NEED to BREATHE

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Glenwood Drive. September, 1975.

UNION CROSS, NORTH CAROLINA is a place where some people think the world is only a few thousand years old. It’s more of a “locale” than a true town, filled with good old boys who go through a pack-a-day. Chewing tobacco, I mean. It’s the land of ragweed meadows, little rocky creeks, honeybees winding their way home. Goldenrod-filled vases sit on dining room tables while golf-ball sized hail ruins corn crops. It’s all about these little Mom-n-Pop shops, land for sale down Avalee Lane and copfest down Linville Road. Preachers debate over whether it’s A-men or AH-men.

Pastor Todge says A-men. He’s going to marry Mick and Manda, today, at the Harper homeplace, in a backyard gazebo with a red velvet cake reception. Pigs-in-a-blanket and butter mints. Nothing fancy because Manda’s parents aren’t paying for anything, and all Mick can afford is a honeymoon weekend at the Tan-O-Rama.

Mick’s Great-Great-Aunt Gertha cuts squares out of pantyhose and folds them around an anthill of rice while Great-Great-Aunt Grace disremembers the way barnstormers ruined her outdoor reception way-back-when. Then the old ladies box up a blue and pink sampler quilt with appliqué and mitered corners, something good enough to be raffled away--that’s what the 78-year old sisters pass down as a wedding present.

“Put this on your bed,” they tell the bride. “So you’ve got the first part--something old. Now you need something new.”

And Manda cries, not because she thinks the quilt is sweet. And not because Claire coughs like she’s losing a lung. Manda walks over to the bassinet and thinks rocking will help. She checks the clock, the quilt’s needleturn appliqué, the oxygen tank they tote around like a diaper bag. Everything is fine, except--

Manda, she’s coughing up yellow mucus, I say.

Gertha snips a rose bud from the bush out front. “Something new,” she says, “perfect” while Manda looks out the parlor window and imagines walking down the grassy aisle all alone. No daddy to give her away. No mama with a tear-soaked hanky. Manda doesn’t see any of her family out there in the yard. In fact, there are barely a dozen people. And she cries so hard she can’t put on her make-up. The eye shadow applicator shakes in her hand because she thinks “my parents aren’t here. They don’t care. They don’t damn care because I disappointed them.”

Manda, I say. Claire’s cheeks are red, like she’s growing tomatoes there. Someone needs to take her temperature and call the doctor while you’re exchanging vows.

But she pays no attention. Gertha pins the red rose on Manda’s dress with a voice that’s wobbly as a unicycle, “there you go.” Then she talks about sunset weddings, the way orange blazes in the background, and in comes Mick’s mama, Estelle. “Oh me,” she says, thinking that Manda looks pretty as a September bride, standing there in Chantilly lace and consignment shoes. “Dear, you’re crying like a Tiny Tears doll.”

And looking at the phone.

Estelle dabs Manda’s eyes with a tissue and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Manda picks up the phone and dials her home number. “It’s…my parents,” she says.

Forget your parents, I say. Claire is shaking like she’s got chills. Manda, are you listening to me? Something is wrong with the baby!

“I’m sorry,” says Estelle. “I’ll be your mother for today. How about that?”

Manda holds out hope someone will answer, but the phone rings and rings and rings. She hangs up when she looks out the window and guests see her. They wave her to the gazebo, yelling, “Everything’s ready, bride, come on down!”