by Julia Kent
Diane looks like a British nanny, hair pulled back in a tight bun, red lips severe.
I don’t generally evaluate the women I work with like this. I’m not an actual monk, so my head does turn on occasion, but not with these women. Not in this environment. Every woman I encounter these days catches my eye as I compare them to Chloe.
Chloe wins.
Every damn time.
“Great. Now we have a dozen donuts and four lattes left over,” Mari complains.
“I’m sure someone will scavenge if we put them in the employee lounge,” Diane says, taking a Boston Cream donut for herself. She flashes Mari a guilty grin. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Mari pats her hip. “If they stay on my desk, they’ll just end up here.”
I walk out of the room, the conversation a blur, as I wonder why Chloe never answered my last text.
Which was, ironically enough, the question, “What’s new?”
What’s new.
I make my way to my office, so numb, the hot coffee in my hand feels cold. Closing my door, I start pacing, mind spinning, blood racing suddenly.
Baby. She had the baby.
Or, rather, the birth mother did. Chloe told me a bit about her. Homeless teen on the streets. Met her during a volunteer stint with the gO Spa RV. The story sounded crazy when Chloe told it, and I had my doubts.
I was wrong, apparently.
The coffee burns my throat as I swallow, and I choke, forced to feel something tangible, some specific sensation that cuts through the blurring rush of too many conclusions I’m jumping to, too many emotions pouring through me.
Damn it.
Why didn’t she answer my text?
Is this a brush off? As my kids would say, am I being “ghosted”?
It’s not like I can go on Reddit and ask someone the modern dating protocol for what to do when the woman you’re with suddenly adopts a baby and doesn’t return texts.
I’m pretty sure this is a one-off.
Besides, if she ghosts on me, I’m stuck with over a thousand dollars worth of sex toys and crap from her ex-lover.
I’m also pretty sure I’m screwing up this whole dating thing.
“Think,” I mutter. “Think, Nick. What does Chloe want?” Memories of her body, under me, over me, the way she tastes during that second kiss, the one where lips part and tongues speak with more authenticity, flood my body, becoming a new pulse, telling me the truth between us.
And then I remember the baby.
Chloe is a mother.
Dating? I don’t understand the language of dating.
But I speak fluent Parenthood.
Those first few days with a baby are like being handed an octopus and a hand grenade without the pin at the same time you’re blindfolded on roller blades. And deprived of any sleep.
Poor Chloe.
My laugh echoes through my office as I remember the first few hours of managing twin newborns.
And yet.
And yet… she hasn’t reached out.
Bzzz.
I grab my phone like it’s a life preserver.
It’s Jean-Marc, with a text:
Maman says the divorce decree puts you in charge of paying 100% for my study-abroad fees, Dad. The coordinator said you still owe $500 for next year’s Geneva semester. Sorry, dude.
Right.
Fluent in parenting.
Lately, my fluency involves currency more than anything.
Opening my laptop, I navigate the NYU bursar’s office page and take care of Jean-Marc’s bill, deeply torn, wondering why Chloe hasn’t sent a text.
A simple text.
I know those first few days are hard, but… nothing?
Not one word.
Chapter 13
Chloe
Day One with Charlotte. The countdown begins.
The doorbell rings. Jemma goes to answer it.
“Your grandmother is here,” I inform the baby. “Don’t spit up, poop, cry, or draw too much attention to yourself. I’m just sayin’.”
She studies me intently. She poops.
Sigh.
“You are not off to a good start,” I tell her, reaching for the baby wipes. One of her eyes is crossed and she doesn’t focus. She fusses as if I’ve inconvenienced her with this diaper change.
I can hear my mother’s voice. She is telling Jemma about the flight.
“Air travel is just not what it used to be,” Charlotte’s saying. “Have you seen what people wear on airplanes? Sweat pants! In first class!”
“Shocking,” Jem murmurs. “Awful.”
“Even the stewardesses are wearing flats!” Charlotte is outraged.
“Um, I don’t think they’re called stewardesses anymore,” Jemma says, but Charlotte doesn’t even hear her.
“I need a martini,” my mother announces. “Grey Goose. Two olives.”
Silence.
“Please,” she adds, like a toddler who has been coached, but who uses the word only as a last resort.
There is a slight pause, and I hear the freezer open. Even feisty Jemma knows that Charlotte must be served. It’s just easier that way.
“And where is my granddaughter?”
“Right here,” I answer.
Holly, once again clean and sweet smelling, is dressed for the occasion in a tiny white Jacadi bubble suit that Charlotte sent last month from Paris. It has pale blue piping and a ruffled collar, and it probably cost about as much as my last new dress. The difference is that Holly will wear hers maybe twice before she grows out of it.
But she looks undeniably adorable.
Charlotte holds out her arms, and I carefully transfer Holly into them. For a long, quiet moment, the two of them inspect each other.
“Miss Holliday Browne,” my mother says softly. “I am very pleased to meet you. I am your grandmother. You may call me Mimi.”
Jem gives me the side-eye. “How appropriate,” she says sweetly.
There are three martini glasses on the counter. I take one. I’m going to need it.
My mother appears to notice me for the first time.
“Chloe, you look tired.”
“Well,” I smile, perhaps too brightly, “new baby. Not much sleep for the past week. I’m so glad you’re here to help, Mom.”
“My bags are by the door,” she says. “You can put them in my room.”
Right. Will do.
“Okay, then,” Jemma begins, standing up. “I can see I’m leaving Chloe and Holly in good hands, so I’ll just be getting home to Henry. Thank you for the martini. The T is so much more endurable after a cocktail.”
“Oh Jem,” I say, with some urgency, “Oh Jem. Why don’t you stay a little while longer? Wouldn’t you like another drink? After all, it’s Friday… isn’t it? Don’t go yet.”
She continues gathering her things. I follow her to the door, alternately pleading, bribing, and threatening.
“Jemma, let’s call Henry and he can meet us here. We’ll get takeout from the tapas place you love. Just stay for dinner, Jem, and I’ll come over when Henry’s parents visit! I’ll take them to a museum for an entire afternoon!”
She looks at me sympathetically, but keeps buttoning her coat.
“Chloe, it will be fine,” she says firmly. “Charlotte is here to help. Get some rest. Take a nap.”
“Ha,” I reply bitterly. “They’ll be napping. I’ll be doing their laundry. You know how it always goes.”
“First thing in the morning, send Charlotte off to shop on Newbury Street,” she advises. “You won’t see her for the rest of the day. Especially now that she has Holly to shop for, too.”
Charlotte calls from the kitchen.
“Chloe? I need to lie down before you make dinner. Come take the baby.”
“See?” I hiss at Jemma.
“And I need to unpack,” Charlotte continues. “A few of my things are going to need to be ironed. Where shall I put them?”
I hear Holly start to fuss, tentat
ively.
Jemma waves her fingers and slips out the door.
“Chloe?” my mother calls. “She’s crying.”
Right.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Holly is quietly sucking on my mother’s manicured pinky finger.
Charlotte’s martini glass is in front of her on the counter, about two-thirds empty. She looks at me innocently. Way too innocently. I narrow my eyes.
“Mom. You wouldn’t,” I start. “You wouldn’t give vodka to a tiny baby…?”
My mother removes her finger from the baby’s mouth, stands, and hands Holly over to me. The baby looks surprised, then her little face wrinkles up in outrage. She turns bright red. She’s too little to make much noise, but she’s giving it her all. With my spare hand, I get a bottle of infant formula out of the fridge.
Charlotte, meanwhile, has topped off her glass. She picks it up and heads out of the room, leaving behind a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Her signature scent.
I cough. Quietly, I hope.
She reappears in the door. “The sooner I can unpack, the less ironing there will be,” she says, and disappears again. My mother is nothing if not considerate.
It’s going to be a very long two weeks.
I reach for my phone and check for texts.
Nothing.
* * *
Day Two with Charlotte.
Holly was hungry at 1:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., and 6:30. At 7:15 a.m., she finally falls peacefully to sleep. I stagger into the kitchen and start the coffee maker. Which I loaded last night in anticipation of this desperate moment. I drag a counter stool over to the machine and sit watching each life-giving drop fall as if it were an IV drip in intensive care.
It is, actually. Except I’m giving the intensive care instead of getting it.
There’s a distinct smell of Chanel No. 5. I jump.
“Good morning,” Charlotte says. She is wearing a light cotton robe in a lavender animal print. In which jungle, exactly, are there lavender ocelots? Her slippers have tulle pompoms on the toes.
They also have kitten heels. I guess that’s appropriate?
She is wearing crystal drop earrings. And lipstick. Her ash-blonde hair is pulled up in a twist.
I am wearing a grey hoodie from college. My hair has not been washed in three days. I could lubricate machinery with it.
“Is the coffee ready?” she continues. “I didn’t hear the coffee grinder. You did grind the beans fresh, didn’t you, dear? Is there low-fat milk? Organic?”
I don’t answer.
“Chloe? Is there low-fat milk? You know I’m not a breakfast eater, but are there any of those hazelnut biscotti from that bakery in the North End? I need a little extra energy this morning. You woke me up three times last night, turning on lights and banging around in the kitchen. Broken sleep makes it very difficult for the human brain to function.”
I take deep, cleansing breaths. They don’t help. She’s still there.
“Really, Mom?” I start. “Lack of sleep causes problems?”
At that moment, the coffee maker hisses and sends up a cloud of steam. I bite my tongue.
Be nice, Chloe.
She came all the way from Florida to help. She is missing the monthly dinner dance at the club. She is sacrificing her Wednesday golf game. She has left her boyfriend, Howard, in Palm Beach.
Howard is 78. Or so he says. He adores my mother. She refuses to marry him, or even move in with him, so he bought the condo next door to hers. He likes to keep an eye on her.
Maybe he’d like to keep a close eye and visit us.
Now.
“Coffee’s ready,” I announce. “There is milk. There are no biscotti, but there are cinnamon crackers.”
“Oh,” she says. “Oh. Maybe you could get some today. It would be a nice outing for you and the baby.”
It is going to be 95 degrees today, with ninety-eight percent humidity. The word they are using on weather.com is oppressive.
A trip on the T with a newborn baby to the North End of Boston to buy Italian cookies for my mother, who is supposed to be easing my exhaustion as I adjust to motherhood, is not a “nice outing.” It is a slow, suffocating cattle car to the first circle of hell. And back.
“Well,” I answer, gritting my teeth, “maybe.” Tomorrow. I can stall until tomorrow. My mother is easily distracted. If I dangle a different shiny idea in front of her, she will give me a twenty-four-hour reprieve.
“And now,” she says, in martyred tones, “why don’t you just rest? I’ll take the baby for you.”
The baby has been asleep for half an hour. According to her daily pattern, she will be asleep for another two hours.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Honey?” she adds, as I head to the shower, “In case you’re going to do any hand-washing, I left a few fine unmentionables by your sink.”
I check my phone for texts. Nothing.
Nothing from anyone.
Nothing from Nick.
Nick
“Dude, you got a package,” Charlie announced, tossing it lightly in his arms before handing it off to me. “From some place called Never Liked It Anyway?”
I groan. “Damn.” Work involved fourteen hours of conference calls and team meetings to debate the intellectual property implications of using a logo with a mark that was just close enough to a major sportswear company’s signature logo. Fourteen hours of lawyers and designers and clients going head to head.
I’m about to find out if I own enough beer to make this day go away.
“Is that the strap-on?” Charlie asks.
I huff. “Open it if you want.”
“I don’t exactly want to open it.” Charlie contemplates the seemingly-innocent white box with a broken red heart and piles of money as the logo. “But I gotta admit I’m curious.”
“Right. Like watching presidential primary debates.”
“Exactly.” His face lights up.
I undo my tie, shrug out of my suit jacket, and enjoy the blast of cold that hits me when I open the fridge.
No beer.
“Charlie,” I say in a low growl. “Where’s the beer?”
He smacks his forehead. “I knew I forgot to do something today!”
“What else were you supposed to do in your incredibly jam-packed schedule?” I’m sure he didn’t forget the all-important two o’clock nap.
“I was helping Amelie.” One of the most endearing—and annoying as hell—qualities in Charlie is his Teflon-like ability to let other people’s anger roll off him. Most people absorb whatever people around them radiate.
Charlie doesn’t.
I envy him.
Until I’m the person whose anger—justifiably pointed at him—rolls off his back.
“Let’s go for a walk. I’ll be your pack mule.”
“My what?”
“My bad. I forgot. Let’s go to the store and get some beer. I’ll carry it. You look like you could use a walk, Nick. Your shoulders are around your ears.”
“Wait. You were helping Amelie? With what?”
“Her concert.”
“Which concert?”
“The one Simone’s coming home for.”
Coming home and Simone don’t sit well in the same sentence.
“That’s not for a while, Charlie.”
“Right. But Amelie wants it to be perfect.”
The last thing I need today is more confusion. I grab the house keys and start for the door. “Fine, Pack Mule. Let’s go. I’m loading up on Sea Belt and red sour ales.”
Charlie flexes his arms, showing off guns. His t-shirt’s torn and he’s wearing Celtics green basketball shorts. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days. “Great. Bring it on.”
“And it’s your turn to buy.”
“No prob.”
We’re halfway down the block when I reluctantly ask. “What do you mean, ‘no prob’? You wouldn’t be couch surfing at my place if money were ‘no prob.’”
“Bitcoin investment
paid off. Some guy—”
“Oh, god, Charlie.” If I let him, the next five blocks to the liquor store will be dominated by talks about cryptocurrency and undervalued Second Life Linden dollars, along with some other currency called Ether.
“What? I made a few grand.”
“Regained what you lost?”
“Yep. Broke even.”
“Congrats. When are you getting a job? A real one.”
“I have one!”
“One that involves actual income. Not a business that lives in your MacAir.”
“Hey—this is how I want to live. I don’t have kids tying me down. Don’t care about stuff. Why does it bother you so much, Nick?”
Good question.
“You choose to be the corporate slave,” he adds.
Here we go. Same old conversation. Charlie the free spirit vs. Nick the drone.
“My kids’ college tuition is my form of indentured servitude.”
“But that ends soon. You won’t need all the board meetings and the endless talk about logos and the secretary who dominates the coffee machine and the asshole above you who specializes in Six Sigma like it’s a cult. You can sell everything and live a tetherless life.”
“My kids are my tether, Charlie.”
“But things don’t have to be.”
“Is this the point in the conversation where I start sounding like Dad? I can never remember my lines. Got a script?” We’re at the liquor store now, the pneumatic door opening before I can bash it with my tense arms, and as we walk down the warehouse-like aisles, Charlie is on my heels.
“Look, Nick, I’ve watched you sacrifice everything for the kids. And you’re a good father. The best damn dad I’ve ever seen. Even better than ours.”
I stop short. That’s high praise.
“And he’d have been proud of you.”
Damn it. The bridge of my nose tingles. I pinch it, blinking. Haven’t changed my contacts since I got up at 5 a.m. Eyes are dry and scratchy. My throat starts to close. Dusk settles in outside. My day has been filled with nothing but tension and conflict, indecision and complaints.
And that’s just work.
And then I sigh.