The Replacement Wife (46 page)

“How are the kids?” Larry asked.

She smiled. “Growing up too fast, as usual.”

“Zach ready for the pro circuit yet?”

“Any day now, I’m sure. Wait until you see how much he’s improved.”

“That’s my boy.” Larry looked pleased. “About time he started taking lessons, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. But we don’t live near a golf course, so it’s not really feasible.”

“There may be a way around that,” her father said, working a corner of the dishtowel into the narrow neck of the glass he was drying. She could tell from the expression he wore that he’d already given it some thought. “My friend Don Mayes, you remember him? He runs a golf clinic for kids up at my old club. I spoke to him about Zach. Bob’s daughter lives in the city, and she could drive him up there on weekends. Naturally, I’d pay for it. I was thinking, since Christmas isn’t too far off . . .”

She gave him a look. “Dad. You have to stop giving them things. I think Zach now has every Wii game on the market. And Kyra doesn’t need real pearls at her age. Seriously, you’re spoiling them.”

“What are grandkids for if not to spoil them?” he said with an airy wave of his hand.

She knew where it was really coming from: He was overcompensating for his past neglect. But she couldn’t fault him now that he was trying, even if he was trying
too
hard. “Well, you can discuss it with Zach when he gets home,” she relented. Zach was at soccer practice. Camille had arranged for one of the other moms to pick up both boys and bring Zach home.

Larry beamed, and then, as if not wanting to press his luck, he switched to another topic. “Speaking of the holidays, if you haven’t made any plans yet, why don’t you bring the family down for a visit? Lil and I could look after the kids while you and Edward get some one-on-one time.”

“Sounds tempting, but I don’t see how I could get away. The holidays are my busiest time,” she told him.

“Why, what’s special about the holidays?” he asked.

She placed the clean champagne flutes on a tray and went to get the champagne from the fridge. “Well,” she said, “if you’re single and looking, they can be a reminder of what you’re missing. Thanksgiving, you don’t want to be the only odd man out at the family dinner. And Christmas makes you think of presents from Santa and stockings lined up on the hearth.”

She was horrified to find her own eyes filling with tears. She kept her face averted so her dad wouldn’t see, but he must have heard the catch in her voice. She felt his arm settle over her shoulders.

“What is it, Cam? You’re not . . . ?” Larry didn’t have to finish the sentence; the deep grooves of worry in his face said it all: He thought it was something to do with her health—a setback.

She hastened to put that fear to rest. “I’m fine, Dad. It’s just . . . seeing you and Lillian.”

He nodded in understanding. “If it makes you feel any better, she isn’t looking to take your mom’s place.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s . . .” Camille swallowed against the lump in her throat. “You seem so happy.”

His face relaxed in a smile. “That’s because we are.” Then, as if sensing this wasn’t just about him and Lillian, he went on, “But it’s always like that in the beginning. Once we’ve logged some miles, we’ll be like a pair of old shoes. It wasn’t always perfect with your mom and me, you know.”

“But you loved each other.”

“Sure, but we had our ups and downs, like any couple.”

What happens when you fall down and can’t get up again
?

Lillian rejoined them then. Camille poured the champagne. They all raised their glasses. “To your health!” said Larry, smiling at Camille in a way that made her feel like crying all over again.

“To the happy couple,” she toasted.

HOLLY’S WATER BROKE
on the D train going over the Manhattan Bridge. The four of them—Holly and Camille, Larry and Lillian—had met for lunch in SoHo, and afterward Holly had insisted on them all going back to her place so she could show Larry and Lillian the nursery. (Camille had already seen it—she’d put herself in charge of stocking it with every conceivable item the baby would need.) Holly had done it up in what she called Early Fillmore: paisley wallpaper to simulate the light-show effect; original concert posters from that era for bands like the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, and Jefferson Airplane; a 1970s lava lamp and custom-made crib mobile fashioned from guitar picks. There was even a plush toy in the shape of a guitar. Holly was determined to pass on her love of rock and roll to Junior or, better yet, have him turn out to be a future Mick Jagger or Pete Townshend.

On the subway, Camille and Holly were having their usual debate about the pros and cons of living in Brooklyn versus Manhattan when Holly gave a sudden gasp and looked down. “Oh, God! Is that
me
?” She stared in horror at the growing puddle at her feet.

“It ain’t a busted water main, that’s for sure,” observed the paunchy, balding man seated across from them, who clearly fancied himself a wit. Wedged in next to him was a heavyset woman wearing an unflattering Elmo-pink velour tracksuit that made her look like a very large raspberry—presumably his wife. She scowled at him.

“Gawd, Billy. Show some respect.” She turned to inquire solicitously of Holly, “You okay, hon?”

Holly replied in a weak voice, “I think I’m having a baby.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” muttered a skinny guy with a scruffy day-old beard.

While the other riders gawked as if at a circus sideshow, Camille did her best to keep her sister from panicking. She used her sweater to blot the wet spot on Holly’s jeans. When she looked up, Lillian and Larry were approaching from the other end of the car, working their way through the gaggle of gaping straphangers. Lillian, when she reached Holly, bent to place a hand on her shoulder, saying in a soothing, motherly voice, “Don’t worry, dear, we’ll get you to the hospital in plenty of time. First babies usually aren’t in any hurry.” Holly nodded mutely, and Lillian asked, “About how far apart would you say the contractions are?”

“I don’t know.” Holly looked more confused than panic-stricken. “My back’s been bothering me all day, but I thought it was just a pulled muscle. It didn’t start to get bad until after lunch.”

With each lurch of the subway car, the puddle on the floor spread. A pigtailed little girl lifted her sneakered feet and cried, “Mommy! It’s going to
get
me!” An older Asian woman with her head buried in a Chinese-language newspaper glanced down impassively at the rivulet snaking its way toward her, then tossed a section of newspaper over it before going back to her reading. A burly guy in work overalls pirouetted around the pole he was holding, as delicately as a ballerina, to keep his boots from being christened. Camille whispered in Holly’s ear, “It’s just pickle juice.”

When they were young, twelve and ten respectively, they’d once witnessed a similar spectacle. They’d gone to the D’Agostino down the block from their building, to get some things their housekeeper had run out of, and were pushing their cart down the jarred goods aisle when they saw a hugely pregnant lady at the other end jump suddenly and then let out a yelp. Her water had broken. She must have been in a panic, and also embarrassed by the mess she’d made, because she grabbed a jar of pickles and dropped it on the floor, as if to create a diversion. When a clerk came hurrying over with a mop and bucket, she declared loudly, “It’s just pickle juice!” To this day, whenever Camille and Holly were in a grocery store together, they couldn’t walk down the jarred goods aisle without setting each other to giggling with that oft-repeated line.

This time, Holly only smiled weakly in response.

Larry withdrew a folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Holly. She shook her head, refusing it. “Thanks, Dad, but isn’t that like sticking your finger in the dike after it’s broken?”

“Shouldn’t we call the doctor?” He cast a worried look at Camille.

Camille bit her tongue before she could snap,
What does it look like I’m doing?
She had her cell phone out, on which was programmed the number for Holly’s ob-gyn, as well as Curtis’s contact info. There was just one problem. “I’m not getting a signal,” she cried in frustration.

“Stop the train! Stop the train!” bellowed a homeless man who earlier had been soliciting handouts.

“Dude. We’re on a fucking
river
!” yelled a teenage boy in a Hollister hoodie and jeans that bagged to his knees.

The homeless man ignored him, mashing his grimy thumb down on the call button on the intercom. Minutes later, the door at the other end of the car banged open and a transit cop appeared, looking pissed off as if he thought he’d been summoned by a false alarm. The big guy in overalls jabbed a finger in Holly’s direction. “She’s having a baby! Fuh crissakes,
do something
.”

The cop, who sported a goatee and had thinning, close-cropped hair that made Camille think of a newly seeded lawn, had clearly never encountered anything like this outside training. He froze, gaping at Holly as if at a suspicious package that might contain an explosive device. It was several moments before he shifted into gear. “All right, everyone, just calm down!” he boomed, though no one had made a peep; the other riders just stared, as if waiting to see what he would do—all except the older Asian lady reading her newspaper. To Holly, he said, “Ma’am, I’m going to radio ahead and alert the station. I’ll have them send an ambulance.”

As he was barking into his hand-held, Holly hissed to Camille,
“
Did you hear that? He called me
ma’am
! What’s next, they’ll stop carding me in bars? Why didn’t you warn me this would happen?”

“You never gave me the chance,” Camille reminded her.

“Oh, God.” Holly grimaced, clutching her belly. “Now
that
definitely wasn’t a pulled muscle.”

“I didn’t make it to the hospital in time, with my first,” volunteered a gum-smacking blonde, a Jenna Jameson look-alike wearing a tight pink T-shirt with the words
Hotter than Your Girlfriend
in big block letters stretched across her boobs. “She popped out in the backseat of my boyfriend’s Cutlass, right there on the LIE. Scared the shit out of us. But she’s fine—she just turned two.”

“That’s helpful,” muttered Holly.

Lillian squeezed Holly’s shoulder reassuringly, while Larry just stood there looking pale and shaken.

Camille found herself thinking of the time Holly, at age twelve, had fallen off her bike in Central Park and split her chin. Camille was fifteen at the time but looked older; no one had questioned her authority when she brought Holly to the ER and handed over her dad’s insurance card. Larry had been out of town—where else?—so she was the one who’d held Holly’s hand as her chin was stitched up. She’d chattered the whole while to distract Holly. Now, in the same vein, she said, “You think this is bad? I know a woman who gave birth to triplets. She said it felt like Hulk Hogan doing the Heimlich maneuver on her. She swore afterward she’d have her tubes tied before she’d go through that again. But the next time I ran into her, she was pregnant again—with twins. That’s when she told me, ‘To hell with getting my tubes tied, I’m getting a divorce.’”

Holly mustered a faint laugh, and Miss Hotter-than-Your-Girlfriend smiled as though she were in on the joke. The Asian lady looked up from her newspaper to gaze at them impassively. Mr. and Mrs. Billy flattened against their seats as the homeless man lurched past them, reeking of booze and body odor. Out the window, the iron struts of the bridge flashed by, showing strobelike glimpses of the harbor beyond, gray as the sky above, where storm clouds massed, as the train rattled its way toward the next station. Camille thought they’d never get there.

After what seemed an eternity, the train pulled into the Atlantic Avenue station, where they were met by an NYPD cop: a middle-aged Hispanic woman with a kind face. She escorted them off the platform toward the waiting ambulance, keeping a hand on Holly’s arm as if guiding a small child across a busy intersection. “Don’t you worry, hon,” she said. “This’ll all be over before you know it. Piece of cake.”

“Bullshit,” Holly said through gritted teeth as another contraction took hold.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Camille said. “Someone figured out a long time ago the only way to perpetuate the human race was to trick women into thinking it’s a piece of cake.” Holly growled in response.

Lillian stroked Holly’s back while she rode out the contraction. “The good news is,” she said, “when it’s over and you’re holding your baby in your arms, this will all be a distant memory.”

“Not for me, it won’t,” Larry said, looking distinctly queasy. “I don’t think I’ll forget this as long as I live.”

“Men.” Lillian smiled indulgently and tucked an arm through his as they continued on.

Together they trooped up the two flights of stairs. When they emerged into the daylight, Holly paused once more, on the sidewalk, to ride out another contraction, uttering a string of curses the whole while. Then, finally, to everyone’s relief, she was loaded onto the waiting ambulance. Camille, Lillian, and Larry followed in a taxi. A short while later, they were reunited at Kings County. It wasn’t the nearest hospital but it was where Holly’s ob-gyn had privileges, so Holly had insisted on being taken there.

“Tell Curtis he’s a dead man if he doesn’t get his ass here pronto!” Holly growled from her semiprone position on the gurney. She’d been trying to reach him, as had Camille, but kept getting his voicemail. When Camille told Holly he was probably in a meeting or on another call, Holly barked, “Fuck that! He missed out on the first half, the least he can do is be here for the closing number.”

Camille realized it was no use arguing. Holly was beyond reason in her current state. Instead, she promised to get Curtis to the hospital in time if she had to personally track him down. She was relieved when, minutes after Holly had been whisked into the elevator, she heard the familiar tinkling of her cell phone’s ringtone and saw Curtis’s name on the display.
Thank God for small favors.
“Tell her to sit tight, I’m on my way,” he panted, sounding out of breath. She heard traffic noises in the background and pictured him racing along a sidewalk somewhere in the Financial District, tie flapping, on his way to catch a cab.