Happy and You Know It

by Laura Hankin

  Near the end of a staff meeting a few days after she’d made her return, Nick brought up “Rapping the Issues.” A former boy-band singer who’d struck out on his own was coming in soon, and he wanted to do the segment.

  “I was thinking immigration,” Amara said. She’d written up a draft for it over the past two nights, in between Charlie’s crying, and it had real potential. Now she tried to fluff her shirt out away from her chest without being obvious. She suspected that one of her boobs had started leaking, but she couldn’t tell for sure. Shit, it hurt, but she wasn’t about to hit pause for everyone so she could go pump, especially since the women’s bathroom was on a whole different floor. Lord, this meeting was dragging on forever, clear proof that Nick did not know how to run things properly. This would never happen when (If, she reminded herself. Don’t get cocky) she was showrunner.

  “Cool, cool,” Nick said.

  “Oh, man,” Robby interrupted, leaning back in his chair. Just a little farther, Amara thought, and you’ll tip over. “You know what would be awesome? If we did it about hoverboards.”

  “What?” Amara asked. She snuck a peek down at her shirt, which had sprouted a dark stain. She was leaking all right. She tried to cover it with her arm but accidentally knocked that arm into her breast, sending a shock wave of pain through her body.

  Robby smirked. “Nick knows what I’m talking about, right?” Nick gave that sheepish, adorable laugh of his (it had spawned a thousand GIFs when he unleashed it on the show) while Robby leaned forward, grinning at Amara. “We got one sent to the office while you were gone, and we all got drunk and tried to ride it. Nick totally face-planted in the middle of the hallway.”

  “Right,” Amara said. “But hoverboards aren’t an issue.”

  “There’s an issue about whether or not they’re safe,” said Robby. “’Cause they keep exploding. And there’s an issue about whether or not they’re totally lame. Which they are. We could even do the whole thing with the two of them on hoverboards, and it would be hilarious.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “Hoverboards! I think that would be fun. We should do it. Robby, do you want to take first pass?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Amara said.

  “Whoa.” Nick looked at her in surprise. The other writers at the table suddenly started concentrating on their sandwiches like grass-fed roast beef was the goddamn Mona Lisa. “What?”

  “Number one, that’s my segment.”

  “It’s just this one time,” Nick said. “It’ll be fun. And it’s so much work to produce. Maybe it’s safer if Robby takes the lead, since things are so crazy for you at home right now.”

  “Things at home are fine. And number two, this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t make any sense to do it about fucking hoverboards.”

  “I don’t get what the problem is,” Nick said, his face starting to turn red in annoyance. “I think it sounds fun.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You think it could be fun? You hadn’t said.” Tears began to gather behind Amara’s eyes, but she’d never cried at work, and she wasn’t about to start now. She pushed her chair back and stood up, as the lily-white writers (all of them men, most of them young) stared at her like she was an exotic animal liable to hurt someone at any moment. The slightest, smarmiest smile played across Robby’s face, and she knew she was about to do exactly what he wanted, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I need to go pump because my tits feel like they’re going to explode. Or perhaps I should stay here, and they’ll just shoot out milk like fireworks. That’s fun, right?”

  She went to the bathroom and then boxed up her stuff. They weren’t going to fire her—then who would the writers go to when they needed to ask if a joke was racist or just edgy?—but she wasn’t going to work under fucking Robby. She told everyone she wanted to try out the stay-at-home-mom thing for a couple of years, because she was lucky enough to be able to afford it. She told herself maybe she’d like it.

  She made it another month before she started biting off her fingernails with boredom, and a week after that before she found herself tearing a pillow apart with her bare hands because she was so angry at Charlie, who always either had tears coming out his eyes or shit coming out his bottom. Daniel helped when he could, but he’d taken a promotion he hadn’t wanted to make up for the loss of her salary, which meant much longer hours at the office. She tried reaching out to contacts at other shows, but nobody seemed to be interested in hiring new mothers. (Or word had spread that she was crazy for how she’d left Staying Up, and no one wanted to work with her. She suspected that might play a part too.)

  She was never alone. She was so lonely.

  Amara and Charlie were sitting in a neighborhood coffee shop one Wednesday morning, one of those expensively shabby-chic places with a shelf along one wall displaying a vase of dried wildflowers and a rusted washboard. The barista monitoring the playlist was a big fan of watered-down bluegrass. Although the design aesthetic was “old-fashioned hardship,” a cup of coffee cost five dollars. Amara wouldn’t have chosen it at any other point in her life, but right now, it wasn’t her apartment, so it was heaven.

  She was eating a croissant with one hand and rocking Charlie’s stroller back and forth with the other, in the hopes that the motion would keep him from wailing. No such luck. A guy in his early twenties, sipping a cappuccino and reading a battered copy of Jude the Obscure, shot them a dirty look. Get a job, Amara thought, and tried to glare back, but it bothered her. You could plan to go to a coffee shop because you wanted to spend one measly half hour sitting someplace outside your apartment, you could take a whole morning getting your baby ready and talking to him in soothing tones, and you could navigate the stroller down the streets, spend your money, find your table, and unload, your aching body collapsing onto the chair. But if, right as the first bite of flaky pastry began to melt in your mouth, your baby decided to start crying, suddenly you were an inconsiderate asshole and a terrible mother to boot, and you’d better leave right away.

  Amara took Charlie out of the stroller and held him against her chest, trying to soothe him. Charlie let out a particularly piercing wail, and Mr. Jude the Obscure snapped his book shut. “Seriously?” he said, filled with righteous indignation before looking around the coffee shop as if seeking to rally the legions of people whose lives Amara was ruining. “I mean, come on.”

  Most of the other people in the coffee shop had headphones on and didn’t look up, but a beautiful woman by the counter met the guy’s eyes and smiled. She had a stroller of her own, but the baby inside was a sleeping cherub who probably changed her own diapers.

  Buoyed by outside confirmation, America’s Number One Intellectual looked back at Amara, smug. Well, it was useless to stay here now. So nice to know that the state of the sisterhood was strong. Amara started to buckle Charlie back into his stroller, hating everyone and everything. The other mother made her way toward a table, but then she stopped, right in front of the reading guy.

  “Someday when you’ve got a screaming infant,” the other mother said in a low voice, that lovely smile still upon her face, “I hope the people you encounter are understanding.” Amara paused in her buckling. Charlie, miraculously, paused in his screaming. The other mother’s eyes burned a bright, big hole into the reading guy. “And I hope you are so, so grateful that not everyone is a dickhead like you.”

  The guy’s mouth snapped open, then shut again. He swallowed. Then he stuffed his book into his bag, stood up, and marched out. The door to the shop banged shut behind him, rattling the front window. The other mother turned and looked at Amara, a flush creeping up her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was too much.”

  Amara let out a cackle. “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “Please come sit with me. I’m Amara.”

  “I’m Whitney,” the woman said, sitting down as Charlie’s cries began to fade. Up close, she exhibit
ed some of the markers of new motherhood after all—the darker skin underneath her eyes, a section of hair that had escaped the taming influence of the blow-dryer. Perhaps her baby wasn’t a perfect angel. “God, remember when you could go to a coffee shop like it was nothing?”

  “Mmm,” Amara said. “You could stay as long as you wanted.”

  “You could sit and think.”

  “Well, only eighteen years to go, and then we’ll be able to do it again. What’s eighteen years?” Amara said.

  Whitney laughed, tilting her head back, a warm, wonderful sound, and the two of them kept chatting, giddy to find a fellow traveler in the same uncharted land, swapping stories about motherhood, trading recommendations about playpens and pediatricians.

  “And do you like your ob-gyn?” Amara asked.

  Whitney’s face tightened. Amara had clearly hit upon a sore subject. “I think I want to switch. I just came from an appointment”—she hesitated, then lowered her voice—“where he tried to push a bunch of Xanax on me.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think he was even listening to me! It was so practiced, like he does it for every mother that comes in, just hands them some free pills and a prescription instead of actually having a conversation.” Whitney indicated her bag, outraged. “I’m just going to throw them out.”

  “You could sell them on the black market, make some cash,” Amara joked. “Or you never know if you might have a long flight sometime, and it’ll be handy to have them lying around.”

  “Good point,” Whitney said, then rolled her eyes. “I’ll shove them in a desk drawer or something, let them gather dust.” She paused. “Sorry. Strange day. Would you mind . . . maybe not telling people about the whole Xanax thing?”

  “Ah,” Amara said. “Unfortunately, I’ve already hired a skywriter.”

  Whitney let out that wonderful laugh of hers again. Then she propped her chin on her hand and leaned toward Amara. “Not to come on too strong,” she said, “but I’m starting a playgroup of new mothers in the neighborhood. Our first meeting is next Tuesday. You should come.”

  So Amara joined the playgroup. And then her life really went down the shitter.

  Everything in playgroup was expensive. You had to pay for the music and those fucking diamond-encrusted vitamins and bring good wine every once in a while, because even though Whitney was unbelievably generous—God, she even surprised them at Christmas by presenting them with a package for a group wellness retreat in the spring!—it would have been rude to enjoy her hospitality every time without making a single contribution of your own. Then there was the problem of spending hours with a bunch of gold medalists in the field of competitive mothering. None of the women was overt about it, but Amara had a highly cultivated bullshit meter. She knew when other women were judging her and trying to outdo one another.

  Still, imagining going back to the stay-at-home life she’d had before that coffee shop meeting with Whitney made her stomach roil with dread. Dread about what the other women would say (or not say) about her if she disappeared. Dread about what she might do if left to her own devices. (Would she also end up in the hospital for a spell, like Joanna? Would Whitney once again collect money from the other women to send flowers?) So if she wanted to stay in the club—and Lord help her, she did—she would have to dig a little deeper into her private emergency bank account.

  Chapter 7

  When Whitney opened her door for Claire on Tuesday, Whitney’s smile was so tight that Claire thought she might pull a muscle in her cheek.

  “Hi,” Whitney said. “A little heads-up: My husband is home today with a horrible cold, but he still has to get work done, the poor guy, so we’re trying to be as quiet as a bunch of crying babies and chatty women can be.”

  “Damn,” Claire said. “My whole set list today was heavy metal, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Whitney gave a real smile then, although it evaporated back into a painted-on grin by the time they made their way into the living room. Gwen and Amara were both fussing over Amara’s baby, trying to make him stop crying. (No dice. That kid had a set of pipes on him.) On the couch, Meredith was pouring a generous amount of wine into Ellie’s glass while Ellie rolled her eyes at something. Vicki sat by the window, staring out at the trees. (Did Vicki talk? Perhaps she was a land-loving, bargain-striking mermaid who’d never managed to get her voice back from the sea witch.)

  “Look who’s here,” Whitney said in a cheerful whisper. As Claire took her guitar out of its case, the other mothers said their hellos and began to gather on the rug. Amara gave her a curt nod. Meredith whispered something to Ellie, and Ellie cackled, her laugh echoing around the room. Whitney stiffened. “Sorry, Ellie. Could you be a little quieter? Grant’s trying to work.”

  “Oops,” Ellie said. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s do some nice, mellow music today, huh?” Claire said.

  “Yeah, that sounds fun!” Gwen said, trying to hold little Reagan on her lap. Reagan, normally so well-behaved, was extra wriggly today, as if, even though she couldn’t control her own bowels, she too could sense the tension in the air.

  Claire began to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” There was a reason it was a classic. As the simple melody took hold, the babies slowly began to settle. Whitney caught her eye and gave her a grateful smile.

  And then a door next to the bookshelf opened, revealing the man whom Claire had seen in Whitney’s family photos. He was dressed smartly from the waist up, in a powder blue button-down shirt, but he wore gray sweatpants. He still looked like a Ken doll, albeit one with a runny, inflamed nose and, Claire guessed from the strain on his face, a pounding headache. The open door behind him showed an office in a state of disarray at odds with the cleanliness of the living room, with a large flat monitor on a desk, stacks of papers, and a few coffee mugs scattered around. Oh, he definitely worked in finance. Claire was willing to bet that, if she tried to talk to him about his work, she’d soon want to bludgeon herself to death with his computer monitor to escape the conversation.

  He moved over to Whitney and stood behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, honey,” Whitney whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own. The diamond on her finger caught the light from the fixture above. He nodded his head along to the beat as Claire played the rest of the song. Maybe it would have happened with the presence of any interloper, or maybe it was his maleness, but the group’s attention trickled to him, heads turning to catch the reactions of this unexpected judge towering above them.

  When Claire hit the final chord, he untangled his hand from Whitney’s and clapped. “That was adorable,” he said. “How’s playgroup going, ladies?”

  “Oh, it’s good,” said Gwen. “Thanks so much for having us. We love coming here.”

  “We’re sorry you’re sick, Grant!” Ellie said, pouting her lips out.

  He shook his head. “These head colds. They really get you. Otherwise, believe me, I’d never wear sweatpants in front of such special guests.” Even in the grip of a cold, he was a prep school Adonis, clean-cut and polite. If a man like this approached Claire in a bar, she’d assume he was about to ask for directions. Grant was not the sort of guy to hit on mere mortals.

  “Want to join us for a bit?” Whitney asked.

  Grant shook his head. “There’s nothing I’d love more, but I’ve got a video conference coming up soon.”

  “That’s too bad,” Gwen said.

  “So,” Grant said, “the thing is, the music.” He looked at Claire, holding up a conciliatory hand. “It sounds great, you’ve got a great voice, and hey, who doesn’t love ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’? But it’s coming straight through that door.”

  “Well, how long is the call?” Whitney asked. “We can hold off on music for a little while, if Claire doesn’t mind.” She turned to Claire. “We’d pay you extra for your time, of course.”

 
; Under that plastic Ken-doll veneer, Grant’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You never know how long these things are going to go.”

  “Ah,” Whitney said, pursing her lips, her cheekbones nearly slicing through her skin. She blinked. Grant looked down at the Rolex on his wrist and frowned at the time he saw there.

  Claire glanced around the circle. Meredith, Ellie, and Gwen wore blandly sympathetic looks on their faces. Amara had no such shield, and for a second, she and Claire locked eyes. (Vicki was sticking her finger into her son’s mouth and staring at him as he gnawed on it.)

  Then Whitney clapped her hands. “Oh, I know!” she said. “What if we had music on the balcony? We’ve got such a lovely view of the park, and lots of comfy chairs.”

  “It’s freezing,” Amara said.

  “I can try playing softer,” Claire said.

  “Maybe we should just call it off for today,” Meredith said, glancing at Ellie.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Ellie said. In the ensuing silence, they all looked at Whitney.

  “Oh,” she said. She was still smiling, her eyes bright, but in her lap, one of her hands was squeezing the other, digging nails into skin. “Well—”

  “Hey,” Grant said, holding out his arms triumphantly, “I’ve got a great idea. Gwen’s apartment!”

  “What?” Whitney asked.

  “We went there for the Christmas party, right? It’s just a couple blocks away, and it’s got plenty of space. Win, win!” He turned to Gwen. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “I . . . ,” Gwen said. “Well, sure. That could be fun.”

  “There you go!” Grant said as if he had just thrown a life raft into the water.

  “Ooh,” Meredith and Ellie said in unison, reaching out to grab hold.