Babyland (22 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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50
Something New
“I
t's too bad your mother couldn't join us, Anna,” Mrs. Davis said with a cluck of insincere sympathy.
Before I got pregnant, fittings at the Quadri Salon were all about fun; they reminded me of playing dress-up as a little girl, or of playing with Barbie dolls, except that I was now the Barbie in the pretty white veil.
But show up for a scheduled fitting with the news that the dress everyone's been slaving over is pretty much useless, and the fun rapidly turns to misery. Add your future mother-in-law to the mix and expect the imminent onset of an ulcer.
“Yes, well,” I said, “she feels bad about it, but she just couldn't get out of—” Out of what? Mrs. Davis was watching me, waiting. “She just couldn't get out of her volunteer commitment,” I concluded lamely.
I just couldn't tell my future mother-in-law that my mother had waved off my invitation to lunch and this dressmaker's appointment with nary a qualm.
“Oh, Anna,” she'd said, “how many times do I have to tell you that I have my poker game on Wednesdays?”
“Oh,” I'd said. “Sorry.”
“What do you need me there for, anyway?”
“Nothing,” I'd assured her. “I don't need you for anything.”
Maybe it was better that my mother hadn't joined Mrs. Davis, Tracy, and me. The Italian-born dressmaker was muttering at me, clearly furious that all her marvelous work to date had been in vain.
“I'll come back when I'm alone,” I promised the sophisticated, also Italian-born owner of the shop. “We'll work something out.” She nodded curtly; her lips were pursed in annoyance. I smiled apologetically at the dressmaker, who returned the favor with a frightening scowl. “I promise.”
The dressmaker stormed off into the back of the shop, followed by the owner, who seemed to be whispering apologies and placating promises to her resident artist. Either that or she was cursing me. I don't know; I don't speak Italian.
“Let's take inventory,” Tracy said brightly. “Something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue.”
“Okay,” I said, “the something old is my grandmother's pearl necklace. The something blue is the embroidery on the handkerchief my mother carried on her wedding day. Which doubles as something old, I suppose. And the something borrowed is my handbag, which the designer is lending me for the occasion. It's free advertising for her and a gorgeous seed pearl bag for me. Now all I need is the something new.”
“But you've already got the something new, Anna!” Mrs. Davis exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Mrs. Davis's eyes gleamed with grandmotherly pride. “The baby! You've got to carry something borrowed and something blue, something old and something new. And you've got the new! You're carrying Ross's baby!”
My baby, I amended silently. Our baby.
I shot a look at Tracy; her face was strained with disbelief. “Er,” said my formerly articulate friend.
“A baby is hardly an accessory,” I protested feebly. “What I mean is, I think the new thing is supposed to be a gift from your future husband.”
The second the words were past my lips, I knew I'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.
Mrs. Davis stiffened. “Well, dear, what greater gift could Ross have given you than the baby?”
How, how, how could I have answered that?
“I think Anna meant a more traditional gift,” Tracy said quickly, starting to life. “Like a diamond tennis bracelet. That's very popular, you know. Bill gave me one on our wedding day. See?”
Tracy held up her right hand to show Mrs. Davis the piece sparkling on her wrist. Mrs. Davis glanced at the bracelet, then looked to Tracy's face.
“In this case,” she said, evenly, “it might be more suitable if the bracelet contained the baby's birthstone. What would that be? Yes, I believe it's aquamarine for December. I'll have to check to be sure.”
More suitable for whom? I asked silently. I imagined the kind of tacky birthstone jewelry I'd seen in the bargain basements of certain department stores in ugly strip malls along Route One. I remembered the time I'd agreed to accompany a particularly cheap client to Guy's House of Baubles in search of a hideous charm decorated with the birthstones of each of her siblings.
Mrs. Davis went off to “powder her nose” in the dressmaker's tiny but immaculate bathroom. And I found myself staring blankly at the shelves of sparkling bags and tiaras, of seed pearl chokers and rhinestone-encrusted hair combs, of satin-covered guestbooks and silk embroidered gloves.
“Well,” Tracy said, “if Ross doesn't come through with a diamond bracelet we can always buy a C.Z. bracelet at Landau's.”
“Oh, if he knows he's supposed to do something he'll do it,” I said testily. “I'm not worried about that. After all, I am the mother of his child, and he'd do anything for her.”
There was a beat of silence before Tracy said, “Do I detect a tone of bitterness?”
I turned my back on the display case of bridal accessories. “Sorry. No. I'm just feeling a little off, that's all.”
Tracy frowned and took my arm. “What do you mean by off? Do you feel sick? Do you want to sit down?”
“No, no, I'm fine,” I said. “Really. I guess it's just the stress and all. Planning the wedding ...” I let my vapid explanation trail off. Truth: I wasn't fine. Everything was in place, plans were being followed, but something, something was just not right. It wasn't the dreams—not entirely; it wasn't the absurd notions I entertained about Jack—not really; it wasn't Ross's lack of desire; it wasn't anything I could name. And if anyone—even Tracy—told me the uneasy feeling was simply due to hormones, I was going to start screaming and never stop.
Mrs. Davis reappeared, and Tracy smoothly suggested we be off to lunch right away. Before Mrs. Davis could protest, Tracy took hold of her elbow and was leading her through the door. I followed, wishing the day were over.
51
Love Happens
“C
oming, coming!” I flung open the door to the building, expecting to see my friend covered in blood or otherwise in distress. “Gosh, Alexandra, I can only run down so fast. What's the crisis?”
Alexandra wasn't covered in blood, but she did look different somehow. Was she taller? I looked down at her feet. No. The heels were her usual.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, barely suppressing a giddy grin. “You're not going to believe it. I hardly believe it myself.”
“Well come upstairs and tell me.” I closed the door and followed her up to my apartment. “I'm guessing it's not something bad. That grin reaches from ear to ear.”
“No, it's not something bad. It's something wonderful.”
We went into my apartment, and I closed the door. “Let me catch my breath and then you can tell me.”
“I have my breath. I'm telling you right now. The man I told you about. The one I was—”
I raised my hand. “There's no need to specify. How could I possibly forget?”
“He called me last night. I saw him this morning. We met for coffee.”
“Wow,” I said. It was the last piece of news I'd ever expected to hear. “That is a headline. So, where do I begin? I have a million questions.”
“Start with the most obvious.”
“Okay. Why did he call after all this time? No, wait,” I said. “If we're going to talk about this I really need to know his name. I'm tired of thinking of him as your Mystery Lover.”
Alexandra seemed to find this inordinately funny. When she finally stopped laughing, she said, “His name is Luke Romane. And he called because he's free. We can be together.”
“He got a divorce after all?” I asked, shocked. “Oh, don't tell me his wife died.”
“She didn't die,” Alexandra replied impatiently. “I'm not a ghoul. I wouldn't be grinning over someone's untimely death. She asked Luke for a divorce.”
“Oh,” I said. Curiouser and curiouser. “And he said yes?”
“Yes. He moved out of their house last week.”
And he immediately called Alexandra. There was something unseemly about the situation. “Well, he didn't waste any time, did he?” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
“Enough time has been wasted,” Alexandra said shortly. “No more.”
I wondered, Did I have the nerve—or the right—to ask my friend if she thought the love of her life had acted like a coward by staying in the marriage when he was in love with another woman?
“So, for all those years he couldn't leave her,” I said tentatively.
“He wouldn't leave her,” Alexandra corrected. “He made an active choice to stay with his family.”
I didn't dare bring up the term
hypocrisy
. “Okay,” I said. “But now when she decides to leave him ...” I stopped. What was my point, exactly?
“What's your point?” Alexandra asked, her tone challenging.
I shook my head. “Nothing, I guess. I'm just trying to get my head around this. I'm stunned. I think I'm happy for you. I know I'm scared for you.”
“I know you are. I would be for you, too. Happy but concerned. Thank you, Anna.”
“You're welcome,” I said. “But are you sure you don't want to think about this a bit before getting back together?”
“You don't turn away love,” Alexandra said definitively. “You don't turn away your soul mate. It doesn't matter how we're together, Anna, just that we are.”
Well, I didn't know how to argue that. Maybe Alexandra was right.
“You're in for a long haul of divorce and stepparenting,” I said. “His kids might hate you. They might hate him if—when—they find out he cheated on their mother. Loyalty to the mother is a very strong emotion.”
I automatically put my hand on my stomach and spoke silently to the baby: I will fight to the death for you, Little One. Just love me in return.
“I know, Anna,” Alexandra said. “But nothing can be worse than being without him. Look, I thought he hated me. I thought I'd hurt him beyond repair.”
“Didn't he hurt you beyond repair?” Had I not understood anything?
Alexandra answered promptly. “No. He didn't hurt me. Life did. His intentions were never bad. Mine might have been, when I married Gus.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. Just listening to Alexandra's story was exhausting. How had she carried the burden of her past for so long without breaking?
“Nothing,” she said. “I take that back. I never really wanted to hurt Luke. Not really. Maybe just a little bit. A therapist would say it was understandable, but I'm not proud of my behavior. I've forgiven myself for agreeing to marry Gus, but I'm still paying the price. Memory is a harsh reality.”
“You could try to forget,” I suggested stupidly.
Alexandra ignored the remark. “I have these flashes of memory,” she went on, “just horrible blinding flashes, and I feel so deeply ashamed and humiliated.”
“Humiliated?” My stomach sank. “Oh, Alexandra, Gus didn't hit you, did he?”
“No, no. The marriage wasn't abusive or even miserable, but it didn't have to be. It was just wrong. Let me tell you something, Anna.” Alexandra pinned me with her eyes; I had no choice but to pay particular attention. “There are few personal experiences worse than waking up next to someone you don't love but have pledged to love. It's jail; it's a prison. It kills your soul. And it's completely unfair to both people.”
“Oh,” I said after a moment. “Okay.” I suddenly felt defensive: Why did Alexandra think I needed to know that?
“I'm trying to understand,” I said. “Why, exactly, did you marry this Gus?”
Alexandra sighed. “Because I wanted to save myself. After two years of torture with Luke, I wanted to give myself a normal life. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said. I did understand. By marrying Ross I was hoping to embark on a normal, stable journey through the rest of my life.
I decided then not to ask Alexandra if she'd been in love with Gus.
“What was I thinking?” Alexandra now spoke more to herself than to me. “I must have been temporarily insane. But enough of the past. I've been given this chance—I don't know why I've been given it, but I'm thrilled—and I'm frightened—I could—I feel—”
“You're crying,” I said. I'd never seen my friend cry. Not even at the funeral of a thirty-four-year-old colleague who'd died the previous year of breast cancer. It made me uncomfortable somehow. It made me feel that everything was suddenly changing. If I couldn't count on Alexandra to be who I thought she was, what could I count on?
And that selfish thought frightened me, too. Was I so immature?
“I'm crying,” Alexandra said, and she sounded proud. “It's not the first time and it won't be the last. Welcome to the wonderful chaos of life!”

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