by Meghann Foye
I slump back in my chair. That’s it, then. The MEAA award glimmers in the corner, taunting me. Then, I think of my dad. Fight for it, Lizzie.
I know what to do.
I first run to the bathroom with a change of clothes—jeans and a gypsy top—and change out of my wet dress. I grab my coat and bag, then take the elevator down all the way to the first-floor lobby, walking outside into the brisk October air, letting it wash over my body—uncovered—for the first time in six months. I start walking up Seventh, all the way to Forty-Ninth Street, cutting over to Eighth, where I wait patiently for the traffic light to turn to green, then bound across into the familiar place. But Ryan is nowhere to be found.
Seamus is there, though, in his usual spot, wiping down the bar.
“Where is he?” I ask simply.
“Haven’t seen him, tonight, Lizzie. I’m sorry.”
“You know my name?”
“Ryan’s told me about you a bit.” He brings his head down. Then looks around. “I shouldn’t be telling ye, but he took quite a shine to you in the end.”
“But why didn’t he just tell me that?” Again, Seamus looks down, as if trying to decide whether to tell me something.
“Lizzie, Ryan’s been through a lot.”
“What do you mean?” My stomach falls. He immediately grows silent.
“Did yer man ever tell you how his father died?”
My stomach lurches. “Yes, in a terrible fire about fifteen years ago.” Seamus appears to steady himself.
“He did. There,” he says simply. He points to a picture of the twin blue flames lighting up the night sky in place of them. My entire body convulses. All of a sudden it all makes sense. The seriousness. Why he could possibly be single, still. His insistence that I make things up with my father. The documentary about alternative energy sources. He’s a unicorn.
Seamus acknowledges my understanding with a look of recognition. “Stephen Murphy was a member of New York City’s finest and a regular here before he moved to Philadelphia with his family when he retired. When that sorry day happened, he got in his car to be with his old ladder just like many of the retired men did—and didn’t make it out. He didn’t have to be here.” Tears roll down my cheeks. Why didn’t Ryan tell me?
“I’ve known Stephen my whole life. Ryan comes here, I think, in part to hear me tell stories—I’m an Irish storyteller—you know. We can go on and on. I think he comes to keep his dad’s memory alive. Ryan’s really been the rock for the whole family. But he has no one to lean on himself. He’s had a hard time letting people become close. The way he talked about you earlier this summer, I thought maybe he might finally have found his girl. He’s been holding out for the right one for a long time.” I quietly tear up as he tells me.
“Seamus, I’ve done something incredibly stupid—”
“I know, miss. I figured when I saw you that day. Just tell him the truth. If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
I heave a huge sigh. I have to make this right. Then, all of a sudden, in walks Ryan. His face looks crestfallen. His eyes, puffy and swollen. Then, when he sees me, there’s a hint of anger. His eyes grow dark.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ryan, I need to explain something to you.”
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Please.” My voice strengthens. Seamus walks away, letting us be.
“Ryan,” I start. “I was telling the truth before. I was pretending to be pregnant at work.”
“But why?” His eyes are searching.
“I don’t know. I felt trapped and claustrophobic and it felt like I had no other choice. It was stupid. But I have learned a lot along the way. I don’t regret it. Most importantly that I’m never going to put aside going after what I really want. I’m going to tell the truth from now on. And the truth is, I want you.”
At the admission, Ryan puts his laptop bag down hard on the table. “You know, it’s not that easy, Lizzie. You really hurt me. A lot. I want to trust you, but I just don’t know if I can.”
“I understand,” I say simply. “But you know, you didn’t tell me the whole truth, either.”
He looks taken aback. “Seamus told me everything,” I say, sending my eyes toward the poster. He flinches.
“Oh. I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t really tell people about that.”
“But why?”
“Lizzie, you’d never understand, but I don’t want to see the look of pity. I can’t see it anymore. I had enough of that. I just want to put it behind me.” He looks down. I draw his head up. We both look at one another, taking it all in.
“I’m sorry. I guess, I thought that you were just too good. I could never tell you.”
“I’m not that good, Lizzie, trust me. I was pretty messed up after it all happened. Seamus has had to pull me out of the toilet on occasion.” He catches himself getting lost in the memory and then straightens up.
We both look down for a second, hands in our laps.
“Do you think you could forgive me? I’ll be here. Anytime. Not pregnant. You know. Available.”
“I just don’t know.” He looks off to the distance.
“Ryan, you once told me that everyone deserves a second chance. You don’t have to give me one and I’ll understand if you never want to talk to me again, but I don’t want to make another stupid mistake that I’ll regret, so I’m asking for your forgiveness if you’ll give it to me.” I sit still. I’ve got to take my licks.
Ryan stares only at his hands, ringing them together. I gaze back at him, realizing the mysteries that connect us and the ones that tie us together full-circle are deeper and more mysterious than we’ll ever understand. Why the mommy wars? Why meternity? Why breast cancer? Why divorce? Why do we continue to hurt one another? Whatever the answers are, I vow in this moment to never lie to Ryan ever again, if given the chance to be with him. The awareness seems to click as he moves his eyes up from his hands to my own. Still, there’s grief. Long buried and new, mixing together, still simmering.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Seamus has been watching the whole thing.
And then, the lights go down. I can’t believe it. Karaoke night is starting.
He nods. I know what I’ve got to do. I walk over to Seamus who is holding the songbook, then bring it back over.
“What song do you want? I’m singing.”
“Liz, don’t. Please don’t,” says Ryan.
“That’s it. Here I go...” Alanis starts up, and the familiar tune plays.
“A traffic jam, when you’re already late. A no-smoking sign, on a cigarette break. It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife...”
Ryan shakes his head.
“I have to,” I tell him.
“You can’t.”
“It’s like meeting the man of your dreams...”
“Oh, God, Liz Buckley. I can’t let you do this alone,” butts in Ryan, grabbing the mike.
“And then meeting his beautiful wife...” he sings out, looking at me, and thankfully, we finish the song together.
“You know I never got that song,” he says. “None of it’s ironic.”
“I think it’s about life...all of it is...” I say, as Ryan pulls me in and kisses me hard on the lips. And this time, I know it’s for real.
Thirty-One
The next day—Saturday—I come into the office, trying to finish up all my work and, honestly, trying to put it all out of my mind. While I’m researching the state of maternal rights in the workplace, an email from Cynthia pops into my inbox. It’s 7:30 p.m. and no one else is in the office besides us.
“Come over.”
I shoot right over, worried. And from the look on her face, Cynthia can tell.
“Close the door.”
I do as she says and sit down. She stares at me for what feels like five minutes, silent. Then she starts.
“Elizabeth. Alix’s story idea is great, but it’s not the total truth, is it, now?”
I look down, unsure of how to respond.
“I’ll answer that for you. No. As for the fake pregnancy, I’ve known all along. Do you think I’d be so stupid to believe that over the course of six months, your plumpness would never so much as extend beyond the beautiful perfectly round orb on your waist? And that contributing editor film from Newport—that was just too much.”
My heart feels like it’s about to stop.
“One question,” says Cynthia in an uncharacteristically soft tone, which surprises me. I’d have thought the first words out of her mouth would be in the form of high-pitched shrieking.
“Why did you do it?”
I’m not expecting this question and have no answer to give. Instead of thinking into the future or past for an answer, measuring my sentences or trying to control the situation, I find myself spilling it, words coming out on their own.
“I don’t know,” I start. “I was just so sick of, of, trying so hard, and seeing everyone else get rewarded. Of not being noticed. And of thinking all my work would never be read or appreciated. Feeling like the only ideas that were getting accepted weren’t ones that I believed in. I mean, who needs to pay a thousand dollars for a stroller, or teach their newborn Cantonese or get matching Barbour jackets that they’re just going to grow out of in three months anyway?” I am panting, but continue.
“I wanted to travel the world and find my voice, and write deep, meaningful stories that matter to women. I’m so sick of overthinking everything and worrying about pleasing everyone but myself. I did it because I thought that Alix and Jeffry were having an affair—but, really, I think it was because I felt burned out, and that I didn’t care what the consequences were. I just knew that I needed to unstick myself any way that I could. I just needed a ‘meternity.’”
By the end, I am out of breath.
“Are you finished?” Cynthia asks. My eyes, wet with exhausted tears, were staring down this whole time, and as I was saying this I wasn’t even looking up to see her expression.
“Yes,” I say solemnly.
“Look, what is it that you want? What do you really want?” Cynthia says. Again I’m a little taken aback. “I know the articles about thousand-dollar strollers are ridiculous, but that’s what drives numbers. I actually thought you were enjoying writing the features. You were doing a great job on them and winning the awards that keep us in business.”
I don’t know where she is going with this, so instead of speaking, I think it best to let her talk.
“Look, Liz, when I was your age, I felt exactly the same way you did. We didn’t have as many choices then or, God, even fifteen years ago. We were told that hard work and a cutthroat spirit would get us where we wanted to go. It was sold to me, too, that getting to the next step in your career would make you happy. Well, luckily it has for me—in a way,” she says, taking a deep, long breath. “But I know it’s not that way for everyone. I thought long and hard about all the ways I could fire you last night, but then I realized, I’d just be doing the same exact thing that was done to me—leaving a smart woman with no options.”
I can’t believe what she is saying.
“You’ve heard me say it, time and time again—what is the one thing I’m most concerned about, Elizabeth?”
“Selling magazines,” I quickly utter, not even thinking twice.
“Exactly,” says Cynthia in a measured tone. “So I plan to propose a deal. Write the story you just lived for the past six months—your experiences posing as a pregnant woman in an office where maternity may be rewarded or viewed as a detriment. Make it insidery, investigative, buzzy and most importantly, award winning. And of course, make it sell my magazine. Do that and you will have a future here as a features writer. Your name will be on the masthead as editor-at-large, contracted to write twelve investigative pieces on the latest issues to position us as the thought-leader in the motherhood space.”
I cannot believe what I am hearing. I am going to be contracted to write one story a month, and probably make double my salary. I’ve got a special deal.
“They must generate buzz, and I will not keep you on unless the stories make me, and the rest of the general public, weep their sodding eyes out. I do believe you have it in you, Buckley.”
“Thank you, Cynthia. But I have to ask—why aren’t you firing me?”
“I think I’ve explained myself well enough in these past months for you to know the true answer to that question,” says Cynthia, looking at me pointedly, her expression loaded with all the sorrow, hard choices and maternal pride she’d never allowed herself to reveal to anyone, let alone me. I decide not to pry any further, knowing some things don’t need to be said outright.
“Thank you, then. I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t, Buckley. And I’ve alerted Discovery Channel about it, your friend Ryan Murphy—told him it was top secret, so they weren’t allowed to say a word until now. I think it will make a great story for air, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, turning to walk out, a single tear streaking down my cheek.
“Don’t forget to empty out your cube.”
I walk over to my cubicle and on my desk are three things: a split of champagne, a single Honey Cup and an envelope. I tear it open. The note is on Cynthia’s signature gold foil-embossed letterhead.
Keys to the house in Marrakech. Call Mohammed to let him know when you’re coming. Enjoy your ‘meternity.’
—xo, Cynthia
A New Life
You know more than you think you do... Better to relax and make a few mistakes than try too hard to be perfect.
—Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care: 9th Edition
Epilogue
I was running late to the airport, but I wasn’t worried. I wanted to get the latest issue of Paddy Cakes with my story in it. I’d gone back and forth with Alix for the past month, making sure I got all the gritty details of the life of a pregnant woman in the workplace pitch-perfect. “Meternity: The Secret Life of a Pregnant Magazine Editor” was the first story in the well, and the biggest line on the cover. It had already made a story on the Today show, where Cynthia went on to talk about how Paddy Cakes represented the changing face of maternity benefits in the workplace. It was excellent PR for the magazine, and for the company as a whole. There was talk of my story being submitted for the national magazine awards in December, but at that point, I’d be in Phuket, lounging on the beach and developing the Fair-Trade Families app.
My Ray-Bans perched on the top of my head, I looked at myself in the taxi window as I slammed the door shut, grabbed my single roller bag, liking the feeling of my new “work wear”: a leather motorcycle jacket, gypsy scarf, jeans and Pumas. The lines in my forehead had seemed to vanish overnight, and the golden streaks in my hair had come out after a weekend trip to Miami to write at Cynthia’s house on Star Island.
I smile, thinking that I never expected things, especially the guy waiting for me at the bag check-in spot, to turn out this way.
“Why, hello, Ms. Buckley.”
“Why, hello, Mr. Murphy,” I say, looking at how hot my fellow traveler looks standing there at the terminal with his own backpack.
“Of all the terminals in all the airports in this city, you had to show up here.”
“You know, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship,” I say back.
“I think you’re right,” Ryan says, leaning in for a kiss before taking my hand as we take our seats on the last Air France flight of the night. We’ll be touching down in Marrakech, but not before a few
nights’ layover in Paris. I rifle through my bag, this time sure I’ll make it through security, the only sign of maternity-related materials is a pregnancy test—yet to be taken.
I think back to my treasure map analogy I made so many months ago before all of this started. Maybe somewhere between PH algorithms, cat-cubicledom, tiger momism and French, there was one other option that many women often neglect to realize: meternity, where you birth the exact life you want according to your dreams. It might take a miracle, but if you just jump right in, and you’re honest about your wishes, eventually things will work themselves out in ways that you never could have expected.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
It takes a constellation of love and support to write a novel. These are superstars in my universe: Emma Parry for firmly (and quickly) believing in the idea, Kathy Sagan (for championing it from the very beginning), and both for offering so much wisdom, guidance and hand-holding through a very looong “pregnancy”; Nicole Brebner and Margaret Marbury for seeing its initial potential and advocating behind the scenes; Shara Alexander and the Harlequin/MIRA publicity and marketing team for their standout support; Jonathan Sirota for his legal wizardry; Kate Lewis, Meredith Rollins, Jill Herzig, Jennifer Barrett, Ann Shoket, Ellen Breslau, Jane Chesnutt, Stephanie Abarbanel, Kristin O’Brien, Alyssa Giaccobe, Emma Sussman, Star and Eliot Kaplan for giving me every opportunity and teaching me all I know; Meredith Bodgas, Kristine Brabson, Lauren Clifford Knudsen, Anna Davies, Ava Feuer, Brie Schwartz, Allison Berry, Tiffany Blackstone, Hannah Hickock, Marla Horenbeim, Sarah Smith, Jennifer Conrad, Cari Dineen, Jennifer Rainey Marquez, Harry Marquez, Robb Riedel, Greg Robertson, Kim Tranell, Liz Perle, Joanna Saltz, Elisa Benson, Neha Gandhi, Carissa Tozzi, Raymond Braun, Bernadette Anat, Kelli Acciardo, Dan Koday, Julie Pennell, Annemarie Conte and Robyn Moreno for representing an embarrassment of riches in the work wives and husbands department; Ali Body, Sophie Gilmour, Jen Schrader, Marie-Elena Martinez, Stephen Lee, Serena Jones and Kristen Harmel for so much help and encouragement all along the way; Nicola Kraus for eleventh-hour lifesaving, cutting conviction and spy-like book notes drop-offs; Deborah Burns and Francis Cholle for breaking the mold when it comes to mentorship; Mariola Zaremba and Carolyn Swift for seeing the greater possibilities before I could; my Lost Girls Jennifer Brennan, Courtney Dubin, Holly Corbett, Julie Hochheiser Ilkovitch, Amanda Kreuser and Sheree Almy for more love, support and late-night karaoke than a girl could ask for; my always comedic, enduring and steadfast Hamilton crew, Sarah Henry, Carroll Lang, and Weatherly Hammond who inspired the whole thing when she said, “You need a me-ternity leave”; Casey and Greg Bates, Kristina Davidson, Katie Lombardi, Sondra Berger, and Kerri and Joe Basile for a lifetime of unwavering friendship; Alanis Morissette for granting permission for the use of song lyrics to her seminal (and personally very meaningful to me) anthems “You Oughta Know” and “Ironic”; Erik Sharkey for believing in me from the beginning and, finally, Pamela Foye for embodying Giving Tree–level strength, wisdom and unconditional love and for being the perfect mix of tiger and French (and Daniel Foye from the ether).