Raising Ryland Read online

  When our one-year lease is up, we pack up the little furniture we have and put it into storage. Then we move out of our beach house, and in with Jeff’s parents, fifteen miles east of the beach in the suburbs of Mount Helix. As a temporary plan, I cannot complain—it’s generous of them to let us move in on their space, and my mother-in-law keeps a home and a yard that could be featured in Better Homes & Gardens. I can hardly enjoy it, though. I’m so worried about what my in-laws think of me, and I feel devastated—humiliated—that at twenty-four years old, I cannot take care of myself financially. In our bedroom, Jeff and I often argue in a forced hush, and I feel like a failure to both him and his parents. There’s no one I can vent to in private, and I never thought that even with a husband, it would still be possible to feel alone in the world.

  After a few weeks, we’re having so much trouble that we decide to take some time apart. I pack a bag and leave for the weekend to stay with a waitress friend, who takes me to a party and reminds me how to let loose like I haven’t done since college. We arrive back at her apartment in a blur and fall asleep for a little while . . . until late that night—August 12, 2006—when my life changes forever.

  It’s my cell phone that wakes me up, my dad’s number on the glowing display. It’s also two o’clock in the morning. “Hillary?”

  “Dad?”

  “There’s been an accident.”

  I grip the V-neck of my pajama top as my dad’s voice shakes while he narrates the details: my brother had been at a party, and, after drinking too much, he got behind the wheel of a car. Then he and two of his friends—one of them who was in my class, she’s the young mother of an infant—tried to make it home. “Someone is dead, Hill, but they won’t tell us who. Mom and I are headed to the scene now.”

  “No . . .”

  “Hillary . . .”

  “I’m coming home!”

  I hang up and run into the bathroom, where I lose everything I’ve consumed throughout the course of the night. Then I emerge, and I call Jeff’s phone. . . .

  No answer.

  I dial again, but still, there’s no answer, and again. I leave a message. “My brother’s been in an accident, Jeff, someone’s dead. Please call me back!”

  After a couple of minutes, my phone rings. He’s with friends around a bonfire on the beach, and he’s had some drinks, too. “I don’t know what’s happening, Jeff.”

  “I’m coming up there. Let me call your folks,” he says, and when he does, he can hear the emotion in my father’s voice.

  “They won’t let us on the scene, Jeff, they won’t tell us anything!”

  “Tim,” Jeff tells my dad, “if he’s alive, he needs you at the hospital—not there. Hillary is on her way to your house. I’ll sit tight here until she arrives there, so I can talk you through this. Just do me a favor and keep me posted.”

  My friend and I call a taxi and head an hour north, straight to my parents’ house in Lake Elsinore.

  When my parents get to the hospital, they call Jeff again.

  “Jeff,” Dad says. “We’re at the hospital.”

  “And?”

  “Jeff . . . he’s not here.” There’s some commotion, so they get off the line and a few minutes later, my dad calls Jeff again. My dad’s friend is a retired California highway patrolman and he has gained access to the scene. “Jeff,” my dad says through tears. “It’s him.”

  THE SUN IS rising when we leave to visit the accident scene. In the middle of the night, Jeff’s parents drive him up to my parents’ house and pick up my best friend, Renee, on the way. En route to the scene, Jeff turns to me while we’re sitting at a stoplight. “Babe,” he says. “I’ve been thinking. We should honor your brother by naming our firstborn after him.”

  I look into his eyes, knowing what this means—we’re staying together—and wanting him to know that he’s just given me something more meaningful than I’ve ever experienced before. From this point, a child might be the one thing that can pull me out of what lies ahead.

  When we reach the scene, the morning sun is in full blaze. A group has formed—among us, Renee and my cousin Melissa, whom I grew up with and who, from now on, will be the closest thing I have to a sibling. If there’s anyone here who can relate to the depth of my grief, it’s her.

  The emergency responders have left. Jeff is busy staking a cross in the ground. Melissa, who’s a nursing student, is well accustomed to offering comfort in painful moments. She and Renee stay close behind me as I search the vicinity of the crash site for the last pieces of my brother’s life. Tossed in a bush, I locate one of his green flip-flops . . . and as I scan my eyes some more, I see the last evidence of his life: a puddle of blood, still wet, on a pile of gravel specked with broken glass. I’ve fallen to my knees when Jeff comes to my side. “What is that?” he says.

  I show him my finger, now painted red. “It’s his blood,” I tell him. “It’s still wet.” Sobs overtake me, and I collapse onto the ground. I lift my face and through my tears, I seek out any glimpse of comfort—then there, in the distance, beyond the highway, the image strikes me: the old stone building with its clay-tile roof—the church where my family and I used to attend church on Sundays.

  The feeling rushes back to me, how as small children my brother and I would turn around in our pew to watch my parents play the bells in the choir loft. At the front of the church was always Pastor Eric, playing his guitar for all of us children during the Sunday services. Even as I sit here now, I can hear Pastor Eric sing the words of my favorite song:

  This is the day that the Lord has made.

  I will rejoice and be glad in it.

  This is the day, this is the day that the Looooord has made . . .

  But when Pastor Eric left the church, so did our family. It was right around the same time that my brother started getting into trouble and my dad was working hard to provide. As a family, we lost touch with spirituality.

  I grasp for the peace and happiness I used to feel when Pastor Eric was on the altar; that calming time in my life when I was free from worry and heartache. I think of Ryan, how recently he had finally listened to me and returned to church when he moved back home from Oregon. He began to volunteer his time at the church and wore his name badge proudly. I was so proud, and relieved, when he told me that he’d been growing close with the clerical staff and was looking to the pastors for some positive influence in his life.

  And here, in this moment at the place where my brother has died, it dawns on me that I haven’t seen Pastor Eric since right after our wedding. There was always something about Pastor Eric that made me feel an innate sense of peace, regardless of what was going on. Even my brother agreed—in his final effort to try to clean up his life, Ryan had written in his journal that he intended to make more of an effort to talk to God and the pastors at church.

  By now, Jeff has approached me. He peels me up from the side of the highway. “We have to go, honey,” he says. “Traffic is slowing down for us. This isn’t safe.”

  For the next few days, I eat nothing. I stay at my parents’ home, with its revolving door of visitors and a blur of funeral arrangements and tasks to complete. My mom sits limp and helpless on the couch, while my dad entertains the countless visitors in a way that makes me wonder if he’s even aware that my brother is gone.

  Jeff stays with me, losing sleep right alongside me. Lying next to him, I realize: How dare I consider giving up on him? How dare I accuse him of letting me down? This is my husband. We made a pledge for forever. Life can change in an instant, and here I’ve been, worrying about something so insignificant as money and my pride. Thank God we have family we can turn to, I realize. Thank God his parents were willing to take us in and help care for us when we were just learning to take care of each other.

  DAYS AFTER THE funeral, I return to stay with Jeff and his parents. I also call the restaurant and quit my job. In
the weeks to follow, I find it difficult to get out of bed. Jeff leaves every morning for the fire academy and doesn’t return until late in the evenings. On the rare occasion that I leave the bedroom we occupy, my mother-and father-in-law sometimes exchange worried glances. One day shortly after Ryan’s funeral, Jeff’s dad knocks and enters our bedroom, where I lie hidden under the covers in my pajamas.

  “Come on, Hill,” he says. I pull the covers down from over my head and meet his gaze in the morning light. “Get out of your pajamas. You’re coming with me.” His voice is stern and strong, not at all like his usual easygoing, upbeat tone.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to run some errands together. You can’t stay in bed like this.”

  In his car, we head for La Mesa, an area just a few minutes away from Mount Helix. “So . . .” I say casually. “What’s going on?”

  “Peg and I have been talking, Hill,” he says.

  “You have?” I hold my breath, thinking he’s about to tell me that they’re finished helping us; that I’m a useless partner to their son and that Jeff and I are on our own if we want to try to stay together.

  “Yes, we have. We want to help you and Jeff get on your way.”

  I turn and look at him, his blue eyes shining in the light that’s streaming through the car’s windows.

  “I want you to start working with me,” he says. “Maybe that will help you start saving again. It’s time you two start thinking about having a home—I’ll help you find one, you know.”

  “Rand, you will?”

  “Of course! After all, Peg and I want some grandkids!”

  Right then, I realize that a smile has spread across my face, something I haven’t felt in weeks.

  We spend every evening for the next couple of weeks searching the Internet for a perfect property for Jeff and me. Then we find one, a condo with a comfy living area and just enough space for us to grow. When we go to view it, Jeff and I smile at each other: it’s the perfect size for a young family.

  We make our offer and Rand orchestrates the entire transaction—a lifesaver, since Jeff is gone all day at the fire academy.

  Later that week, Rand gets the news: the owners have accepted our offer. A few weeks after we move in, we rescue a young white-and-tan boxer . . . and we start trying to have a baby.

  Trying, I say, because it doesn’t come easily. With Jeff’s schedule at the fire department and the fact that I’ve taken a job from one of Rand’s friends, a dentist, who offered me a full-time opportunity to help run his office, we both could do with a little more time and energy. Plus, with the weight of losing my brother, my emotional stress has confused my body out of its normal cycle. After about six months of unsuccessful attempts, we see a fertility specialist, who determines there’s nothing wrong with either of us—it’s just all about timing. Hearing me express how much I want this baby, a friend at work lends me her expensive ovulation monitor, and within a month, I can feel that something is very different.

  It’s April 23, 2007, when I learn that I’m pregnant. Kobe, our dog, is the first one to learn the news when I scream out loud and jump in the car to find Jeff at the fire station. “He’s at a different house today!” his friend Jason yells from the fire station garage.

  “Of course he is!” I laugh, and when I finally track him down near a station in the next district, he jumps off the engine to greet me.

  “What’s up, babe?”

  “Here.” I hand him an envelope with the pregnancy test strip and the answer key from the box inside. I let him figure out the results on his own. I watch his face as he interprets that two parallel pink lines indicate Positive.

  He looks up at me, making sure he’s read it right. “Hill,” he says. “Are you serious?”

  I nod.

  He hugs me in the middle of the street and hollers to his guys. “We’re having a baby!”

  My doctor gives us a due date of the day after Christmas, and I start a journal, keeping track of all my symptoms and the emotions that are building inside me for our baby. I also browse baby information sites incessantly and sign up to receive weekly emails from one website that informs me week by week how our little one is growing. I’m amazed that at nine weeks, the baby’s tiny limbs have formed, and at the start of the second trimester, his or her fingerprints have already developed—proof to the rest of the world what Jeff and I already know: that this child is one of a kind. A few weeks later, the baby’s skeleton is transforming from delicate cartilage to more durable bone, and he or she can actually hear what’s happening outside the womb. Apparently, the baby’s hearing in utero is extremely sensitive, but by the time he or she is born, loud noises won’t sound disturbing anymore.

  By midsummer, around eighteen to twenty weeks along, we’ll be able to learn the baby’s gender. When anyone asks us which of the two we’re hoping for, our answer is uniform and unison: it doesn’t matter what we get. We just want a healthy baby.

  The developments are exciting, but there are aspects of this baby’s arrival that I struggle with. My emotions on most days are amplified by the fact that Jeff is rarely home to comfort me, and he wants me to keep working when the baby arrives, an idea that I cannot accept. I’m one of the only moms-to-be I know, and I acknowledge that I need to reach out to the few moms in our circle of friends. At a Memorial Day picnic, I confide in Michelle, the wife of one of Jeff’s high school friends, telling her that I can’t keep up with how I feel myself changing, physically or emotionally.

  “Listen,” she says. “When I was pregnant with Ethan, I felt like I couldn’t relate to anyone. But can I tell you something?”

  “What?”

  “It’s like this: you spend nine months dreaming about what this little person will be like, but then when he arrives, he’s even more amazing than you’ve imagined.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, totally. You two were made to be parents, Hill. And I know it’s tough right now when you’re worried about money and trying to make big decisions . . . but you’ll see, it all falls into place.”

  “I needed to hear that.”

  “I promise,” she says. “Jeff will be an incredible father.”

  Michelle’s advice helps me to enjoy the next few weeks, and at our next doctor’s appointment, we have the chance to learn the baby’s gender. “You want to know?” the doctor says.

  Jeff and I look at each other. “Definitely.”

  ON JULY 30, 2007, we send out an email:

  It’s a little girl!!!!

  Due: day after Christmas 2007

  Current length: 9 inches

  Weight: 0.5 lbs

  We include the sonogram image of Ryland, and immediately, the responses begin to appear in my inbox. Michelle’s is the first, saying, “I love it! Think of all the pink, the mom-daughter shopping days, a partner to lay out at the beach with . . . while I’ll be here playing with worms and Transformers. Peg must be so excited too after three boys!”

  Jeff’s college buddy Zach—a father of two girls—writes from where he lives in Northern California. (He responds swiftly, as he and Jeff have been brainstorming a surf trip to Indonesia.) “Why is it the bad-asses like Jeff and me end up with girls? Just kidding. Little girls are spectacular.—Zach”

  My mom’s best friend, also a fire wife, writes to me after she hears the news: “Guess I’ll have to start looking for pink fire engines!!!!!!”

  During the weekends when Jeff is working around the clock, my mom makes the drive down to San Diego to keep me company, help with chores, and get my input for the November baby shower she’s hosting for me back home. She also helps me decorate the nursery, which Jeff and I have painted in a soothing sage green with clean white trim and white furniture. We hang white letters on the wall that each hang from pink satin ribbons to spell: R-Y-L-A-N-D.

  However, just as I’m s
ettling into my third trimester in early October, Jeff is called out to deal with a storm of wildfires burning out of control in San Diego. We’re instructed not to go outside because the air quality is so low, and I experience constant anxiety about my husband’s safety—except for a twenty-four-hour break at home after five days, he works nonstop for more than a week. I’m starting to realize that with Jeff working in this field, I’ll worry like this until he retires.

  Again, our usual inner circle calls and writes to check in on us: my parents, Jeff’s brothers and his friend Zach, and Michelle, whose family was evacuated from their home because the fires were spreading near their area. Peg and Rand check in on me often to make sure I’m hanging in there, but with everything I’m hearing on the news, my panic is growing.

  Finally, the stress catches up with me when eight weeks before Ryland is scheduled to arrive, I go into preterm labor.

  My doctor gives me two injections to stop the contractions and sends me home, where I’ll be on bed rest for the next eight weeks, or as long as we can possibly keep the baby from coming. Every few hours, I have to take a pill, which causes debilitating headaches and brings on jitters as if I’ve had twenty cups of coffee. The worst part is so bad that it’s almost comical: I can’t climb the stairs to our bathroom, so I keep a bucket next to me on the couch. My parents come down to stay with me, bringing me a wheelchair so that at least I can go outside for some fresh air. Together we all decide that it’s best to cancel the baby shower that my mom planned. The good news is that for a few weeks, we’re successful at controlling the contractions.

  I study the baby development email updates religiously. The second week of November, one reads: “If you’ve been nervous about preterm labor, you’ll be happy to know that babies born between 34 and 37 weeks who have no other health problems generally do fine. They may need a short stay in the neonatal nursery and may have a few short-term health issues, but in the long run, they usually do as well as full-term babies.” This reassures me slightly, and my doctor echoes the same prediction: if we can make it to thirty-six weeks, he says, we will almost certainly be safe.