I frowned. Nature. There was never a way to get around nature entirely. If it wasn’t cicada plagues every seventeen years, it was monsoons and tornadoes and earthquakes and heat waves and ice storms and flash flooding. Central air-conditioning and gas heating were fine, but you had to leave the house at some point.
“Planning isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be,” Alma went on. “Don’t you like anything about surprises?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I don’t like surprises at all. I like things neat and orderly and planned. I like to control what I can control and what I can’t control, well, I don’t like things I can’t control.”
Katie laughed loudly. “Poor Anna! Motherhood is going to be a terrible shock. It’s one big surprise after another, kiddo. Better get used to it now. Forget about your old favorites. The next time you’re at a restaurant, point blindly to the menu. Take what you get and learn to tolerate it if you can’t enjoy it.”
The thought was horrifying. “What if I pick something that makes me sick?”
“So you’ll cough or break out in hives or throw up. But you’ll survive.”
Would I?
I glanced around the well-used kitchen. The room was warm and soothing. The scones were warm and soothing. The entire apartment was warm and soothing. It would be nice to live here, I thought suddenly. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I wanted a mother. Or two.
“Why can’t you adopt me, too?” I said. “I promise I’ll keep my room clean and I won’t have boys over without permission and I’ll even help out with Emilio.”
Katie grinned. “So we won’t have to give you an allowance?”
“Nope. I’ll be the best daughter ever.”
Emilio called out from the bedroom, waking from his nap. Alma stood from the table and patted me on the shoulder.
“Childhood is at its end, Anna,” she said. “Now it’s time for you to raise the best daughter ever.”
“What if I have a boy?” I said.
Alma grinned. “Then you must promise to introduce him to nose hair trimmers immediately.”
9
Old Ladies Having Babies
I shoved hard on the door to the building. Something was definitely blocking it. With a final burst of effort I managed to open the door just enough so that I could slip inside, where I found an enormous cardboard box. I peered down at it; it was from Kristen.
Ah, I thought. The promised books on pregnancy, childbirth, and child rearing. Mr. Audrey must have signed for the box while I was out and then not have been able to shove it aside. How I would get it up two steep flights of stairs to my apartment was the next puzzle to solve. The answer: I opened the box in the hallway and carried the contents upstairs in small quantities.
“It was difficult letting those books go,” Kristen told me when I called to thank her. “It made me truly realize I’m not going to have any more babies.”
Except for those accidental ones, I thought. But maybe Kristen knew something I didn’t about controlling pregnancy. Maybe Brian had had a vasectomy after their third child was born. Maybe Ross should have had a vasectomy.
Later that evening I opened the books with trepidation. I knew virtually nothing about pregnancy, let alone about the actual birth process. Child rearing? That could wait. There were plenty of scary new experiences to deal with first.
By the end of the evening I knew more than I’d ever wanted to know. Here are some of the things that I, as a pregnant woman, had to look forward to.
An increase in hair growth. That sounded positive until I read on and learned that the hair referred to was not only the kind that grew on my head. I could anticipate longer and more lustrous hair not only on my head but also all over my body.
An increase in nail growth. That sounded like something I could handle, although having to get more pedicures and manicures would definitely eat into my work schedule, not to mention my budget.
Hemmorhoids are quite common during pregnancy. So is intestinal distress.
Water retention. According to several sources, I’d begin to show water weight gain even before I’d begin to show actual baby weight gain.
And before my belly began to protrude, my waist would widen. My skin might break out; I might be plagued with broken capillaries. There was a good chance I would suffer morning sickness, which could strike at any time of day or night, and the accompanying sense of vertigo. The very smell of something as innocuous as broiled chicken might cause me to gag. Dizziness might cause me to fall down and hit my head on the coffee table.
Which—who knew?—might cause a miscarriage. Because according to one source, something like ten percent of pregnancies end within three months. That was only twelve weeks. Another source stated that approximately one out of every five pregnancies ends in miscarriage, the mother’s age being a significant factor in predicting failure.
That particular piece of information made an impression. I was thirty-seven. Three years away from forty. Forty! I’m too old for this, I realized. I’m just too old to go through all these exhausting changes, even the relatively good ones, like thicker head hair and larger breasts. Besides, I thought petulantly, I never asked for thicker hair or larger breasts. I was perfectly content with my appearance. Why did it have to change?
I read on.
The very next source informed me that a woman over the age of thirty-five is considered to be of Advanced Maternal Age. That makes her baby more at risk for certain birth defects like cerebral palsy and Down syndrome.
I wondered, Did my being of Advanced Maternal Age also mean that my emotional capacity to bear and raise a child was less than full strength? Was there an age limit on maternal feelings and capabilities? Would I have been a better, more loving mother at twenty-one than I would be at thirty-seven?
The same source now talked about all the hype women have been fed for the past years about how easy it is, what with “modern science,” to get pregnant well into their forties. Well, the source informed me, for most women it’s hard to get pregnant at forty. For a lot of women it’s expensive. And the author of another, purportedly humorous book ranted on—could I blame her?—about how exhausting it is to be the caretaker of a totally helpless little being on a totally random schedule when you’re lugging around some forty-odd years of wear and tear, when all you want to do at the playground is sit on a bench in the shade and read the paper, not hoist a thirty-pound toddler to the highest bars of the jungle gym.
I closed the final book, exhausted. I couldn’t read another word. Not that evening. But I could do some thinking.
First, I got a glass of juice and settled on the couch. In truth, I’d never felt a maternal urge, not even when Kristen’s first was born; I hadn’t really understood what all the excitement was about. Over the years, whenever friends asked if I wanted children, I told them that I was postponing serious thought about a family until I was married.
Well, here I was, just about as good as married. And together with my fiancé I’d given the notion of a family some serious thought and decided it just wasn’t for me. And then I’d gotten pregnant.
What was I supposed to do? End the pregnancy and do some more thinking? But there wasn’t much time left on my biological clock. Anyway, for me, ending the pregnancy just wasn’t a viable option. And pregnancy isn’t really something you can “put off,” like a visit to the dentist or a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew your driver’s license. Pregnancy isn’t a chore. And pregnancy isn’t a theory to be considered. It’s a fact.
If not now, I wondered, then when?
I’m not a religious person, but I’m not without spiritual sensibility. I couldn’t help but wonder why I had gotten pregnant, and why at that particular moment in my life, and why with Ross. Was some Power or Spirit sending me a message? And if so, what was that message? That I should “choose life” and become a mother?
I finished the juice and went off to bed. I turned out the lights, but my mind didn’t get the clue tha
t it was time for sleep.
Maybe, I thought, maybe the pregnancy isn’t a message. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe the Universe wants me to discover the kind of person I really am.
I stared into the dark and wondered, Would I discover the answer to that question in the coming months? And would I like what I discovered?
10
Orange Blossoms, Sugared Almonds, and Thou
Why do we choose to marry the ones we choose to marry? Why are we so often wrong in our choices?
Sometimes good choices go bad, and there’s no way to know that up front. Some choices are wrong from the start, and everyone seems to know that but the one who made the choice in the first place.
I chose to marry Ross because he made me feel safe. Our life together was ordered and unchallenging. It was as calm as life can be for two urban-dwelling businesspeople. We were buffeted by the accoutrements of financial success, unencumbered by sick or poor parents, and blessed with good looks and health.
I’ve said that I’m not an impetuous person. I’ve never had a one-night stand. I never wrote a college paper at the last minute. I’ve never made a major purchase without running the numbers, twice, through my budget. I’m not comfortable with spur-of-the-moment social events; I’ve never, until recently, committed the crime of a drop-in; I don’t call people after ten o’ clock at night.
I suppose it was no surprise to anyone that the man I chose to marry was consistently mild-mannered and nonconfrontational.
I’d hear women on talk shows chatting on about how their husbands were so inspirational and challenging, always pushing them to be all they could be, and I’d think, Why would you want to marry someone like that? It seemed to me that always being challenged by the one you loved meant always being on the defensive. I didn’t want to be always fighting. I didn’t want to be always changing.
I just wanted to be me. And I wanted a husband who would accept that. Ross seemed to be that husband. Supportive without crowding me; soothing without treating me like a helpless child.
And right then, I needed some soothing. It had been days since I’d taken the home pregnancy test, and we still hadn’t broken the news to our parents. I’d made Ross promise not to tell them until I’d seen the doctor.
“Why? Do you think maybe you’re wrong?” Ross asked, confusion clearly stamped across his handsome face. “Do you think you’re not really pregnant?”
“No, no,” I assured him. I knew I was pregnant. The sudden onset of morning sickness was indisputable evidence. “I just ... I’m just a little bit afraid, you know. That everything’s not all right and—”
Ross interrupted. “Everything’s going to be fine, Anna. You’re healthy and I’m healthy and we have the money for the best doctors, the best hospitals. Nothing can go wrong.”
“Anything can go wrong, Ross,” I said. I reached for one of the books Kristen had sent me. They were never far away. “Listen,” I said. “This says that most miscarriages that occur within the first three months—that’s the first trimester—are the result of a ‘genetic malformation of the embryo.’ And that’s not something I can control, Ross.”
Ross put his hands lightly on my shoulders. “You shouldn’t spend so much time with those books, Anna. They’re making you too upset. Listen to me, okay? Nothing will go wrong. I promise.”
Why, I wondered, do people promise what they know they can’t deliver? And then I realized, looking up into Ross’s earnest, matinee idol face, that he really did believe he could deliver on his promise of perfection.
Was it hubris? An overdeveloped ego? Or a sort of innocence? Ross had lived a life in which he’d never really known hardship, a life in which his parents or their money could solve most problems handily.
In the end, did it matter why Ross felt so sure? No. Because I wanted to believe his promise of a perfect life.
“Thanks,” I whispered and went into his arms.
11
Family Ties
“Hi,” said Ross. “It’s me. Ross.”
After almost a year together, Ross still felt the need to identify himself by name every time he called my cell phone. Even though he knew his name came up on the screen and that, of course, I would recognize his voice.
“Yes,” I said, “I know. What’s going on?”
“Nothing much.” I pictured Ross at his desk, legs crossed elegantly, phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Okay,” I said, glancing at my watch, thinking of the work piling up on my desk as I did.
“I just wanted you to know that I told Rob about the baby. Now, before you get upset, he promised not to tell Mom and Dad.”
Well, we hadn’t promised not to tell our siblings, had we? Still, I felt a twinge of annoyance. Ross worshipped his older brother although he’d deny it heartily. Really, it was a sort of self-worship. Rob was simply a forty-two-year-old version of Ross, as well groomed, well dressed, and uninspired. No wonder Rob’s relationship with the brilliant chemical engineer hadn’t lasted.
Anna, I scolded silently. Don’t be mean. Not for the first time it occurred to me that I might be a wee bit jealous of the close relationship Rob and Ross shared. My own brother and I weren’t exactly the best of buddies, although there was no hostility between us. There wasn’t much of anything, really. The Traulsen family could never be described as closely knit.
I took a deep breath and said, “How did he take the news?”
Ross laughed lightly. “He was happy for me, of course. He gave me some advice on getting into the best private preschools and—”
I didn’t hear much else of what Ross had to say. I was glad Rob was happy for Ross. Really.
Maybe, I thought later, as I got ready for bed, maybe I should tell my own brother the big news. But why? The truth was it didn’t matter to me whether Paul learned about the pregnancy now or later.
I slipped beneath the covers and reached for one of the several books on my nightstand. A favorite Agatha Christie mystery? Or maybe the Robert Hughes book on Goya? Finally, I opened the Goya tome, but after reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension—please note that my inability to focus had nothing to do with the quality and clarity of the writing—I closed the book. My mind was not on the eighteenth-century painter. It was on the Traulsen family dynamic.
I suppose it was nice growing up with an older brother. Paul did all the expected, big brotherly things like threaten the bully who taunted me in second grade, and warn me against certain boys when I began to date, and even, on occasion, give me little treats like barrettes for my hair. But then Paul went to college and then on to business school in Virginia, and then he got married to a woman I have very little in common with, and the inevitable happened. We began to see each other only a few times a year, mostly on holidays, and to talk on the phone only when there was important information to relate, like the death of our sole aunt, or my engagement, or Paul and Bess’s divorce.
Today Paul lives out in Lincoln, a few miles from the Weston house he gave up in the divorce. Paul and Bess have two children, an eight-year-old boy named Matthew and a six-year-old girl named Emma. Paul is a devoted father; no matter the circumstances he would never have moved far away from his family. But in this case his presence is even more of a necessity. Matthew has a fairly severe form of autism, one that seems to be worsening as he ages. Emma is, as far as anyone can tell, as unencumbered as her brother is burdened.
I often wonder, If Paul and Bess had known then what they know now, that their marriage wasn’t going to stand the strain of Matthew’s caretaking and all the attendant stresses, would they have had another baby?
As far as I can tell neither Paul nor Bess has much of a personal life. Things seem to have gotten even more hectic and financially strained since the divorce, and how could they not have? Sometimes—like when my brother got bronchitis twice last winter and still had to go to work and fulfill his duties as dad, and there was no one to take care of him when he collapsed into bed each night—I th
ink that maybe it would have made more sense for Paul and Bess not to get divorced.
But what do I know of my brother’s life, really?
I called Paul at his downtown office the very next afternoon. He works on State Street as a financial analyst.
You can see again why Paul doesn’t have much time for himself. Virtually all the hours not spent commuting—about two hours daily—and working—ten-hour days are common—are spent with the kids.
“Hi,” I said, when his assistant had put me through. “It’s me.”
“I know. Peg told me. What’s up?”
He sounded distracted, busy, remote.
“Can I come out for a bit this Saturday? Maybe for lunch. I’ll bring something.”
“The kids will be there you know,” he said.
“I figured. That’s fine.”
“Then sure. Come around noon. Emma’s got swimming lessons at two-thirty and Matthew has physical therapy at three o’clock, so that gives us about two hours before I have to get on the road.”
I thanked Paul and hung up. I’m sure he was already deep into the next task or demand or crisis before I did. It exhausted me even to think about his life.
Sometimes, too, I wondered how much my decision not to have children of my own had been informed by the example of Paul and his family. Maybe my choosing not to have children was like dodging a bullet pretty sure to shatter at least some aspects of my life.
Dodging a bullet. How grim. And how ridiculous to think I’d protected myself from harm by deciding not to have children. Because now I was pregnant in spite of that decision, and if my life hadn’t exactly been harmed it certainly had been disrupted.
Face it, Anna, I told myself. There are no guarantees in this world. You’d have to be dumb not to know that.
But you didn’t have to like it.
12
Sympathy for the Devil
I called Michaela and suggested we meet for a drink one evening.
“This week is hell for me,” she said briskly, “but I can give you half an hour on Wednesday. Meet me at six at the bar at Leopard.”
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