DUM SPIRO, SPERO
Part 73
 

"Please, be different this once.
Believe in what someone else says for once.
Whenever a man supposes that he alone
Has intelligence or expression or feelings,
He exposes himself and shows his emptiness.
But it's no shame for even a wise man
To learn and to relent."

"Antigone," Translation by R.E. Braun. Lines 856-862. Used without permission.
 

LANGLY:

October 9, 2001
 

Okay, so I'm sanctioned to sleep in now.

If I'd known all it would take is horking on Zupan-prick's desk, I'd have done it weeks ago. Might have to make a regularly scheduled event of this.

Only problem is, I really do feel like shit. Going in yesterday, major mistake. It's like all the getting better I did, it all went away, and got even worse. I think I kept Ally up half the night, and Patrick kept her up the other half. Poor little guy.

Right now, poor little guy needs to move. He's butted right up against my bad arm. Which, by the way, was starting not to hurt so much until I decided to be bold yesterday.

Least this morning I don't have to deal with trying to button a shirt one handed. I have a couple denim workshirts, since I can't pull my T's over my head right now, and I figured, no problem.

Ha ha. For one thing, I couldn't get the sling off, and that meant I couldn't get my arm in one sleeve, so I had to pull it over it, and I discovered I'm not so thin as I used to be.

I think Ally's culinary skills are catching up right around my midsection. I have the beginnings of love handles, and let me tell you, it was not a discovery that brought joy to my heart.

So today I have official permission to lie in bed like a slug. Hell, I've been ordered away till I'm better. This could be a long recovery.

Wish Ally'd get in here and move this kid. I've got like one-quarter inch of space left in the bed, and Patrick's got all the rest. This is the result of having Patrick in our bed last night. Ally's a hog anyway-she gets cold, she rolls over towards me, I got hot, I move away, she rolls in closer, I move over-and you add Patrick in, and forget it. I'm lucky I'm not on the damn floor.

Plus the little guy is HOT. He's like a little radiant heater, anyway, throw in some fever and it's like being at the equator here.

I don't wanna wake him up, I'd rather let Ally do that. He seems kind of cryish when he gets up, and that's hard to take. He's so small and he's so miserable, which I think is worse than being big and miserable.

Ally comes in finally, and she's got a mug with her.

"Thought you'd still want some," she places some coffee, well doctored with milk and sugar, the way I like it, next to my side of the bed.

"You're a goddess among women."

"Ah, you only say that because you want your hair washed."

"Well, that too, but you are a goddess, y'know."

That gets me a nice smile. And a blush. "Thanks."

"Um, maybe you can use some of your supernatural powers to move this kid?" I point to the little guy, snuggled up right against where it hurts.

She laughs and picks up the little guy, who wakes up and yowls when she does it. "Hey, sweetie, it's okay," she croons to him. He's still groggy and he leans his white head against her shoulder. "I'm going to stick him in the tub and see if I can't get him a little cooler. Then I'll do you."

Nice. I'm on the same schedule as the kid now. And if I try real hard, almost as capable.

I remember Ally was a real grouch when she had a busted arm, and now I know why. Worse for her in a way, it was her dominant hand. Least this one's my  secondary, but it's amazing how many things you need two hands for to do right.

I can hear Patrick yelling in protest at Ally's trying to give him a bath. Hey, I don't blame him. I was once four, and I bet I yelled just as much. And he's really uncomfortable to boot.

Best part is, not my problem right now. I get to have another hit of codeine syrup, snuggle back under the covers, and call it a day. And it's only 8:10 in the morning.

Not so fast. Fucking phone. I hate the phone. Let me guess who it is.

Yep, it's the king of assholes himself. Well, he can't be asking if I'm sick, he's the fuckhead that sent me home.

"Yeah?" I don't feel compelled to be nice at this hour. Especially not to him.

"Oh, Mr. Langly, I wanted to let you know, one of our couriers will be at your home by 9 a.m. to deliver a laptop computer and your work."

Well, so much for my little vacation.

"This is very critical, and there will be courier pickups at 1, 5 and 9 p.m. You will have it completed, of course?"

I feel like laughing out loud. Yeah, right. Like I can even stay awake, let alone concentrate right now.

Then I start to think...oh yeah. Here's my chance...

"You're not to post this via electronic mail, is that clear? You'll work on the dedicated system, and the dedicated system only. The couriers will clear your files when they arrive."

"They're coming inside?" Ally's not gonna like that. She gets spooked easy.

"Unless you're planning to come outside." More than a little sarcasm there.

"Well, I could. My wife doesn't like company that she doesn't know."

"Oh, she'll know them. You might remind her to be a little more courteous; I understand she was very rude to your last...visitors. I guess California girls don't understand hospitality."

I bristle at this-Ally is like the hostess with the mostest-but only to people she likes. And I think she had good reason to be nasty, if she even was; she's not usually rough on people unless she thinks they're gonna hurt me or the kids. Personally, I think she handled it just right.

I suppose I should be bugged he knows Ally's a Cali girl, but then, they probably know every fucking thing about me. And her. And the kids.

The kids. Shit. They better not ever do anything to the kids. Swear I will fucking kill them. That is, if Ally doesn't get to them first.

"Look, I'll tell her the goons are coming, okay?"

"They're not 'goons,' Mr. Langly."

"Tell that to my wife."

"Oh, we'll tell her. I might suggest you exercise a little more control over her."

Yeah, right! Control Ally?

Tell me to control the weather instead. I'd have more success.

"Look, you want me to do this stuff, fine, stay outta my private life."

"Mr. Langly, need I remind you, you work for us now. You have no private life."

He clicks off after that.

And people say I have no reason to be as paranoid as I am.
 

She brings Patrick in after she's given him a bath and she washed his hair, which he hates, so he's real mad, and he gets even madder when he sees that I'm gonna get up.

I'd like to be done before these jerks get here. I'm not moving real fast, and they wanna make pickups every four hours? I'd better get this over with.

"Patrick, Langly and I are just taking a shower, calm down."

"Don' wan' you to!" He starts whimpering again.

"Patrick. That's enough. Daddy'll be back with you as soon as he's done. You guys can hang together all day. But I have to wash his hair."

"No!" Patrick crawls under the blankets and starts to cry again. "Want Daddy!"

"Patrick. Quiet." Ally's not in the mood as she wraps my arm in the ever-fashionable and versatile Hefty trash bag.

"Wan' Randa!"

"Miranda's at school. You know that." She's trying to be cool with him, but I think no sleep and all these sick people are making her nuts.

"Hey buddy." I pat him with my good arm. "How's about we put in all four 'Star Wars' and watch 'em all day while I work?"

"While you what?" Ally stops with the elastics around my arm for a moment.

"Well, Zupan-prick says they got stuff that needs doing-"

"Aargh! I do NOT believe this!"

"Ally, don't shriek, it doesn't look good on you. They're bringing me stuff to the house. Okay? I'm not going anywhere."

She doesn't look any happier. "Langly, they give me the creeps."

"Yeah, well, they give me the creeps too, but it's my job, okay?"

"Who's creeps?" Patrick, of course, doesn't miss a damn thing. Never does. It's something of a curse having two really astute kids. Every once in a while I wish for a couple of dullards that are happy just to look at the idiot box and not pay attention to anything around them. It's cool that they're smart and aware. Just a little wearing sometimes.

"The people Daddy works for," Ally says it, not exactly like I would have.

"My daddy worked for real bad people. I seed him that day." He wipes his little nose as he talks in his hoarse little voice. Hard to believe that some day that kid's gonna sound a lot more like me than he does like his adopted sister.

"Patrick, I think you saw somebody that looked like him," Ally tells him, and I think she's trying to comfort him.

"No! I seed him!"

That's his story and he's sticking to it. Stubborn little bastard.

Not like anyone else we know, of course.
 

Showers with Ally are usually a stimulating experience, but lately, it's more like, this is business, let's do it and get it out of the way. I got to admit, I don't feel up to doing anything extracurricular right now.

Not that it's not pleasant. It is. She gives a nice hair wash. I'm gonna miss this. Maybe I can persuade her to keep doing it when the cast comes off.

And getting your back washed by those little tender hands, it's awesome. And right now, I really hurt from coughing, so this is extra nice.

And even as lousy as I feel, she still looks adorable. Little tired, but completely cute.

"So Ally?" I'm starting to feel drowsy here. Can't do that. Okay, I can work in bed, but the key word here is work.

"Mmm?"

"You gonna do this when I'm all fixed up?"

She giggles. "In your dreams, babe."

Well, worth a shot.
 

One thing I got to remember to do is sweep the disk for my own stuff before they make pickups. I don't think it'd be cool to leave traces of my extracurricular activities where they can be seen-and I'm sure they're gonna take everything when they come by.

Cool computer, though. One thing about working for the spooks, you get the best toys. I let Patrick play a game of Tetris on it before I kick it into gear. Then he gets sleepy and nods off while 'Star Wars' plays on the screen. He and me debated about what order we'd see them in. He wanted 'Phantom Menace' first, but I wanna have 'em in the order I saw 'em. That means PM goes last. Besides, the pod races are so cool, they really did those good. Like something to reward myself.

Only drawback here is, I really need the cough syrup, but I know if I take it, I'm gonna get sleepy and that's not gonna work here. Ally got me a bunch of Robitussin lozenges, I suck on those, but they taste really nasty, I keep sucking down water, and this slows me up a lot. Which right now I can't do, because Zupan-prick may be letting me work in bed, but that's about the only concession he's making. Least he remembered the half-QWERTY. This was of course not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he figures any way to get his work done.

Still, it's not terrible. Lots of pillows, Ally brings me coffee and for lunch she makes this awesome vegetable and rice soup-Jewish moms know how to make soup, that's for sure. And even though Patrick slows me down a little, I like him here. Problem with Patrick is he demands constant body contact, and he keeps leaning against my left side, so Ally moves me over to her side of the bed and Patrick gets mine.

I don't have time for any experimentation before the first pick up, but later on I get to try some things. I'd try to carry it all the way through, but I'm really tired and I still got stuff to do.

Right after the second pickup at 5, she comes in and tells me she and Miranda are going out together for awhile. Seems Miranda's feeling a little neglected here, Ally feels like she should spend some time with her alone, which is cool. I can handle Patrick alone for a couple hours here.

"No need. Frohike's coming over," she says.

"Excuse me, I think I'm old enough to stay without a babysitter." I mean, really. I'm not Junior, for Christ's sake.

She giggles. "His idea, not mine."

Aargh. Frohike is such a mother hen. And he really needs to stop that. I think it damn near killed him.

Then again, I have an idea.

Fro could be useful. And he seems like he's feeling okay these days-hell, better than okay. He's getting laid on a regular basis. I'm sure of it. And he's been back in the office again. Not doing a hundred hours a day, but he's working. At least one of us is getting something done on TMB. That'd help.

And I need him to help me carry out a little experiment.

"Okay, that's cool," I tell Ally as she's putting some laundry away.

She looks at me a little mystified, but doesn't say anything.

Ally doesn't ask too many questions about certain things.

Yes, she can be taught.
 

FROHIKE:

I'm fretting, which Martha says I shouldn't do, but I can't help it.

I'm debating whether to tell Langly about his stepdaughter's problems, and if so, how much.

I'm reluctant to do this because Miranda feels about violating a confidence the same as I do. It's just not done. And she's not likely to forgive me quickly if in fact she told me this in strict confidence. She didn't specify it, but with her, it may be implied.

And there is the fact that he's still ill, even though Allison says he's working from home. I can't believe it. You'd think they'd let a guy just get over it. Guess not.

He can look forward to being stuck in bed for a long time. I hope he's better at it than I am.

What I would like to happen, ideally, is that Miranda would reveal what she told me to her mother, and her mother would take it up with Langly, and they would together decide what the proper course of action is, calmly, rationally, and without histrionics.

Just like you'd do, Frohike. Ha!

One thing it's hard to have perspective on is one's own children. There's always an image you have of them, for one thing. And for another, the emotional baggage is so heavy that it's virtually impossible to separate the threads. There's no discrete problem that can be manipulated; all of them are mired in expectation and implication, impossible to treat as a separate entity.

Would it be that I could have a calm discussion with my own son about his life plans. But that doesn't seem likely. A discussion of one topic will inevitably lead to issues that at first glance seem to have no bearing on the matter at hand, but upon further study reveal themselves to be intimately and inextricably bound.

Kids. Christ. They're the last province of amateurs, which is all of us, and they're the most important job to do right. There's an irony here.

When they're born, you have all these illusions of what they'll become, and how you'll do everything right. That flies out the window pretty much no later than the first night after you bring them home. If the tabula rasa theory were correct, this might work, but the fact is, they come into the world kicking and screaming and asserting right off that they are who they are. You can shape them and mold them, but you'll always be starting from the point where they are. And they mold you, too. Anybody who thinks this is a one-way ticket, and that parents are static entities, you're deluding yourself. You'll learn way more about yourself than you ever wanted to in this job, and you'll change in ways you never imagined.

I see this has happened since my own son has been back. Am I the way I was before he was here? Yes and no.

Is it harder? Absolutely. Have I aged more since his arrival? Oh please.

Would I want it to be not like this?

Are you kidding?

What amazes me is that in spite of the fact that Michael is a quarter of a century old, and stretching his legs into adult life, there's still plenty of parenting going on on my part. I used to think that I could get him to a place where that would not be the case, that he would someday move on and not need me anymore.

I don't think that's going to happen. I think you're in it for life. The obligations do not end when they have achieved financial independence. I think that's a myth.

What I find truly ironic about this is that these revelations have come to me through a woman who has no children of her own, who has offered her unique perspective on my son, and has given me more support in this arena than I imagined possible.

I just wish she wasn't working today!
 

BYERS:

I'm nervous about tonight.

No, not particularly about having our windows shot at, although the idea that it could happen while we're not in the house and we're out hanging vulnerable does not comfort me. I'm very unsteady, and in spite of her bravado, I think Juliet is ill at ease.

This would be sufficient for anyone to be in a state. But we have another item to deal with on our agenda. As if we don't have enough with a wedding nine days away.

We're interviewing a midwife tonight.

To say that I feel awkward about this would be a polite understatement.

This is because underneath it all, I'm a Neanderthal. I've said it before, I'm not a new millenium kind of guy.

The idea of children-absolutely. The idea of being a full participant in the birth process makes me, well...

Squeamish?

In the world I was raised in, the roles for men and women are sharply differentiated, as has always been the case in the upper economic classes. Birth is simply not something men are involved in. It distresses me how much of this mindset has rubbed on to me, but it happened while I wasn't even aware of it.

And now I have to get over it.

Juliet is much more middle class in her expectations, and full participation of the father in the birth process is very much a middle class phenomenon. One for which I feel ill-equipped, by the way.

She reads off the Mapquest directions to the offices of this particular midwife, and I follow as if on autopilot. She is happy, eager, energetic.

I'm going to make a hell of an impression.

Her offices are located in her home, which is a small but tidy house on the outskirts of Alexandria, not far from where Ally and Langly live. It's a quiet neighborhood.

We're greeted by a boy who appears to be somewhere between the ages of eight and twelve, and in the living room is seated a girl circa Miranda's age, laboring over a homework assignment. A cat is perched on the television set.

"I'll get my mom," the boy says, and vanishes.

We're greeted by a very tall woman with dark blonde hair who looks to be in her mid-forties. Her voice is clear and calm, and her fingers are long, slender, and feel very confident as she shakes hands with me.

"I'm Laura, and these are my kids. Come on back."

Her office is in the den of her home, which is painted in a soft mint green-very soothing. Her bookshelf is neatly organized with textbooks, and several files and stacks of lab reports and paperwork litter her desk, although not in a fashion that would show up Frohike or Langly any time soon.

We learn she's been in practice for fifteen years, has a PhD in her chosen field-yes, I know it's superficial, but in the world I inhabit, it spells credibility and competence-and she's done several hundred home births. She's honest about the problems she's encountered as far as complications, and what she's done to deal with them. And she used to have a hospital practice.

"Was there a particular reason why you discontinued your hospital practice?" I ask her. I'm genuinely curious, both in the personal and the professional realm.

She smiles. "Several. I was working for Oxford Health Care systems, which at first seemed to be a good deal-they were very enthusiastic about midwives, and that's rare-but I soon found out it was a cost-saving mechanism, nothing more. I didn't like the working conditions. One of the things midwives pride themselves on is being able to provide a lot of personal attention, and in the hospital setting, that wasn't happening. I'd be working four births at one time, and not being able to assist in any real way my laboring mothers. I couldn't monitor them properly. Inevitably, it would end up that the obstetrician on call would come in, administer medication, and that would end everything we'd worked for. The Caesarean rate was far higher than it should have been. And I was expected to give every appointment only seven to ten minutes, hardly adequate time to do even basic assessment, let alone have time to discuss concerns and answer questions. Of course, I don't think answering questions is something the medical establishment particularly likes to do, so it was perfect for them. But I was constantly getting hassled about not bringing in enough in the way of numbers-I was taking too long with my patients, etc. And I grew tired of it. My husband, who was a DC police detective, was killed in the line of
duty two years ago, and I decided at that point I would take the risk and go into practice for myself. As you can see, we're not wealthy, but we are eating and we have a roof over our heads, and that's what counts. And this way, I can help women give birth the way I would like to."

She looks uncertain. "And there were...other things, but I don't think I care to go into them right now."

It wasn't anything legal. Her record is immaculate. No lawsuits. Her scholastic record is excellent. Her patient evaluations, the same.

I'm curious about that remark, but perhaps when I know her better...

She looks me in the eye. "You're a little uneasy with this idea of home birth."

"Uh, well, yes, I am."

She smiles. "Normal. I'm not going to attempt to sell you on it. That's something the two of you have to decide among yourselves. If you do decide that this is what you would like, I would be more than happy to help you out. I'll need any medical records you might have, Juliet, and that would help me in my determining if you're an appropriate candidate, although from all indications, you're an excellent one."

This pleases Juliet.

"At least when you go this route, you know what you're getting. No strange drugs, no experimental procedures..."

My ears perk up. "You're saying that this is happening on newborns?"

"And their mothers. I know, you probably think I'm insane-"

"No. Go on."

She brushes a strand of hair off her face. "I'd rather not go into it right now...let's just say that if you go this way, what you see is what you get."

I decide, that would be nice for a change.

END OF PART 73