Rings and Lies, Secrets and Scarves - Chapters 67, 68, 69 White Trash in the Snow

WHITE TRASH IN THE SNOW

A novel by Allison

Note to readers:  Rachael's sister Helen and her husband Kurt were primary characters in the episodes published in Chapters 32 and Chapter 33  .   While it is not necessary to remember previous events in order to enjoy the chapters below, links are provided for those who want to refresh their memories of these fine, upstanding folks.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Cristol squeezed into a pair of her old jeans just days after leaving the hospital and moving in with Aunt Helen. The muffin top created by excessive skin in her mid region could be  hidden under baggy sweatshirts.  She  had the thought that when she and Wrangler started camping in the spring they would have a ceremonial campfire where she would burn all her oversized clothes. “Gawd,” she complained to Wrangler, “ I’m so tired of hoodies with front pockets. So, so tired of it all.” 

The one new thing she wore was on her left hand. When Wrangler had come to the hospital to see her after she delivered their son, he came with a ring. He already had planned to surprise her with the ring as a new year’s gift – a promise to be there for her and with her in the future. With money he’d saved up from part time jobs, he got the nicest ring he could afford. It had little diamond chips in a heart shaped setting. The jeweler called it a promise ring. That sounded right, he thought, like that thing Mrs. S always says about there being no such thing as a coincidence.

 Cristol wasn’t the only one with a new ring. Wrangler had a ring, too. Just before Christmas, Cristol had asked her mother to get a man’s ring that she could give her baby’s daddy. She’d considered trying to disguise herself and go to a mall in the city, but Cristol Saplin was accustomed to approval, whether it was sincere or not., and she wasn’t going to put herself in front of disapproving  retail clerks in upscale jewelry stores even if they didn’t know who she was. No one was going to be allowed to look down their nose at Cristol Saplin. Especially not some mall worker.

Cristol had in mind something something “manly and expensive looking.’

“Maybe a black onyx, Mom. That would look serious.”

“Serious? Wrangler wears a mullet, Cristol. You want him to be taken seriously? Tell him to have his mother cut his hair.”

When she came home, Rachael had a plain silver wedding band in a large size. It was not at all what Cristol had in mind. But her mother reminded her that she wasn’t the one paying for it, and Rachael wanted that boy to feel he was as good as married. “Someday when you and that mullet-head really get married, you can buy any rings you want. Until then, this will remind him of his responsibilities.”

  They had exchanged rings the day Cristol was released from the hospital. His was too big. Wrangler ended up wearing it on the thumb of his left hand.  

********

The ring on his thumb rotated as his hands adjusted themselves on the steering wheel, negotiating the curves on the hour long drive to Cristol’s aunt’s place. 

Aunt Helen was a god-send. Wrangler felt comfortable and welcome in her home right from the start.  On his first visit, Cristol’s aunt told him to call her Aunt Helen, too, and asked what his preferences were – Coke or Pepsi, cheese doodles or pretzels, Oreos or Chips Ahoy. She kept the kitchen stocked so that he could help himself anytime.

Helen and Kurt’s special needs son, Alfred  was a cute little kid who took to Wranger like he was a new older brother, wanting to try on his jacket, admiring Wrangler’s truck. Wrangler was great with the boy.  He let him sit behind the wheel and pretend to drive while the truck was parked in the driveway. He brought him DVDs and CDs and gave him some of his older X-box games. When the seven year old spotted “Strauss” tattooed on Wrangler’s arm, he asked his mother if he could have the same tattoo. Aunt Helen said no, not a real tattoo, but she got out a washable marker and let Wrangler and Cristol go to work designing  a scaled down version of “Strauss” on Alfred’s upper arm. His own name, of course, was not Strauss, but that was the name he insisted on having etched on the pristine palette of his left bicep.

Wranger had become close to Alfred quickly. Aunt Helen could see it was a healthy friendship, and that the young man was surprisingly mature in some ways, able to reach out to others even when there were big challenges threatening the stability of his own life. All this was rooted in his desire to see the underdog prevail. It sprung from him without effort or thought.  Over and over again, beginning in elementary school, Wrangler had made friends with the friendless, protected the picked on, chosen the athletically challenged to be on his team, and invited a bewildered looking newcomer to sit with him and his friends at lunch. He’d used his own popularity to influence other kids to accept a freshman struggling with the onset of Tourette's Syndrome.  No, Wrangler  wasn’t an angel, but he tried to make a difference in small ways.

Wrangler’s soft heart was something Cristol admired but didn’t understand. She, herself, could have starred in the movie “Mean Girls.” Having always enjoyed the benefits of being popular and in the upper level of whatever society there was in Azzolla, Cristol and the rest of the Saplin children had always had a sense of entitlement. It had never occurred to any of them that they had done nothing special to earn any advantages they enjoyed as beneficiaries of their mother’s public offices.

A short time after Wrangler and Cristol started dating, Jerrie told Wrangler that her obvious immaturity and inexperience weren’t  necessarily permanent traits. “When you kids go to college,” she had predicted, “that girl is going to find out she’s no big fish. She’s just a big minnow from murky pond. College will change her. You’ll see.”

Lately, though, Jerrie hadn’t talked about either of the kids going to college.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT

When winter recess was over, Cristol went back to school – a new school. Now that she was living with Aunt Helen in the city, her parents made arrangements for her to be enrolled in the local school.  Anchor High would be the third school she had attended since her mom became governor only thirteen months before.. Once again, she was both a stranger and a curiosity to those students whom she encountered on her first day. But out of the 1200 in grades 9 – 12, only a very small percentage had any idea Governor Saplin’s oldest girl  was now an “Anchor Bulldog.”

The Governor, with Tad in tow, met with school administrators the first day of school. They asked that there not be any announcement about Cristol’s transfer in, as she had had a traumatic experience and needed time to recover without publicity. Mediocre grades and poor attendance records were explained away, “She lost some weeks due to a bad case of mono,” Rachael said. “But she’s a hard worker. She’ll catch up this summer if she hasn’t caught up by the end of the spring semester. And she’s a basketball star, but the doctor says she should sit out this season. So, umm, anyway, she’s an overachiever. Yup, you betcha’.”

The principal was sympathetic to Cristol’s bout with an illness, to hear that it had been traumatic for her. Rachael, not wanting her daughter to be seen as weak,  embellished the lies and told a real whopper. Tad listened with amazement to his wife’s story about Cristol being threatened with bodily harm by students in her previous school, a threat made via social networking, and that the move to her aunt’s house was for her protection.

Rachael thought of it on the spot, and was sure it was a brilliant cover for the real story – that Cristol was a new mother and needed to live with her Aunt Helen in order to be near the hospital where her fragile infant son was fighting for survival. Tad would have been happier had they stuck with the original plan – Cristol was returning after a bout with mono and Aunt Helen, a nurse, was going to keep an eye on her.

The story of cyber-bullying had consequences. The principal asked the head of school security to join them in the office and together they interrogated the Saplins, wanting to know what had been done to protect the girl, what police and or federal agencies had gotten involved, and to what degree did they believe the threat could be carried out in the new community and/or school? “I’ll have my office get that information and I’ll bring it to ya’” the Governor promised. Then she and Tad made a hasty retreat.

 When nothing had been received a month later, the school attempted to follow up with a call to the Governor. In return, they received a letter from the Office of Counsel to the Governor stating that the reason for Cristol’s enrollment was a personal family matter, however, the Governor generously would provide a limited explanation: Cristol had been asked to help out her mother’s sister’s family which had a special needs child. Cristol wanted to become a pediatric nurse, and this would be valuable experience to help her learn more about that career. The Governor and her family expected to have their privacy protected by school staff and administrators. It was clear that there were to be no more questions. The principal and security sergeant concluded that there was nothing they could do, as the story told them in the office was not officially documented. .

Rachael, Tad and Cristol were all pleased with the “family issue” excuse. There was enough truth in it for Rachael to feel self-righteous and pure of heart. Meanwhile, the real beauty of it was that the story provided cover for Cristol outside of school, too. If anyone followed the girl on the way home,  or coincidentally happened to be going the same way, they would discover that every day after school she took a city bus to a hospital across town.  It was not a direct route and she changed buses on the way. Unlikely that anyone would recognize her. But if she ran into anyone and the question came up, the ready answer was, again, that she wanted to observe and learn something about neo-natal care before making a firm commitment to undergraduate studies in that field.  There would be no reason to suspect she was actually visiting her own son. No one knew except a limited number of hospital staff, and they were bound by law to be confidential.  If the law and the promise of losing their income and professional license weren’t enough to keep them quiet, stories of Rachael Saplin’s ruthlessness would keep them from talking.  No one working at the hospital was foolish enough to mention “baby boy Sherman” to anyone – not to a spouse, not to a friend, and definitely not to a reporter or blogger.

Every time he visited, Wrangler and Cristol would go to the hospital and spend time with the baby.  Between his hockey schedule, his part time job, and his home school studies, he couldn’t get up to see them more than twice a week, but his thoughts seemed to be consumed by them, and he even asked his Mom if she thought he should drop out of school, find a job near the hospital, and get a small apartment for he and Cristol and his baby.  He was worrying about every procedure, every test, and sometimes, if the team was traveling on an away schedules,  it would just about tear his heart out not to be able to see his baby for two weeks.

Often, he would bring flowers. He’d never done that when they were simply dating, but now he wanted her to know she was more special than ever. She was his baby’s momma. And, her reaction to the flowers kept him bringing more. She’d throw her arms around his neck, give him a big kiss, and tell him she loved him. For a while, that was as romantic as they got.

Wrangler wasn’t going to  push her to be physical with him, He thought about it, of course, and her figure was returning, but he knew things had changed. If she said they would have to wait until they were married to sleep together again, he told himself he could accept that. But, his intuition told him she was never going to hold out like that.  She’d changed, but she wasn’t changed that much.

So, it didn’t surprise Wrangler when the time came that Cristol wanted to talk about sex. She said that she missed their being alone together. Though she had told herself abstinence was going to be her birth control from now on, she could see it wasn’t realistic. By early February she and Wrangler were making plans. Aunt Helen and Uncle Kurt had a couple routines that kept them away from the house with the kids for at least two and a half hours. Sunday mornings they left for church about nine thirty and never returned until at least half past twelve. Wednesday night they went to a fellowship dinner and Bible study, keeping them away from six until eight thirty. Both times, the whole family was gone. Soon, they would have some time to be together in that special way. Would it be different now? They both wondered but neither spoke it out loud.

Cristol wasn't the only female in Wrangler's life who wanted him to understand her needs.  Jerrie wanted to visit the baby. But Cristol and Mrs. S. said no, not until Calc was stronger. They said it was to protect him, that his immune system was underdeveloped and every unnecessary visitor brought the potential for a life-threatening bout with a cold, or the flu. Jerrie didn’t believe that germs were the only reason. If that were true, Rachael and Tad would stay away, too. Maple had even been in to see the baby. Jerrie feared that the real reason she couldn’t get in and that Porsche was still not to be told was that the baby was going to die. “What if I never get to see him? It’s not fair, Wrangler. He’s a Strauss just as much as he’s a Saplin. And I want to see my grandbaby.”

Wrangler wished no one could see his son except he and Cristol. Everyone else caused drama. Maple’s visit was a classic Saplin family moment. She’d looked at Calc and immediately said “he doesn’t look like he has Downs.”

Cristol went ballistic. “Is that all you wanted to see? If he looks funny? I hate you Maple. I really do.”

Tad went to Maple’s defense. “Cristol! Stop that. You don’t mean it. Your sister came all this way to visit you and that’s how you greet her?

“You always take her side,” Cristol reverted to her ten-year-old self. “I hate you, too.”

“Hoo boy, I guess I have to be the adult in the room.” Rachael said.  “Now Cristol, you know you love them. You know you love your father and Maple. And you know Maple will love little Calc.” She turned to Maple. “You will love him, Maple.” The emphasis was on “will.” It was an order, not a prediction.

Wrangler rolled his eyes and Rachael caught him. “And you! You will do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, and you can begin by getting out of here right now and coming back with a couple of crunch wraps and a diet Pepsie. I’m starving.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Rachael and Tad were looking at the tiny baby in the incubator, hooked up to a breathing apparatus and attached to a number of monitoring devices. “He's five weeks old today," Rachael said. "I didn't think he'd really make it."
"You better start wearing maternity clothes. All that money spent on liposuction and now you gotta cover up–”
She gave him a withering look. They’d talked about Rachael claiming to carry and deliver a baby so Calc could be introduced as their son once he was released. She was pretty much set on the idea even though Tad had his doubts. The kids, including Crisol and Wrangler, weren’t consulted.

“Don't you think you should begin to wear bigger clothes now? You’ve got to make it believable.”

“I know.  I have a plan. I bought a lot of scarves last week when I was in Philly.”

“Scarves? What for? You gonna wrap your head like Aunt Jamima and hope people will be distracted?"

“Shut up, Tad. The scarves will go around my neck, of course, and it will look stylish, ‘cause I’m known as a trendsetter and these long ones that hang down to my past my waist, they will keep people from seeing my stomach - or my waist, or anything except a big scarf hanging there. ”

Tad looked dubious.

“Don’t you see? It's better than maternity clothes. It leaves me a way out. If he doesn't, umm.. doesn't make it, you know...or if we don’t adopt him, the scarf thing will just fade away as I break out summer clothes and no one’s any the wiser. But, if little Calc gets strong I’m gonna announce I’m pregnant – about six, maybe seven months pregnant – and I just say that’s why I was wearing scarves, covering up, it's so simple. That’s the best way to lie, you know, keep it simple.”

“I gotta see these scarves,” he said.

“Besides, I don’t want to go out and buy clothes I couldn’t wear next year.”

Gotta love her thriftiness, he thought.“But I didn’t know the kids had decided to let us adopt him.”

“They haven’t. Pay attention, Tad. Do you see how little he is? Do you see all that equipment attached to him? Even if the kids get married, how are they going to take care of this little guy? He’s going to need special care all his life. Right now he’s covered under our insurance, but if they get married…”

“If they get married, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s got my blood in him, and that of my ancestors. He will always be taken care of through the native health care plan. And Cristol, too. Even though Cristol and Wrangler aren’t working, if they get married, they can all be covered by native plan insurance.”

“True, but still…” Her words drifted off and they stood silently looking at the scrawny handful of humanity that was their first grandchild.

 “God, I wonder what people do who don’t have health insurance,” Tad said.

“You know that makes me mad. Stop saying that, Tad.”

 Tad and Rachael agreed on most things, politically. Healthcare was one of the exceptions.

“I know it makes you mad. But you better work on it because health care is a national policy thing.  ‘I don’t care’ isn't going to cut it. Just on the long shot that that Huckleberry character wins the primaries and likes your evangelical creds you need to be able to explain your reasons for opposing national health care."
"No, Tad, I -"
"Yes, Rachael, you do. What if Senator McElwain gets the nomination and wants a running mate with beauty queen experience? He likes that, you know. Especially blondes. Ever thought of streaking your hair  with- ”

“Tad! You are so retarded. I wasn’t even talking about national health care!"
"What? Yes you were, you said it makes you mad."
" I was mad that you took the name of the Lord in vain. I hate that. It makes me cringe when you use God’s name all flippant like that. So cut it out." She glared at him. "And I don’t want to talk about healthcare, either.”

She took another look at the baby in the incubator and turned on her heel. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Hospital Notes and Baby Names - White Trash in the Snow Chapter 65 and 66

Welcome back! Two chapters in this week's installment. Finally, the baby has a name. Want to guess what it is?  Odds are good that you will be right, but the fun is in the journey. So travel with me into the fictional lives of Cristol Saplin and Wrangler Strauss. 

Have I ever told you I love Yogi-isms?  Maybe I have. Deja vu all over again.

WHITE TRASH IN THE SNOW

by Allison

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

At noon Dr. Barten-Curtain came in to check on the new mother.

Cristol had been admitted to the maternity ward, in a private room, and her son was in the neo-natal intensive care unit.  Rachael and Tad were both there,  talking and low tones, and Rachael got up from a chair and extended both arms, expecting a hug from her friend. Instead, Abigail Barten-Curtain offered her right hand. When their hands clasped, the doctor covered their grip gently with her left hand. It felt intimate, yet professional. It was a tool Dr. ABC picked up as an intern. Back in the days of the Clinton presidency, while working on her “bedside manner,” she noticed that then-President Bill Clinton always looked compassionate and connected even when he met strangers. Studying him, it dawned on her that he had a two-handed-look-you-in-the-eye handshake. Abigail Barten-Curtain put that lesson to use many times a day.

The doctor approached Cristol with a smile. “Congratulations again, Cristol. You did a great job.” Always congratulate, always be as positive a situation could factually merit. “Your baby looks like he’s a little fighter.” Cristol smiled back weakly.

“I’d like to talk with you now, do you want your parents to stay, or would you prefer they wait in the family lounge?”

“Ummm, ---” Cristol looked dazed.  Her mother hustled over and took her hand.

“We are very proud of Cristol, too, me and Tad.  Yup, yup. Right, Tad? ”

Tad washed a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.  Rachael turned to ABC, “We, umm, we are so proud of our little girl, um, but, yes, Cristol is a strong young woman and she’s got us right here with her, you see? We have a large super-supportive family – actually, five generations of us are gonna help. But she’s strong. Really strong.  Perhaps other girls might not be so lucky under these less than ideal circumstances, which, of course, you see it every day in your work Abigail, you see it all the time, I don’t need to tell you about less than ideal circumstances of course, because, we’re just a normal family with challenges like everybody else, some of them, all of them.”

Not for the first time, the doctor observed signs of possible mental illness in the governor’s prattling. Reminding herself that she was a family doctor not a psychiatrist, and fully cognizant of the danger of getting on the wrong side of a Saplin, she tucked her observations and suspicions away in her head, in a box labeled “Poison.” Someday, she might have the courage and the opportunity to talk to Rachael about mental health concerns, but now was not the time.

 “So, Cristol, shall we talk?” the doctor asked brightly.

The new mom sat with her arms folded across her empty but still large belly. She nodded slightly. Then her eyes darted from one parent to the other and she bowed her head, looking at no one.

Addressing the patient directly, with only an occasional glancing acknowledgement that Tad and Rachael were present, the doctor went on to review her concerns about the premature delivery, what testing had revealed so far, and what would or could happen over the next few hours, days, and weeks. She started with the basics: Cristol’s water broke in the night, during the 30th week of gestation, and labor ensued. Everyone should all be commended for acting quickly and following instructions. Dr. Barten-Curtain had phoned ahead to tell the staff at the local hospital that her patient was on the way. She told them that Joy Sherman, her patient, had learned through early testing that she was carrying a child with Trisomy 21. The doctor on duty was a family doctor, like herself, and he quickly checked her out and had her transferred to a larger hospital with a neo-natal care unit.

Knowing that Rachael had deep ties to the good people on the board of the local hospital, Dr. Barten-Curtain was quick to add that, “while being a fine general hospital, the valley hospital was simply not large enough to be fully equipped to deal with all the possible complications that could arise in this set of circumstances.” She glanced sideways to see how Rachael took that. Politics! She hated politics – all politics -  small town politics like this, and national politics, too.

The intersection of politics and medicine was one place Abigail Barten-Curtain and her friend Rachael Saplin disagreed. Abortion? Agree to disagree. National health care? In this doctor’s opinion, health care was obviously a right guaranteed under  “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” It’s right there – life! But that was the same argument Rachael used to oppose all abortion. Dr. Barten-Curtain found it amazing that people like Rachael oppose a morning after pill on the belief that all life is precious yet they can hold the opposite opinion about a government option to provide life-sustaining care to those who have no insurance. She could not fathom how current day legislators justify allowing the United States to continue to be behind all other developed countries in providing healthcare to its people. If the rumors that Rachael Saplin was a potential running mate for Steve McElwain proved to be correct, this doctor would be having a heart to heart with her old friend.

 All of these thoughts blew through the doctor’s consciousness in mere seconds, and she returned to her presentation without any hint of having taken a political detour.

 “This hospital has excellent facilities and staff,” Dr. Barten-Curtain said, and went on to list the types of specialists and trained personnel that made up the  team of medical professionals working around the clock to give all the babies in the NICU the best care possible.

 Baby boy Sherman was 3 lbs 10 oz. - a respectable size for 30 weeks. His chances of survival were good. There was a small hole in his heart, a common condition for DS babies. They would give it time to see if it would clear up on its own. Considering all he had been through, the doctor was very pleased with his general health.

“He is exhausted, as he should be, and right now he’s resting and hooked up to various equipment to assist and monitor him. You can see him in a few minutes.”

Dr. Barten-Curtain, preparing them for what they would see, told them that he could not be removed from the incubator or disconnected from the various apparatus helping him breath, maintain his body temperature, and take in nourishment. His development was behind that of a non-DS baby at this stage, and while any baby born this early would need a lot of support, it was all the more true in his situation. Dr. Barten-Curtain told them to consider the tubes, the mechanical sounds, and the hardware to be inanimate friends, trustworthy and tireless in their devotion to their charge. They were providing the life-sustaining support many of his major systems needed. This little boy would be fighting the odds for a while, with his chances for survival increasing each day. The fact was, at birth, he faced a less than fifty percent chance of survival.  But each day he survived, the odds improved.

Physically, they would  be able to see that he was small, lacked the fatty deposits of a full term baby, and he was jaundice. His feet were underdeveloped, resulting in a condition known as web toes. This was not painful, nor was it anything that needed attention now. When he begins to walk, in a couple of years, simple surgery would fix them. Then there were the ears. The cartilage in his ears had not formed correctly, and instead of smooth, round ears like his mother, his had a ruffled look. This wasn’t from his extra chromosome. Down Syndrome children have hearing problems, but this condition was something separate and apart from that and nothing needed to be done about it right away. It was more a cosmetic issue than anything else. The greater auditory issues stemmed from DS. Testing would have to be done to determine how much he could hear.

The fear in Cristol’s eyes said she couldn’t handle much more. Dr. Barten-Curtain said quietly, “Cristol, you have a very beautiful baby boy. He is facing challenges, yes. But don’t we all? He looks like a fighter. You can help him with that. He needs to hear your voice, even if he can’t actually hear, he will recognize its vibration and cadence. I’m going to let you reach in and hold him, babies need to be touched. Those are the things you can do. The rest will be up to the staff. This hospital is his first home, and if he were mine, I’d want him  in the hands of these professionals, the doctors and nurses right here are the best team in the state. I can personally vouch for them. You have my promise that I will order every possible procedure and appliance to help your baby make it over these hurdles. As I said, your part is just as important. You need to be strong for him; he needs to hear your voice, feel your touch, and have your prayers.

Through the recitation, Cristol sat up with her back leaning against the firm elevated head of the bed. A tear had escaped the far corner of her left eye, and she did nothing to interrupt its path as it slid down the side of her face.

Rachael spoke up. “I got a question. How come you hadn’t told us she was at risk of an early delivery?’

The doctor replied patiently. “Rachael, you’ve had four kids. You know each time is different. Each person is different, too. There was no indication at her last visit that this baby was coming early. The little guy had ideas of his own, bless his heart.”

Rachael blinked hard. Did Dr. Barten-Curtain mean to mock her? Or was that blessing  sincere?

“Bless his heart? Yeah, you betcha. How come we didn’t know about that hole thing? Shouldn’t you have caught that from the ultrasound?”

Tad put a tentatve hand on her arm. “Rachael, this isn’t the time for –“

“Shut up, Tad.”

 Hand on her hip, like a fourth grade school teacher exasperated by an unruly student, Rachael glared at her friend the doctor.

Dr. Bartain –Curtain replied, “Ultrasounds don’t pick that up. But, it’s common with  Down Syndrome, and Cristol and I had talked about it.” She looked over at Cristol. “She and I have discussed many things, and I agree with what you were saying before, she’s a strong young woman. You have every right to be proud of her.”

“I am proud of her, so proud.” Rachael nodded. “I  remember when I had that amnio for my last pregnancy. I worried about the results right up until you told me everything was okay.  If it had turned out differently, if it had been me instead…well, I can’t say I would have handled it as well as Cristol. She’s a remarkable girl.”

 “Yes, it’s a wonderful tool we can offer mothers of advanced years so they don’t have to wonder if they are carrying a fetus with DS. But you understand, don’t you, that while  Cristol, being only sixteen when she conceived, is not the typical woman who delivers a child with Down Syndrome, but that’s really only a numbers game. There are so many young women having babies that the odds of a Down Syndrome baby for mothers under 35 is only one in 1500 births.”

“What luck,” said Tad. The others ignored him.

“Cristol was lucky. Lucky that she didn’t know the date of her last menstrual cycle.  We might not have had an ultrasound and wouldn’t have had reason to continue on and get the amnio. It was a blessing to have been forewarned.

Cristol had remained silent during her mother’s outburst, intimidated by the doctor, her parents, and by being in a hospital bed wearing one of those open back gowns. Still somewhat sedated, sitting on a rubber doughnut, and dreading having to use the bathroom, it suddenly became more than she could handle. Cristol started to cry. “Ruffled ears. Webbed toes. He’s going to be picked on by other kids,” she said through her sobs. She reahed for the small box of hospital tissues and blew her nose..

Dr. ABC  smiled again. “I will take you to see him now and you can see how beautiful he is.” The doctor adjusted the bed and helped Cristol get her legs over the side.

“Beautiful? Even with funny ears?” Cristol slid her feet into paper slippers.

“Absolutely! They are cute ears. Anyway, ears are nothing to fret over. Once his hair grows, they’ll be covered up. Most people will never notice. In the NICU he will have a little cap on his head. All the babies do.” She continued to hold her patient by the elbow.

“I guess a boy can have long hair,” Rachael mused out loud. “People are gonna say I have a little hippie-child.”

Cristol stopped shuffling and straightened up. “No, Mom,” she said,  turning toward  her , “They are going to say you have a little hippie grandson.”

Tad smiled and quickly faked a cough.

“Shut up, Tad,” Rachael said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Like all parents-to-be, during the months leading up to the baby’s birth, Cristol Saplin and Wrangler Strauss  had many discussions about names. Wrangler wanted his son to have his last name, yet he was open to hyphenating Saplin-Strauss if Cristol wanted that. They agreed the names went together well. To his relief, Cristol chose the simplest answer. “I’m going to be Cristol Strauss in another year and a half, so let’s not complicate things. His last name should be Strauss.”

That was news Wrangler wanted to share. “Could I call my dad? While him and me are off doin' stuff together at Christmas? Could I tell him about the baby? Tell him he has a Strauss grandson on the way?”

“No, Wrangler. We agreed. There’s so much that isn’t settled and I need to keep it all under control. I didn’t have to go through all this, you know. Neither did my family. So you have to do what we say.”

Deflated, Wrangler got quiet. “Whatever.”

With the last name was settled, Wrangler was going to pretty much let Cristol have what she liked for first and middle names. Based on her own family, Cristol thought children should be given unusual names that come from experiences, things or places the parents especially liked. Wrangler had no problem with giving the baby a name that would be one of a kind. This was his son, there had never been another. He was special in many ways, and his name should be, too.

Cristol explained to Wrangler how her parents had chosen names for her and her siblings. The name “Field” had been Tad’s idea. It came from Tad’s high school passion and success in track and field. He had hoped it would inspire his son to follow in his dad’s footsteps, figuratively and literally. Rachael had suggested he be named “Track” instead, because she, too, enjoyed running during high school and that was “her sport.” The newlyweds resolved their disagreement by compromise. If it was a girl, she would be Track, and if they had a boy, Field.

Many times, Field had said that he hated his name. Why, he asked, couldn’t he have some normal name - Jason or Troy or Drew. Whenever he complained about his name to his sister, Cristol had no sympathy. “Hey, it could have been worse. If Mom’d had her way, or if you’d been a girl, people might think mom and dad’s named you for drug use instead of sports. If they’d had a crystal ball they might have called you ‘Snort’.”  She told Wrangler this story they both laughed and promised not to let their kid have a horrible, dumb name – nothing  that would get them teased or be embarrassing.

Cristol liked her own name. She liked how it sounded. She liked the curly capital “C” she had designed for her signature while doodling in seventh grade classes. And she liked that it had been chosen for its personal meaning to her mom. With Field having been named by Tad, her father had agreed that the next baby name would be of Rachael’s choosing. Cristol Springs, the brand of bottled water her mother carried when she went running, rejuvenated her, and kept her going even when she wanted to give up. She thought it made a pretty name for her daughter.

Recently, after that explanation had been included in a magazine interview, she was contacted by the Cristol Springs company and asked to be a spokesperson. She jumped at the chance, and the deal was almost signed when counsel to the Governor’s Office got wind of it and hit the roof. It was against state ethics laws to profit personally from holding the office of Governor. Arguing full out that she was becoming a star in her own right, and that the product endorsement came from being a runner and a mom, neither of which were elected position, Rachael was furious when she couldn’t persuade the attorney to agree with her. She offered Cristol to the company as a spokesperson, a move that circumvented the law while still bringing in the money, but Cristol Springs declined the offer. Having to pass up the money, she told the family that, the way her popularity was soaring, it was only a matter of time before there would be enough endorsements to make a lot more than that, then she would leave office and “take the money.” Even if it meant resigning. After all, she was “not doin’ this for nuttin.”

When it came to their third child, Tad and Rachael had different ideas once again.  Finding themselves at a stalemate, they flipped a coin.

Maple was named for a little town in New York State where, three generations ago, Rachael’s great-grandfather had labored in a railroad repair shop and her great-grandmother ran a bakery. On a Maple tree shaded street in Maple City they raised Rachael’s grandmother. Grandmother Sherman’s annual summer visits to the Heats invariably included the retelling of childhood stories about vaudeville shows at the opera house, fishing pennies out of the big fountain in the park, and watching circus animals being unloaded from train cars and paraded down Main Street. The Maple City of Grandma’s memory was everything Azzolla was not and had never been. It was green and lush through long spring and summer days, in autumn the maples blazed with color until Halloween winds brought showers of red, orange and yellow leaves which adults raked into piles that children jumped into or buried themselves in during games of hide and seek.

 Azzolla’s seasons were pre-winter, winter and post-winter, and a quick summer fling. Rachael loved the idea of living where winter was served up with the Thanksgiving turkey and danced out of town with leprechauns in March. A place where children had equal opportunity to put to use the ice skates, sleds and skis Santa brought, then exchanged them for roller skates, jump ropes and bicycles. It sounded like heaven.

Tad got to name their third daughter since his wife had named two of the other three. He liked the name Pride, because he was proud of his snowmobile championship. He liked Succession as a middle name, but when Maple tried to pronounce it she kept getting stuck on the first syllable and Tad saw the potential for trouble. “Suck.,,Suck… Suck –seck…Suck-sex…”  Tad decided Independence was a better middle name.

In a moment of generosity, he suggested that this child have two middle names.  Then the name Rachael liked could be used, too. This is how their fourth child came to be named Pride Independence Grace/  Grace had a religious meaning, God’s unmerited favor.

Days after the birth certificate was filed they realized that their baby’s initials spelled out PIGS. As she grew, her older sisters and brother enthusiastically fulfilling the role of siblings to be cruel and to pick on each other, subjecting Pride to obnoxious oinking sounds whenever they wanted to drive her away or make her mad.

In recent months, reporters had been curious about all the Saplin children’s names. The stories of origin were politically acceptable except for Pride’s name. Reporters had been told by Governor Saplin that the name speaks of the great pride she feels in being an America and the hard fought independence that American citizens enjoy. Rachael was revising history in order to have an explanation palatable to the rest of the states in the union in case she was tapped by the Republican vice presidential candidate. With her sights were on bigger things now, what once worked for her within the state, was now a potential detraction. No problem, she rationalized, as she came up with the new reason she and Tad had named Pride Independence Grace only six years before. Who would be any the wiser? “And,” she told Tad, “You have never been a member of the secessionist party. From today forward, you rip up that card, and you say you made a mistake when you put the checkmark on the registration form. Got that?”

He got it. There was truth, and then there were Rachael’s facts. It was how they lived, and he could live with that.

Wrangler and  Cristol came up with some wild names. Ideas were rejected one after another. Knowing it was a boy should have made it easier, concentrating only on appropriately masculine names. But the process was not easy in any sense.  “Hunter,” a suggestion from Wrangler, was “too common” for Cristol. “Night” was in the running for a while, an idea that came from the long dark days of little sun that provided an appropriate cover for these difficult days in their lives. Wrangler liked “Puck” for a while. But Cristol mentioned it to a nurse who was drawing blood and he asked if they were into Shakespeare.  When the male nurse explained the connection, the name got crossed off Cristol’s list.  She didn’t want anyone thinking she and Wrangler were Shakespere-loving elitists.

Wrangler, Jr., Jerrie’s only entry into the contest, was summarily rejected. “That’s so lame,” Cristol said.

Rachael campaigned for naming him “Maverick.”  Both of the kids liked it for a while, until one Sunday morning when the three of them and Maple were each finding their own breakfast and working around each other in the spacious kitchen. The living room and kitchen televisions were simultaneously broadcasting “Meet the Press” and today’s guest was that politician – the really old one - that Rachael talked about all the time.

“Kids,” Rachael said, chewing a bite of toaster pastry ,”There’s Maverick McElwain. That’s the one I want the baby named after. I’ll betcha he’s gonna be our next President.” Eyes glued to the TV, she didn’t see the look of horror on Cristol’s face.

Cristol took one look and shook her head. “No way.” She made a face, as if she were disposing of a dirty diaper.  “You’re kidding me, right? He’s creepy!”

“Looks like he has the mumps,” Wrangler observed.  He’d settled onto on the sofa with a plate of scrambled eggs. Meals in the Saplin house were do-it-yourself. If Wrangler made it, there was either a microwave or a grill involved. Microwaved scrambled eggs with microwaved moose sausage had become his Sunday morning routine.  Holding a forkful of eggs aloft, he went on, “Not gonna name my kid after a mumpy-looking guy.”

“He’s not your kid, he’s our kid,” Cristol corrected, then with a mischievous look in her eye, she turned to Rachael. “We could name the baby Mumpy if that guy lets you run for VP with him.”

“Mumpy! “ Pride giggled.”

“ Or Sleepy, or Dopey.” was Wrangler’s surprisingly quick interjection.

“Or Creepy!” It was Maple. Her words were accompanied by a propulsion of slightly chewed corn flakes. Everyone under eighteen found it uproariously funny.

“Maple!”  It wasn’t clear whether her mother’s reprimand was speaking with her mouth full or for the disrespect being shown the senator.  On a scale of one to ten her scowl was an eleven.

Cristol was enjoying all of it. The relaxed and carefree atmosphere of this particular morning was a welcome relief to the stiflingly serious life she had been leading. Tension permeated the house even when Wrangler and Cristol were the only ones home. On that morning, both enjoyed themselves and each other as they indulged in the harmless levity of pseudo-suggesting and rejecting nonsense names. She sat down next to Wrangler, still limber enough to tuck one leg underneath. He reached out to support her as she settled in, balancing her plate of eggs.

“I know, how about ‘Huge’? Because that’s how I feel.”  She looked down at the XXL nightshirt she was wearing, and ran a loving hand maternally across her midsection.

Wranger feined deep consideration. “That’d be tough on a boy,”  he said, stabbing a chunk of sausage with his fork. “Obviously, I could live up to that, but who knows if my son--.”

“Ewwwwe, TMI.” Maple plopped on one of the sofas; cornflakes and milk sloshed out of her bowl.

“Careful!” Rachael scolded.  No one paid any attention. They were having too much fun.

 Cristol gave her boyfriend a playful punch. “That’s what got us in this mess in the first place.”  

While the kids were finding it all humorous, Rachael battled jealousy.  She didn’t want to think about whether her future son-in-law was huge or not. At this  strange time in her life, a time when her daughter was getting more sex than she was, she didn’t need it rubbed in her face. When the microwave signaled that her mug of water was hot, and she grabbed a teabag and headed back to her room. The other three didn’t even notice.

Someone came up with the idea of calling him “Secret” (“for obvious reasons”) and nicknaming him “Cret.”  Maple  expanded on the suggestion:“That could be so cool. You could keep the name a secret, too. Never show the birth certificate. Tell everyone his name is Cret. A double secret.”

“Hmmm,” Cristol was twirling a piece of hair around her finger as she thought. “I kinda like the name Cret.  We’d be the only ones who would know what it meant, and that could be mad fun.”

“Besides,” she continued, “It begins with the same letter as my name. I like names that begin with ‘C’, it’s a pretty letter.” Wrangler thought that was about the lamest reason to pick a name he’d ever heard, but he was wise enough to stay quiet and appear occupied with chasing remnants of egg around the plate with his index finger.

A few minutes later they rejected the name “Secret” and the name “Chet” because Maple foresaw the potential for an embarrassing, sexually suggestive tabloid headline announcing his very existence “The SeCret Comes Out”. The double entendre hinting of homosexuality was anathema to Wrangler. Though he was pretty sure he had never met a homosexual, and that if he did, it would be fine, “because they are just people, too,” he was equally sure Azzolla would be a tough place to be gay or to be thought of as gay.

Cristol took a new approach. “Okay, Wrangler, what do you think of when I say the words ‘challenging’ ‘sophomore year’ ‘a hard lesson’  and ‘I wish this wasn’t happening’?”  Wrangler thought only a second.“Calculus.” It was the bane of his existence in the world of sophomore level on line studies.

“ooooo – ‘Calc’, I like that.”

Actually, they both liked it.

The hospital bracelet read “Boy – Sherman” and the nurses on the unit lovingly called the little tyke Sherman.  Sherman was a heartbreaker, the sweetheart of the NCU, without exception, he was adored by everyone.

The first time Cristol heard him called ‘Sherman’ she thought it sounded like an old man’s name. Then, as she heard the name used again and again, always with abundant affection, she grew to like it. Without much resistance, Wrangler agreed with her -  God willing, the itty bitty newborn would not only survive but live to be an old man befitting his name. Besides, it sounded nice with Strauss. Both of them were happy with the full moniker “Calc Sherman Strauss,” and inside the covers of her school folders, Cristol practiced writing it with fancy c’s and s’s.

The naming of Calc represented a victory for the young couple in their constant battle to become a family separate from their parents. All the parents had suggested baby names, but the young couple had been determined to make the decision without caving to pressure from anyone. No double middle names, a suggestion from Rachael in an attempt to still get “Maverick” into the line up.  No Wrangler junior. And no Jerry – one of Jerrie’s suggestions. In every way, they were sending the message that this was their baby, not the grandparent’s baby, not either family’s baby, not an up-for-adoption baby. Theirs to name, theirs to raise. Period. End of story.

Or, so they thought.