Babyland (27 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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66
Interference
F
ive days and counting. “Hi,” said Ross. “It's Ross.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know. I have Caller ID.” It wasn't a gracious reply, but I wasn't feeling very gracious.
“Look, Anna,” Ross said, “I know I promised I'd stop by later but something's come up.”
Something's come up? Was he really pulling out that tired old line? And what about a few conversational preliminaries like, how was your day? Or, how is work going? Since the miscarriage Ross hadn't once asked if I was behind schedule, if I needed to hire some temporary help.
“What's come up?” I said.
“There's this guy I really need to meet tonight, for business purposes. I know I said I'd check in on you, see if you needed anything—”
“That's okay,” I said, forestalling another lame excuse. “I'm fine. Katie was here earlier, and I talked to Tracy a little while ago.”
“Good. Good.” Ross sounded infinitely relieved that I hadn't made a scene. Not that I ever had. “Because this guy could be very important to us. To the family. He knows just about everyone there is to know both in Boston and New York.”
“He must be quite a guy.” I wondered if Ross heard the sarcasm in my voice. If he did, he chose not to respond to it.
“Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot. My mother asked about you.”
“Oh? She called you?” Mrs. Davis hadn't called me since the miscarriage. But then again, my own mother hadn't returned the call I'd made to her. Although maybe it was better she hadn't called, given that completely unsympathetic card she'd sent me.
“Yes, I spoke to her earlier.”
Did I have to drag it out of him? “Well, what did you tell her?” Although how would Ross know how I was doing? I'd hardly seen him since he'd dropped me off that dreadful day. And our phone conversations had all been about as stiff as those between an employer and the employee he'd just fired.
“I told her you were fine.”
I imagined my nerve endings fraying into nothing. “Look, Ross, I've got to go.”
“Right, me, too. Wish us luck with this guy.”
“Ross?” I said, suddenly not wanting to let him go. “How are you doing?”
He sighed. He sounded impatient now to be gone. “I just told you, work is crazy right now so I'm a little stressed. I've got a massage scheduled tomorrow so that should help and—”
“Ross. I mean about what happened. Losing the baby.”
There was a long moment of silence. I tried to picture the expression on Ross's face as he struggled for something to say, but I couldn't. I couldn't see him at all.
“Anna,” he said finally, brusquely, “I've got to go. This is the office, not a place for a personal conversation.”
I took a deep breath before saying, “Right. Good luck with the connected guy.”
We didn't actually say goodbye.
67
Honesty
T
he phone rang at nine the next morning, waking me from a deep sleep and the dreams. I was being choked. My mouth was full of grit. I crouched at the edge of a pond and saw in the water my own face in miniature.
Caller ID told me it was Tracy. I reached for the receiver. I didn't want to go back to sleep and those awful dreams.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“Yes. But it's okay. Really.” I pushed the pillows up behind my back. I saw my reflection in the vanity's mirror and shuddered.
“So, is it okay if I come over for a bit?”
“Sure,” I said. “Okay. But I'm warning you. I've looked better. This might be the worst hair day of my life.”
“I promise not to grimace. I'll be there in half an hour.”
I managed to put a robe on over my nightgown and to drag a brush through my hair. By the time Tracy arrived a half hour later I'd had a cup of coffee—oh, how I'd missed coffee!—and was semi-awake.
“How are you?” Tracy asked.
Oh, I was getting so tired of that question. “The doctor,” I told her, “said that I'll probably be depressed and irritable and all sorts of nasty things for some time. So I've got that to look forward to.”
“Think of the potential, Anna,” Tracy said brightly. “You can get away with murder—in some states, anyway—because the hormones are responsible, not you.”
“Can't anything I feel be real?” I cried. “Does it all have to be caused by hormones? Is every feeling suspect? I resent this. I resent being told I'm not the real owner of my feelings. Who I am can't be reduced to some stupid chemical formula!”
Poor Tracy. She was only trying to help.
“I'm sorry, Anna,” she said softly. “Really. It was dumb; I shouldn't have tried to make a joke.”
“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten all crazy. See?” I tried to laugh. “I can admit I'm acting crazy so maybe I'm not a total mess.”
“You're not a mess at all. You're a very normal woman going through a very difficult time. That's all.”
“That's enough!”
Tracy gave a half-hearted laugh, then the words came blurting out.
“Anna, I have something to tell you.” Suddenly she was agitated; she looked down at her hands and twisted her wedding ring crazily. “I'm embarrassed to admit this, but we're friends and I'm your matron of honor, and I feel uncomfortable not being totally honest with you.”
I wondered, Had Tracy taken a hint from Alexandra's life? Was she having an affair with a married man? Or maybe, like Michaela, she had made a play for Ross! What, I wondered, was happening to my friends?
“Okay,” I squeaked.
Tracy looked back up at me and folded her hands. “It's a terrible thing to admit, especially just after the miscarriage—”
“It's okay,” I said, just a bit desperately. “Just tell me.”
And she did. “Well, when you got pregnant ... It was a little difficult for me. It shouldn't have been, but it was. I was happy for you, Anna, honestly, but I was also miserable. For me. For a while. Every time I think I'm fine with not having children of my own, surprise, something makes me realize I'm not fine. Not entirely.”
“Were you jealous?” I asked, remembering Michaela's poisoning jealousy.
Tracy took my hand and laughed a self-deprecating laugh.
“Oh, no, not jealous. But the truth is, Anna, that sometimes I feel left out. I feel as if I'm never going to be a full-fledged, card-carrying woman because I missed out on motherhood. I know that sounds crazy, but not being a mother excludes you from so many important experiences ...” Tracy shook her head as if to dismiss her troubled thoughts. “I'm sorry, Anna. I'm being all whiny and self-pitying. And believe me, I'm so, so sorry about what happened. I came over this morning thinking I might be of some help but ...”
Tracy still held my hand in hers. I squeezed it back.
“Let's say we're both here to help each other, okay? I'm so sorry, Tracy. I never knew you felt so bad about not having a child of your own.”
“Well,” she said, “it's not something that rules my life anymore. I've worked on that. It's bad enough I brought it up now. Talk about dampening a good mood.”
“Friends have a right to dampen each other's good moods once in a while,” I said. “I've certainly dampened my share of good moods since that little pink stick told me I was pregnant. And let's face it,” I added. “I wasn't in such a good mood this morning anyway.”
Tracy pulled her hand from mine and stood up.
“I know just how to get us both into a good mood.” Her voice was determinedly cheerful. “We need to go get a big cookie. One for each of us. A big, dense, chocolate chip cookie.”
“One you could eat with a knife and fork?”
“Exactly.”
I got up from the couch and stretched. It felt good to move.
“I thought you didn't eat sweets,” I teased. “Miss Whole Foods Tofu Girl.”
Tracy smiled. “This is an exception. Now go and put on some decent clothes.”
I took a few steps toward the bathroom and then stopped.
“You know,” I said, “everyone but you had a suggestion about what to name the baby. Even Alexandra had an opinion.”
Tracy grinned. “Oh, I had a suggestion. I just didn't think I should offer it.”
“Why?”
“What you named the baby was your business, not mine.”
“Tell me now,” I urged. Now that it doesn't matter.
Tracy seemed to consider. “How about,” she said, finally, “I keep my suggestion to myself. Until the next time. Okay?”
Tears came to my eyes again, but this time they weren't sad tears. What would I do without Tracy, I wondered. Without Alexandra, without Kristen. Who would I be?
“Okay,” I said. “Until the next time.”
68
Chance Encounter
I
woke to a beautiful late May morning. The sun was shining through a few scattered puffy clouds. I opened the windows to a cool, refreshing breeze. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I felt a surge of mental energy.
After a hearty breakfast—my appetite seemed to have returned, as well—I sat at my computer and got down to work in a serious way. It felt good to focus on something other than me. I made a few calls, wrote a few letters, worked up a few preliminary sketches, checked out a vendor's new web site.
Sometime after noon I finally stood, stretched, and glancing out at the vibrant green trees that lined my block, decided to get some fresh air. It was a major decision; since the miscarriage I'd left my apartment only once, with Tracy, and she'd acted as a buffer between the unpredictable world and me. I remember not even looking for traffic as we crossed Tremont Street. I just took her arm and, like a child, trusted her to keep me safe.
You can't be a child forever, Anna, I told myself, as a car cruised down the block pumping rap into the spring air. Anyway, what was so great about being a child? You got taken to places you really did not want to go and there was nothing you could do about it.
After wolfing down a frozen Lean Cuisine, I showered and dressed. At the door of the building, my hand on the knob, I halted. Did I really want to go out there into the maddeningly unstable world of muggers, of bricks falling from crumbling facades, of out of control city buses hurtling onto the sidewalk?
Somehow, miraculously, I opened that door, walked down the stairs, and turned left toward Washington Street. The first step is the hardest. Believe it.
By the time I got to the end of the block I felt a whole lot better. Three blocks later and there was a bit of a spring to my step. By the time I got to the corner of Rutland and Shawmut I was thirsty—I hadn't moved much in over a week—so I decided to stop for a cup of iced coffee. I'll drink it in Blackstone Square, I thought. I'll sit quietly and alone on a bench, sip my coffee, and watch people play fetch with their dogs.
The tiny bakery and sandwich shop was crowded with people needing a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Jack Coltrane was two ahead of me on line. I hadn't seen him since that awful fight right before the miscarriage. Almost immediately, as if sensing my presence, he turned. I gave a little wave; I couldn't help it. Jack let the person behind him go ahead and joined me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
I looked far from my best, but for once I didn't care. Well, not entirely. Sand-colored T-shirt, pale gray jacket, taupe chinos, and beige slides. Bland neutrals head to toe. I guess I wasn't quite ready for color.
“Do you have a few minutes?” Jack asked. “I want to show you something.”
I touched my hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail, and was immediately aware that I'd just exhibited a common sign of self-consciousness.
“I just stopped by for an iced coffee to go,” I said, not really answering his question.
“Please. I'd like your opinion.” He gestured to the ubiquitous ratty leather bag over his shoulder. “About some photographs.”
Somehow, I managed a smile. “You're asking for my opinion?”
“It's not my work,” he said. “It's the work of a kid at some high school downtown. A friend who teaches there asked me to critique it, maybe advise the kid in some way.”
I suppose I should have refused. I was still angry with him for his last brutal assessment of Ross, and thereby, of me. But what did I have to go home to? An empty apartment. A rumpled bed. My own grief and self-pity. No. I was determinedly on the mend.
“Buy me a brownie?” I asked.
“Deal. I'll order. Why don't you grab that table in the back?”
I left Jack at the counter and squeezed my way through the tiny, bustling café.
My feelings were still raw; my nerves overly sensitive to the crush of mid-afternoon snack seekers. Maybe this is a bad idea, I thought. Maybe I should just go.
But then Jack was there with our coffees and a brownie.
“A squirt of chocolate, right?” he said, placing a cup in front of me.
I nodded. Ross and I had been together almost a year and still he didn't know how I took my coffee, iced or hot.
Jack's an artist, I reminded myself sensibly. He notices things, people, details. He can't help it. He pays attention. It's what he does. That's why he knows my favorite flower. No big deal. All part of the territory.
Jack pulled a slightly battered folder from his bag and opened it so that I could see its contents. “The kid's name is Rasheed Kelly,” he said. “He's fifteen. Maybe sixteen. What do you think?”
I looked down at the four black-and-white photographs before me. They were shots of two or three kids hanging around on urban streets and in schoolyards.
Jack continued to stare down at the images. After a minute he said, “There's a consistency of vision here that's very unusual in someone so young.”
“I agree,” I said. “I think they're very good. But I'm not an expert.”
Jack put down his coffee cup with a bang. “You don't need to be an expert. What does that mean, anyway? Someone with an advanced degree? You're a sensitive human being. And you know how to put your thoughts into meaningful words. Mostly.”
I laughed. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe that's where a degree comes in handy. When you have to verbalize your instinctual responses.”
“Maybe.”
“So, are you going to help what's his name? Rasheed Kelly. Be his mentor?”
“I don't believe in inflicting my so-called wisdom on anyone under the age of twenty-one. But yeah, I'll meet with him. I'll look at more of his work. I hope he's not a self-obsessed little jerk, though. I'm too old to deal with an egomaniacal kid.”
Jack scooped the four photos back into the folder and replaced it in his bag. And I watched his hands. They were very different from Ross's hands. Not better or worse, just different. I like Jack's hands, I realized. They're strong and big, and yet he does the most sensitive things with them.
But that way lies madness, Anna.
“I think we should go,” I said, nodding slightly toward the horde of hovering coffee drinkers. “People want our table.”
Jack smiled. “Since when do I care about what other people want?”
“That's right. No social graces.”
“But I'll be nice, for your sake.” Jack hefted his bag and stood.
“What you really mean is that you're late for an appointment.”
“Yeah. Come on.”
And then Jack did something he'd never done in our entire professional relationship. Ever so lightly he took my elbow and steered us through the crush of hungry mid-afternoon folk. And something very strange happened to me. For the first time in my life I was suddenly, unexpectedly flooded with desire. It hit me hard. I felt sick. I felt euphoric. I felt dizzily alive.
Outside the shop Jack let go of me.
“I'll see you,” I said, just a bit shakily. “Thanks for the brownie.” I wanted to add, And thanks for asking for my opinion. And for listening to it. And thank you for touching me.
Jack nodded. “Right.”
Reluctantly—what did I want to happen?—I turned toward Shawmut Avenue. Jack's voice called me back.
“Anna?”
He stood there on the corner, only fifteen or so feet from me. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“You know about the miscarriage.” I was pummeled by a riot of emotions—relief, fresh sadness, desire. Who, I wondered, had told him? Did it matter?
“I wanted to say something earlier. I should have.”
A small, absurd laugh escaped my lips. “It's okay,” I said. What did Jack have to apologize for? “Really.”
And suddenly that riot of emotions was just too much, and I began to cry. I wanted to rush at him, fling my arms around him, beg him to hold me. But neither of us moved.
Jack's eyes held mine. “Things will be better, Anna.”
I could only nod. And then I turned again toward home. I thought of the roses and knew in my heart that Jack stood and watched me go.

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