“Dodie, this will warm up the whole room. No one has to know you painted it. Tell them you got it at an auction.”
“No, thanks,” I said in a small voice.
Kendra was not about to be deterred. She walked over to the wall behind the circulation desk, holding up the painting at the right height. “It’s nautical, so it feels like New England. It’s happy-making . . . Do, it’s really perfect. You have to admit that.”
“I don’t admit that. It’s mawkish and sentimental,” I murmured.
“You don’t really believe that,” Kendra said, trying to meet my eyes. “Do you?”
“It’s not for me to judge,” I hedged.
“Good! Let the patrons decide!” Geraldine urged.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“It may not be what you meant, but it’s what you said,” Kendra argued. “Listen, Do. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. But first of all, your back will be to it almost all of the time.” She sat at the circulation desk to demonstrate. “And”—her eyes narrowed like she was going in for the kill—“I heard Elmira say the other day at school that mermaids are her favorite mythical creature. I’m sure she’d feel even more welcome here with this painting up.”
I sighed. Making Elmira happy was more important than my own insecurities. Besides, I planned to find a great piece of art—by someone else—to replace my crappy one as soon as possible.
On Friday night, I had a little grand opening party for the library. I would have loved for my family to be there, but Maddie and my parents graciously declined the drive in, which turned out to be a good thing because there wasn’t actually room. As it was, people had to take turns coming in. But no one seemed to mind. I hung some paper lanterns from the trees behind the house so that people could congregate out there and mingle. There was only one thing that could take away from my joy that night: the thought of Elmira with her face pressed up to the window of her room, dreaming of being at the library with us. Suddenly my duck-and-smoked-Gouda canapé seemed cold indeed.
I’d plan a little celebration for her, I resolved—maybe some cupcakes in the lending library one day after school. Right now, I had to pay attention to the guests who were there to celebrate—friends I already had and future friends I was sure to make over the stacks—and their excitement wiped away any doubts I might have had. I could see it already: this little library was going to do so much good for the people of Chatsworth. Thinking about it made my cheeks glow like the windows of my beloved book-filled retreat, a shelter against lonely nights or difficult days for anyone who wanted to come inside.
“Happy thirty-fifth birthday, Maddie!” I said the next night in New York.
“Thanks, Do!” She looked happy. At least, her eyebrows looked happy. I couldn’t see the rest of her face because of the gigantic shellfish tower in front of her. What I could see were periwinkles. And crab legs. Part of a lobster. Some miniature shrimp. And some other whirly-twirly shells I didn’t recognize. “Take any creatures you want from that side.” Her voice drifted over the ice.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m good with my langoustines for now,” I replied, prying a morsel out of the shell and placing it on my tongue. Chef Delain Fremais was such a genius with seafood. These langoustines had a touch of olive oil, some Maldon sea salt, cracked black pepper, a little citrus . . . and something else I couldn’t put my finger on . . . a little mystery touch that made all the difference between the magic he worked in his kitchen and the edible but not always inspired results from mine. Then there were the sumptuous surroundings capped with the giant painting of a whale that hovered above us. And the impeccable service. Not to mention the impact that this meal would have on my bank account.
“We’ll go halvesies,” Maddie had said to reassure me on the phone a month earlier when I told her I was coming to New York to celebrate with her and asked if she had any place in mind for dinner. “It’s a milestone birthday, and I feel like doing it up big-time . . . and I’ve always wanted to have a meal at Les Crustacés. You in?”
I had sighed. Whether it was one meal or two meals at Les Crustacés . . . I would be so far in the hole it hardly mattered. There was no way I could let Maddie buy her own birthday meal. She had just lost her job . . . again. She started each one in a burst of enthusiasm that carried her through the first few weeks. Unfortunately, Maddie didn’t care much for fussy little details like getting to work within two hours of everyone else or responding to emails within . . . ever. Her new employers usually lost their enthusiasm pretty quickly.
So, having taken the plunge into the expensive-meal ocean, I was determined to enjoy myself. I didn’t have to worry about whether Maddie would.
“Hey, you,” I said as her whole face reemerged. The tower was shrinking. Her side plate was rapidly filling up with empty shells.
“Ahoy there! Okay, so now I can tell you the main reason for the big celebration,” she announced.
“Your illustrious birth?” I said sweetly, giving her a goofy grin.
“Shut up,” she returned, “and listen to your older sister’s wisdom. I’m celebrating my liberation.” Maddie smiled.
“From your latest disastrous job? Liberation, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
She ignored me. “I’m ready to embrace being footloose and fancy-free!”
I clinked glasses with her, but something gnawed at me.
“Sure, right . . . um, what do you mean? How is that different from your usual footlooseness and fancy-freedom?”
“Well, just that, you know, now that I’m thirty-five and still single, my chances of having kids are shrinking based on every medical study ever, and especially since Grandma tried to have kids at age thirty-five, and she couldn’t. She had Mom and Uncle Charlie, then no dice.”
A chill ran down my spine. That didn’t prove anything, though.
“And Mom couldn’t have kids after thirty-five either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t point that thing at me,” Maddie said. I lowered the langoustine claw, my hand shaking.
“What are you talking about?” I repeated.
“That was part of the reason Not Dad made a run for it when we were young. Mom wanted more kids. But after a year of trying, Not Dad didn’t.”
“Really?” I said faintly. The sounds in the room came roaring at me like a wave, then subsided, then roared toward me again. I focused on Maddie.
“Yeah.” She looked at me levelly. “I guess it makes sense since he’s our real father, but he didn’t even want us, apparently.” The corners of her mouth pulled down. That snapped me out of my shock. I couldn’t let Maddie be unhappy on her birthday even if this conversation was making me feel seasick.
“So where does the celebration part come in?” I forced myself to say.
Maddie shrugged her shoulders as if to shake off the negativity and perked up. “Well, the beauty of it is now that I’m thirty-five, I don’t need to worry about it anymore. The decision has been made for me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I laughed. It sounded strangely hoarse. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything for us . . . um, for you.”
Maddie leaned in as if to tell me a secret. “And here’s the best part. I’ve discovered I don’t really care! I almost feel relieved. And I mean, you still have time, but obviously it’s a good thing that you don’t have a kid yet either.”
“Obviously? Why is that?”
Maddie was watching my face, and she plastered on a smile when she noticed my expression. “Never mind, let’s just enjoy the mollusks,” she said, waving her hand in a gesture of conciliation.
“No, I want to know what’s obvious about it,” I insisted.
“You’ve got lots going on,” she continued, “between settling into Chatsworth, and your new library, and hopefully some dating. Do you really want to have a kid alone?”
I was silent for a long moment. “What makes you think I’ll still be alone?”
&n
bsp; “I’m sure you won’t be. But what if you are?”
“Mom did it alone for years.”
“Yeah. And it sucked. Besides, you loved painting more than anything, but you gave it up after a few crappy reviews. How do you know you’ll be like Mom instead of Not Dad? You love babies, but what about when it gets really hard and there’s no out? How do you know you won’t want to cut and run?”
“I would never, ever do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” I said louder.
“No, you don’t,” Maddie replied.
“Do you know me at all?”
“Yeah. I do. And I know myself. Let’s face it. Coco may be our little sister, but she is the only one of us who has her act together enough right now to have a kid. I’m too selfish, and you live in a fantasy world where everything comes easily. You probably think magical elves will zip down from the North Pole and take care of your child if you can’t.”
“Give it a rest, Maddie! You’ve just lost, what, your twenty-third job this year? If any one of us is going to turn out to be a deadbeat like Not Dad, it’s you!” I yelled.
Maddie’s eyes opened wide. So did the eyes of every other person in the restaurant. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up.
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” the maître d’ said smoothly. “May I speak with you a moment about your dessert?” I had arranged for a special croquembouche for Maddie—one of those crazy towers of pastry puffs stuck together with delicious hard caramel.
My face was on fire. “I’m sorry, sir,” I whispered, staring at my napkin. “My sister and I were having a friendly debate. It’s her birthday.”
“That’s right. She didn’t mean anything by it,” Maddie chimed in.
“Oui. I understand, and that’s fine.” His face was impassive. “May we invite you into the bar area to take your dessert? There’s a lovely little table by the window.”
Maddie was leaning across the table to hear the conversation. We both glanced at the bar area. How embarrassing. We’d have to pass by all the patrons on the way there and back. A double walk of shame thanks to my outburst. Maddie was apparently thinking the same thing.
She shook her head. “May we take it to go?”
Maddie didn’t know what was in store, so fortunately she wouldn’t share my current vision of a sadly disassembled pyramid. Which, when disassembled, would look like a bunch of gloopy, oozing cream puffs, I reckoned. At least it would taste delicious.
“But of course, Mademoiselle. It would be my pleasure.”
As if he was already expecting our decision, I was handed the bill, my credit card was whisked away and back, an LC-monogrammed doggie bag appeared under our noses, and we made our way awkwardly toward the door.
When we got outside, Maddie tromped toward the subway so quickly I had to run to catch up with her.
“Can you believe that guy? Not even letting us eat our entrées or stay at our table for the special dessert I ordered . . . it’s not like we’re some kind of hooligans,” I babbled.
Maddie whirled around. “Dodie, shut it. I really don’t want to hear anything more from you tonight.”
“But, but you told the maître d’ I didn’t mean anything by it—”
“That was not for your benefit. That was because I wanted some goddamn chocolate tart with the gold leaf and the coulis on the plate, not on Styrofoam,” she roared, peppering the sentence with other unrepeatable curse words.
“Okay, well, I’m sorry, but you know you sort of just dropped a big, fat bomb on me about babies and the reason Not Dad left us, and then you insulted me and . . .”
She put a hand up to stop me. “You do not get to make excuses. You know how to behave in a restaurant. And babies aren’t everything.” Maddie dared me with her gaze.
I wasn’t about to rise to that bait. “Listen, Maddie, I don’t want to fight with you on your birthday. Let me buy us a bottle of Veuve, and we can go back and enjoy dessert at your place. It’s a croquembouche!” I announced, forcing a smile. “Let’s not let this ruin our night.”
Maddie grabbed the bag out of my hand and threw it into the nearest trash can. “Too late. You already ruined my birthday.”
I lay awake that night while she breathed evenly. It was a good thing she’d run out of steam so that my remorseful tears didn’t keep her up. Maddie had really needed something good after her firing. She had been trying to look on the bright side. Maybe she’d been a little harsh and a little callous with a family bombshell she knew would affect me. Still, it was her night. And I’d ruined it with my baby-fever-fueled outburst and my defensiveness.
I couldn’t believe I’d compared her to Not Dad. Our biological father had left my mother when Maddie was seven, I was four, and Coco was two. Maddie had a handful of memories of him. Mostly of him yelling at Mom or coming to get clean laundry before his next “business trip.” There were only a few scattered memories left in my mind, a hazy picture of his face. Coco didn’t remember him at all. We never heard from him after he walked out. For years, Mom had told us that he was living high on the hog in a villa in the south of France. She later admitted she’d lied to spare us from the truth: he had lived around the corner from us throughout our entire childhoods with a new wife and two kids younger than Coco.
It was wrong of me to say Maddie could turn out like him. She was probably just putting on a brave, uncaring face, secretly freaked out about the age thing. And besides, it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted kids. It was that he hadn’t wanted us.
And I couldn’t deny that there was some truth to what Maddie had said about me. Maybe I did sometimes have my head in the clouds. Maybe I was thirty-two and starting over again. But Chatsworth was where I wanted to be. I knew it in my bones. I would make the lending library work. And I would become a mother too—soon—before it was too late.
I called my mom right when I got home. “Mom, Maddie said you and Grandma couldn’t have children after thirty-five. Is that true?”
Mom was silent for an ominously long time. “Yes, but Dodie, everyone’s different. That doesn’t mean anything for you. Just think about the Kaminsky girls. Jana struggled for years with infertility, but Eleanor got pregnant at forty on her honeymoon.”
The words struggled for years with infertility didn’t help matters.
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t want you to stress about something you can’t control. You’re single right now, and so what could you actually do?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But at least I have to find out what I can do.”
I spent the rest of the weekend researching. Apparently there were some tests that gave you a sense of whether you were likely to have a baby-factory-in-waiting in there or reproductive tumbleweeds. I set up an appointment to see Dr. Len, my ob/gyn, for the second time in the six months I’d been in Chatsworth—this was an emergency.
“Let’s do the testing,” I said to Dr. Len as soon as he’d walked me through the basics.
“Your insurance probably won’t cover it since you’re so young and have no history of infertility.”
“I understand, but it’s worth it to me.”
“Then we’ll need you to come back during your next cycle and draw some blood on day three. I can look at your ovaries today and get a sense of where you are if you want to proceed.”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll be back shortly.”
An aide came and prepped the ultrasound probe. It never occurred to me that I might be using one except if I were pregnant.
Dr. Len came back a few minutes later. The testing was a little uncomfortable, but mostly I was just so nervous about what he would find.
He was silent while looking at the screen, then said, “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go over what I saw?”
The aide led me to his office. I figured that if it was categorically good news, the doctor would have come right out with it.
“Your ovaries are on the small side,” Dr. Len began, “and I only saw a few egg follicles in each one—three on one side, two on the other.”
My stomach began to churn even harder like a salmon swimming upstream.
“So what does that mean? How many are you supposed to see?”
“We would like to see more follicles in someone of your age. Now, it’s possible that IVF would spur more or that this is just an off, low-producing cycle for you, but we’d rather see somewhere more in the neighborhood of twenty follicles and upward.”
“So this is bad, right?” Tears began to threaten.
“Listen, from the current research, age seems to be a much better predictor of reproductive success than this testing. Chances are, all will be fine for you. And it only takes one egg. I do think it’s a good idea to have the blood work done so that we’ll have a little more information.”
“Okay.” But I wasn’t sure I would. What was the point? I mean, I was already looking at probably reduced fertility at age thirty-two. By age thirty-five, it seemed pretty darn likely that I would be in the same spot as my mother and grandmother—minus the children.
“You know Sullivan’s back from Ethiopia with the baby, right?” Kendra said as she organized the library cards in the circulation desk drawer one night after school.
“Mm-hmm,” I replied, doodling the number thirty-five all over the paper in front of me. That number had all-new sinister connotations to it ever since my conversation with Maddie. “We’ve been texting.”
“I don’t know what’s up with you,” Kendra said, probably surprised by my lack of enthusiasm, “but do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I think it’s just the weather,” I fibbed.
“But you always talk about how much you love the winter . . . how ‘the whole world becomes like a doily with doves nesting near the holly berries,’” Kendra pointed out, smiling.
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” I replied.
Kendra gave up. “Okay, well, you know I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
“Nope. Tell me about your day.”
“Oh, it was good. I mean, other than when Benton gave me a twenty-minute exhortation on the magic of math to mold young minds and suggested we get more math books for the library. The library!” Kendra was shaking her head. “What kid’s going to want to check those out?”
The Lending Library Page 5