The Names on the Registry List

The first box was a car seat, wrapped in yellow paper with white ducks, and the tag taped to the bow said “Love, Grandma Patty” in my mother-in-law’s round, careful hand.

I held the tag for a second. Then I looked down at the registry printout in my lap, ran my finger to the car seat line, and read what it said in the column marked “Purchased by.”

“This is from Ben’s cousin Amanda Lowe, in Omaha,” I said. “I’ll write her this week. She always did have good taste.”

Somebody laughed politely. Somebody said “Aw.” Forty women in my mother’s farmhouse living room went on sipping punch out of paper cups, because nobody had noticed anything yet. Nobody but Patty.

She was standing by the gift table in a royal blue blouse, her short auburn hair fresh from the beauty shop, one hand resting on the stack of wrapped boxes she had carried in that morning.

She did not move. She did not say a word. She just looked at me.

I set the car seat on the floor beside my chair and reached for box number two.

The list

I need to back up, because none of it makes sense unless you know about the list.

I am a 4-H extension assistant in Cloud County, Kansas. I spend my weeks helping kids weigh show lambs and fill out record books, and if there is one thing that job teaches you, it is that you write a thank-you note to every person who gives you anything.

So when Ben and I found out in April that we were having a baby, the first thing I thought about, after the crying and the calling my mother, was the thank-you notes.

Ben’s family is big and spread out. His dad’s side alone runs through six states.

In August I sat down at Patty’s kitchen table in Concordia with my laptop to build the registry.

Ben was out running the swather for a neighbor, and Patty had offered to help me pick out a stroller. She had raised three boys. She knew which brands fell apart and which ones lasted.

When we got to the part of the form that asked for a shipping address, I started typing our rural route. Patty put her hand on my wrist.

“Honey, don’t put the farm,” she said. “Your mailbox is a mile off the blacktop. Those delivery boys leave boxes in the ditch, and then it rains. Put mine. I’m home by four every day. I’ll keep everything in the spare room for safekeeping, and I’ll bring it all out to the shower.”

It made sense. It was kind. Two summers back, a box of Ben’s work boots had sat in our ditch through a thunderstorm.

I typed in Patty’s address and thanked her, and I meant it.

That was the last week of August. Patty’s divorce had been final since the spring.