November 1977 – NYC
Angela sat in her office chair, watching her round belly tighten. But then it stopped, and she felt fine. Okay, that was weird.
A few minutes later, it did it again. And then it stopped.
Contractions… I am 38 weeks. That's fair game.
She'd vaguely remembered her obstetrician telling her to time the contractions, and, maybe, the space in between them? She watched the clock until the next one. About 7 minutes apart.
Angela didn't move, but her gaze rose to the phone on her desk. Should I call Michael? I mean, it's not like he can do anything. I think it's supposed to be a while. Mother said she was in labor for a whole day with me. Angela felt tight all over. And even though it didn't feel scientific, she worried moving, or even breathing, might make her explode or something.
That's ridiculous. She shook it off, and tried to regroup. Her pull to deal with things alone felt particularly strong right then. She stared at the balance sheet in front of her, and tried to concentrate. It wasn't long before her belly tightened again. She sat through it, feeling the muscles constrict beneath her palms.
Maybe Michael would want to be here for this. I shouldn't keep him from that.
She dialed his office number, and waited while the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Michael? I think it's time."
She heard a little gasp.
"I mean, I think I'm having contractions, and I don't know how long it'll be or-"
"I'm probably 20 minutes away. Are you going to be okay 'till I get there?"
Despite her determination to sound in control, her voice came out thin. "I'll be here."
"Be right there," Michael said, rushing off the phone.
Angela sat back in her chair, and decided breathing was actually probably a good thing. She tried breathing deeper, but it took considerable effort to combat her nerves. Why am I freaking out? Women have babies all the time…
But I don't! With that scrap of truth, came a deep breath, and her racing heart slowed a little. Just breathe. He'll be here soon.
Angela tried to push down her insecurities with their relationship, and just focus on him helping her through this. He seemed to want to.
She picked up her phone, and buzzed the front desk. "Sheila? Would you please send my husband back when he gets here? Thank you."
She ignored the balance sheet, and just spun her chair around to look out the window. There were so many buildings and businesses. So many people. I wonder how many of them feel in control of what's going on with them? I think I used to. Did I? Does everybody feel this unsure about everything? She looked down at the people, and felt sad. She had no idea what was going on with them, but they were walking with a purpose. They seemed so much more in charge of what they were doing than she was.
Angela kept her hands on either side of her belly during the contractions. She continued to breathe. It wasn't long before Michael burst through her office door.
"Angela!"
That was loud. Her door seemed to take forever to shut, but she smiled up at him anyway.
"Hey."
He came over to her chair and knelt down, putting a hand on her belly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. I think they're still about 7 minutes apart.
"The doctor said to come in when they were 4, right?"
She frowned in surprise. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Wow. He remembered that? That feeling like he cared was starting to envelop her again, and she was so nervous about whether she should absorb it.
Things had been tense between them for months. It was certainly strained after her go-ahead from Paxton to keep working. But when Michael came home from Texas, his discontent seemed to grow. They'd moved into an apartment in Stamford. Angela kept looking at houses on the sly, but knew Michael wasn't going to be all-in until she'd proven she could make it work after the baby was born. But she still dreamed of a beautiful picket fence and a freshly cut lawn. She hadn't realized how much comfort she'd taken in that before she'd moved out of her childhood home. Just another reason to appreciate all Ben and my parents did over the years, she'd thought.
But the apartment was serving its purpose. She and Michael had a place of their own in a nice neighborhood, it was fairly close to her mother, and it was still a tolerable commute to the city. Things were…okay.
That first night in their new apartment was heady, indeed. They'd claimed every room, and hadn't laughed that much since. Some nights Michael would take her to the rooftop, and they'd sit in lawn chairs, looking up at the stars, holding hands. He was impressed with how many constellations she knew. She loved that finally she could impress him with something other than her ass, but almost didn't want to disclose how she knew about them. It was a precious place she didn't want minimized.
And she'd gotten him to sit on the couch and watch a few movies with her. But if he didn't succeed in turning her attention in the dark, he usually fell asleep before it was half over. Still, she'd keep her head on his chest, her outside arm around his waist, until the credits rolled. She could pretend.
But Angela could still feel Michael grow more and more antsy. It wasn't anything he hadn't warned her about. Restless, he'd said. He sure wasn't kidding. If she hadn't seen him in the field, she'd think he just wasn't a morning person. He was so sullen before work. It was borderline childish, and often grated on her nerves. I can't say as I like getting out of a warm bed, either. But she knew better than that. He was nothing like that in Texas. He'd gotten up early, made coffee, and drug her sleepy butt out to watch the sun rise. Now, he hit the alarm so many times, she wanted to throw the clock out the window.
And the thing was, he was good at what he did – not just shooting the film, but editing it. He knew what was important, and what wasn't. He'd brought her to his studio a few times, and she'd watched his latest edits. They were good. And she didn't like snakes.
But every day, she felt like she had a giant, grumpy toddler to get off to work. He wasn't happy, and despite his earliest confessions, it was hard not to take personally. Doesn't being with me make it better at all? Shouldn't it? If he were happy with me? If he wanted to be with me? That old fear that she'd made him do this was forever breathing hotly in her ear.
He seemed so otherwise discontent, she'd actually wondered how he found her attractive. He certainly still acted interested. But she was having a hard time seeing it, personally. She'd decided to ask him about it, ironically, one morning a few weeks ago, as she was looking at herself sideways in the mirror. All the regular, pre-work tension went out of his face, and he came up behind her. He wrapped his arms as far as he could around her waist, and looked at her through the mirror. "Are you kidding? I look at you, at this," he said, softly rubbing the sides of her belly, and placing gentle kisses on her shoulder, "and I'm like, I did that. I put that there. You're carrying part of me inside you, and you're so protective of it. Honestly, it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen." Her mouth had opened a little in amazement. Who is this man?
And now, looking down at him, looking up at her in wonder and worry - He looks like he truly cares. Actually, everything to do with the baby seemed to interest him - with the exception of daycare plans. He was moodier than most mornings, the couple of times she'd brought that up. But about everything else with the baby, he'd seemed genuinely excited. And she was genuinely confused. How can he be so happy sometimes, and so mad other times, and it seem completely unprovoked? …If I'm busy, I'm busy. It doesn't mean I don't love him. How many times had he called her at work, and she was in a meeting or at lunch with a client? You'd think I'd sent him my ring, certified mail.
But as tense as things often were, she was always, frustratingly, so relieved when he was kind. He could be gentle and sweet, and everything she'd ever loved about him. She felt such a susceptibility with him. She never wanted that feeling to stop. And when it did, the crash was worse than the high.
And here he was, now lightly kissing her belly, with his hand over hers.
"Are you okay?"
She shrugged a little, and tried to focus on the tightness in her belly, which she much preferred to the tightness in her heart.
"You look a little pale. Can I get you anything?"
She shook her head, trying to keep the tears back.
"Are you sure? When did you last eat?"
Angela shook her head again. "I'm fine." Crap. I actually could use some water. She almost didn't want to ask for his help. Part of her didn't want it.
Another part looked into the clear sincerity of his brown eyes, and wanted it more than anything she'd ever wanted in her life.
"Actually…I'm a little thirsty. There's a water cooler down the hall. Would you mind?"
Michael was up before she finished. "I'm on it," he said as he opened the door.
He was back in less than a minute with a full, paper cup. He brought it to her, and kissed the top of her head. She took a long, slow sip, using the cup to cover her tears.
