by Tessa Bailey
I look at the picture of Chloe.
I think about a “date” with Holly along for the ride. Expectations change when there’s a teething baby in attendance. Can’t assume sex. Or drinking to the point of lost inhibitions. Or a foreign film, or a good comedy set at Improv Boston.
But I get Chloe.
And Holly’s not bad company, either.
Saturday, I reply back.
“Hot date?” Charlie asks, coming into the kitchen for a beer.
“Something like that.”
“Now that the kids are all in college, isn’t it great to do what you want, when you want?”
I stare at my phone screen.
“Yeah. It is.”
Chapter Twenty
Chloe
There is a saying: space exists so everything doesn’t happen in the same location.
Time exists so everything doesn’t happen all at once.
Sometimes, though, time isn’t enough.
Two important events coincide, and one has to yield.
This is what parenthood has done to me: forced the moment where I have to choose my job over my baby, even for a few hours. I knew this day would come, and here it is, two months into being back from maternity leave, and I am stuck.
It’s not quite that stark, I remind myself as I fight tears, waking before sunrise and busying myself with showering and dressing, praying Holly stays asleep so I can pull on thigh highs with two hands like a civilized person. Last time she woke up while I was getting ready, I learned new yoga positions.
One-handed snake stuffer. Nylon rip asana. Skirt button warrior pose.
In the quiet, creepy dawn, I mainline coffee and hope I won’t pass out at the last meeting of the day at two o’clock.
Three o’clock is a fine time to snooze on the plane, though. Eyes on the prize.
6:00 am. I need to be at the airport by 7:30. I hate to go so far away from Holly, even though I’ll be home at the exact same time tonight as if I’d just been at the office. What if there’s an emergency? But I have to meet with the O NY staff, and we can’t fly them all here to meet with me.
You know what would be great right now? One of those tanks from the Oxygen bar at O.
There may be no scientific evidence to support the claim, but a hit of pure oxygen, scented like gin and tonic, would really take the edge off my separation anxiety. Breakfast of champions, zero calories and no prescription required. Pricey, though.
Isn’t the baby supposed to be the one with separation anxiety? Because she looks perfectly calm and composed. Enfamil is her drug of choice.
“Good morning!” Jemma calls, coming in the back door, bringing in a sprinkle of snow. It’s the week before Christmas, and Thanksgiving was a blur of a feverish baby and a sleep-deprived mama Baby’s First Christmas is coming and so is my mother, Charlotte. Add in a last-minute business meeting to New York and call me Job.
I can’t do pleasantries right now. I hand Jemma a document. Six pages, single-spaced.
The cover page is phone numbers: Holly’s pediatrician, Children’s Hospital emergency room, poison control center, Cambridge police, Boston Cab, O Boston, O NY, American Airlines, the car service in New York, the manager of my apartment building, Charlotte’s cell, Howard’s cell, Nick’s cell, Carrie’s cell, the electrician, the plumber, my cousin who lives in Newton, and the vet. Also health insurance info for Holly, and all my credit card numbers with PINs.
One page of infant CPR instructions, with diagrams.
Two pages of legal information, including Henry and Jemma’s guardianship of Holly and my last will and testament.
Operating instructions and warranties for all the major appliances. And the coffee maker, which I certainly consider to be a major appliance.
Jemma flips through the pages.
“Poison control? Seriously? She can’t even crawl yet, Chloe, how is she going to get poison? Roll to it?”
“Better to be safe than sorry,” I mutter.
“I am here with Holly four days a week,” Jemma says patiently. “I know her schedule. I know how to use the washing machine and the microwave. I have read The Happiest Baby, Sh!t No One Tells You, and Pat the Bunny.”
“I know,” I answer miserably, and gratefully.
“You are only going to New York,” she continues. “For the business day. You could practically take a cab home. Now get your bag and go. We’ll see you tonight, same time as always.”
“Is Henry still planning to pick you up here after work?” I ask. Jemma and Henry are leaving immediately for her sister’s wedding in Providence. The last-minute New York meeting put me into a tailspin. Jemma warned me months ago that she needed this day off for the wedding rehearsal and dinner. I’ve placed one of my best friends in a horrible position. She’s split the difference for me, and I’m deeply grateful. Charlotte couldn’t (wouldn’t) come, and I haven’t cultivated a relationship with any other caregiver for Holly.
I’m in a bind of my own making.
And it’s killing me.
“Yes,” Jem answers. “If we leave here by six thirty, we’ll get to the rehearsal dinner in Providence by eight at the latest. We’ll miss some of cocktail hour, but that’s probably a good thing. It’s going to be a long weekend with my family.”
“And you’re sure it’s okay for the maid of honor to miss the rehearsal?” I ask dubiously.
“Yes, my sister the bridezilla walked me through it last weekend,” she says. “As long as we get there sometime tonight, everything will be fine.”
She looks back down at the pages in her hand.
“Hairball remedy?”
“For Minky,” I explain. “Sometimes she chokes.”
“GO,” Jem says.
I pick up my leather bag and try to swing it over my shoulder, but it knocks into some of the supplies I have helpfully stacked on the island. Cans of formula and cat food, bottles of baby ibuprofen and Ipecac—just in case—fall and roll. The six-pack of Corona (for Henry) stands firm, but the lime rolls too.
“K bye,” I call. If I start kissing Holly, I’ll never leave. The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll get home.
Or something like that.
* * *
Around one p.m., in between meetings, I look out the window and see just a few glittery little snowflakes in the air. So pretty in the city. I hope it snows tomorrow night in Boston. It would be so romantic for my dinner with Nick.
Around two p.m., I look out the window and see… four inches of snow on the ground. At least, I can kind of see it. Visibility is about ten feet. Mostly I just see white. I should be heading to the airport in half an hour.
I pull out my phone to check for a text from the airline. And there it is. Flights to Boston Logan canceled.
Don’t panic, Chloe. Do not panic. Breathe.
She doesn’t pick up: “Jemma, it’s me. My flight is canceled. Where are you? Call me.”
I text her: flight canceled call me!
I email, and send a Facebook message. I resort to Twitter. I call Henry, whose phone goes directly to voicemail. He must be with a client.
Another deep breath. Another.
Solve the problem, Chloe. New York is not that far from Boston. I can get home somehow. Right?
I find Jack, the office manager, and ask him to call Amtrak for train reservations.
“Sorry, Chloe, they’ve canceled all trains to Boston. Looks like this is going to be a major blizzard. I’ll find you a hotel room.”
“No. NO! No hotel room. I have to get home.” I am leaning over his desk. He leans away. “What about a car rental?”
“Chloe. It’s a blizzard. We’ve had four inches of snow in an hour. You can’t drive three hours in this! What if you get stuck on I-95? You could die!”
He’s right. Shit.
Shitshitshit.
My phone rings, Jemma’s ringtone.
“Chloe? Weather.com says you’re going to get a snowstorm this evening. It’s bypassing New England, but N
ew York’s getting whomped.”
“Did you not see my messages?”
“No, we just got back from a walk. What did they say?”
“They said we are having a snowstorm!”
Heads pop up from cubicles all around me. I walk to a corner and lower my voice, cupping my hand around my phone.
“My flight is canceled. All flights are canceled. So are the trains. I can’t get home.”
“Well, that’s just not possible,” Jem says calmly. “I have to be in my sister’s wedding. In Providence. You have to get home. In fact, we should probably leave sooner than we planned.”
“How, Jemma? How am I going to get home? Teleport?”
Silence.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “We need to figure this out. When do you think you can get here?”
“I don’t know! Tuesday?”
Am I yelling? Jack has opened the door of an unoccupied office and is motioning me in.
“Hotel room?” he whispers.
I nod unhappily.
“I guess Henry could stay here with Holly,” Jemma offers. “If you can get home tomorrow morning, he might even make the wedding.” I hear the skepticism in her voice, though. Her sister’s already pissed Jemma is missing the rehearsal. If Henry doesn’t go, I could be the reason for a decades-long resentment that it’s unfair to create for them.
“Oh Jem. That is so generous of you.” They hate to be apart. “But I don’t think Henry’s interest in public health extends to wiping poopy bottoms. I wouldn’t leave him alone with a baby for ten minutes.”
I’m helping her save face.
“That’s true. He’s going to have to ease into fatherhood when we’re ready,” she says with a distracted laugh. “Besides, my family already doesn’t like Henry. This could push them over the edge. If I go without him, it could get… bad.” She sighs. “What about your cousin? The social worker?”
“In Florida. Visiting Charlotte. Who can’t even fly up for an emergency now!” A little sob of desperation escapes from me.
My phone beeps. Another call coming in.
It’s Nick.
“Jem? I’ll call you right back. Two minutes.”
“I just saw the storm reports,” he says when I click over to his call. “How are you?”
“Panicked. Jemma and Henry have to go to Providence for her sister’s wedding! I can’t get home for Holly. I’m the worst mother ever!”
I start sobbing.
“I’m on my way to your place.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to get out of there tonight. You’ll be lucky to be home tomorrow.” He pauses. I don’t know how to interpret it, but the silence makes me sit up, tears stopping. “I’ll stay with the baby. Or bring her to my place. Something,” he mutters.
There have been very few times in my life when I have literally been speechless. I cannot think of a single thing to say.
“Chloe? Are you there?”
“Yes! Did you just say…”
“I’ll take care of Holly.”
“No! It’s too much to ask… I don’t know what to say! Do you know how to change a diaper?”
He laughs. “Well, unless the whole concept has somehow changed, I think I can remember.”
“It’s a lot, Nick, and she doesn’t know you that well. She’s teething and gets cranky, and she might have another new tooth coming in…”
We both go quiet.
My call waiting beeps.
This is a very bad idea, but it’s the only idea we have.
“Chloe.”
His voice is so warm, like sunlight on sand. He doesn’t need to say more.
“You’re sure?”
“Chloe.”
“I promise I will be on the first plane to Boston. Or train. Jemma will show you everything. And I’ll be by my phone every second. And there’s a list of emergency information—not that it was any use when this emergency came up—there’s not much food in the house… oh Nick, I can’t believe you’re doing this!”
“Neither can I, actually.”
I think that’s what he says. The connection is breaking up.
I only hope we don’t, after this.
I click over to Jemma, to give her the good news.
Good news. Ha.
Here it is. The moment everyone warned me about. I knew being a single mother by choice would be hard. I knew adopting would bring up my own adoption issues. Do mothers who aren’t adoptees panic like this when it comes to an unexpected absence from their child? I don’t have a barometer for measuring my own reactions against the norm.
I knew I’d need support networks and backup plans and that this fragile little life would depend on me in ways I never imagined.
But this – this isn’t my fault.
So why do I feel like it is?
* * *
Nick
“I thought you said she wasn’t my little sister,” Jean-Marc grouses, looking at Holly like she’s a rare animal in a zoo exhibit licking the window.
“She’s not. Chloe’s in a bind, trapped in a freak storm in New York. I’m watching her tonight.” After talking a panicked Chloe down off her snow-covered ledge, I went to her house to find Jemma dressed in an elegant gown, Henry in black tie, and a thirty-page manual clearly written by Chloe, who should turn her talents toward writing pandemic preparation manuals for the CDC.
With assurances all would be fine, I sent them off.
Chloe’s place is tiny, and all three of my kids are home for the beginning of winter break. It seemed easier to bring Holly here, along with half her baby gear, where the four of us can trade off child care. One seasoned father and three young adults should have no problem managing one teething infant.
Holly seems unimpressed by my townhouse, preferring to focus entirely on the button on my business shirt cuff as I hold her. Dark hair, straight and shiny like a wet seal, sprouts from her little head. Her birth mother is Asian and Holly’s eyes are dark, but rounded. Chloe doesn’t talk much about the birth father, but I’m guessing he wasn’t Asian, given Holly’s features.
For as serendipitous as the circumstances of Chloe’s adoption of Holly are, she looks like Chloe. It’s a strange – and beautiful – coincidence.
I’ll have to ask about Chloe’s baby pictures someday.
“Ay ya ga,” Holly says, before dive bombing my thumb joint and clamping down like it’s a chew toy.
I stare at the selection of baby toys I brought from Chloe’s place and let her gnaw on me.
“Yeah. I got the last train out of town. A bunch of my friends are stuck in New York.” Jean-Marc reaches for Holly’s hand. She wraps a slick palm around his index finger. “Like Chloe, I guess.”
“Urg,” Holly says, grinning madly, a string of drool running down to their clasped hands.
Jean-Marc takes it in stride. “Babies are gross.”
“So are teenage boys.”
“It’s not a competition, Dad.”
I laugh. “No, it’s not. But babies don’t forsake paying to do laundry so they can spend more on entertainment.” I look pointedly at his overstuffed duffel bag.
“I budget reasonably.”
“That bag smells like a prison cell.”
“DADDY!” Elodie walks in the front door, eyes like saucers, tossing her own bag of laundry on top of Jean-Marc’s bag of shame. “Is that Chloe’s baby?”
“Nah. Dad just decided to start a day care, El.”
“Shut up.”
She ignores me completely and smoothes back the tuft of hair on Holly’s crown. It stubbornly sticks back up.
“Aren’t you the sweetest!” she says, her voice full of sugar.
“Urg,” Holly answers, opening her mouth and smiling with her whole face.
“Where’s Chloe?” Elodie looks around wildly. “Have you reached the point where you’re having the kids meet? Is it that serious, Daddy?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
“Why are you whisper
ing?” Jean-Marc calls out from the kitchen, where he’s digging in the fridge for leftovers. “It’s not like the baby can’t hear you.”
“Because I don’t want to be rude and say the wrong thing in front of Chloe!” Elodie shrieks. The sound could call dogs in battle.
Holly’s happy countenance changes to surprise.
And then her face crumples into tears, her own shrieks surpassing Elodie’s as if this were, indeed, a competition.
“See what you did?” Jean-Marc shouts, irritated. “You made the baby cry.”
Hands flying to cover her mouth, Elodie looks at me in horror. “I’m sorry!”
“Shhh shhh shhh,” I say, bouncing Holly on one hip, focused on getting her to calm down. She’s electric with fear, that full-body, full-throated screaming that babies have, where all the emotions pour out at once because there are no boundaries to contain them.
Within a minute, she’s sniffling against my shoulder, body shaking with little sobs, and then a long, peaceful rattling sigh indicates that balance has been restored. I kiss her head and rub her soft scalp, smelling apricot and beeswax. She’s deadweight in my arms now, most of her mass held up by my inner elbow, forearm up against her shoulder. Muscles I haven’t used in years spring back to life with memory and I look at the last baby I held regularly.
Jean-Marc’s holding a milk carton upside down and draining it. He looks like a young Charlie. He throws the empty into the trash, then searches the cupboards and finds a red can, shaking the remains of a Pringles tube into his open mouth.
Given that I don’t eat those, Charlie’s going to come home and be pissed that his mini-me has learned all his tricks and one-upped him in draining his inventory.
Elodie’s studying me with narrowed eyes.
“You’re really good with her,” she says, with misplaced suspicion.
“Shhhhh,” I soothe. I’d forgotten how babies change time itself. Minutes and hours telescope into a free-floating mode of being. You can’t be in charge of a baby and have specific goals. You can try, and you can be fooled into thinking you’re succeeding. Like poor Chloe.
All it takes is one freak surprise to make you realize you’re not really in control.