Babyland (30 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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75
Revelation
Y
ou think you're living your own life and then something happens to jolt you into the awareness that all along you've actually been living someone else's life.
The engagement was off. The wedding was off. The marriage was off.
I wasn't unhappy, not exactly. But I wasn't happy, either. I wondered, How do you define happiness? The absence of pain? Or the presence of—of what? The presence of a feeling, a thing, a person in your life?
Maybe happiness is knowing you're right where you should be, doing what you should be doing, sharing time with the people you should be sharing time with. Maybe happiness is knowing that you're finally living your own life.
And maybe the first phase of happiness is owning up to your own brand of heartache.
In those days right after the end, a line kept running through my head, a song lyric, and at first I couldn't place it. And then I did.
“Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.”
But it isn't all that easy.
76
Breaking It Down
T
he dismantling of our lives began. Ross and I agreed that family would hear a brief, sanitized version of the truth. Our story was this: We realized we just weren't right for each other. The end.
Our intentions were good, but parents are parents. My father decided that Ross had left me cruelly and threatened to “have a talk” with him. By which he meant “punch him out.” My mother lamented all the time and money she'd spent—now gone—on planning for various aspects of my life—wedding and baby—and in doing so made me feel even more like a dismal failure. What did I expect from her? Sympathy beyond a throw-away sentiment?
I never learned Mr. Davis's reaction to the news of the disintegration of his younger son's wedding plans. I assume he said something to the effect of “There are a million girls out there. Forget about her.”
Ross's mother, on the other hand, was very vocal with her feelings. I don't know for sure if Ross kept to our agreement, but even if he did it wouldn't have mattered. Some evil woman had broken her baby's heart, and she wasn't about to take that lying down.
First, there were the phone calls. I was smart enough—or just plain scared enough—not to answer the phone when her name appeared on the Caller ID screen. But I did listen to the messages, afterward. They were largely incoherent and always angry. After a while there were letters, and the real shocker, e-mails. I didn't know Mrs. Davis had ever seen a computer up close, let alone knew how to use one.
Alexandra and I met for coffee late one afternoon a few weeks after the breakup. I told her about my angry ex-future-mother-in-law.
“Wow,” she said. “I've never gotten hate mail. You'd expect someone like me would have, wouldn't you? I tend to make enemies.”
I smiled weakly. “Nothing from Luke's soon-to-be-ex-wife?”
“Not yet. So, what does Ross's mommy say to you? You can omit the foul language.”
“The worst she's called me is bitch. But it stings. Anyway, first she just yelled about how no one these days respects the sanctity of marriage.”
“But you and Ross weren't even married yet!”
“I didn't say Mrs. Davis has been coherent. Eventually, she got around to telling me in no uncertain terms that God was punishing me for losing the baby by taking away Ross, who, she believes, is the best thing that will ever happen to me.”
Alexandra's normally pale complexion darkened. “My blood pressure is dangerously high at this moment. I want you to know that in case I spontaneously combust.”
“Anyway,” I said, “in a bizarre new twist she's decided that Ross and I should get back together. I know she's upset but—”
“But nothing,” Alexandra said firmly. “It wasn't her relationship that broke up. Mrs. Davis needs to get her own life, and pronto.”
“Well,” I said, “I doubt that will ever happen. You know, from this perspective I am so glad she's not going to be my mother-in-law. I used to think she was harmless, if a little annoying. But now I see that as Ross's wife I would have been at her mercy for the rest of my life.”
“Tell Ross to call off his mommy,” Alexandra commanded.
“I don't think I should mention it to him.”
“The woman is harassing you. I think you have to mention it to him. And make it very clear that you'll take legal action if she continues to invade your home via telephone, e-mail, and angry notes under the front door!”
“I can't press charges against the woman who was going to be my mother-in-law!”
“Why not? She's behaving like a criminal.”
“Because—because it just wouldn't be right.”
Alexandra looked utterly disgusted with me. “Okay, okay. Fine. If you won't talk to Ross, then you have two choices left. Ignore the witch, but I don't see how you can do that when she's lurking in your hallway. Your second choice is to confront her.”
“What if she screams at me and things get even worse?”
“Scream back. Things won't get worse if you scare the crap out of her.”
“Could I send a letter?” I said, after some consideration. “A sternly worded letter?”
“Only if it's copied to your attorney,” Alexandra snapped in reply.
“I'll think about it,” I said.
In the end, Mrs. Davis backed off. Maybe it was seeing Ross getting on with his life that cooled her fury. Maybe it was learning that I'd returned the expensive diamond ring he'd bought me. Maybe she just got tired of coming into the city two or three times a week to stalk me.
Luckily, I hadn't yet sold my apartment. Ross owned what was to have been our love nest, so we each came out of the mess with a place to call our own.
The things we'd bought together for our new home caused some problems. What to do with the Eileen Gray reading lamp, the reupholstered 1930s art deco chair, the Eames coffee table? In the end, Ross returned what could be returned and gave me a check for the items he kept.
And then there were the gifts Ross had given me. There's something unbearably sad about a once cherished object suddenly devoid of personal meaning.
Like the beautiful gold bangle Ross had given me when I'd told him I was pregnant. I couldn't bring myself to wear it or to sell it. Finally, I brought it to the bank and tucked it into my safe deposit box, where it would rest along with my birth certificate, my passport, and the deed to my apartment—documents that represented the official Anna Traulsen. Artifacts of my life in progress.
We lost most of the deposits we'd put on wedding venues and services. I halted work on my dress and had it put in the shop's storage.
We hadn't bought the wedding rings yet; that was a relief.
In short, it was a divorce without the marriage.
I wouldn't have wished it even on Michaela.
77
Sympathy From an Unlikely Source
“M
y dear,” Mrs. Kent said, “you seem in low spirits today.” I looked up from the notes I was jotting. “Oh,” I said, “I'm fine. I'm sorry though. I didn't mean to—”
Mrs. Kent cut me off. “No need to apologize. You haven't done anything wrong. Not like that ridiculous thing of a housekeeper the agency sent over this morning. Why Rose had to go to Detroit to attend her niece's wedding is beyond me. Rose has been with me for twenty years, my dear. Her loyalty should be to me above all others.” Here Mrs. Kent sniffed like a properly offended grande dame. “At least she might have invited me along. Don't you agree that would have been the right thing to do?”
Mrs. Kent's purposefully outrageous sentiment made me smile. “Oh, of course,” I assured her. “I'm sure Rose is regretting her decision at this very moment.”
“And I don't believe for a second that you are fine,” Mrs. Kent went on imperiously. “I know I'm a terribly nosy old woman and that perhaps I have no right to press you to reveal your personal affairs. But as I have pointed out at an earlier time, I am old and often quite bored. I am interested in the lives of the young even if they are not interested in mine. Besides, I am one of the few people of my acquaintance who has learned a thing or two from my own mistakes. If something is troubling you, perhaps I may be of some help.”
Perhaps, but I doubted it. In addition to Ms. Butterfield, personal assistant extraordinaire, Beatrice Kent employed a full-time, live-in housekeeper and butler. She had been born into an old-money Brahmin family and had married into another one. She had come of age during World War II; I was born during the Vietnam era. We occupied two very different worlds. How could she possibly understand my life?
“Well, you are my client,” I pointed out reasonably. “I really shouldn't bother a client with my personal affairs.”
“My dear,” she answered impatiently, “it is true that I am your client but I am also old enough to be your grandmother, and age takes precedence over the formalities of the workplace.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Kent's argument might have been faulty, but I knew where she was heading.
“Yes,” she declared. “In my house we follow my rules.”
I tried to hide my smile. I really tried. “Are you commanding me to tell you what's on my mind?”
Mrs. Kent tried to hide her smile. She was about as successful as I'd been. “I am strongly suggesting that you do, yes.”
Well, I thought, why not?
Mrs. Kent ordered tea to be served and when we each had a cup, I told her about Ross and me breaking up. And about my losing the baby.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Kent, nodding. “I see. Poor Anna. Men come and go, my dear. It's best simply to accept that fact and soldier on.”
“Yes,” I said, though I wasn't sure I could ever accept that fact. If I fell madly in love, if someone loved me madly in return, how could I survive the end of that? How could anyone survive the end of true love? I thought of Alexandra. I thought of Jack.
“You thought,” Mrs. Kent said, “that you were in love.”
“Yes,” I said automatically. And then, “No. No, I never pretended to be in love, even to myself. That makes me sound horrible and cold. I'm not, it wasn't that way.”
“I think I understand,” Mrs. Kent said. “I think many women would understand.”
I wondered. Were that many women marrying for reasons other than love? “I'm ashamed to admit,” I said then, “that I don't even miss him.”
“But you do miss the child. The loss of a child is a terrible thing.”
I felt compelled to say, “I was only a few weeks along.”
“Don't minimize your grief.” Mrs. Kent put her hand on mine and squeezed. Her rings dug into my skin. “And don't ever apologize for it.”
“Okay,” I said. My voice was shaky. I tried not to cry.
Mrs. Kent looked closely at me with her sharp, intelligent eyes. “I, too, lost a child. A daughter. She lived for three months.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn't know. I'm so sorry.” I felt ill. To have seen the face of your child and then to have that precious face taken away ...
“My husband,” she went on, in a remarkably neutral tone, “would not give me another child after my Vanessa was gone. Not that another child could have replaced my dear daughter in my heart, you understand. But another child might have helped ease my grief. No matter. My grief is old, as am I. Your grief, dear Anna, is still fresh. But so are you. You will survive this sadness.”
I fervently hoped so.
“My fiancé and I never even discussed the possibility of an abortion,” I told her. “I thought about abortion, of course, in the very beginning. But I just couldn't imagine going through with it.”
“And that came as a surprise?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Maybe it's my age. I felt like it might be my last chance. And then suddenly, I was happy. I realized I did want a child. And then—then I wasn't pregnant anymore. My friends say it's not too late. My friend Kristen, she has three children, she says she knows I'll have my own some day. But how can she know?”
“She can't,” Mrs. Kent replied shortly. “Your brief pregnancy might well have been your last chance. And it might not have been. I wish I could be more assuring, my dear. I wish I could tell you that everything will work out wonderfully, just the way you want it to. But I can't.”
“That's okay,” I said. “Honesty is best in the end. I'm finally learning that.”
Soon after, I went home to my apartment. I felt comforted. Yes, Beatrice Kent was almost forty years older; yes, she had lived a life quite different from mine. But she was a woman, and that, at bottom, was all we needed in common.

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