Chapter 6. B'Elanna
It was just a casual remark; as usual, I didn't really think before I spoke. But in the end, it opened a door that I hadn't expected to find, hadn't known I needed.
I was walking - fine, waddling - from the turbolift towards the mess hall for a lunch that I knew I had to eat but that I also knew was going to give me heartburn, no matter what it was. My back hurt and I was short of breath before I was halfway down the corridor. Then the PADD I was holding slipped from my half-numb, swollen fingers, and I couldn't even see where it landed because my belly blocked my view. And I was half afraid that once I did spot it, I wouldn't be capable of bending down to pick it up - or worse, that I would try to and not be able to get back up without help.
My frustration spiked all at once and I more or less shouted at whomever happened to be passing by, "I am so done being pregnant. Thank Kahless this kid is a Klingon and not Ktarian!"
Honestly, I didn't realize it was Samantha Wildman going past me, until she stopped, turned around, and met my eyes. I froze, horrified, started stammering out an apology … when she surprised me by bursting out laughing. I mean, she didn't just crack a smile - which would have been remarkable enough, given what she'd been through lately - she full-on laughed for a good long time.
I was standing there in shock and would have remembered to get angry in another few seconds, but before I had time to do that, Samantha bent down, picked up the PADD beside my left foot, and handed it to me, saying, "Good GOD I remember feeling that way. I was begging the Doctor to induce labor by the start of my fifteenth month."
My jaw fell open. "Fifteen MONTHS?" I knew Ktarians gestate even longer than humans, but that's insane. "Klingons are only pregnant for 30 weeks. And the Doctor said a Klingon-human hybrid shouldn't even take that long. But I feel like I'm dying and I'm only at 28 weeks. How the hell did you do it, Sam?"
She looked at me. "Pretty much the same way you're doing it. Just … for longer."
"I'm standing in a public corridor having a temper tantrum."
"I mostly kept my tantrums confined to quarters. But I definitely had them."
"I find that hard to believe, frankly." By then we were moving again, albeit slowly, towards the mess hall.
"Why, Lieutenant?"
"Please, call me B'Elanna while we're talking about pregnancy tantrums." My hand went to the small of my back, pressing against the worst ache. "Because you always seem so damn serene, Sam. I don't think I've ever heard you so much as raise your voice to Naomi. I'm probably scarring my child's psyche before she's even been born." Whoops, that sort of slipped out. I tried to laugh it off as a joke, but I knew these stupid hormones had my volatile emotions written all over my face.
Sam suddenly got somber again - I think it's been her default mood since Joe died, and no wonder. I was trying to think of what to say to her when she looked at me with those calm brown eyes of hers and surprised me yet again.
"B'Elanna. You're going to be a good mother. Don't worry about that."
These were basically the exact words that Tom had been saying to me almost daily for months, but coming from her, Voyager's resident madonna with child, they landed differently. I went on the defensive. I half snarled at her, "Who said I was worried?" It sounded stupid even as it left my mouth, and I knew I was pushing away someone who was trying to be kind to me, someone who needed and deserved kindness herself.
Her face fell, or rather, it sort of … closed, like she'd thrown up protective shielding that dimmed the light inside. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I shouldn't have assumed you'd be feeling the way I did. My apologies."
And then she moved quickly ahead of me to grab a tray, and she avoided my eye until she had finished her meal and left the mess hall. The heartburn started before I ate a bite.
I couldn't get the conversation with Sam out of my head the rest of that day. I knew I needed to apologize for snapping at her. You might think that being a half-Klingon famous for her short temper even before she was heavily pregnant would mean never having to say I'm sorry, and mostly you'd be right. But that image of Sam's face closing down, in … disappointment? Resignation? It stayed with me.
When I thought of it all I could see was her at Joe's memorial service just a few weeks back. Sam stood straight and still, holding Naomi's hand, as the service was conducted. Every time I looked at her, her eyes were downcast and her face just looked … frozen. And yeah, I looked. We all looked. Sam and Joe had never flaunted their relationship - they both have spouses back in the Alpha Quadrant; they were discreet enough. But it's too small a ship to keep anything like that secret, especially if it lasts very long. And just from the things Joe said, the way they acted together in public, I'm pretty sure they were together, or at least close, for the past couple years.
These damn pregnancy hormones. I was more angry than sad, at the service, and had fully intended to stay that way. But … seeing Sam and Naomi on the other side of Joe Carey's casket, with my own husband, warm and breathing after the same away mission, his arm around me, our child squirming in my belly ... I had to look away, blink away tears.
I wasn't the only one, of course. The room was filled with the sound of restrained weeping. Men and women alike. Tom used a handkerchief. He knew better than to offer me one. I think the captain and Sam had the only dry eyes in the room, at least among those who knew Joe well. And I understood the captain. She had to be strong for the crew. But Sam? She was close to Joe, maybe loved him. I hoped she loved him; he deserved to be loved. But she just stood there, stiff and frozen except where I could see her thumb rubbing the back of Naomi's hand, then Naomi's shoulder when the little girl threw her arms around her mother's waist, sobbing.
It bothered me at the time but I figured everyone has their own way of mourning. I respected her dignity, I guess. But today, outside the mess hall, when I snapped at her and her face shut down … I guess it finally clicked for me. That wasn't her dignity. That was her pain.
And that meant I had hurt her, and I needed to go apologize.
I ought to have commed ahead but I really didn't want to get into it until we were face to face, and I didn't want to give her the chance to tell me not to bother visiting. The computer had said she was in her quarters, but I had to press the door chime twice before she opened it. She seemed surprised to see me, so I guess she hadn't asked the computer who was there first. She was in civilian clothing, something loose, and wasn't wearing any make-up, like she was ready for bed even though it was only 2000 hours.
"Lieutenant Torres," she said, with a note of surprise in her voice, but it was muted, like she was too tired to really feel surprised by my presence, or by anything.
"B'Elanna," I answered, and we stood facing each other awkwardly for a moment.
"Look, can I come in? It's been a long day and my back is killing me."
She glanced toward what I assumed was Naomi's closed bedroom door. Then she mutely stepped aside, gestured me in and to the couch. I picked a spot next to what I hoped was a sturdy armrest and somewhat laboriously lowered myself to sit. She waited a second and then sat too.
I took a breath. I hate apologizing. "Look, Sam, I need to tell you I'm sorry for how I spoke to you today at lunch. You were trying to be kind and it was really thoughtful. I'm not good at … accepting kindness, or really any kind of help, and I over-reacted. I'm sorry."
She looked at me with a kind of empty, numb expression. Then she said, "Don't worry about it, B'Elanna. I overstepped. It was disrespectful."
I couldn't let that go. "No, Sam, you didn't. And it wasn't. You weren't even wrong. I am worried." I couldn't bring myself to say "scared" to this sweet-faced blonde human woman. "I worry I won't be a good enough mother to my daughter. It's … new, you know? Unknown. It's a lot, and I don't know if I'm really ready."
"I know," she answered simply. "Like I said - I felt the same way." She looked down at her lap, and I saw she was twisting her hands together, and her fingernails were short and ragged.
I let out an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, Sam? I wish I didn't know that. Because if you had doubts about motherhood … I probably shouldn't even be trying."
She let that sink in, and a puzzled look grew on her face. She looked up at me and just said, "Why?"
And part of me wanted to tell her everything, about my mother and father, things I didn't even share with Tom until I was battling demons so hard I couldn't keep it inside any longer. I reminded myself that Sam was grieving, and she didn't owe me anything, least of all a dumping ground for my unresolved childhood issues.
"Let's just say that I didn't have the ideal upbringing. I don't want to make the same mistakes my parents did, but I'm not sure I know any other way. It …" I closed my mouth firmly, then opened it again. "It scares me."
She looked at me steadily for another moment. "I see," she said. And she didn't try to give me false reassurances like Tom would have. She let my stated fears hang in the air, breathing. And somehow I felt them start to dissipate like vapor as she sat there gazing at me.
Then she said, "I didn't have an 'ideal upbringing' either, you know."
"I … didn't know." I was a little startled and decidedly confused.
What she said next changed the whole atmosphere of the room. "I think Joe … would want me to … to trust you." And her eyes filled with tears. It was such a non sequitur that I wasn't sure at first that I'd heard her correctly. But then I realized that she was struggling with a secret, a painful one, and she was asking the best way she could for my permission to say more.
"Joe was a really smart man," I choked out. "I never went wrong listening to him." And suddenly we were both sobbing, and our arms were wrapped around each other's shoulders.
She told me, later that evening, about her mother, the years of neglect and instability, the abuse in foster care. And she told me about her adoptive family, who saved her, got her the help she needed, the schools and therapy. About her husband's unshakeable faith in her own essential goodness and how that gave her the courage to get pregnant. About doing research on infant care and child psychology and development throughout her long pregnancy. And, finally, about tuning into Naomi herself, and learning slowly to trust her own instincts as a mother.
"I'm glad that you think I'm a good mother, B'Elanna. But I wasn't born knowing how to do this. No one is. I was determined to learn a better way, and I did. And I'm still learning. You can too, and you will."
Those words were the gift I carried away with me that evening, and I kept them close for a long time.
But I guess, without knowing I was doing it, maybe I gave Sam a gift as well. I let her tell me her story and find in it a new kind of strength and hope. For me, another motherless, scarred mother, and maybe for herself as well.
We didn't serve on Voyager together for much longer, and I never had another real conversation with her, but Samantha Wildman was one of the bravest people I've ever met, before or since. I'm really glad I got to see that while I could.
