Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Scream back. Things won’t get worse if you scare the crap out of her.”

  “Could I send a letter?” I said, after some consideration. “A sternly worded letter?”

  “Only if it’s copied to your attorney,” Alexandra snapped in reply.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  In the end, Mrs. Davis backed off. Maybe it was seeing Ross getting on with his life that cooled her fury. Maybe it was learning that I’d returned the expensive diamond ring he’d bought me. Maybe she just got tired of coming into the city two or three times a week to stalk me.

  Luckily, I hadn’t yet sold my apartment. Ross owned what was to have been our love nest, so we each came out of the mess with a place to call our own.

  The things we’d bought together for our new home caused some problems. What to do with the Eileen Gray reading lamp, the reupholstered 1930s art deco chair, the Eames coffee table? In the end, Ross returned what could be returned and gave me a check for the items he kept.

  And then there were the gifts Ross had given me. There’s something unbearably sad about a once cherished object suddenly devoid of personal meaning.

  Like the beautiful gold bangle Ross had given me when I’d told him I was pregnant. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it or to sell it. Finally, I brought it to the bank and tucked it into my safe deposit box, where it would rest along with my birth certificate, my passport, and the deed to my apartment—documents that represented the official Anna Traulsen. Artifacts of my life in progress.

  We lost most of the deposits we’d put on wedding venues and services. I halted work on my dress and had it put in the shop’s storage.

  We hadn’t bought the wedding rings yet; that was a relief.

  In short, it was a divorce without the marriage.

  I wouldn’t have wished it even on Michaela.

  77

  Sympathy From an Unlikely Source

  “My dear,” Mrs. Kent said, “you seem in low spirits today.” I looked up from the notes I was jotting. “Oh,” I said, “I’m fine. I’m sorry though. I didn’t mean to—”

  Mrs. Kent cut me off. “No need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. Not like that ridiculous thing of a housekeeper the agency sent over this morning. Why Rose had to go to Detroit to attend her niece’s wedding is beyond me. Rose has been with me for twenty years, my dear. Her loyalty should be to me above all others.” Here Mrs. Kent sniffed like a properly offended grande dame. “At least she might have invited me along. Don’t you agree that would have been the right thing to do?”

  Mrs. Kent’s purposefully outrageous sentiment made me smile. “Oh, of course,” I assured her. “I’m sure Rose is regretting her decision at this very moment.”

  “And I don’t believe for a second that you are fine,” Mrs. Kent went on imperiously. “I know I’m a terribly nosy old woman and that perhaps I have no right to press you to reveal your personal affairs. But as I have pointed out at an earlier time, I am old and often quite bored. I am interested in the lives of the young even if they are not interested in mine. Besides, I am one of the few people of my acquaintance who has learned a thing or two from my own mistakes. If something is troubling you, perhaps I may be of some help.”

  Perhaps, but I doubted it. In addition to Ms. Butterfield, personal assistant extraordinaire, Beatrice Kent employed a full-time, live-in housekeeper and butler. She had been born into an old-money Brahmin family and had married into another one. She had come of age during World War II; I was born during the Vietnam era. We occupied two very different worlds. How could she possibly understand my life?

  “Well, you are my client,” I pointed out reasonably. “I really shouldn’t bother a client with my personal affairs.”

  “My dear,” she answered impatiently, “it is true that I am your client but I am also old enough to be your grandmother, and age takes precedence over the formalities of the workplace.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Kent’s argument might have been faulty, but I knew where she was heading.

  “Yes,” she declared. “In my house we follow my rules.”

  I tried to hide my smile. I really tried. “Are you commanding me to tell you what’s on my mind?”

  Mrs. Kent tried to hide her smile. She was about as successful as I’d been. “I am strongly suggesting that you do, yes.”

  Well, I thought, why not?

  Mrs. Kent ordered tea to be served and when we each had a cup, I told her about Ross and me breaking up. And about my losing the baby.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Kent, nodding. “I see. Poor Anna. Men come and go, my dear. It’s best simply to accept that fact and soldier on.”

  “Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I could ever accept that fact. If I fell madly in love, if someone loved me madly in return, how could I survive the end of that? How could anyone survive the end of true love? I thought of Alexandra. I thought of Jack.

  “You thought,” Mrs. Kent said, “that you were in love.”

  “Yes,” I said automatically. And then, “No. No, I never pretended to be in love, even to myself. That makes me sound horrible and cold. I’m not, it wasn’t that way.”

  “I think I understand,” Mrs. Kent said. “I think many women would understand.”

  I wondered. Were that many women marrying for reasons other than love? “I’m ashamed to admit,” I said then, “that I don’t even miss him.”

  “But you do miss the child. The loss of a child is a terrible thing.”

  I felt compelled to say, “I was only a few weeks along.”

  “Don’t minimize your grief.” Mrs. Kent put her hand on mine and squeezed. Her rings dug into my skin. “And don’t ever apologize for it.”

  “Okay,” I said. My voice was shaky. I tried not to cry.

  Mrs. Kent looked closely at me with her sharp, intelligent eyes. “I, too, lost a child. A daughter. She lived for three months.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” I felt ill. To have seen the face of your child and then to have that precious face taken away ...

  “My husband,” she went on, in a remarkably neutral tone, “would not give me another child after my Vanessa was gone. Not that another child could have replaced my dear daughter in my heart, you understand. But another child might have helped ease my grief. No matter. My grief is old, as am I. Your grief, dear Anna, is still fresh. But so are you. You will survive this sadness.”

  I fervently hoped so.

  “My fiancé and I never even discussed the possibility of an abortion,” I told her. “I thought about abortion, of course, in the very beginning. But I just couldn’t imagine going through with it.”

  “And that came as a surprise?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s my age. I felt like it might be my last chance. And then suddenly, I was happy. I realized I did want a child. And then—then I wasn’t pregnant anymore. My friends say it’s not too late. My friend Kristen, she has three children, she says she knows I’ll have my own some day. But how can she know?”

  “She can’t,” Mrs. Kent replied shortly. “Your brief pregnancy might well have been your last chance. And it might not have been. I wish I could be more assuring, my dear. I wish I could tell you that everything will work out wonderfully, just the way you want it to. But I can’t.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Honesty is best in the end. I’m finally learning that.”

  Soon after, I went home to my apartment. I felt comforted. Yes, Beatrice Kent was almost forty years older; yes, she had lived a life quite different from mine. But she was a woman, and that, at bottom, was all we needed in common.

  78

  The Big Day

  The phone rang at six o’clock that evening. I didn’t recognize the phone number, but the call was coming from my parents’ area code.

  The caller loudly announced herself as Mrs. Brown; she was one of my mother’s cronies.

  “Oh,” I said. “Hello Mrs. Brown.”

  “Y
our mother gave me your number, I hope you don’t mind, dear.”

  “No, of course not,” I lied. Did Mrs. Brown want to hire me to organize a party? How would I refuse graciously?

  “So, Anna, this is why I called. I was thinking that maybe Howard could get a diet plate at the wedding. Something low-carb and low-salt but not too much fat. But not vegetarian. Howard hates vegetables.”

  I felt as if someone had stabbed me in the stomach. “Um, Mrs. Brown,” I said, “you see, the wedding is off. I thought my mother told you.”

  Mrs. Brown made a sound like a dog’s bark. “She didn’t mention a thing about it, and I just talked to her a few days ago! Oh, you poor thing, I’m so sorry. What happened? You can tell me.”

  I faked an important business call coming in on my nonexistent second line and got off the phone. I was furious. It figured my mother wouldn’t have bothered to tell her friends that the wedding was off. Why should she inconvenience herself? So what if one of her bridge partners called to ask me about her fussy eater of a husband, forcing me to revisit the trauma? Why should my mother start thinking about my feelings at this late date?

  And of course, it would never have dawned on my father to make the bitter announcement. Family maintenance was woman’s work.

  Anyway, let me tell you a bit about the wedding that never happened.

  Ross and I had chosen a Unitarian minister to officiate, a friend of one of Ross’s colleagues. Neither of us are churchgoers, but our parents attend church on the holidays so choosing this minister seemed like a good compromise.

  Ross chose his brother Rob to be his best man. My decision was a bit more difficult to make.

  Kristen is the friend I’ve known the longest and so a clear choice for matron of honor. But being matron of honor involves a hefty expenditure of time and money, expenditures I didn’t feel comfortable asking Kristen, with three kids and one income, to make.

  At heart I really wanted Alexandra to be the legal witness to my marriage. But Alexandra had made it very clear she thought Ross wasn’t the right man for me. If I asked her and she said no, well ...

  In the end I asked Tracy to sign my marriage license. She was a dear friend; had the disposable time and money; and though she didn’t exactly love Ross, she was very, very subtle in her disapproval.

  Both the service and reception were to be held at the Tuxedo Hotel, starting at six o’clock in the evening. After the brief ceremony there was to be a cocktail hour with passed appetizers and, at Mr. Davis’s insistence, an open bar. A champagne toast was to precede dinner and dancing. We never got to finalize the menu. We never got to choose a special song.

  The wedding was to be an adults-only affair—elegant, sophisticated, and pristine. Not sticky. That was Ross’s big concern, sticky fingers on his expensive tuxedo or my one-of-a-kind dress.

  Ross and I were to walk down the aisle together.

  And that’s what it would have been like.

  79

  Nothing Ventured

  Butter pecan ice cream. Reddi Wip. It would be so easy to reach for that container and that can, curl up on the couch, and vegetate until a sugar coma sent me to dreamland.

  Too easy.

  Anna, I told myself, you are not going to eat a pint of ice cream for dinner. You are not going to spend another minute in front of the television watching lame sitcoms and lamer local news broadcasts. You are getting out of this apartment. You are going somewhere for dinner, and you are going to eat a healthy, well-balanced meal that will include vegetables.

  I dressed with more care than I’d taken for several days and headed for a small neighborhood bistro. The bar was empty but for another woman at the far end, engrossed in a hardcover historical novel and an order of steak frites. We caught each other’s eye as I pulled a stool away from the counter and shared a brief smile. I wondered, Would an order of French fries be considered a vegetable?

  And then Jack Coltrane walked through the door.

  Jack was the last person I wanted to see. And the only person. That was hard to admit.

  And then he was standing next to me. “Hi,” he said.

  “Oh. Hi.” I could hardly believe my tone was so neutral.

  Jack grinned. “Your lack of enthusiasm speaks volumes. I know. I keep turning up, like a bad penny.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I admitted, with slightly more animation. “I don’t know why we say that when we do.”

  “Me, either,” Jack admitted. “I’ll pull out my Bartlett’s when I get home and let you know.”

  “You have a Bartlett’s?”

  Jack gave me an odd look. “I have a dictionary and a thesaurus, too. Why does that surprise you? I am literate.”

  “I’ve never seen you read,” I explained. “A book, I mean. I’ve seen you read memos. I’ve seen magazines in your studio, but I’ve never actually seen you reading one.”

  “You don’t see me taking a shower but I do. Every day. I have a life even when you’re not around.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I wanted to add, What’s that life like, Jack? Would I want to be part of it? Would you want me to be part of it?

  Of course, I said none of that. Craziness.

  Jack gestured at the stool next to mine. “Mind if I sit here?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “Good. I’m starved.”

  “And there’s nothing in your fridge but rolls of film and batteries.”

  “Pretty much. But you forgot the one beer and a moldy burrito. Really should throw that thing out.”

  Jack ordered, but suddenly I didn’t feel hungry anymore. Well, I’m sure the hunger was still there; it was just temporarily buried under a layer of adolescent fluttering.

  “You’re not on a diet, are you?” he asked. “Everyone is on a crazy diet these days.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not on a diet. I’m just not very hungry.”

  I wondered if Jack knew that Ross and I had broken up. I figured he probably did. Someone had told him about the miscarriage. Why not about the breakup?

  “So,” I said jauntily, once Jack’s dinner had arrived, “I suppose you heard the news?”

  Jack chewed vigorously then swallowed before he said, “What news? What’s happened since I last checked the Internet? How many children have starved this week in Sudan? How many people have been infected with the HIV virus in Africa? How many people have been poisoned in the subway systems of a large European city? What major monument has blown up since lunch? How depressed or enraged should I be?”

  Ah, yes. There were more important events than Anna’s broken engagement.

  “My life,” I said. Nothing major. Not really.

  “What?”

  “My life has blown up.” I held my left hand in front of my face.

  Jack shook his head. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Mr. I-Notice-Everything didn’t notice the lack of iceberg on my finger? Well, I reminded myself, there are other things on Jack’s mind than me.

  “No ring,” I said. “No fiancé. Ross and I broke up. We’re not getting married. In fact, I’m pretty sure we’re not even speaking. We’re not doing anything together anymore.”

  I watched Jack’s face. His expression was inscrutable. “That’s why you’re here alone,” he said finally.

  “I do have a life when you’re not around.”

  “Sorry. For all I know you spend every evening sitting alone at a local watering hole.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said. “I kind of thought you already knew. About Ross and me.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked after a moment or two. “Life’s been giving you a tough time lately, hasn’t it.”

  “I guess so. It could be worse.” I could be a starving child in Ethiopia. Nothing like a world news report to put one’s troubles into perspective. “And no, I’m not okay, but I will be.”

  “Regrets?”

  I looked Jack right in the eye. “None,” I said. “The re
lationship just wasn’t right. We just weren’t right. You know?”

  Jack took a sip of his beer and set the bottle back down before answering.

  “Do you really want me to reply to that? Because I’m going to have to say, Yes, I do know. I knew all along.”

  I wondered, Was I the only one who hadn’t known all along?

  “At least you haven’t said, ‘I told you so.’”

  Jack grinned. “I think I just did. Seriously, Anna, I’m sorry.”

  I smiled brightly, falsely. “Better now than after the wedding, right?”

  “It’s still got to hurt.”

  I abandoned the smile. It certainly hadn’t fooled Jack. “Oh, yes. It hurts. And, well, I’m also a bit embarrassed. How could I have been so wrong?”

  “That’s a waste of time.” Jack’s tone was final. “Being embarrassed about being human just proves how ridiculous human beings really are.”

  “That’s what Alexandra says.”

  “You should listen to Alexandra. Since you don’t listen to me.”

  I did listen to Alexandra. She found Jack inappropriate. She thought he was good for me.

  “I do listen to you,” I said. And for the first time I realized just how true that was.

  And then the air around us was filled with sexual tension. At least, I thought it was.

  Jack tossed some bills on the bar and got up from the bar stool. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Are you sure? Can’t you stay for just a bit?”

  “I can’t,” he said brusquely. “I still have some work to do before tomorrow. We’ve got that Gott debacle in a few days.”

  “I’ll get it all done,” I said, with a touch of annoyance. “You’ll have the final seating plan and layout. Don’t worry.”

  “I never worry.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “At least about you doing your job.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I don’t think he heard. He was already at the door, then out on the sidewalk.

  I watched as Jack loped off into the evening. Always moving, never still. Except when he looked. To really see requires stillness.