,” I’m not on “bed rest.” As long as I do what’s required to keep my stress low and have no further episodes, he gladly signs off on me working from home.
“My wife also works out of the home,” Dr. Rice tells me during that phone call. “She’s a teacher. Passionate about her job. Just try to keep her from her classroom, her students, I always say!”
GIA is fine with the change, once I assure Raoul my studio is set up and ready for the conservation.
Thankfully, Wyatt installed climate controls for humidity and temperature when we renovated the house.
Cecil only wants me to take good care of myself but agrees the work can be done from home.
Wyatt…well, Wyatt is a tougher nut to crack.
He thinks rest should look like rest and knows how involved my work can be.
He finally admits he was the one who contacted MotherWise, but again doesn’t apologize for not talking to me about it first. Wyatt wasn’t like this with Clementine, nor with Poppy, which is partly why I’m confounded. I can’t leave it alone.
I want to understand; I want him to understand.
“It wasn’t your call to make, Wyatt. Not without talking to me first.” He holds eye contact, the set of his jaw defiant. “This is our child, yes, but it’s my pregnancy—my body. I need to know you understand this. Let me do what’s best for me, please.”
“I shouldn’t have had to make the call, Tilly.” Wyatt sighs, his frustration coming through. Running hands through his hair. “The salient question, if you ask me, is, why didn’t you?”
We argue. I don’t remember arguing this much, ever, in our ten-year marriage, but it’s circular and soon there’s no energy on either side to keep it going.
I remind him—pointedly—that Dr. Rice (“he’s the expert here, right?”) signed off on me working at home. But it isn’t until I agree to get a MotherWise pregnancy tracker tattoo that he gives in. I wonder, as I toss and turn in bed that night, which one of us won the argument and if it even matters.