The ultrasound technician is not, evidently, thinking about any of this. Because she’s only been mowing that air hockey thingy across my belly for five seconds when she says, bored, “Well, if you want to know the sex of the baby, I can tell you.”
Really, lady? Why didn’t you just go ahead and shout, “It’s a boy!” and blow some New Year’s Eve noisemakers? Because obviously the only way you can tell the sex of the baby that quickly is if you’ve got a positive identification—i.e., the presence of something, not the absence of something, the something in question being a penis. A half a centimeter long.
I look up at Dan, who is clearly excited about the thought of a baby boy. Already, his eyes are dancing with visions of father-son bonding over Dodger games and camping trips.
My thoughts are a little less idealized. Actually, I’m only having one thought, and it is this:
What in the hell am I going to do with a boy?
I’m the girly-girl, remember? I like fashion magazines and nail polish and ice skating. And I talk. A lot. About girl things.
What I don’t know yet—lying there flat on my back—is that there is a plan. That starting this very instant, my boy child is going to bestow upon me one of the greatest gifts I’ve never even imagined wanting. A gift I don’t even know I need.
He’s going to teach me to love men.
DAN HAS NEVER BEEN to a prison before, but he’s not nervous. We’re in the parking lot of the Federal Correctional Institution in Oxford, Wisconsin, a medium-security prison about five hours from Minneapolis. In a few minutes Dan will meet his new father-in-law, and Freddie will meet his new grandson, Sam, now a beautiful, bouncing six-month-old.
“Are you scared to meet my dad?” I’m prodding Dan more than asking him. I have tortured Dan the whole way here with my endless ruminations on the world, which, as far as I’m concerned, is why long car rides were invented. That’s when I do some of my best ruminating! But by the time we are walking into the actual prison, infant in tow, Dan is completely sick of me “just wondering” about stuff. Like how he feels about meeting my dad.
“I’m just wondering,” I say innocently. I’m a little hurt that he’s sick of me.
“I’m fine, Tracy.” Dan’s voice is flat as a skinny starlet in a cosmetic surgeon’s office. We’ve only been married nine months, but I’ve already picked up on a pattern: the more I want a reaction from Dan, the less likely he is to give it to me. This is probably a great defense mechanism for living with me, but it also makes me feel invisible. I really want Dan to express some shock, or at least some wow!, at the fact that he is a very nice guy who has suddenly found himself schlepping into a medium-security prison. But Dan is not known for expressing shock. He’s not even known for reacting.
“Really,” I say to him, without even bothering to hide my contempt. “You’re not the least bit surprised to find yourself here, in the middle of nowhere, about to be frisked?”
“Nope.” He’s annoyed with me, I can tell.
When I found out I was pregnant, Dan and I got back together. The idea was Hey, we don’t dislike each other, and we are darn good coworkers and sort of traditionalists, so why the heck not? One thing led to another and we ended up married, but I’m pretty sure I’m not what Dan would have picked out if there had been, say, a wife store.
I do know that he really, really wanted to marry his baby that I was carrying. He just took me as part of the package. Like one of those gift-with-purchase things at the makeup counter with the lipstick shade that, while beautiful, doesn’t particularly suit your coloring.
And now we’re here. At the prison. “Come on,” he says, picking up the heavy baby carrier. “You get the diaper bag, I’ll get Sam.”
This is where it would be relevant to mention that Dan’s father is a Presbyterian minister who performed our wedding ceremony in the small-town church where Dan grew up. I wore a long, sleeveless brocade dress the color of half-and-half—in a size 10 to hide my bump—with a shimmering pale white, gold, and turquoise overcoat, similar to what Michelle Obama wore to the inauguration. We had twenty-eight guests, including Betsy and her husband, who now live on the East Coast.
That Dan’s dad is a minister, just like Gene Ericson, makes me think it’s the Tracy Ericson part of me that married Dan. Not Tracy McMillan—she’s got an entirely different agenda. But somewhere in there, Tracy Ericson heard that little girls grow up to marry someone just like Daddy, and by hook or by crook, she found Dan. She thought to herself, Now here’s a guy who’s just like the daddy I know, and with a pair of Rollerblades and a little of my help, Tracy Ericson got her man.
I feel completely loved and accepted by Dan’s people, especially his mom. Marie was a missionary in Iran in the 1950s who didn’t get married until she was thirty-two. Then she had four children in five years, starting with Dan. Marie is a woman of deep faith, compassion, and intellect who is already like a surrogate mother to me. As far as shotgun mothers-in-law go, I cannot believe my luck! In fact, sometimes we joke that baby Sam came along just so the two of us could meet. All I know is, between Marie and June Ericson, I’m starting to think god puts a really nice Christian lady in my life every other time I need a new mother.
Now it’s Dan’s turn to meet the in-laws. It’s wacky like those Ben Stiller movies, but in my case, there’s only one in-law—my dad. I haven’t heard from Linda in a couple of years and I long ago decided it’s best to keep a safe distance from Yvonne.
“I know Freddie’s really excited about this visit,” I say as we head inside. “He wants to see what kind of white boy I’m dating this time.” I have a terrible habit of saying controversial things whenever I want. It’s one of my least endearing qualities.
“Maybe he just wants to see his grandson, Tracy,” Dan suggests. He might be right, but his tone—ever-so-slightly superior—makes me feel bad. Like there’s a way that normal people think and act that I know nothing about. “I doubt I’m the person your dad is thinking about right now.”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “He probably is excited to see his grandson.”
Especially knowing my dad, who thinks everything revolves around him. In Freddie’s mind, meeting my baby will be like sitting down for a visit with his future self, the part of him that’s going to be looking stylish in the year 2050.
After all of the security rigamarole, my dad makes his entrance. I haven’t seen him since 1994. That was three years—and several life changes—ago. He’s looking good, though. For sixty-two.
“Dan, this is Freddie,” I say, presenting my dad palms-up. My dad grabs Dan’s hand and pumps it vigorously.
“Hello, Dan,” Freddie says.
“And…um…” I pause awkwardly. I’m not sure what to call my dad these days. It’s fine to introduce him to someone as Freddie. But I don’t want to address him—daughter to father—by his first name and I don’t want to call him Dad, either. So I “write around it,” which is what we do in TV news when we don’t have all the facts. “And, um, this is Dan.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. McMillan,” Dan says respectfully. Watching this exchange, I am reminded of what I love about Dan. He is extremely fair-minded. He treats everyone the same, because he truly believes everyone is equal to everyone else. He’s not wowed by your social status or how much money you have or what your job is. Dan is just as gracious and polite as he would be if my dad was a cardiologist.
“Wonderful to meet you, too,” Freddie says. “My new son-in-law!” He’s obviously tickled pink. “Now let me see my grandson! Sammy!”
My dad swoops up my baby and raises him high into the air, just like he did with me when I was little. Sam looks around like, What just happened?! “He’s so cute!” Freddie chirps. “Look at him. A chip off the old block.” My dad’s vanity knows no limits. “And how about you, darling daughter?” Freddie gives me a hug and a big smooch on the cheek. “It’s good to see you. Been a long time.” There’s a hint of a guilt trip in there somewhere. Which kind of pisses me of
f.
Fortunately, Dan’s presence smooths over any prickles coming from me. Freddie’s been in here four and a half years now. There’s a distance that develops—for me it’s a necessary distance—and it doesn’t just melt away the moment I see him in person.
“So, Daniel”—Freddie doesn’t bother to ask if this is Dan’s name of choice—“you say your father is a minister?” He wants to know all about Dan’s family, questioning him the way you imagine an Albanian peasant father questions a prospective son-in-law.
“Yes, sir. He is.”
“And where does he have a church?”
“It’s a small town in south New Jersey. On the way to Atlantic City, if you’re familiar with that area.” Dan doesn’t have a “Joizy” accent at all. He says it “New Jurr-zee,” almost overenunciating. It’s a cute affectation that is very boyish and endearing.
“Sure, I’ve been to Atlantic City. Had a great time, too!” Freddie claps his hands together at the memory. He seems to be finding Dan charming and sweet, and I’m glad about it but not really surprised. Very few people who meet Dan don’t get along with him. He is like type O blood. Universally accepted.
“Dan’s town is so small, there’s only one stoplight,” I say.
“That small, huh?” My dad might be feigning serious interest. But more likely, he’s sincere. Freddie doesn’t get a whole lot of visitors. “That’s really tiny.”
“And,” I add, “Dan was born in Beirut.”
I like this part of Dan’s story. At first glance he looks like just another Adam Sandler type. But his father is Lebanese, and Dan spent the first four years of his life there. It means our kid is Arab, African, and European, all at once. I can’t help but feel like this makes the baby sort of evolved. “He moved to the United States when he was four.”
“Is that right?” My dad’s suitably impressed. Freddie is the opposite of Dan. He reacts to everything, usually in exactly the way you wanted him to. The pimp/hustler part of him can read your mind, and he lives to fulfill (or prey upon) your desires. At least until he gets locked up for something. “Do you speak Arabic?”
I notice with a smidgen of pride that my dad didn’t ask if Dan speaks Lebanese. For a guy who only got to, like, eighth grade, Freddie’s pretty knowledgeable.
“I did.” Dan blushes. “But I don’t remember any of it.”
My dad turns to me. “You’re looking good, Tracy.”
“Thanks.” I am wearing a brand-new pair of jeans, which might have been a mistake, because they are getting all creasy in the crotch area, which I hate. If I had worn them before, I would have known this in advance and chosen a different pair for a prison visit, which is nothing but sitting.
“I was worried. Those pictures you sent me—you looked a little chunky.”
He means the pictures I sent of me and the baby, taken in the hospital hours after the birth! My dad is such a douche sometimes. He has no idea what he is saying. I tell him that with a smile on my face. “Jesus, dude. I had just given birth! You’re unbelievable.”
I just called my dad “dude.” He deserved it.
So that’s pretty much the way it goes until the visiting hours end at three P.M. My dad getting to know his son-in-law. Dan getting to know his father-in-law. My dad lovingly finding all my flaws.
And me holding my darling new baby, thinking, I can’t believe I brought my baby to prison.
I’M GOING TO WEAR WHITE to marry Paul. I bought my dress today in a vintage wedding-dress shop in Toronto, where Paul is working on a soft drink commercial. It’s from the 1950s, full-length, ivory, with a teeny-tiny waist, high neck, lace bodice, long sleeves, and two thousand buttons up the back. It looks like something Grace Kelly would wear to marry a prince. I’m just excited that, even though it took me three weddings, I will finally fulfill my fantasy of being a traditional bride.
Paul has pulled a few strings with the producer of the commercial and gotten us a suite for the long weekend. It’s the most beautiful hotel room I’ve ever been in—the size of an apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows and staggeringly beautiful views of Lake Ontario. I brought Sam with me, and the two of us are having a grand time eating crepes and hanging out while Paul works. We even took a day trip to Niagara Falls. Leave it to me to go to the honeymoon capital of the world right before I get married.
The wedding is two weeks away and things are a whirlwind. Paul gets back from Toronto next weekend, and I have talked him into making a pilgrimage to northern California to see an Indian guru who goes around the world blessing people by giving them hugs, which I think is totally punk rock. I want us to get a hug to bless our marriage. The plan is to drive up there the day Paul gets back, stay for one night, then drive back the next morning.
Nine days after that we get married.
We’ve kept all the wedding plans as simple as possible. There’s an abandoned hotel next door, owned by the company that converted our building into lofts, where we’re going to hold the ceremony. The place is a beautiful ruin—built around the turn of the century, it hasn’t been inhabited in decades—with a three-story lobby, a grand center staircase, and floors made of marble. But everything else about it is destroyed. There’s no electricity, and dead wires hang from the ceiling like twisted tree branches. Alabaster light streams in through the windows, some of which are broken. It’s devastated and gorgeous.
We’ve invited just a handful of people: our closest friends, my son, and Paul’s dad and stepmom. How funny that both of us have a family member who can’t attend because they’re institutionalized—my dad in prison, Paul’s brother in a psychiatric facility—which must mean we’re a perfect match. Saundra, my therapist, is officiating.
When the ceremony is over, we’re all going to one of L.A.’s landmark restaurants for steaks and wedding cake. And after a night in a hotel, we’ll head for a five-day honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas.
For a wedding we just started planning four weeks ago, everything has come together beautifully. Magically. Like when I said to Paul, “You know what we need for the ceremony? A candelabra.” And literally two minutes later, we pass a store with a perfect pair of five-foot candelabras made of iron in the window. Like that.
All that’s left now is to put the dress on and say, “I do.”
Oh, and see the guru.
MOTHERHOOD IS MAKING ME obsessed with the electrical towers down the street. They’re not far enough away from our house for my liking. They are giant sentinels of steel and electricity that seem to watch everything I do. I think about them in the middle of the night, when I wake up to nurse Sam. Sometimes I can’t get back to sleep, I am thinking so hard about them. They are transmitting all of my anxiety.
Having a baby, not surprisingly, has freaked me out a little. To mother a child, I’m discovering, is a bit like accessing a 401(k) retirement account: you pull from whatever is in there, a combination of “employer contributions”—the way you were cared for by your own mother (or in my case father)—and your own ongoing deposits, i.e., whatever therapy and personal growth you’ve done.
I am a natural mom, in the way someone is a natural, say, tennis player: I’m warm and nurturing and comfortable caring for all of Sam’s needs, but I am terribly anxious, too. Especially about leaving. I’m afraid if I go out and Sam wakes up while I am gone, he’ll conclude I’m never coming back. The obvious solution is to ask myself if I am coming back—Yeah, of course, I’m coming back!—then rest assured that the baby will eventually figure that out when I show up in a little while, toting bags from Trader Joe’s. This is what reasonable people are encouraging me to try.
But I seem incapable of understanding this. Maybe because it’s not the grown woman in me who is afraid my baby will think I’m gone forever, but the baby in me who is remembering my own fear from when my parents left and then were gone “forever.” Perhaps my preverbal traumas are like fossils—not only not forgotten, but perfectly preserved in my memory, the way a tiny etching of a shell is engraved in sedim
entary rock even after thousands of years. Motherhood is the light-rail project that brings in the jackhammers, breaking up all that rock once and for all.
This makes me think that postpartum depression is when a mother has a baby and it “wakes up” that part of her that was unmothered or undermothered and thus is deeply, preverbally, achingly sad. They should call it postpartum grief. It makes sense that doctors prescribe antidepressants to “cure” it. That said, I don’t think I’m depressed. Not at all.
I’m just very very concerned about the power lines.
WHEN I’M NOT OBSESSING about the power lines, I’m thinking about Gwyneth Paltrow. Of all people. I saw her once at the Sundance Film Festival, back when she was dating Brad Pitt. She was tall, and blond, and rich looking, exactly like in Us Weekly. At the time, I didn’t think much of her one way or another.
But motherhood has forced my own “daughterhood” to the surface, and that is making me have all kinds of feelings toward Gwyneth. Like, I kind of hate her. Not actual hate-hate. (I’m too Minnesotan for that.) More like middle-school hate. The special type of hate for tall, blond, rich girls who date Brad Pitt that is experienced by the rest of us less-fortunates. Which is to say the vast majority of vagina-having Americans.
I know right when it started: Oscar night 1997. I’m sitting there, watching Gwyneth sashay to the podium in her pink Ralph Lauren gown, when this intense feeling arises in me. The word “envy” comes to mind, but it’s really more than that. It’s more like injustice. Not wrongly-convicted-of-murder injustice, but close. THIS IS SO, SO, SO UNFAIR, my mind screams. How is it that one girl—Gwynnie—can pretty much get born, go shopping, date movie stars, sail around on Valentino’s yacht, then collect an Oscar, all before the age of twenty-seven? How does that happen?
Of course, I already know how, and that’s precisely what’s got me so upset. There’s even a special term for it. Gwyneth is a daddy’s girl.
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