Babyland (8 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
13
Foray into Suburbia
P
aul met me at the train station that Saturday at noon, which was very nice of him considering my visit was probably ruining his well-honed schedule.
aul met me at the train station that Saturday at noon, which was very nice of him considering my visit was probably ruining his well-honed schedule.
“Where are the kids?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. Hello.” I leaned over and pecked my brother's cheek. Paul didn't seem to notice.
“The neighbor's watching them for a while,” he said. “I had to make a few stops before meeting you.”
“Thanks for picking me up.”
“No big deal. The station's between the dry cleaners and home.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
Ten minutes later we were in the kitchen of Paul's small ranch house. It was clean, but kids' toys and backpacks and sports equipment were strewn everywhere. I removed a pink sneaker from one of the kitchen chairs and sat. Paul opened the fridge and took out a half-empty plastic jug of orange juice.
“It's all I have to drink,” he said, unapologetically. “This and coffee.”
“Juice is fine,” I replied. “I'm off coffee for the duration. I'm pregnant.”
“Huh.” Paul poured two small glasses of juice and handed me one. “Congratulations. I thought you and Ross decided to pass on the kid thing.”
“We did decide to pass on the kid thing. But things happen, you know.”
“I do know. So, how's Ross handling it?”
Better than I am, I thought.
“Great. He's thrilled. He's acting like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“That must be a big relief.”
“It's a lot better than his leaving me,” I replied.
Paul looked at me closely. “Have you told Mom and Dad yet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No. I'm going to, though. Soon. I want to see my doctor first and all.”
“Why are you putting it off? Mom's going to be thrilled. And even though Dad's not overly fond of Rossâ”
“He isn't?”
Paul grimaced and put the plate of gourmet sandwiches I'd brought on the scarred, wood table. He'd gotten it at a yard sale after he'd moved out of the beautifully decorated house he'd shared with Bess.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I thought you knew that.”
Well, the truth was I did sort of know that. I mean, my father isn't exactly subtle, or a good social liar. And he and Ross are so different in so many ways. It dawned on me then that for all I knew Ross might not like my father all that much.
“It's okay,” I said.
“Well, what I was going to say is that Dad will be thrilled he's getting another grandchild. I'm sure of it.”
I wasn't so sure, but I didn't argue. Neither Dad nor Mom is much in the grandparent department. They prefer golf vacations in North Carolina with other comfortably situated couples to family trips to Disney World and Sunday dinner en famille.
“Will you tell Bess?” I asked.
“Sure, if you want me to. Or you could call her yourself.”
“I'm kind of uncomfortable doing that,” I admitted. “Since the divorce, things have been a little awkward between us. I'm sorry.”
Paul shrugged. My delicate feelings were the least of his worries.
“She's a good mother,” he said, blandly. “She might be of some help along the way.”
“Okay,” I said, a bit ashamed. “Thanks.”
Paul and I ate lunch in relative silence, and at two o'clock I helped him herd Matthew and Emma into the family's requisite truck-like car. Paul drove me to the train station; he kept the motor running while I said goodbye.
I leaned over the back of the seat and blew the children kisses. Neither seemed particularly sorry to see me go. Matthew was staring out the side window; Emma was playing with a lavender-haired doll. I climbed out of the monster truck.
“Good luck, Anna,” Paul said, as he pulled away.
I waved half-heartedly.
What my brother didn't say but what I know he was thinking: You're going to need it.
14
Do No Harm
“I
made an appointment to see my gynecologist this Thursday,” I said. Ross and I were at the condo; we'd met there after work to discuss color choices for the master bathroom. “Her office is in Chestnut Hill.”
made an appointment to see my gynecologist this Thursday,” I said. Ross and I were at the condo; we'd met there after work to discuss color choices for the master bathroom. “Her office is in Chestnut Hill.”
Ross looked up from the paint samples he was studying. “Good. I'll send my car service to take you there and back. I don't want you dealing with the T. There are too many deranged people in this city, and God knows how many germs are floating around those filthy cars.”
I didn't want to take the T, either. A car service was a better option, but ...
“I was kind of hoping you would come with me,” I said.
“Anna, I can't.” Ross handed me the stack of paint samples. “Take a look at these. I'm leaning toward Seashell for the master bath. We'll need an accent color, of course.”
“Why can't you?” I asked. I put the stack of paint samples on the unfinished kitchen counter. One slid off to the floor. Ross picked it up and straightened the pile.
“Because I've got meetings all day Thursday,” he said. “Maybe Cocoa Cream instead of Seashell. See what you think. And remember the tile we chose. There's a sample in my office.”
I didn't care about tile and paint color. Not right then. I cared about me.
“Couldn't you reschedule something?” I asked sweetly. “My appointment is at ten o'clock. I guess it should take about a half hour. We'll be back in town by eleven. Eleven-fifteen.” And, I thought, most days you're hardly in the office by ten. You'd never schedule a meeting before eleven. I know you, Ross.
Ross put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently.
“Anna, I'm sorry, I can't. Why don't you ask one of your girlfriends to go with you?” Ross dropped his hands and stepped away from me. “I mean, it is a woman thing, after all.”
Nurturing another human being inside you for approximately thirty-six weeks? Ejecting that human being through your vaginal canal? Oh, yes. It was a woman thing.
“Don't you want to be involved in the pregnancy?” I asked. The books all said that today's fathers were involved. Today's fathers were supposed to be involved whether they liked it or not.
“Well, sure,” Ross said amicably. But his eyes showed he was losing patience for the conversation. “Of course. But let's face it, Anna. There are certain things you'll have to do all on your own. I can only be there for you up to a certain point.”
I realized I could forget about Ross's being my labor coach.
“Okay.” I smiled gamely. “I'll be fine.”
Ross planted a tiny kiss on my forehead. “I know you will. Call the office when the appointment is over and let me know how it went. Leave a message with Tad if I can't be disturbed.”
Poor Tad, I thought. I hope Ross pays him well. The young man officially worked for the company, but as far as I could tell, Ross used him pretty heavily as a personal assistant.
I went back to my apartment soon after. It was only nine, but I was bone tired. I got into bed, eager for oblivion, but sleep didn't come easily. I was getting used to lying awake and staring at the ceiling, my mind whirring busily with worries.
I thought about the fact that I'd been on my own for a long time. I thought about the fact that I'd done pretty much everything on my own, from building a business to buying an apartment, from taking a vacation in Jamaica to going to the hospital for a cervical biopsy. I thought about the fact that I was good on my own, strong and competent.
But as I watched the light of the street lamp outside my window flicker across the ceiling of my bedroom, none of those facts mattered. The truth was I did not want to go to that doctor's appointment alone and I did not want to go with anyone but my fiancé.
Sometimes we don't get what we want. On Thursday morning I took Ross's company's car service out to the medical building in Chestnut Hill. Maybe, I thought, as I rode the elevator to the second floor, maybe after this I'll ask the driver to take me to the mall; Bloomingdale's might be having a sale, and I could use a new pair of navy pinstripe slacks.
And then I remembered that I was pregnant and that any pair of pants I bought right then might never be worn. With a sigh I got off the elevator and walked to Suite 206.
There were two obviously pregnant women in the waiting room. Both were with men I took to be the fathers. One man wore a UPS uniform; his arms proved the workout he got every day on the job. The other wore a sober dark suit; I guessed he was in finance or law. The women looked calm, relaxed. Uniforms inspire confidence.
I smiled awkwardly at everyoneâthey smiled awkwardly backâand walked up to the receptionist's desk.
Observable social truth: Women who aren't pregnant go to the gynecologist alone. Women who are pregnant go with their mates. That is, if they have mates. That's the rule. Even the receptionist knew this.
“Is your husband with you Mrs.âuh ...” The overweight but pretty girl scanned the screen before her. I wondered if the doctor scolded her about her weight. I wondered if she encouraged her to embrace herself just the way she was.
“Ms. Traulsen,” I said. “And it would be my fiancé. Ross Davis. And no, he's not here. He'sâhe's out of town on business.” I looked at the blandly pleasant face of the receptionist, and then the ridiculous lie came bursting out. “There was some really important meeting he just couldn't miss,” I said. “In Europe. Switzerland. Basel, in fact.”
“I bet you can't wait until he gets home!” she enthused. “I hope he brings you some chocolate.”
I thought, What? Why chocolate? And then, “Oh, sure,” I said. Switzerland. “Yes. I can't wait until he gets home. With chocolate. Of course. Yes.” And maybe a watch? And a cuckoo clock? I was mortified.
The receptionist suggested I take a seat. The doctor, she said, would be with me soon. I took a seat at the other end of the waiting area from the two couples. Liars, I thought, should be segregated from good and decent people.
Twenty minutes later I was flat on my back, my feet in cold metal stirrups.
Dr. York, my gynecologist, could never be described as a warm and fuzzy person. At least not in the context of her professional life. Who knows what she's like at the end of the day when she hangs up her speculum and stows away her swabs.
But I can do without a great bedside manner in medical personnel as long as they've got education, experience, and expertise. What I don't care for is a tendency some doctors have to judge a patient. A symptom might indicate a particular illness, but it doesn't describe a person's character.
Dr. York got up from her swivel stool and carefully stripped off her latex examining gloves.
“You're fine,” she said briskly.
“Good,” I said. “I mean, I'm glad that I'm fine.”
Dr. York looked down at my chart and scribbled a note. “I see many women like you,” she said.
“Like me?” I asked.
“Yes.” Dr. York closed the manila folder and placed it on the counter behind her. “Women who decided to wait a while before having children.”
“I didn't decide anything,” I blurted. “Well, actually, I did. My fiancé and I decided not to have children.”
The doctor raised her eyebrows in the most obvious way.
“Oh. I see,” she said. “The pregnancy is unplanned.”
If I'd been deaf to the tone of judgment in the doctor's voice, or blind to the arched brows, I still couldn't have missed the disdain displayed by the flair of her right nostril.
I wondered, Does getting pregnant accidentally make me a bad person? Does it mean I'm going to be a bad mother? Irresponsible? Self-centered? Emotionally unavailable?
And by the way, how do people flair just one nostril?
“Yes,” I said hurriedly, the awful paper crackling under my naked thighs. “But we're going through with it. The pregnancy. That's why I'm here, of course. We want the baby. Really.”
I prayed, Please like me now. Please. And let me get dressed.
“Okay.”
That was all? I thought. No praise for my noble act?
“I've read that lots of pregnancies end in miscarriage,” I blurted.
“That's true.”
What had I expected to hear?
“Am I at risk?” I asked. “I mean, because of my age.”
Dr. York tapped my chart with her pen. “As your doctor of several years, I'd say you're no more at risk than any other thirty-seven-year-old woman going through her first pregnancy.”
That news wasn't particularly heartening.
“Should I schedule an amniocentesis?” I asked, not entirely sure what that was.
“Well, it's far too early for an amnio. We do one at the end of the fourth month. I wouldn't worry about that now. Let's see you through a few more weeks. If everything's going wellâ”
“You mean if I'm still pregnant.”
My interruption didn't throw Dr. York at all. “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “If the pregnancy is still in place, then we'll schedule an amnio and whatever other tests seem wise.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Then we'll analyze the results, and then you can decide what to do.”
I shook my head. “I don't ... What do you mean, decide what to do?”
Dr. York looked at me as if I was deeply stupid.
“Decide whether or not to let the pregnancy continue,” she said slowly, with more than a hint of condescension, like an embittered college professor speaking to a particularly dense undergraduate.
“Oh,” I responded.
Again with the eyebrows.
“Can I decide not to have those tests?” The question came out in a thin, high-pitched voice I didn't recognize as my own.
“Of course,” the doctor snapped. “But at your age it wouldn't be wise.”
What she meant to say was at my Advanced Maternal Age. I was long in the tooth, over the hill, downright moth-eaten. I was old.
“You don't want to spend months worrying, do you?” Dr. York went on. “Not knowing is not a healthy thing. Information is good for you and your baby. I'm going to strongly recommend you do everything I tell you to do. I'm going to give you prescriptions for vitamins and dietary supplements, and I'm going to want you to take them, every day. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I heard the pitiful weakness in my voice. “Can I get dressed now?”
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