Amy Harkins

 Holiday Bliss

For hours on end, I sought comfort in the ornately arched home away from home.  You could call it my need to connect with the all encompassing binder of the universe.    The choir boys kept me in a state of quite meditation. Their resonating voices stringing together the pearls of my reflective thoughts.  I could stay kneeling for hours, like some petrified monk, as long as those angelic voices echoed like some Gregorian manifesto.  One by one my fingers strung the worn beads, clasping the cross after every pass.  Thoughts from my world, melding with the rapid fire of Hail Mary’s, and occasional Our Father whispered from botox filled lips… God grant me the serenity for all of the upcoming holiday plans. 

The morning sun gleamed out from behind a passing cloud. The rays beamed through a particularly distinct stained glass image, as if on cue.  The brilliant light causing me to crack my eyelids, and there before me was the depiction of the resurrection. The brightness warmed my spirits.  As the diffused sun light cast high lighting shadows through out the voluminous room my attention was drawn to the baby in the mother’s arms in the center aisle.  My hand automatically grabs my protruding belly.  On the last Hail Mary, I leaned back against the pew and knew this day would be unusually different. 

Fortunately, my husband and I live within walking distance to St. Peter’s because the stroll always does me good.  Although, recently the projection of my new shape makes me feel like I am some wayward oil tanker lead by an enormous bulbous prow that parts crowds like Persian gulf waters.  By the time I arrive home, kick the snow from my shoes, unravel the twenty seven layers of clothing(we have got to move somewhere warmer), and greet the silence with a ‘honey, I’m home’, Chris has sprang downstairs with papers in hand, like he was shot out of double espresso.

“Hey there little lady, you’re right on schedule”, he announced with two pecks on the lips. “Here’s the official check list for your trip.  The decaff coffee is fresh, so let’s have a cup, but scrub in first.  No complications with your luggage.  Oh, the flight information is tucked in your purse and it’s all loaded in the car.  So we have just enough time for me to see you to the airport and make it to the hospital before morning rounds.”

“I hope my mother remembers that I am coming, she tends to be forgetful on big days.”

Chris was inspecting the stitching on his place mat.  It reminded me of our first date years ago of how his eyes constantly would take in all the important details of his surroundings; the menu, my breasts, the wine list, my breasts, the table setting, my breasts, the construction of the ceiling, my breasts.  His dark hair had thinned some since those days, but his eyes still held their charm and my heart.  As I took the last few sips of coffee, Chris brings me back to the here and now and says,

“It’s likely she will.  Besides if all goes according to plan, you should make Dottie’s ceremony, enjoy a quick visit, and catch the early morning flight back before I am home from my shift.  You know you will enjoy every minute of her big day.”

Dottie was returning from her vision quest just in time to make her special commencement ceremony awarding her with her PHD in Meso-American tribal dances.  The delayed ceremony had been specifically arranged for her in order that she could make her pilgrimage to a Hoppi ceremonial site, sprinkle chaff in her hair, and receive her vision.  Of course this all had to do with hiking, deserts, divining for water, and the winter solstice.  All of which leading to the inconvenient timing of her becoming a PHD’d ‘Lobo’ (UNM).  Dottie’s real quest had begun in New Jersey, and after toiling through years as a pit boss in order to provide for everyone else (including Chris and myself), she had finally found time for herself.  This had brought her from the plastic hair world of ‘Trump’ to the alien adobe world of Albuquerque.   Dottie had sought her studies with the tenacity of a pit bull gripping an old shoe, and seven years later she had reached her pinnacle.

It was time to hit the road, since I was apparently already to go.

“The drive is clear, but the windshield still needs to be scraped off.  It’s not as cold as yesterday, but you still will go into bun-o-phylatic shock from the car seat, so let me heat the car first.”

            “O.K. let me put our dishes away and I’ll be right out.”

It was obvious Chris was just as excited for me to visit my mother, but the decision to leave my home and husband on Christmas Eve was not easy.  However, it is nice to know of Chris’ support.  Dottie had come through for us during medical school, the appreciation of which Chris will never forget.  As like the rest of the planet, the holidays hit our home with the force of a planet killing asteroid making travel plans difficult.  Especially for Chris and I, because the E.R. swarms even more during the yuletide season, with the various array of traumas ranging from mistletoe violence to twinkle light attacks.

Now that I’m pregnant, it’s become a lot more heart felt on how much my mother has contributed with all the big and little things for the past thirty-five years.   To count them all would be pointless, but I will always cherish them in the form as the person I have become. 

Bundled up like an artic explorer I make my way to the car.  Chris comes out in jeans and a T-shirt.  When I comment on his attire he laughs and says, “I’ll get use to it”.  In thirty-five years I haven’t gotten use to it and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.  Chris backs the car out and we begin our assault to the airport.  Chris drives like a surgeon, always cutting into places and then trying to get back out while everyone is still alive.   After  thirty minutes of controlled chaos Chris pulls a hard right, and we exit the freeway on to an ice glazed exit ramp.

            “Isn’t the front of the car suppose to be in the front.”

            “Hold tight Sugar Cakes I am going to have to make a maneuver.”  

With the trunk now leading us down the ramp I am wondering to myself just what that maneuver stuff is all about.  Through bulging eyes I watch as equally eye bulging Chris manages to use the emergency brake and get us all pointed in the right direction.  As nonchalantly as only an emergency room surgeon can be, Chris informs me that we are right on time.  We make our way to the passenger drop off and though my heart is still racing, I manage to get out of the car.  Chris also hops out flags a skycab, unloads my three pieces of luggage (two containing shoes and the other the small overnight bag with a few articles of clothing and toiletries), checks his watch, and gives me a big hug.  This in it self just about sends me into labor, but the pressure subsides, and we say our good bys.

As I wait in line to go through security, my mind is carried back to the soothing harmonic Gregorian chants, and the image of the blessed mother and the holy child.  As an expecting mother I am empathetic with what it must have been like for Mary.  Not only was she producing a child, but also serving up the savior for all man kind.  Talk about pressure, I had a hard enough time with all the does and don’ts of pregnancy, and I am only having the son of Chris. 

I pass through the metal detector, and suddenly become paranoid about radiation.  These days I find myself becoming more and more paranoid about everything.  It seems the closer I get to the delivery date the more I fear I did something wrong along the way.  The anxiety and anticipation has consumed my thoughts exponentially as each day draws me closer to my delivery date.  

I walk to my boarding gate wallowing in my pregnant woman radiance, which is periodically over come by pregnant woman mortal fear.  However I survive the sixty-two gate walk and take a seat in the boarding area.  I nod off to sleep, and sleep the deepest one hundred and eighty-two second sleep of my life.   I awake to the announcement of boarding cards one through fifteen our welcome to board at this time.  This sets in motion a mass movement of total pandemonium, as businessmen, children, construction workers, and grandmothers, combat their ways to the unobtainable goal of a choice seat.  Such are the woes of economical air travel, but you just can’t beat the price.  I board the plane trying to keep as much dignity and decorum as the situation allows, although I did spray perfume on the back of the collar of a particular rude man (let him try explaining that one to his wife).  I seat my self at a window seat near the middle of the air craft.   An elder grandfatherly type takes the aisle seat and thus the games begin.  The games start from when two of three available seats are occupied, and are concluded when the seat belt sign is illuminated.  The object of the game is performed in order to keep the middle seat unoccupied.