Waiting: One Wife's Year of the Vietnam War

Chapter 32

{Chapter 32} December did finally arrive, taking its own, sweet time. Before the first dawned, I had washed and folded all the baby’s clothing and blankets. I had fussed with the crib; I had padded the portable bed. I was as ready as I was going to get. I talked with Mother and Daddy, reassuring them that I was fine. We talked about their impending visit, scheduled around the baby’s birth. Daddy told me he was impatient, and Mother confirmed that he had been whistling for a week, a sure sign that he was happy about something. I promised them I would call when I headed for the hospital. I sat down to wait. The second of December arrived, but the baby did not. While that was no surprise, really, I was astonished that I felt no different , no closer to delivery. Once more I became convinced that this child was never coming, so I decided to make one more run to the commissary to supply the kitchen for company. Mother and Daddy would need to eat, after all, and Susan shouldn’t have to worry about feeding them while I was in the hospital. After wielding my basket through the enormous warehouse that had become so familiar to me, I joined the wraparound line of shoppers, prepared yet again to wait an hour or more to get through the checkout line. Before I could dig my book out of my purse, however, the woman in front of me turned to strike up a conversation. When she saw my bulging figure , she asked when the baby was due. “Today,” I said. “Today? You shouldn’t be standing in line, for goodness sake. Here, you go ahead of me.” [236] chapter 32 Faster than my protest, the harried woman in worn slacks and buttoned blouse, which no longer quite met at the hem, had pulled her cart out of line and pushed mine forward. She angled her cart back into the line behind mine and brushed past me to approach the woman now in front of me. I saw her confer in whispers, and then she motioned me forward indicating that the other woman was also willing to let me go ahead of her. Without waiting, the woman continued working up the row. With each new customer she pointed at me while she talked ever louder, saying, “There’s this poor pregnant woman back there whose baby is due today. I said she shouldn’t be on her feet and told her to go ahead of me. Would you mind if she cut in?” I was so embarrassed by all the heads now turning that I literally hid my face behind my hand. When I dared to peep through my fingers, the woman had reached the curve at the front of the aisle and turned out of sight down the home stretch. Now everyone was watching me. I turned around to discover that those who had arrived after me were passing the word in the other direction. I didn’t want special treatment; all I wanted was to grab my groceries and to run, neither of which I was capable of doing. Within minutes, the woman rounded the aisle and headed back to me, stopping at each basket to update the participants, “She’s going to the head of the line. Not a single person said no.” She grabbed my cart and pushed it herself while I meekly followed, trying to smile my appreciation. “Here you go,” the woman said triumphantly as we arrived at the register . “Now don’t you carry these. Have your husband unload them when he gets home.” I didn’t dare tell her Lee was in Vietnam; she might have arranged a military escort for me. “Thank you,” I said. “That was very kind of you.” She beamed, and I was struck by the notion that when she had been pregnant, probably no one had done such a thing for her. This was her way of righting a little part of the world. “Now you go home and take care of yourself,” she instructed as she turned to walk back to her own hour-and-a-half wait. December 1969 [237] She had nothing to worry about. I had just made my last public appearance as a pregnant woman. Home was indeed where I was going and where I would stay. As...