What Turkey?

Honorable Mention, adults' stories

Pamela Christie |

12/18/2008 - 12/19/08

It was December 24th and the baby was 10 days past due. Kyra's whole family had come for the holidays, figuring there'd be a baby already. There wasn't, but Kyra wanted her family to have fun on Christmas Eve anyway, to stroll through Santa Fe when it becomes a beautiful village. So she and her husband Jacob led us through the snowy streets toward Canyon Road.

We'd barely found the first luminarias, near the corner of Acequia Madre and Delgado, when Kyra let out a quiet cry. The grandmothers-in-waiting gave each other a knowing look. Kyra whimpered and Jacob held her close, but she soon unwound from his hug and continued along the candle-lit streets. Maryanne and I followed behind, doubting this Christmas outing would last very long.

"Christmas!" We'd been making bets on the birth date, but no one ever suggested Christmas. We gathered around leaping fires and sang in unison with strangers, thinking about this new child coming into our lives at this time of celebration of the most miraculous birth of all.

Meandering past the golden luminarias, Kyra leaned into Jacob every twenty minutes or so. Our men tugged on a little bottle tucked into a jacket pocket. Two nervous grandmothers pushed everyone in the direction of the cars.

"Good night! Merry Christmas!"

"Call us when it really starts!"

"There'll be a baby by morning!"

Jacob and Kyra drove to their little adobe out past La Tierra, which they'd gotten ready for a home birth. The rest of us went to our beds, understanding we wouldn't get much sleep that night. My son and his wife said the grandmothers probably could be present at the birth. I'd never watched anything being born, not even a kitten, and the thought of witnessing my grandchild come into the world took my breath away.

Christmas morning. I was amazed when I woke up past seven. The phone hadn't rung in the night. No message blinked on the machine. I called the other parents at their motel.

"Maryanne, have you heard anything?"

"Not one word."

I'd been gearing up for an all-out Christmas dinner. There was a million-dollar organic, free-range turkey in the fridge, and pies, and bowls of cranberry sauce already made. Silver platters lay on the counters, polished and ready to serve a dozen people. But there was no baby yet. Was everything all right? For sure Christmas had been thrown into a cocked hat.

Ring! I seized the phone. "What's happening, Maryanne?"

"They said to come over. The midwife came and told them there was still a long time to go. That they should have their presents and enjoy their family. It would help the waiting."

A long time to go? It had been 14 hours, I calculated, since Kyra had huddled in Jacob's arms. I drove the thirty miles from my house to theirs, remembering how notorious first babies are for stalling.

Way out on the edge of the Arroyo Calabasas we tore through piles of presents, but an hour into the frenzied unwrapping, Maryanne nudged me. Kyra was on her hands and knees on the bed, working with a contraction. Jacob stroked her back. We shoved everything into boxes and tumbled wrapping paper into garbage bags. Kyra's dad quickly passed the old vacuum cleaner over the rug as we backed out of the house.

Home again to an expensive turkey aging in the fridge. What to do? It needed to be cooked, but did I want to risk missing the birth because I had a turkey in the oven?

This bird was going on fast track. I cranked the temperature well over 400, not bothering to stuff the beast.

6:30 p.m. Jacob, breathless, "Come now. We're close."

Jacob hung up. Braver than many men, he was in the thick of helping Kyra.

I ran out the door. Dark already, Christmas almost over, a baby almost here. Thirty miles to drive again.

Thank heavens St. Francis was clear. The lingering clouds tore apart and stars shone bright. Settle down, granny, you're driving way too fast. Out 599, down the Arroyo Calabasas road, steady, steady. Are you OK lady watching a baby being born? I turned up a little dirt lane. Ooops. Wrong house. I spun out of there and found my son's driveway, stepped onto moonlit snow and encountered Jenny, the midwife, toweling off in the cold night air.

"I just caught your granddaughter," she crowed. "One big push. She flew off Jacob's hands, but I grabbed her."

She! A girl! Born this Christmas night.

I slipped through the front door. The little house was lit by only a few strings of colored lights. Kyra sat up in bed, looking into the face of the baby girl in her arms. Jacob leaned over them.

I got down by the bed and reached out and touched the three people I loved so much, marveling at how tiny and complete a newborn child is. The baby watched her parents as intently as they watched her.

Kyra's family arrived out of breath, just as Jenny took the baby and laid her on a clean quilt. The midwife counted fingers and toes, clapped her hands by the child's ears, put drops in her eyes, and then measured and weighed her. After five minutes of absolute silence, Jenny held the child up and announced, "She's perfect!"

The crowd cheered.

The midwife returned the baby to her mother's arms. Out of somewhere came a voice, my son's, not used to singing, but miraculously a little bit on key. He'd begun the ancient Silent Night, and there we were, a growing family, caroling our joy.

Later, urged to stay over, I found a yoga mat and a sleeping bag in the loft and made myself a camp at the foot of the new parents' bed. There was some final rustling as the parents settled the baby into her little bassinet. I could tell that all three fell asleep at once.

But not the grandmother on the floor, who tossed and fidgeted and jumped up to help whenever the baby cried.

"She's not sure where she is, so hold her close," I whispered, remembering that scared cry. And later: "That one means she's hungry."

About two, I rose straight up. "Where's the turkey?"

Had I turned the oven off? Did I leave the bird on the counter? Probably the dog dragged it onto the floor and ate everything including the bones.

Kyra's parents had gone back to my house for the night. They must have found it; they would have put out the fire. Knowing the fate of the turkey was beyond me, I finally fell asleep.

The baby woke before dawn. After she was fed, I changed her, wrapped her well and sat with her on my lap in an old rocker. The sun finally rose. Gingerly I carried my granddaughter outside and with utmost care, turned her so she could get her first glimpse of the sun.

And the turkey? My early morning call to Maryanne yielded little. "Turkey? I don't see any turkey."

Ring. "Did you find it?"

"In the oven. Perfectly cooked. You managed to turn the oven off before you ran."

That night no fewer than 26 friends showed up to greet the baby girl. We sang and danced around the bed in the living room and ate hot turkey sandwiches with tons of cranberry sauce, the best Christmas dinner we ever had.