The Female Persuasion

by Meg Wolitzer

  “No,” wept the girl.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  Then she became aware of someone hovering, and there above them was Noelle Williams. “What’s going on, Shara?” the guidance counselor asked in her calm voice.

  “I’m sick.”

  “I think it’s appendicitis,” Zee put in.

  “And you know that from where, your training at Harvard Medical School?” said Noelle.

  “Well—”

  “Or was that a unit at Teach and Reach?”

  Zee simmered but said nothing. It wasn’t appropriate; this girl was suffering. Noelle crouched down and opened Shara’s coat, which was something that Zee hadn’t thought to do. The guidance counselor gently unzipped it and parted the two halves, revealing Shara Pick’s full abdomen, astonishingly round beneath her sweater. With the coat off it was impossible to miss.

  “May I raise your sweater?” Noelle asked, and Shara nodded. The skin of her abdomen was stretched and shining, the navel asserting itself like a pencil eraser, and below that was a bisecting dark stripe of skin, something called linea nigra, Zee would learn later when she sat at her computer and looked up every single thing, every single moment, locked in studiousness the way Greer would have been if she’d been there for this.

  But armed with no knowledge yet, only instinct, in that moment in the nurse’s office Zee and the guidance counselor looked at each other, alarmed, across Shara Pick, and then Noelle said to Shara in a soft voice, “Sweet pea, did you know you were going to have a baby?”

  “I thought, yeah, maybe I was.”

  “Well, you are, and Miss Eisenhower and I are going to help you.”

  Zee didn’t correct her. Everything happened so fast from that moment on. 911 was called; Shara made deep sounds in her throat, and she braced her legs and arched her back.

  “I’ll look up what to do,” said Noelle, and while Zee encouraged Shara not to push, to keep her legs together, to wait, Noelle sat at the nurse’s desk—the nurse, Jean, why wasn’t she back yet? On the old gum-colored Dell desktop computer Noelle punched in a password, and then success. She Googled the sparest and most economical collection of words she could think of. She was an excellent Googler, it would turn out.

  Now, swiftly, Noelle located an online visual guide to delivering a baby in emergency circumstances with no training and no equipment. “Okay, I’ve got instructions here,” she said. In a quiet and controlled voice, Noelle read, “‘What should I do to help someone in labor?’”

  Somehow they managed to hold Shara off, to keep her from delivering a baby into their unschooled hands. Finally Jean returned, followed immediately by the EMS team, a man and a woman, both young and competent, who raced in and took over. “Push, Shara,” they told her after they had assessed the situation.

  And then the head emerged, the face emerged; and once that explicit sense of humanness appeared, it was as if everything else stopped. As soon as there was a face, everyone marveled. Same as a death. Everyone knew death existed, Zee thought; most people had known since childhood. The newspapers were filled with the tiny print of paid death notices and real obituaries, and sometimes one of Zee’s parents looked up from the paper while they drank their breakfast smoothies before heading to the courthouse, and mildly said to the other something like, “Oh, did you see that Carl Sagan died?”

  Zee thought of Cory Pinto’s little brother—gone. She thought of the faces of everyone she knew, trembling in the gelatin of their own temporariness. We’re overwhelmed by faces, Zee knew, the ones that leave and the ones that come, and she was overwhelmed by this one now.

  Suddenly Zee realized that something thick was wrapped around the baby’s neck. It was the umbilical cord, looking like the bicycle cable with which Zee had tied up her Schwinn all over the Ryland campus. She watched the paramedics carefully get it off. It was as if they were unlocking that bicycle chain in the rain, working the slippery thing, with its intimations of something complex beneath the surface, out from among the spokes. The baby’s head was sprung.

  “There we go, Shara,” said the male paramedic tenderly.

  “One more, Shara,” echoed Jean the nurse.

  “You can do it,” said Zee.

  And then Noelle said, “You’re doing great!”

  Shara pushed heroically, and eventually there was a sound like a boot pressing into mud as the baby’s shoulders rushed out, late for an important meeting, and the human face was revealed to be attached to a human body, genitals swollen and full and declaring: girl.

  * * *

  • • •

  Though they did not like each other, they were both in desperate, shaky need of decompression, so Noelle Williams and Zee Eisenstat found themselves sitting together for a very early dinner in a nearby restaurant after the workday, which ended for both of them immediately after Shara’s grandmother arrived and everything was revealed to be stable, at least medically. Zee tried to go to the hospital with her frightened student, but Jean the nurse said no, she would go instead. There was nothing more for Zee and Noelle to do.

  Noelle chose a small soul-food restaurant called Miss Marie’s with wood paneling and an excellent soundtrack featuring Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. A tin bowl of pickled green tomatoes was placed on the table, and Zee sliced one hard, feeling the give of the skin, knowing that even though her knife was dull, she could cut this. She had nearly delivered a baby today, after all. The baby of a baby.

  Poor Shara Pick, she thought. Poor Baby Girl Pick. There was nothing she could do for her students but buy toothbrushes and tube socks and assist at a delivery, and feel a constant sadness or anger or fear. “What’s going to happen?” she asked. “Her family is such a mess.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s as sad as it gets,” said Noelle. “Her parents came to school once and they could barely stand up. I don’t know what they’re like now. The social worker is heading over to the hospital tonight, and we’ll follow up tomorrow, but it’s all very bleak.”

  “Will she be allowed to come back to school?”

  “Sure, there are various options. But I have no idea what she’s going to do. We have a program for mothers, but honestly it all kills me. Why did no one see that that girl was pregnant? Oh, that was a rhetorical question. It’s a question that will be put to the entire faculty and staff when we meet next. And I’m going to suggest we have an emergency meeting, because none of us noticed it. We can’t just say, ‘She was carrying small,’ though clearly she was. That baby was like a hand puppet. And yet the EMS team said she was fine. Small but fine. Her lungs sounded good.”

  “I feel terrible that I missed it. But I couldn’t see anything. Shara wore a parka to class every day,” said Zee.

  “That in itself was a warning sign.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  At which point Zee wondered how much shit she was meant to take from the guidance counselor. Why did Noelle dislike her with such ferocity, even after everything they had done together today, and the raw drama of it?

  “What did I ever do to you, Noelle?” she asked.

  The waitress appeared then, cutting off the confrontation, so they ordered dully from the menu. Chicken for Noelle, a vegetable medley for Zee. When you were a vegetarian your restaurant meals were heavy on medleys.

  Then Noelle looked up at her with an expression that was surprisingly not hostile. “Zee,” she said. “It’s not you. Well, it is you. It’s your trusting nature. Your idealism.”

  “I wasn’t under the impression that those were bad qualities.” Zee swirled the beer in her glass, and suddenly had a surge of desire to be drinking beers with Greer instead of with this unfriendly woman. Everyone said Chicago was such a great city. “The Art Institute,” they exclaimed. “The nightlife. The music. The lake.”

  But Zee had seen very little and done
very little, because it was hard to love a city when you were entirely alone in it. Or at least hard for Zee. Maybe she could convince Greer to come visit some weekend. Together they could go down to the edge of the shining lake and throw stones and talk about what was painful in their lives, and what was hopeful. But the unfriendly woman here had a command over Zee. It wasn’t deserved, but it was real. Noelle, she noted, had a sexy throat.

  “They aren’t bad qualities, in a vacuum,” Noelle conceded. “But when my kids get used, I consider those qualities less than helpful.”

  “Your kids?” said Zee. “They’re not my kids now too?”

  “You think of your students as your kids?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You know something, I deserve some slack from you,” Zee said. “I’m new, I’m muddling through, and I just went through a thing today. I joined Teach and Reach to do some good. I really did. And if that’s not happening, well, I don’t know what else to do. But ever since I came to this school you’ve hated me.”

  “You think this is about you?” Noelle said. “You are just a cog in the Teach and Reach wheel, so please don’t inflate your position. I know we’ve had a rough day, and we had it together, but if I hated you I would not be sitting with you right now. I would be far away from you.”

  “Oh, so you’re saying you like me? That’s puzzling. It sure doesn’t come off as liking.”

  “You’re going to have to work harder if you want me to like you. But it sounds a little more possible than your other goal,” said Noelle. “Saving the students in the Learning Octagon network.”

  “They need all the help they can get.”

  “Not from you, sweet pea.” This was almost murmured, the same endearment Noelle had used with Shara during the delivery, and she had meant it tenderly then, but now she meant it sharply, lovelessly.

  “Then from who? Who else can help an octagon made up of only seven schools, where everyone starts off with nothing? I acknowledge my privilege. I grew up in Scarsdale, New York. But why should my class background disqualify me? Does my experience have to be the same as my students’?”

  “My mother is a solidly middle-class office manager for an allergist here in Chicago,” said Noelle. “She raised my sister and me all by herself—my father died of a heart attack when I was five—but we had everything we needed, just like you. Music lessons, orthodontia, lots of books on the shelves, and a life of consistency. That is my mother’s strong suit. I am not saying that anyone’s experience has to be the same as the students’.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  Noelle leaned closer across the table; from this sudden proximity, Zee was given a different view. She didn’t simply have to be intimidated by her or admire her physically. As for the possibility of being betrayed, this had nothing to do with the older women in Zee’s past, Linda Mariani and Dr. Marjorie Albrecht, who had both shockingly betrayed her, or even Faith Frank, who hadn’t betrayed her but had simply had no interest in hiring her, despite Zee’s heartfelt letter. Noelle Williams had given her no expectations at all. Zee didn’t have to be hurt by her. She could stand up to her if she chose.

  “We were told,” said Noelle, “that a dedicated team of teachers would sweep in on their dedicated horses, and they would save our schools. But in fact what’s happened is that a team of completely unprepared teachers, right out of college themselves and with virtually no training except for a crash course that is far shorter than the course you’d need to take in order to become an air-conditioning repair person, have been sent into our schools. And we’re told to be grateful. We’re told that this is good enough, and that we should be respectful of the notion that people like you are willing to accept a low-paying job in order to do something worthwhile. When in fact, no, it is not good enough, at least not to me. Some of my colleagues feel differently from me. They approve of Teach and Reach, and think it’s an admirable enterprise that’s worthy of our support. But since Teach and Reach came, it’s worth pointing out that things are no different.

  “Now, I am comforted by our president. A black man. And brilliant and kind. I just love him to pieces. But nothing is going to change the baked-in bad stuff all that fast. And in various ways, Teach and Reach is just making everything worse. It can’t take any criticism, and therefore it will never change. And all it keeps doing is trying to squeeze our schools to fit into some corporate-driven shape. Veteran teachers are being laid off, but Teach and Reach keeps going. It degrades the profession of teaching. And of course this program is targeting black and brown communities. It would never fly in a white school. And you know what’s going to happen? There are forces out there that are lying in wait, taking their time, knowing they will have their moment. You and some of the others, you’re not bad people, I know that, but you’re not skilled and you’re not prepared, and you’re only doing these jobs for a little while. You’re not here for the duration; no one even thinks you are. You’re here postcollege to try and do something good, and once you’ve had that experience, you’re going to turn around and do something else. Probably something less good but more financially rewarding. I don’t blame you, Zee. I’d do it too if I were you. But we need people who are here for the long run. Because things are going to get so much worse, and then what will happen?”

  “So you’re saying I should quit now?”

  Noelle looked at her steadily. “Is that really what you think? No, of course I’m not saying that. You shouldn’t do that to these kids, not in the middle of the year; not like some people. They crave stability. You stay, and you finish the year, and you do your best, and then you decide. Look, I’m sure you’re a fine person, and I’m sure you’re a person who is trying hard to . . . what do you say to yourself, ‘get involved’? I know that feeling; I have had it myself. But sometimes the way to get involved is to just live your life and be yourself with all your values intact. And by just being you, it’ll happen. Maybe not in big ways, but it’ll happen.”

  “I saw it differently,” Zee said quietly. Noelle nodded. “In any event, it happened really fast. I was living with my parents and working as a paralegal. I really hated it. My best friend works for Faith Frank. She has a women’s foundation, and I thought maybe I could work there too. But that didn’t happen. I had to get out of the law firm, not to mention my parents’ house. But Judge Wendy Eisenstat made it very clear that whatever I did, I needed to make a living wage.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “You call her Judge Wendy Eisenstat?”

  “Yes. Or Judge Wendy. It drives her crazy. She prefers Mom. But honestly, she’s had such a judicial presence my entire life. When she shows up in my dreams, sometimes she’s wearing robes. My dad too. He’s the other Judge Eisenstat, but he’s more low-key.”

  Noelle smiled; was it the first smile? At least it was the first unambivalent one. “So I guess,” she said, “your name isn’t Eisenhower.”

  “No.”

  “And yet you didn’t correct me.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. It might make you self-conscious.”

  “Do you correct your students when they say something wrong?” asked Noelle.

  “Yes. Teach and Reach tells us we’re supposed to.”

  “Do you always do what everyone tells you?”

  “If they ask nicely.”

  “Well, I’ll have to learn to ask you to do things nicely then,” said Noelle. “Note to self.”

  Zee paused, trying to figure out this turn. “That would be a good idea. You might even see some results,” she finally said. “Better than test scores. ‘No Woman Left Behind.’”

  There was an open playfulness between them now; they’d gone from friction to childbirth to an angry soliloquy to this new, uncertain stage. I am so confused! Zee thought, looking at Noelle’s small, ornamented ear. “Is your mother very maternal?” Zee suddenly wanted to know.

 
“Medium. She’s more like the steward of a ship. A nice ship, though. Yours?”

  “She’s been good at what she does. I can’t complain. Seeing Shara today, I was thinking that she’s just entering that whole parade, isn’t she?”

  “What parade?”

  “Oh, a mother begetting a tiny potential mother. She wasn’t even sure she was going to have a baby,” said Zee. She poked around at her plate. “I can’t even imagine,” she added.

  “What, having a baby?”

  “Right, yeah. My body, all of this equipment that I possess; I’ve never spent a lot of time thinking of it as reproductive. I had a movement therapist when I was a teenager who apparently thought I was denying my womanhood. But I wasn’t! I never have. I like being a girl. I just want to be the one who says what that means. My idea of hell would be to suddenly give birth without knowing it was going to happen.”

  “That’s anyone’s idea of hell.”

  Suddenly, urgently, Zee asked, “Will we definitely find out what happens to Shara and her baby? Can we go see her? And if she doesn’t come back to school, is this going to be the last we’ll hear?”

  “I’ll make sure we hear, and that we find a way to help her if we can. I will try not to let her slip through the cracks.”

  “She’s a mess, but she likes history. She’s good with dates,” said Zee. Maybe this was an exaggeration, but she wanted to say it. Someone had to stand up for Shara Pick, to declare her worthwhile as more than the carrier of a baby that she might soon turn over to someone else’s arms, and as more than a collection of uncontrollable parts. “She must have been so scared,” said Zee. The body did not always do what you asked it to. It had its own ideas, its own trajectory. Even now, she thought that her own body was like a tuning fork that was responding to Noelle’s very particular pitch.