Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  “Not exactly?” It comes out as a question, rather than a response.

  “Wait, you mean to tell me that you work at a baby magazine, you’re over thirty and you’ve never had your FSH levels checked? I assume you’ve thought about freezing your eggs.”

  “Not yet, no. I thought I had some time,” I tell her.

  “She thought she had time,” she remarks to Jules snarkily.

  “I was in a relationship. Then it ended. I’m figuring out my options. That’s why I’m here now.”

  “She was in a relationship,” once again Dr. Lakshmi tells Jules.

  I cower in the chair like a six-year-old. Ahhh. I don’t need this stress!

  “Look. I’m going to be honest with you. Too many women of your generation go around thinking they’ve got all the time in the world to have children. That they can wait until they’re forty, then start trying because they see Halle Berry having kids at forty-six. Do you know whose eggs she used?”

  Jules and I look at each other like we’ve been caught jumping on the bed.

  “Fertility isn’t something you play around with,” says Dr. Lakshmi. “If you want a baby, you’ve got to work for it,” she says, slapping her clipboard against the cold metal table. “It takes planning. Quick. Give me your gynecologist’s name. I can look up your most recent labs if you want me to. I’ve created a database in the cloud and many of the more cutting-edge doctors in the city have partnered with me.”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  She shakes her head as I hand over my information. “Ah, yes, your doctor’s registered with us. Electronic signature, please?” I use the stylus to sign yes on her tablet.

  The page finally loads, and Dr. Lakshmi does not look happy. “I see here that while everything checked out, your thyroid hormones were all off at your last appointment. You did nothing about them?”

  “No,” I say, now scared, which she notices. “My doctor didn’t mention it.”

  “We have to be our own fertility advocates!” she says sharply, sending a flood of tears to my eyes, which finally softens her.

  “Woah...your progesterone is basically at zero. Wait a minute. Your cortisol, too, totally depleted.” She looks at my cheeks and my upper arms. “Do you have a lot of stress in your life?”

  Ugh... I don’t even speak before she starts again.

  “I’ve been seeing this a lot. Professional women, totally burned out by thirty. Have you had your adrenals checked? Any traumas in the past ten years?” I list them laundry-style: divorce, cancer, financial stress, potential firing, onslaught of double workload brought on by intentionally clueless, rich dinosaur, young mom.

  “Wow. With that list, I’m surprised you haven’t had a psychotic breakdown.”

  Hmm.

  “Listen, there are things you can do to improve the matter. As a start, many of our women have had success removing gluten, sugar and caffeine from their diets.”

  “What if she’s heavily reliant on gluten, sugar and caffeine in her diet to make it through every day?” quips Jules. Dr. Lakshmi doesn’t look amused.

  “Have you thought about a meditation practice. Stress is really the biggest factor. Most likely, you’ve got some adrenal fatigue issues due to job stress. I’m working on an entire longitudinal study on Generation X versus Millennial attitudes toward stress, resilience and fertility. You could learn a thing or two from twentysomething millennials who are now thinking about their fertility just as they would with a 401K.”

  Have you ever thought that you might be the ones causing said stress? Just saying.

  “Well, at the very least try to cut back on alcohol. Get outside. Maybe think about starting a window garden.” Jules and I just look at each other in misery. “And a gratitude journal.” The final swing. I can’t help hide a snicker.

  “Look.” She’s noticed. “I’m not going to play any more games with you two, hold your hands or sing you through this. You’ve got to want this. If you don’t, I don’t want to see your faces in my office. Think of me like your fertility boot-camp officer. I don’t waste time with lazy-ass women. This is New York City. You want drugs, I’ll get you drugs. You want the best acupuncturist in this city? You’re in. You want cysto-blast technology that would make eugenicists blush, I’ve got it. You want designer sperm so hot Paddy Cakes would kill to put that baby on the cover, it’s yours. But I do not suffer fools. Especially ones who can’t get their carbohydrate addictions under control. Now out! I don’t want to see you until you’ve lost five pounds and wiped those precious smirks off your faces!” Jules and I both scamper to our feet.

  “I like her,” says Jules.

  “Me, too,” I say, as we run out of the doors back toward the Bird Cage.

  * * *

  Dr. Lakshmi’s sobering words of advice make me wonder if I am wasting my time with Gavin. Thanks to this disclosure about my errant progesterone and possible adrenal burnout, my date is the last thing that’s on my mind. Still, as I walk out of the doors of the Bird Cage, I think, Stay in control and you’ll be fine. Of course I can stay in control. I am Liz Buckley, master of the universe.

  Riding toward the West Village, the summer heat fills the cab and overwhelms the AC. This time of the year the air feels heavy before the late summer rain arrives. The hair on the back of my neck is hot and sweaty.

  I swipe my ATM card to pay the fare, clenching at the thought of my ever-declining bank balance. I jump out and smooth the front of my dress on the street corner, then rifle through my overstuffed bag and pull up the Google Map directions. As I look up, I realize Gavin is staring at me from across the street, laughing.

  “Looking good there, gorgeous,” he says, crossing Waverley Place to meet me. He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the lips, before I can realize it, and then a big smile.

  “You know, Liz, I couldn’t stop thinking about you these past few weeks,” he says later, trying to hide a grin while reading his menu.

  “Really?” I feel a surge of electricity rush in.

  “Really,” he says resolutely, coming in for a kiss on my cheek. I feel his warmth. I may be succumbing. Just a little.

  At dinner, we proceed to get into an easy, fun expectationless rhythm, as we talk about the minutiae of our jobs and our friends; when I begin to let my guard down, he takes out his phone to show me pictures of his brother’s family, who’s in town for the next week. He’s got dozens of pictures of his four-year-old niece, Dani, running through his family’s vineyards from a recent trip back home. As he shows me, I can tell he’s a bit lit up. Then, as the restaurant is closing, we settle up and head out toward the curb. At 10 p.m. it’s still terribly hot out. He checks his phone again.

  “Looks like Santo and crew are at the Pig. Want to go meet up with them?” A flash of excitement swells inside. The third floor of The Spotted Pig is the late-night meeting spot of all the celeb chefs in New York City. The thought of meeting foodie royalty like April Bloomfield is thrilling. How I wish I could interview her for my blog. Could it be that Gavin really has an in with them?

  “Sure, of course,” I try to say coolly.

  In a few minutes, we’re already out of a cab and walking up the steps to the notorious top floor of the gastropub on West Eleventh Street.

  Inside, early ’80s punk is playing and inked-up chefs are sitting around a crowded table, digging into bowls of pasta and drinking tumblers of wine. They give Gavin a nod when we walk in. I’m dying to Instagram this and tag Ford.

  “What would you like to drink?” asks Gavin up at the bar area.

  “You choose a wine,” I say, taking in the scene around the room, as I notice some of the guys are chatting up younger, very thin, pretty girls who I’m guessing are either models or actresses in their twenties.

  “So will it be this 2000 Barolo, or the usual Bogan stuff you’re h
awking, Gav,” teases Johnny, who teaches at the New York Culinary Institute and who, from Top Chef, I know used to be the head pastry chef at Daniel. Gavin introduces me, and Johnny passes both of us half pours in tumblers.

  “Oh, you know I’ve upped my ante these days,” Gavin says, glancing at me. He pulls out his own bottle from his messenger bag and quickly pours us new glasses. “Try this. It’s young—Barossa Valley Raz, ’13—but destined to be a classic.”

  Johnny sniffs and quickly swills it back. Then, lingering to let the aromas hit his palate, looks me up and down. “Not bad, Gav. You’re doing better than I thought.”

  Gavin just gives a naughty look in return.

  I take sips of both. “I think I like Johnny’s better. It’s more polished and refined.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, love,” jokes Gavin. “It’s all marketing. Beyond that slick exterior, lies vulnerable and tempestuous little grapes that can turn.” Johnny smirks. “Shiraz are more upfront grapes. What you see is what you get. That’s something I value.”

  “Oh, what the fuck do you know? Liz, here’s a man who’s afraid of showing his vulnerability.”

  “Fuckin’ bloody pretty boy chef,” teases Gavin.

  “Fuckin’ Aussie wanker,” Johnny fires back.

  “Hey, hey now, there’s room in the sandbox for both of you,” I tease. They smile. While Gavin turns to chat up one of the Spotted Pig’s wine buyers, Johnny continues.

  “So what do you do, Liz?” he says, changing the subject.

  “I’m a magazine editor.”

  “Nice.” Johnny looks interested and impressed. Since chefs rely on good press, I can tell he’s well aware of how my industry works, and that in his world at least, editors can be important people to know. “Where?”

  “Paddy Cakes,” I reply.

  “Very cool. They just featured my buddy’s new restaurant upstate on the Hudson, I think, on some family-friendly, farm-to-table roundup on foodie getaways for families. It helped get him more press.”

  I nod, smiling.

  “So what’s a beautiful magazine editor who’s clearly got her shit together doing hanging around with this wanker?” His flirtatiousness warms me up, and it’s also just loud enough that Gavin seems to hear, and puts a hand on my knee.

  “Oh, he’s just someone I called in from a male escort service—he’s cute, but bad taste in wine,” I joke, and Gavin overhears, giving me a playful jab in my side.

  In an hour, the tiny top-floor space is now filled with younger-looking chefs, more models and a few members of the cast of Boardwalk Empire. I’m getting tired, so I make a signal to Gavin that it might be time to leave. He turns and nods, and asks to stay just a minute.

  “So I saw Elle the other day,” a young chef quietly says to Gavin, though I’m able to overhear. “And Olivia was asking about you, too.” The chef gives Gavin an unmistakably sly look, which makes Gavin squirm a bit. They could just be wine contacts, I think. We’re having such a good night that I’m not going to spoil it with negative assumptions. Plus, we’re not together, something I’ve made clear, so it shouldn’t matter.

  “Wanna get out of here, love?” asks Gavin finally, clapping his hands closed, then standing up, taking my hand. Gavin says his goodbyes and we make our way down the creaky darkened stairwell. Now is the moment, I tell myself. I’m ready for my first hookup since the Ryan debacle.

  Once outside on the curb, he sweeps me into his arms and gives me a good, long, deep kiss, then, jolting me out of my reverie, says, “I had a great night, love. Don’t worry, I’ll put you in a cab.”

  In a blur, his arm is up and he’s already hailed a cab. I get a quick peck, and then I’m somehow staring at him, a taxi window between us as he blows me a kiss. What the what?!

  Twenty-Three

  Saturday, I text Addison and Brie and suggest a ’90s movie marathon night at my place. Addison texts back that her twenty-eight-year-old Frenchie is in town on business and has tickets for the Governers Ball on Randall’s Island. Brie texts that she is heading to Doug’s family’s beach house in Amagansett for the weekend. I end up walking the whole Bridle Path on Saturday morning wearing the bump—it’s become my new normal.

  First thing Sunday morning, I have no shame in trying out Irving Farm, the new gapster coffee shop in my neighborhood in order to pen a blog post about it on MoveableFeast. This time, I think about Alix’s polish and conciseness in finalizing the copy rather than my typical verbal spew. I add an array of imagery to create a collage-like effect that I have to admit, makes it really pop. This is the difference between a magazine editor and a blogger. Moments after I set it live, Gavin’s texting.

  Hey, love, I know it’s last-minute notice, but my brother and sister-in-law are in town. They’ve asked me to watch Dani and the baby for a few hours while they attend to some business. Care to help me? Something inside pulls at me.

  I text him back, simply, Sure, and agree to meet at Belvedere Castle in the park. When I walk up over the hill toward the Sheep Meadow, I spot his sandy locks. He’s dressed down in a faded blue V-neck T, khaki shorts, flip-flops—and he’s holding the hand of a little girl wearing a handmade fairy princess dress. His back is turned, so I walk up to greet him, smacking his butt. He turns toward me, and I notice he’s on the phone with someone. As he turns toward me, strapped to the front of him is a BabyBjorn.

  “Lizzie! Glad you can make it!” A few beads of sweat drip down the sides of his face. Dani starts dancing on his toes and then hopping off. The baby starts shrieking wildly as he bends down to pick dandelions with Dani.

  “Dandelions for the most beautiful Danilion,” he says, offering his niece a flower, lighting her up as he tries to calm the fussy baby. He looks different than I’ve ever seen him. Vulnerable. And nervous. Instantly, an instinct kicks in, and I begin taking charge.

  “Dani, want to play follow the leader with me? Uncle Gavin’s on the phone!”

  “Sure,” the curly haired little blonde girl says with the cutest lisp-tinged Australian accent. She grabs my hand, and I swing her around, then start skipping around the park with her while Gavin finishes his call. Finally, he comes to meet us. We each take one of her hands as we walk up the steps to the top of the castle. It feels, well, magical.

  But Gavin’s phone keeps going off, distracting him. I take Dani to the lookout point in the tower by myself. Pretty soon, I can feel her already warm personality softening even further as she asks me to pick her up.

  “Lizzie, you’re pretty,” she says, pushing a wisp off my face as we stare out at the lawn in front of us.

  “Thank you, Dani. You are, too.”

  “I know,” she says, cutely, brushing her curls off my face. “Uncle Gavo tells me that I’m the prettiest of all his girls.” I wince. Then Dani changes gears, calling for Gavin to come over. “I want ife cream!” Gavin clicks the phone shut and walks over to us now.

  “It’s eleven thirty in the morning, Dani. You can’t have ife cream.”

  “I want ife cream”

  “Me, too!” I say, siding with Dani.

  “Do you really need ice cream, Lizzie, come on.”

  “Gavin, it’s a thing,” I reason. “All girls need ice cream on hot summer days.”

  “Yeah, Uncle Gavo, all girls need ice cream. It’s a fing!” Dani nods in agreement.

  “Okay, I’m just going to make one more call. Hold on.” Gavin walks toward the stairs until he’s out of eyesight.

  “My uncle Gavin talks to girls a lot.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, but you’re my favorite.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Because you like the same stuff I do. Like ife cream.”

  “How long has Uncle Gavo been talking to girls?”

  Dani looks confused as she’s thinking
about it, then seems to lose focus as a golden Lab bounds up the stairs. “I don’t know, doggie!”

  “All right, my beauties, ready to go?” says Gavin, returning.

  We walk down the steps toward the Belgian waffle food truck, and Gavin generously treats us to one waffle sundae each, and both Dani and I manage to get it all over our noses. Afterward, the three of us walk toward the Bridle Path. From the look in Dani’s eyes, she’s clearly enamored with her uncle. As I see how he treats her—like a princess—I begin to think about possibilities, too. It’s as if he’s had practice at this. But how could that be? To my knowledge he’s been traveling the world his whole adult life, hopping from port to port.

  We find a patch in the grass near the rocky crag near Eighty-First Street, and Dani pulls a few books from the diaper bag, including The Giving Tree. We sit, me on one side, Dani in the middle, Gavin and the baby on the other, as he’s actually feeding the baby with a bottle of breast milk.

  I page through—about the boy swinging from her branches, and sleeping in her shade, and then over time cutting down her trunk and sailing away, then finally coming back. And all the while, the tree was happy. Dani looks on, rapt.

  By the end of the story, wetness fills the corner of my eyes, and Gavin can tell.

  “I don’t get it. Why would he cut down the tree if he loved her?” Dani asks me, worried.

  “It’s about a mother’s love,” I tell her. “Moms do anything for their kids,” I tell her solemly. She still seems a bit worried.

  “And they tickle them! Here...” I tickle her side. “And here!” I tickle her foot. I look at Gavin, and there’s a softening. He gives me a half smile. Then, clears his throat. Dani’s waving away the tiredness in her eyes already.

  “Two o’clock, girls, time to get back.”

  “Nooooo, not yet, Uncle Gavo!”

  “You, my little princess, need to get back home into bed for your beauty rest. And you my big princess do, too.” Gavin gives me a devilish grin.

  “I want to stay out with Lizzie!” cries Dani.