Adults and Other Children

by Miriam Cohen

  “We have to fix this,” Mrs. Schapiro says. “Every person deserves a life of adventure.”

  She tells Sophie she would like to enlist her in a project. The trouble, Mrs. Schapiro says, is simple. She needs a child. If she’s going to write children’s books, but she doesn’t have a child, some people might think it doesn’t look right. She, a woman without a child, might be frightening, and that might affect her book sales.

  “It was different before the Internet became such a thing,” says Mrs. Schapiro. “Now everyone’s Googling.”

  She shakes her head like there’s water in her ears. “It isn’t enough to be infertile these days! Now everyone says, Well, have you thought of this? And, Is this something you’ve tried? Chinese little girls are harder to get these days. You need those African babies with flies around their heads.”

  Mrs. Schapiro spreads her arms, fingers splayed. “It’s all over the Internet.”

  And now she lowers her voice to a hoarse whisper even though no one else is there. “Surrogacy is an option.”

  Sophie understands how bad the idea is, but she’d like to see it gather into itself, watch it hideously bloom. “You want me to carry your baby?”

  “We can compensate you,” Mrs. Schapiro says, smooth as a stockbroker.

  She smiles like someone’s behind her, yanking up the strings. “Isn’t this material you could use for a college admission essay?”

  “I went to college,” Sophie says.

  “If you insist,” says Mrs. Schapiro, and winks one final, valedictory time.

  Dr. Altman, Sophie’s therapist, has a picture of a frowning Freud on her wall just above the desk she sits behind. There’s a tiny rock garden on her desk, and a tiny rake. And, of course, a notepad and a beautiful, heavy-looking pen that must have been a gift. Across from the desk is a leather couch with removable cushions, where Sophie sits. There’s an option to lie down, but Sophie sits. Next to the chair is a side table just large enough to hold a box of tissues. Sophie has never used a tissue. Not even when she’s had a cold.

  Dr. Altman thinks the surrogacy idea is terrible, Sophie can tell, but Dr. Altman won’t say it. She just squints at Sophie. She tells Sophie to tell her more. If Dr. Altman liked what she was saying, she wouldn’t be squinting. She would be nodding. She would be making eye contact with Sophie, but all the while writing with that beautiful pen. Lately, there’s been a lot of squinting.

  “I think it could give me some direction,” Sophie says. “Direction” is a word Dr. Altman likes. It makes Sophie think of tourists and maps.

  “I might get to have a baby shower,” Sophie says. “Would you give your daughter a shower if she were a surrogate?”

  More squinting.

  “I guess it would look weird to the guests. Like, ‘I got a gift, now where’s the baby?’ Right?”

  Dr. Altman asks Sophie if she’d like to talk about the attempt.

  Sophie would rather not. “I didn’t mean it,” she says. “I would have gotten the job done if I really meant it.”

  Now Dr. Altman nods. Now she’s paying attention. This is the conversation she wants to be having. Sophie may even get her to smile.

  “It’s the dance you enjoy,” says Dr. Altman.

  And this is an image Sophie can get behind: her and death in a ballroom, doing the foxtrot. Cha-cha-cha.

  Sophie had actually kind of liked her time at the mental hospital, even if you weren’t supposed to say that. The best part had been the smoke-breaks. She didn’t smoke, but the excitement was contagious; before the mental hospital, Sophie hadn’t realized how much people liked to smoke. And it was nice to get outside six times a day, to have something so basic become elevated to a reward.

  Second best was Kim, who was forever scheduled for ECT, always on the verge of being tied to a table and convulsed, a block of rubber keeping her from choking on her own tongue. For nearly a week, Kim had subverted it. The procedure—that delicate, clinical term—had to be performed on an empty stomach, but each morning, for something like five mornings running, Kim had darted behind the nurses’ station and guzzled coffee before they could get to her. No one, she’d said, understood about a coffee addiction. Next to Kim, everyone—Sophie included—was sane.

  “A baby is pretty much the opposite of death,” Sophie says now. “I think it’s the right thing.”

  Dr. Altman writes something down. “This isn’t literature we’re discussing,” she says.

  “So no symbols or themes?” Freud is, after all, presiding above them.

  And then Dr. Altman does laugh, eyebrows raised. They’re, the two of them, in on something together. They’ve disappointed Freud.

  But Dr. Altman’s recovery is swift. Her smile goes back to wherever it is it usually stays. “Why don’t you tell me some more about your work with Professor Schapiro?”

  “On The Scandal of Hansel and Gretel: Incest and other Mischief?”

  Dr. Altman writes something down. “You find the title provocative.”

  “It’s the title,” Sophie says. “It’s his title.”

  Sex is a problem for Sophie, Dr. Altman has observed in the past. But not for any reason as exciting as incest. Dr. Altman traces it back to Sophie’s adolescence spent in a marriage-less household. Role models, Sophie imagines Dr. Altman writing in her notes. Lack thereof. Sophie doesn’t know how Dr. Altman can stand it. If Sophie were a therapist to herself she’d be more bored with her life than she is already.

  “Professor Schapiro’s thesis is a little out there,” she says. “He thinks Hansel and Gretel were kicked out of their house because they were fucking. ‘Up to mischief,’ Professor Schapiro writes. The witch is society, and she tried to stop them, so they had to kill her. They cooked her and then ate her. Out, Professor Schapiro argues. They took turns eating her out.”

  Sophie isn’t supposed to look at the clock on Dr. Altman’s desk. She’s meant to be in the moment. As if there’s any other place for her to be.

  “You’re looking at the clock,” Dr. Altman says.

  There are 20 minutes left of the 45-minute hour.

  “You want to be a mother,” Dr. Altman says. Here she is again with the pen, gathering speed. “A mother who abandons her child.”

  She’s talking about her favorite story, the one Sophie trotted out like a young show-horse in their first sessions together. The doctors at the mental hospital liked it too. It’s the story of Sophie’s mother’s cancer. Breast. This detail always makes Sophie feel like she’s at a deli counter: And make that butterflied, please!

  “My mother didn’t abandon me,” Sophie says. “It wasn’t like she up and packed a suitcase.”

  Dr. Altman’s heel peeks out of her sensible (but definitely designer) pump before slipping back in place. “Symbolically,” she allows.

  Above her, Freud all but smiles, Mona Lisa-style.

  Professor Schapiro tells Sophie to just take her time and think about it. “Time is money,” he tells her. But when Sophie says, “That’s exactly why I have to decide now,” he looks confused. “All these years, and I thought that saying meant something else.”

  Sayings are more like sighs for Professor Schapiro. They don’t mean anything in particular. He’ll say, It’s just water over the bridge; I guess that’s killing one bird with two stones; A hand in the bird is worth two in the bush.

  But her session with Dr. Altman has solidified it. “I’d do it,” she says.

  “But will you?”

  He isn’t being facetious, she sees. He knows the difference between hypothetical and actual. It makes sense. So little of his life seems to live in the actual. His house is overrun with imaginary children.

  She tells him she will. Because here it is at last, shy as an estranged friend, waving a tentative hello: life.

  The egg (not just yet too old) will come from Mrs. Schapiro, whose uterus, it turns out, is an inhospitable disaster. Professor Schapiro will supply the sperm. Mrs. Schapiro has suggested Professor Schapiro might be m
ost comfortable—and successful—if he uses pictures of Sophie while he jacks off into his cup. Porn, Mrs. Schapiro believes, is too tacky, too pedestrian, for Professor Schapiro’s purposes.

  If Sophie wants the money, Mrs. Schapiro explains, she must be willing to be helpful. Mrs. Schapiro has purchased a professional camera for the occasion. The camera was expensive, yes, but money can buy some things. She, Mrs. Schapiro, will be taking the pictures.

  Mrs. Schapiro takes Sophie’s cheeks in her hands. It feels almost like love, its distant, twice-removed cousin. “There are plenty of other spry uteruses if you disagree with our terms.”

  Professor Schapiro chuckles, but Sophie can’t see his smile. His mouth has been almost entirely displaced by the beard. “Plenty of sea in the fish,” he says.

  Sophie agrees to both the existence of plenty of others and the terms.

  But later, when they are alone in Professor Schapiro’s office with only Hansel and Gretel to bear witness, he tells her he’s sorry. He didn’t mean it. She’s the entire sea.

  The photo shoot takes place in Mrs. Schapiro’s office. Sophie is to strip to entirely naked. There can’t be anything, Mrs. Schapiro instructs. Not even jewelry. Not even a ponytail holder. If there’s a Band-Aid or anything else, that also must be removed. As must any makeup or nail polish.

  Mrs. Schapiro at first mistakes the red worm of scar across Sophie’s wrist for a bracelet, but once she examines it more closely, holding Sophie’s wrist, running a finger efficiently up and down the scar, she sees it’s something that can’t be removed and tells Sophie she’s ready. She may begin.

  Sophie has stood fully naked in front of someone only once before, though not, of course, as naked as this—that time, she kept on a watch, earrings, nail-polish on her toes. The someone was a guy she’d met on a blind date. He’d taken her out for drinks, and during the drinks, she’d said sure, she’d be up to hanging out again, and he’d smiled and said, Really? and she realized, with that Really? that she’d never be able to bring herself see him again. So when he asked her if she wanted to get dessert, she’d said yes. He took her to a cupcake shop, but he didn’t order a cupcake; he told her she really needed to try the banana pudding, and she’d said, Sure. The pudding came in a plastic cup with two spoons. He dipped his spoon deep into the pudding, brought the yellow, gelatinous blob to his mouth, moaned. He smiled at her with pudding on his lips. He invited her, after, to his office. It was night, and his office was closed, but he had a key. Did she want to come see his office?

  He brought her inside, past the security guards, to his office on the twentieth floor. The view was magnificent, she told him. It was magnificent. He smiled and kissed her. He seemed like someone who’d be happy just kissing. He was happy to have found her, he said. She asked him if he had a condom, and he whispered, shy and grateful as a groom, I do. She took off her clothing. She let him do the bra, but she took care of everything else. She stood naked in front of the magnificent view.

  She said, Wouldn’t it be kinky if we did it on the desk?

  She lay on the desk. Then she lay on the floor. He said, Are you okay? Was that good? And after, he said, Can I walk you home? And he called her the next day and left a message saying how much fun he’d had, and then a few days later he left her another message asking if she was okay, if he’d done something wrong. He asked her, Could they at least talk?

  But she was home laughing at him. She was in session with Dr. Altman, saying, God, it was like he was jerking off into that pudding. She was asking, Where are all the normal guys?

  This time, with the Schapiros, it’s much easier. They’re paying her. Everyone is onboard with this being a one-time-only event. She won’t even have to touch anyone. And, if all goes to plan, she’ll be helping Professor Schapiro do his part to make a life.

  Mrs. Schapiro tells Sophie to sit at her, Mrs. Schapiro’s, desk. The desk chair is lined in piling polyester.

  “Should we put down a paper towel or something?” Sophie asks.

  Mrs. Schapiro looks lost. “Of course not,” she says. Is there something Sophie’s not understanding? she wants to know.

  Sophie tells her, no, sorry, yes; she gets it.

  “Sit at the desk and type on the computer. Type very, very quickly. You should be typing so quickly your breasts move up and down.” Mrs. Schapiro reaches over and takes Sophie’s breasts in her own hands. She lifts them and lets them drop. Lifts and drops. “You see?” She’s surprisingly gentle.

  “Yes,” Sophie says.

  Mrs. Schapiro places a piece of paper in front of her. She is to type, word-for-word, what is hand-written on the page. “Once I include the illustrations, this’ll be the book,” Mrs. Schapiro says. “Typing is a big help.” As if Sophie is not naked, but fully, professionally, clothed, and a secretary.

  Sophie types:

  Frances is a star. Her French boarding school is putting on a production of Oliver!. Frances is perfect for the main part, as an orphan herself. To become Oliver, she must undergo a transformation. Frances does not mind. She does not mind becoming a boy, if she must. Frances always does what she must. She pulls her hair into a ponytail and lets her drama teacher, the beautiful Madame S., cut it off. The ponytail dances away on streaming legs made of ribbon.

  While Sophie types, Mrs. Schapiro takes pictures. The flash makes it hard to focus, but Sophie finds she’s enjoying herself. She sits very, very straight. She holds her hands above the keyboard, and each time she types a letter, she makes the movement come from her shoulders, her back, her pelvis, her knees. She feels like a virtuoso pianist selling out a concert hall. (And, yes, Sophie knows Dr. Altman would interject here to point out that Sophie’s mother was a pianist before she was a dead mother.) But Sophie can almost hear the rainstorm of applause, and this isn’t about her mother. Not everything is about her mother.

  Sophie types:

  Frances must miss classes when she practices for the play. She misses her classes with Mr. PeeWee, who wears a bowtie to class but forgets to tie his shoes. Mr. PeeWee is sad when Frances misses his class because Frances is very smart. Frances always knows the answer. Sometimes, Frances knows more than Mr. PeeWee knows. Poor Mr. PeeWee. He cries into his beard. Small mice live in there, and they scurry about, trying to avoid the flood.

  Mrs. Schapiro puts a hand on Sophie’s arm, right next to the scar. “Just a little more,” she says. “We’re almost finished. Just a few more pictures to help Professor Schapiro.”

  Sophie types for hours, of Frances who is a smashing success, of Mr. PeeWee who can’t do anything right, of the beautiful Madame S., who is always right, who knows exactly how Frances must behave. Sophie types until her fingers ache, until her vagina, against the friction of polyester, burns.

  The implantation is a success. “I’ve put a baby in a womb of its own,” Sophie announces to Dr. Altman. It’s a joke she’s been sitting on. Plus: how’s this for a reference Dr. Altman will feel misses the point, will make her tell Sophie, again, that life is not literature?

  Dr. Altman’s dismay is so obvious it’s obscene. All her usual ticks and rituals are gone. Her notepad sits forlorn on her lap. Her eyes, it seems, have forgotten how to squint. Her face softens into a real person’s face. She might be anyone, someone Sophie could meet at a party, pass on the street, sit next to at a movie. There’s something wonderful about seeing Dr. Altman so stripped of her armor, or her tools, as she would say, were she being herself.

  “Does your father know about this?” she asks.

  Sophie shrugs. “He heard me throwing up. He asked about bulimia.”

  “He’ll find out sometime,” Dr. Altman says. “I think we should call him in. I think we should have a family session.”

  Family sessions had been all the rage in the mental hospital. Family sessions involving only a father and a daughter, though, always felt more pitiful than anything else. Her sisters never came, citing lives. There wound up being too many chairs in the room, like a party with an unrealistic g
uest list. The therapy room had glass walls, and the only noteworthy one of Sophie and her father’s sad-sack family sessions was the one when a post-ETC-zapped Kim—they’d finally gotten her—floating greasily down the hallway, had stopped to press her lips to the glass like a mournful blowfish. Sophie’s father had looked at her, panicked. “You don’t really need to be here, do you?”

  “I don’t know that he’d be up for a family session,” Sophie says now. “People who are adults get pregnant. It happens.”

  “You don’t want to be doing this,” Dr. Altman says. It seems almost as though, if Freud weren’t watching, Dr. Altman would get up from her desk and shake her.

  There’s something to incubating life. It makes Sophie feel as fragile and powerful as she did right after the attempt, when nurses surrounded her and a doctor stitched her skin together like it was only cloth, come undone. But how awful that is has to be for Mrs. Schapiro, who will never love the baby. And for Professor Schapiro, who’s only interested in imaginary children who are interested in each other.

  “It’s done,” Sophie says. “You can tell me congratulations now.”

  She stands and swoons.

  Dr. Altman is very quiet and calm, telling her to just lie down now, that’s fine, very good, there she goes. She can put her feet up just like that. Dr. Altman puts a hand on Sophie’s forehead, on her cheek. She gives her a child’s juice box that comes with a straw taped to the side. She puts the straw in for Sophie, though Sophie can do it herself, of course, she’s totally fine, that was nothing, she’s so embarrassed.

  “Why do you have a juice box?” Sophie asks her, once she is up and sipping.

  It must be, she imagines, for Dr. Altman’s grandchild, the child of her daughter, whose existence and wedding Sophie learned of in one fell swoop when it was announced in the Times. This grandchild must be visiting. The juice, which Sophie has now finished, must have been packed away for this child, for later.