Chapter One: Alma and Emily

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     My life wasn’t always this lunatic. The youngest child of Joseph and Mary Lister, I spent my early years antagonizing my older sister Jean while working my way, somewhat indifferently, through Saint John’s Catholic Grade School. A mediocre student, I was, my teachers asserted, operating well below my potential. Where I stood temperamentally was diplomatically left unsaid.

 

     Despite those issues, I graduated both grade and high school with surprisingly decent grades. Still uncertain what I wanted to do in life, I decided to enroll in college at Case Western Reserve University. Once there, I might have stayed on my middling path forever if I hadn’t, in an amazing bit of good fortune, somehow met the girl of my dreams.

 

     As Alma tells it, our introduction was far from a Hallmark moment. In truth, “met” wasn’t even the right word. More precisely, I fell at the feet of the beautiful and studious Ms. Alma Grinnert after tripping over her green tennis shoes as we crossed Euclid Avenue on the way to our respective classes.

 

     In my case, class meant graphic design, an elective I had picked as part of my overall marketing major. I had chosen marketing as a field during my freshman year, my advisor suggesting it was there I might do the least damage.

Now a sophomore, I prayed this beautiful girl wouldn’t think I was too much of a doofus for being unable to maintain my footing. Much to my relief, Alma accepted my unexpected encroachment with amusement, fixing me with the gaze adults display when watching those cute little monkeys playing at the zoo.

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     The glint still in her eye, she said, “I hope you’re not mad at me for tripping you. I hate to think of my parent’s tuition money wasted on prolonged litigation.” 

 

     With a single glance, I could tell she was way out of my league. Still, I had to try.

Whether due to sympathy or fear of legal action, Alma agreed to go out on a date with me that weekend. Amazingly she then agreed to more dates and three years later accepted my marriage proposal on a Lake Erie beach. By saying yes, Ama ignored the fervent opposition of her mother and sister, neither of whom forgave me for the Donald Duck T-shirt I wore the day we were introduced.

 

     “You should have told them,” I said to Alma afterward, “that this was one of my better shirts.”

 

     “I tried. Somehow, they found that even less reassuring.” 

 

     My fiancée’s family aside, my life was suddenly looking very, very good. Alma graduated the year after I did with an unusual double major in statistics and education, degrees she achieved by attending classes at both Case Western and Cleveland State University.

 

     Having graduated a year earlier, I accepted a job at Hillside Hospital, where I would be assisting in website development. Our website group was just three when I started, but the hospital left us alone as long as we updated their content in a reasonable period of time. It was a job I developed some real affinity towards as well as a certain level of skill.

 

     Hillside promoted me to manager just two years later, my department having grown to five. In my mid-twenties, I was suddenly a real grown-up.    

 

     Alma and I married the month after her graduation. With my job secure, Alma returned to Case Western to trade up her dual Bachelor’s Degrees for a Master’s in statistics. My wife’s eventual goal was to teach statistics or math at the high school level, an objective she realized post-graduation at Saint Bellarmine’s, a local Catholic prep school.

 

     As a couple, we were young, well-educated, and ungodly dumb, though neither of us realized the latter until much later. Believing we needed to be proactive, Alma and I developed a plan. With education and employment crossed off the list, we unexpectedly undertook the next phase just three years into our marriage. Taking the test after returning from work, Alma informed me she was pregnant.    

 

     While childbirth wasn’t part of our blueprint at that moment – more a late-night aftereffect of an excellent bottle of wine – Alma and I convinced ourselves we were ready. We read everything we could get our hands on, deciding to attend Lamaze classes and explore different birthing options. Water births, home births, Doulas – all were considered and up for discussion. Alma’s mother thought we were nuts.

 

     Speaking to Alma while ignoring me completely, my mother-in-law tried to introduce some reality to her wayward daughter. “Remember when you broke your arm in the first grade?  Imagine that times twenty, and that’ll be only the first ten minutes.” 

 

     That caution aside, Alma and I continued our search for alternatives. Our quest lasted until our first childbirth class. After our second video, Alma began giving me the same look you only see from old-time fans attending one of the latest Star Wars movies.

 

     “Did you see the look on that woman’s face?  When we get home,” Alma added, her gaze now even darker, “remind me to kill you.”

 

     “As I recall, you were a willing participant, not to mention the wine was your idea.”

 

     “I’m the pregnant one - I still get to blame you.”

 

     We did agree on one thing. “I want this baby born in a hospital,” Alma said on the way home. “I want drugs, lots of them. I don’t care if I remember a damn thing about the experience. You can make up a story for our child later. You’re in marketing – you’re good at that.”

 

     Given her mood, I would have agreed if she suggested the baby be born in our hatchback. That being said, I was all for the hospital idea. Part of me hoping she’d say no, I then asked,

 

     “Can I still be your coach?”

 

     “I’m going to be looking like a beached whale. Do you think I’d let anyone else see me like that?  Besides, I think I can legally kill you if you tell me I’m not breathing properly. Did you catch the look the woman in the video gave her husband?”

 

     “Yeah – I’m not sure I see any more children in their future.”

 

     We continued with the childbirth classes, learning all about proper breathing techniques we knew neither of us would remember when the event arrived. The only awkward moment occurred during our last class. Near the end, the teacher went around the room and asked participants what they were most looking forward to regarding their upcoming delivery. Driving home later, Alma gave me another one of those looks.

 

     “Did you have to say the cigars?  You make up copy for a living, and cigars were the best you could do?”

 

     I threw up my hands. “We went last. All the good answers were taken, and I choked. Everyone but you thought it was funny.”

 

     Alma was occasionally less than appreciative when it came to my sense of humor. Delightfully amorous through most of her pregnancy, she was noticeably less so that evening.

 

     Those glitches aside, our baby’s due date soon arrived. Alma’s water broke conveniently that afternoon. After a few quick phone calls, we headed for the hospital. All things considered, we were both remarkably calm. We had made checklists and talked through scenarios. We knew that we were ready.

 

     We were also imbeciles – at least I was. Driving to the hospital, I remembered the lone unaccomplished item from one of our checklists. It came to me after a glance at our backseat.

 

     “Alma, is there any chance you remembered to pick up a car seat during all those trips to buy baby clothes?”

 

     “No – that was your job. We don’t have a seat?  How the hell are we going to get this baby home?”

 

     Already panicked, I had just added one more worry to Alma’s list. Like any good husband, I tried to salvage the situation.

 

     “They told us you’d spend at least one night at the hospital after the baby is delivered. I can pick up a seat at the store before I take you home.”

 

     “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

 

     “It’s a car seat; it’ll be no trouble at all.”

 

     I had no idea what I was looking for, but now was not the time to confess ignorance. I figured I would head to Target, ask the salesperson where I could find the car seats, and pick one that looked reasonably sturdy. How hard could that be?   

 

With the car seat solution in hand, Alma and I arrived at Hillside Hospital. As a Hillside employee, I had scouted out the right location, and the front desk staff placed Alma in a room. Dr. Anders, Alma’s disturbingly young-looking obstetrician, arrived thirty minutes later and talked us through this new stage of the process.

 

     Alma was already in significant pain and chewing on ice chips as fast as I could hand them to her. The nurse had given me two containers when she first left, and I worried what would happen when my supply ran out. Alma’s eyes were developing a slightly glazed look, and I could imagine her forgoing the ice and munching down on my fingers. I kept the call button gripped in my left, non-feeding hand, as much for my protection as Alma’s.

 

     As the day stretched into evening, a nurse came to check on Alma every hour or so, assuring us every visit that long deliveries were the norm for a first child. Just before midnight, I had enough.

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     Alma’s night-shift RN was a short, brown-haired woman who bore an alarming resemblance to the nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Seeing her pop into our room for what seemed like the twentieth time, I finally reached my breaking point.

 

     “You guys said today was the delivery date.”

 

     Still in the process of examining Alma, Nurse Ratched responded, “If you want guaranteed delivery, you should have ordered through Amazon Prime. Since that’s not an option, I’d let me finish taking a look at your wife.”

 

     I noticed Alma had returned to her finger-chewing look. Having no wish to lose a digit, I backed down quickly. Finally, around one a.m., the breakthrough came. It happened, unfortunately, with Alma on the toilet.

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     Moments before Nurse Ratched arrived for her hourly check-in, Alma had moved to the bathroom, convinced she was about to have a bowel movement. I helped my wife out of bed and returned to my side chair, a furnishing designed somewhere around the Spanish Inquisition for the sole purpose of keeping expectant fathers in line. Nurse R. arrived just as I sat down. Looking at Alma’s now-empty bed, she turned to me with an accusatory look.

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     “Where is your wife?”

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     I am, admittedly, not an evening person. “Alma left some clothes back at the house. I would have gone with her, but this chair of yours was just too comfortable.”

 

     Before Ratched could reply, Alma made a sound from her perch in the bathroom. Nurse R.’s disdainful look turned to alarm.

 

     “You let her go to the bathroom?”

 

     “Sorry – she never asked my permission.”

 

     Deciding I was no longer worthy of attention, Ratched turned and spoke to the bathroom door.

“Alma, honey, you’ve got to come out of the bathroom right now.”

 

     Alma almost hissed her reply. “I’m in the middle of a bowel movement. Did I miss something?  Is there some kind of lineup at the door?”

 

     This was new. My usually even-tempered wife sounded like the demon from the Exorcist. When they were teenagers, Alma told me she and her sister once played with an Ouija Board. That being said, I always assumed it was Ellen who would end up possessed.

 

     Nurse Ratched tried again. “Honey, I think you’re in the process of delivering. That feels exactly like a bowel movement.”

 

     Suddenly panicked and noticing that Dr. Anders had taken that moment to arrive, I added my voice to the mix. “Alma, you need to come out of there right now!”

 

     Alma might have taken direction from the doctor or her nurse – from me, not so much. Still in take no prisoner’s mode, she replied, “Screw you. I am not going to come out and poop on my hospital bed!” 

 

     I knew it was irrelevant to our current situation, yet I couldn’t help thinking – a man would have never said poop.

 

     Dr. Anders and Nurse Ratched both looked in my direction – I needed to return to reality.

I tried humor. “Honey, I know we talked about a water birth, but I don’t think this was what we had in mind.”

I listened at the door – no movement. “Alma – do you really want to tell our baby how he or she was born in the bottom of a toilet bowl?

 

     That produced results. Alma, proper even in demon mode, washed her hands before leaving the bathroom. After finishing, my wife opened the door and staggered, almost falling into my arms.

 

     It was then the fun truly began. Nurse Ratched pushed me aside and tried maneuvering Alma back onto her bed. Two steps from success, Alma suddenly froze, grunted, and spread her legs.

 

     Dr. Anders, God love her, realized what was happening before Nurse Ratched and I could even move. Still standing by the door, she took two quick strides across the room and slid next to Alma’s feet as neatly as a baserunner gliding towards second base. From her perch on the floor, Dr. Anders reached between Alma’s legs and pulled the wriggling protruding mass now situated there. Seconds later, the four of us in Alma’s hospital room became five – I had a baby daughter.

 

     Alma started crying as I carried her back to bed, Nurse Ratched holding our child alongside. Then I bent over to help the still-seated Dr. Anders, now covered in goo, from the floor of Alma’s hospital room. Unruffled by what just occurred, she simply said, “one more story for the breakroom.”  I would never again make the mistake of thinking she was too young for her job.

 

     Now lying on her bed, Alma was holding our newly minted baby girl. Back in drill sergeant mode, Nurse Ratched handed me a pair of scissors. Directing my attention to the umbilical cord connecting my baby to my wife, she pointed to where I should cut.

 

     I was terrified - this was nowhere in the videos. “Are you nuts?  What if I cut too close to something?  What if my daughter can never play the piano or go to the beach just because I cut off something I shouldn’t?”

Nurse Ratched rolled her eyes. My wife, now safe and secure in her hospital bed, wasn’t nearly so kind.

 

     “Alan, just shut up, cut the damn thing, and you can finally meet your daughter!”

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     Afraid she might grab the scissors and use them as a weapon, I quickly did as Alma directed. I thought I would have to close my eyes to avoid looking, but it turned out that was unnecessary – my tears managed to blur my vision quite nicely.

 

     After Doctor Anders did a health check on both baby and mother. As she turned to leave, I again thanked the doc for her last-minute save.

 

     “With everything you did, we should probably name her after you. I’m just not sure how well Anders Lister would go over in the playground.”

 

     Dr. Anders glanced at Alma. It was that “now I understand” look Alma often received from the women we encountered.

 

     “Actually, my name is Emily.”

 

     I looked at Alma, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Emily – it was a beautiful name and a perfect fit for our little girl.

Despite nine months to decide, Alma and I had never agreed on a name should our child turn out to be female. Alma had leaned towards Ellen after her older sister. Given her sister hated me with a passion only exceeded by Alma’s mother, I argued that might not be conducive to a loving father-daughter relationship. Emily, I had no issues with whatsoever.

 

     This little story would also give us something to tell our daughter when she was old enough to hear the circumstances of her birth. Given the near misses involved, I figured that would be about the time she could no longer sue us for emancipation.     

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     The excitement ended, and Alma and I were left alone with little Emily. Alma held our daughter for the first half-hour we were together. I took over after that, holding our baby in a rocking chair conveniently located by the side of Alma’s bed.

 

     We talked and bonded, Emily and me, for the next three hours while Alma slept off the effects of her bathroom near-delivery. We discussed a lot of things, including her soon-to-be new home and even her small but growing college fund – details I knew she would never remember but I would never forget.

 

     I did most of the talking, though Emily made little cooing noises to let me know she understood. Looking down at her beautiful, innocent face – thankfully resembling her mother much more than she did me - I promised I would try to never let her down. I knew I would fail at that promise occasionally; I just didn’t think it would take less than twenty-four hours.

 

     Leaving Alma’s bedside, I stopped at Target on my way home to pick up a car seat for our new baby girl. After finding the children’s aisle, I discovered a glittering array of possibilities, ranging from a seat resembling a Medieval dunking chair to a bright neon green model that looked like something a baby Captain Kirk might have sat in before graduating to the Starship Enterprise. Being a guy, I chose the Captain Kirk model and proudly drove my new purchase back to our home.

 

     After catching a few hours of sleep, I unloaded the seat in our driveway and set out to install my Starship Enterprise chair in the back seat of our Toyota minivan. An hour later, I was joined by Mike and Bob, the gay couple from next door, and my two best neighborhood friends.

 

     It took two more hours for the three of us to realize there was no way in hell we could fit the seat in my Toyota’s apparently non-Enterprise standard seatbelts. I was becoming increasingly frazzled, and Bob and Mike ordered me inside.

 

     “Come back out in two hours,” Mike assured me. “When you do, I guarantee the seat will be installed.”

 

     It was the middle of the day, but I was exhausted. I took another quick nap and returned two hours later to find Bob and Mike standing proudly beside my still-open car door. Looking inside, I saw my Captain Kirk car seat, now firmly fixed in the rear of our minivan. I reached in and gave it a yank – the Captain’s chair didn’t move a muscle.

 

     “Oh my God, how did you guys pull this off?”

 

     Bob appeared slightly uncomfortable; neither he nor his partner answered my question. After several attempts to change the subject, Bob finally fessed up.

 

     “It may have involved some Gorilla Glue as well as some creative knotting. You’re not picking up Alma and the baby for another few hours, right?  It should be fully set by then.”

 

     “You guys attached the seat with glue?  You realize I’ll have to take it out at some point?”

 

     “You said you were going to trade the minivan after a few years. We figured you’d appreciate any solution at this point.

 

     I reached in again and gave the seat an even harder yank. It wasn’t going anywhere, and Bob was right - I would worry about the long-term problem when it became an issue.  

 

     Standing next to my car, admiring his handiwork, Bob decided it was a good time to unload his next bombshell.

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     “I’m no expert, but are you sure this is the right kind of car seat?  I think this one is for a kid, not a baby.”

 

     I took another look at the directions. Unless Emily expanded to thirty-five pounds overnight, Bob was correct. I cursed Toyota, Captain Kirk, the Browns, and whoever else seemed handy. Eventually, I reached semi-coherence.     

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     “You think you might have laid that on me before the damned thing became a permanent fixture in my car’s backseat?”

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     Mike tried to make amends. “Maybe you could use Styrofoam, pack her in like shipping companies do with packages. Alma might not even notice.”

 

     Right - the woman who once made me return a piece of children’s clothing because it wasn’t quite the right shade of pink wouldn’t notice our child packed like some Amazon package at her doorstep. God help me; I would need to return to Target.

 

     I got to Target and begged a saleswoman to show me car seats suitable for newborn transport. A young woman led me to a small, blue, overpriced model that looked barely big enough to transport the Chucky doll from those horror movies Alma despised.

 

     I was reconsidering Mike’s Styrofoam suggestion when my saleswoman, with a hint of triumph in her voice, informed me the store was about to close. In a panic, I bought my second car seat of the day. In another five minutes, I might have bought three or four.

 

     Unwilling to cut through our seatbelts, the Captain Kirk chair was in our minivan for life. With no other alternative, I somehow attached the second seat next to the Captain’s in the rear of our vehicle. My brain feverishly trying to come up with an excuse, I decided to tell Alma I was thinking ahead to our second child, born hopefully when Emily would fit the weight requirement for the larger chair. Alma would not believe a word of my explanation, but I was hoping our new baby would distract her to the point she wouldn’t care.

 

     As things turned out, my cover was blown before Alma and the baby even entered our car. My wife and daughter were escorted to the pickup area by none other than Nurse Ratched, the latter likely attending off-shift to ensure I didn’t tie my daughter to our car’s roof rack. Glancing in the backseat before Alma entered, Ratched spotted the second car seat and looked at me with disdain.

 

     “You bought the wrong-sized seat, didn’t you?”

 

     Having practiced my excuse, I grew indignant. “I was just planning ahead for when Emily got bigger.”  I could only imagine Nurse R.’s reaction if I broached Bob’s Styrofoam idea.

 

     Ratched didn’t even bother to respond. After looking at Alma and Emily with a considerable degree of sympathy, she placed my daughter in the smaller of the two seats and guided Alma to her place in front. I drove away with Ratched still shaking her head in my rearview mirror.

 

     Car seat fiasco aside, I traveled home determined not to screw up again. As I reached our street, I glanced in my rearview mirror. There I saw the empty Captain Kirk car seat, its restraint bar curving up on both sides. It was likely my imagination, but I could have sworn that it was laughing.