Wifey Read Online Free PDF
Author: Judy Blume
all bloody and ugly. She was high on Demerol. “Take him away,” she’d cried, “he’s a mess.”
Dr. Snyder had laughed. “You don’t mean that, Sandy. This is the happiest moment of your life.”
She’d dozed off. Later, a nurse had carried Bucky to her, clean and wrapped in a soft blanket, all cuddly and warm. And the nurse had undressed him so that Sandy could examine his tiny fingers and toes, his navel, his miniature penis, and acknowledge the fact that she and Norm had produced a perfect baby.
They’d named him Bertram, after her grandfather, but agreed to call him Bucky until he was old enough to handle such a serious name.
“Bucky?” Enid had snickered. “What kind of name is that for a Jewish boy?”
“It’s as good as Brett,” Sandy had answered, tossing out the name of Enid’s other grandson.
“From Miss Piss I expect a name like Brett,” Enid had said. “From you I expected something better.”
Miss Piss was married to Norman’s brother, Fred, a California Casualty agent in Sherman Oaks. Other people called her Arlene. They saw each other only on rare occasions and Sandy always marveled over Arlene’s never-ending change of hair color.
Six months later, when Norman’s father, Sam, dropped dead while firing a cashier for pocketing cash, Enid had cried to Sandy, “If only you were having the baby now, he could have a proper name. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait for Miss Piss to give me another grandchild. Or for that matter, you.”
Jen had come along two and a half years later, just months after Jackie had lost her infant, Patrick, to hyaline membrane disease. Sandy had named her Jennifer Patrice. Jennifer because she loved the name; Patrice for Jackie’s baby.
“Don’t you think we should name her Sarah, after my father?” Norm had asked.
“Sarah can be her Hebrew name,” Sandy said, and Norman hadn’t argued. After all, she’d done all the work. And they’d both found out, through Bucky, that Norman’s idea of
father
meant paying the bills, period.
Enid and Mona had arrived together, for afternoon visiting hours, each bearing a gift for the latest grandchild. A musical giraffe from Mona, a pink and white orlon bunting from Enid. Sandy had a small private room, filled with cards and flowers, the most elaborate a bouquet from Norman. To make up for the fact that he hadn’t been around to drive her to the hospital? Sandy wasn’t sure. By the time he’d been located on the sixteenth hole she’d already delivered the baby.
She wore the pink satin bed jacket Myra had sent when she’d had Bucky, and she’d pinned her hair up in a French twist, sprayed herself with Chanel, and put on makeup, denying the fact that under the blanket she sat on a rubber doughnut to ease the pain of her stitches and that she was slightly fuzzy from the Darvon Dr. Snyder had prescribed to numb her tender, swollen breasts.
At night the nurse provided ice packs to hold under her arms. “It’s always you little girls who fill up that way . . . such a shame to let it all go to waste.”
“I don’t believe in nursing,” Sandy told her. “I was nursed for eight months and I’ve always been sick.”
“You should have told that to your doctor. There are shots, you know.”
“I did tell him.”
And Dr. Snyder sympathized with Sandy’s discomfort. “I thought you’d change your mind this time,” he’d said.
“I’ll never change my mind about breast-feeding.”
“Well, next time we’ll give you a shot right after delivery so you won’t have to suffer this way.”
Next time? Who said anything about next time? She’d been expected to produce two children, preferably one of each sex. She’d fulfilled her obligation.
The first time Norman had been so impressed with the sudden growth of her breasts he’d brought his Nikon to the hospital, snapping pictures of Sandy in her bed jacket, unbuttoned enough to show some cleavage. This time he was less enthusiastic,
Dr. Snyder had laughed. “You don’t mean that, Sandy. This is the happiest moment of your life.”
She’d dozed off. Later, a nurse had carried Bucky to her, clean and wrapped in a soft blanket, all cuddly and warm. And the nurse had undressed him so that Sandy could examine his tiny fingers and toes, his navel, his miniature penis, and acknowledge the fact that she and Norm had produced a perfect baby.
They’d named him Bertram, after her grandfather, but agreed to call him Bucky until he was old enough to handle such a serious name.
“Bucky?” Enid had snickered. “What kind of name is that for a Jewish boy?”
“It’s as good as Brett,” Sandy had answered, tossing out the name of Enid’s other grandson.
“From Miss Piss I expect a name like Brett,” Enid had said. “From you I expected something better.”
Miss Piss was married to Norman’s brother, Fred, a California Casualty agent in Sherman Oaks. Other people called her Arlene. They saw each other only on rare occasions and Sandy always marveled over Arlene’s never-ending change of hair color.
Six months later, when Norman’s father, Sam, dropped dead while firing a cashier for pocketing cash, Enid had cried to Sandy, “If only you were having the baby now, he could have a proper name. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait for Miss Piss to give me another grandchild. Or for that matter, you.”
Jen had come along two and a half years later, just months after Jackie had lost her infant, Patrick, to hyaline membrane disease. Sandy had named her Jennifer Patrice. Jennifer because she loved the name; Patrice for Jackie’s baby.
“Don’t you think we should name her Sarah, after my father?” Norm had asked.
“Sarah can be her Hebrew name,” Sandy said, and Norman hadn’t argued. After all, she’d done all the work. And they’d both found out, through Bucky, that Norman’s idea of
father
meant paying the bills, period.
Enid and Mona had arrived together, for afternoon visiting hours, each bearing a gift for the latest grandchild. A musical giraffe from Mona, a pink and white orlon bunting from Enid. Sandy had a small private room, filled with cards and flowers, the most elaborate a bouquet from Norman. To make up for the fact that he hadn’t been around to drive her to the hospital? Sandy wasn’t sure. By the time he’d been located on the sixteenth hole she’d already delivered the baby.
She wore the pink satin bed jacket Myra had sent when she’d had Bucky, and she’d pinned her hair up in a French twist, sprayed herself with Chanel, and put on makeup, denying the fact that under the blanket she sat on a rubber doughnut to ease the pain of her stitches and that she was slightly fuzzy from the Darvon Dr. Snyder had prescribed to numb her tender, swollen breasts.
At night the nurse provided ice packs to hold under her arms. “It’s always you little girls who fill up that way . . . such a shame to let it all go to waste.”
“I don’t believe in nursing,” Sandy told her. “I was nursed for eight months and I’ve always been sick.”
“You should have told that to your doctor. There are shots, you know.”
“I did tell him.”
And Dr. Snyder sympathized with Sandy’s discomfort. “I thought you’d change your mind this time,” he’d said.
“I’ll never change my mind about breast-feeding.”
“Well, next time we’ll give you a shot right after delivery so you won’t have to suffer this way.”
Next time? Who said anything about next time? She’d been expected to produce two children, preferably one of each sex. She’d fulfilled her obligation.
The first time Norman had been so impressed with the sudden growth of her breasts he’d brought his Nikon to the hospital, snapping pictures of Sandy in her bed jacket, unbuttoned enough to show some cleavage. This time he was less enthusiastic,