Chapter 31. An Unexpected Flip Project
AN UNEXPECTED FLIP PROJECT
WHITNEY
Over the following weeks, my baby grew exponentially and Buck, Owen, and I worked diligently on the barn.
We finished putting in the pipes, plumbing fixtures, and sinks.
With help from a master electrician, we installed the electrical system.
We followed the electrical work with insulation and drywall.
We laid wood flooring, sanded it, and stained it.
We installed rustic limestone tile in the bathrooms and as a backsplash in the kitchens.
We installed cabinets in both the kitchens and baths, as well.
We hung the lantern lights in the bathrooms and the wagon wheel chandeliers in the kitchens and living rooms. We hung interior doors on the apartments.
Once the doors were painted, we attached horseshoe-shaped door knockers to each door.
While my cousins painted the interior of the apartments a neutral robin’s-egg blue and the exterior a classic barn red, I hoed and raked and laid river rock in a pretty pattern in an outdoor flower bed.
I added soil and an array of bushes and colorful flowers, finishing things off with an aromatic cedar mulch.
All the while, my baby practiced karate inside me. Even if the kicks sometimes hurt a little, I’d take them. The kicks meant the baby was healthy and thriving, and that he or she had some fight in them. Good. They’d need it to survive in this world.
Gail Pittman’s colleague from the university’s art department had found a student artist to fashion an outdoor sculpture from the plow.
On a Wednesday afternoon in early August, Buck and Owen picked up the sculpture at the college, loaded it onto Buck’s flatbed trailer, and drove it down to Leipers Fork. The student followed in his car.
Gail and I stepped up to the trailer, eager to see the art piece that was under the protective tarp they’d tied around it. Buck climbed onto the trailer, untied the ropes, and whisked the tarp away, unveiling the sculpture with a “Ta-da!”
Gail cried out in delight and clapped her hands in front of her chest. “It’s perfect!”
The student had welded other pieces of various metals to the plow, turning the farming implement into an abstract horse. The exquisite piece showed creativity and skill, and served as an apt tribute to the former livery stable and the people, both free and enslaved, who had toiled here.
I added a “Wow!” to Gail’s critique. I turned to the student. “You really know how to work a torch.”
He shrugged. “Welding is just sewing with fire.”
He wasn’t fooling us. My cousins and I had done some basic welding before. It was incredibly difficult to get the temperature and speed just right to have a smooth solder. It took hours and hours of practice and patience.
He walked up and down in front of the barn, eyeing it from different angles to find just the right spot for the installation. Finally, he stopped and pointed to an area to the right of the main doors. “There.”
He supervised as Buck and Owen moved the piece into position. “Turn it a little to the right. A little more. Okay, that’s enough.”
I’d ordered a weatherproof plaque that gave information about the plow, the art, and the artist. We mounted it on a pole that we hammered into the ground next to the sculpture, then snapped photos of the sculpture, the artist, and the two together for social media and to hang in the foyer.
Gail handed the young man his commission check.
“I got paid!” He beamed as he waved the check in the air. “This means I’m a real artist.”
I had no doubt this commission would be only the first of many for him.
Collin stood next to the examination table where I lay.
It was now a month prior to my due date.
I’d always prided myself on sticking to a schedule and finishing my projects on time, but it was up to the baby to decide when it was ready to enter the world.
I hoped he or she wouldn’t be late. I could hardly wait!
The doctor palpated my belly and frowned. “Your baby is breech. We need the baby head-down for delivery. If it doesn’t turn around before you go into labor, we’ll have to do a C-section.”
At the thought of being cut open, my mind immediately went to saws.
Circular saws, miter saws, jigsaws. Ridiculous, I know, because the types of saws used to cut wood were not the tools a surgeon would use.
If anything, the tool the surgeon would use would most likely resemble a keyhole saw.
Even so, the thought of being cut open made me woozy.
“What if I stood on my head or turned some cartwheels? Would that help?”
“Doubtful,” the doctor said, though she humored me with a small smile.
Collin squeezed my hand in support. “Are there any other options?”
“There are.” She lowered the head of the bed so that I lay flat. “We’ll try external cephalic version.”
I bit my lip. “That sounds serious.”
“It does,” she said, “but it’s just medical jargon for attempting to flip the baby by hand.”
She got on the phone and summoned another person to the room.
The team worked with expert efficiency and, a short time later, I was enjoying a mild conscious sedation while a nurse slathered my belly with clear, cold gel and applied the ultrasound wand to my abdomen.
The reassuring whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat came from the machine.
While that nurse continued to monitor the baby via ultrasound, another assisted the doctor in manipulating my abdomen, slowly but firmly pushing to guide the baby into the upside-down position.
I could feel and see my tummy contorting as they worked.
Fortunately, the baby was cooperative and responded to the pressure by moving into the proper position.
Phew. Collin gave my hand another squeeze and exhaled in relief.
The doctor smiled and removed her gloves. “We’re going to have you lie here for a little while. We need to make sure the baby isn’t going to try to turn again.”
A chance to rest? I’d take it.
One nurse remained in the room while the doctor and the other nurse went on their way to tend to other patients. She wiped the gel from my belly, pulled my dressing gown down to cover me, and offered me a warm blanket.
“I’d love one.”
Seemed she and Collin had just been tucking me in when Collin was gently shaking me awake. “Everything’s good. Time to go.”
I groaned. “Do I have to? I was really enjoying my nap.”
He held out a hand to help me sit up. “You can take another nap at home. I’ll even warm you a blanket in the dryer.”
“It’s a deal.”
Our barn remodel passed the building inspector’s examination with flying colors, and Gail began accepting applications for renters.
Another local reporter who’d attended journalism school with Tyler Yee came to take photos and interview Gail, Buck, and me.
She wanted to pay homage to him by finishing the story he’d started.
She saw the old photographs of Martha, Virgil, and their children in the foyer, and asked for more details of their story.
Same for Cornelia Womble and her family.
Gail pointed out the dry-stack walls and the barn’s stone foundation. “They were built by enslaved people.”
Though their particular stories might have been lost to time, the walls and foundation served as a testament to their existence and significance.
A couple of days later, I took Detective Alonzo and Deputy Swisher on a tour of the barn. They were quite impressed.
Swisher said, “These apartments are much nicer than the place I’m in now. I’m going to apply for one.”
It was a great idea. I had no doubt Gail would approve his application. His sheriff’s department vehicle would be parked in the lot when he was off duty, which would help deter crime.
I gave Swisher Gail’s phone number so he could let her know he was interested. “You better get your application in quick,” I told him. “The units are going like hotcakes.”
Although commercially made scratching posts for horses and other livestock were available at feed stores and online, I chose to fashion a custom one for Maisy.
The cow was a hero. Without her braving wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, Thad Gentry would have gotten away with Tyler Yee’s murder.
I took her measurements and built her a scratching post in the shape of an arch.
I covered it in bristles so she could scratch both hips and the top of her rump at the same time.
When I presented it to her and coaxed her under it, she swayed her rear end gently back and forth to get a real good scratch, lifted her chin, and closed her eyes in bovine bliss.
As it turned out, Tyler Yee’s life insurance policy was for half a million dollars. He’d been young and healthy, so the premiums had been cheap. Why not go for a high amount?
Bianca used some of the money to buy a modest house for her and her son in the suburbs, where the boy would have a yard to play in and good schools to attend.
She used the rest to hire an attorney to ensure that Quentin Sanderson would only be allowed supervised visitation with their son upon his release.
Sanderson wouldn’t be getting out of jail anytime soon, though.
He’d gotten into a serious altercation with another inmate, and his sentence had been extended by three years.
Bianca and her son could start moving on with their lives without his shadow looming over them.