I’m not sure what to say. Her revelation, though I know she and Marco struggle with making all the pieces fit in a family of five, is like a punch to the stomach. Worried about her marriage?
Gaze still unbroken, Charlotte continues. “I didn’t want to burden you, Halley. You and Adam have your own stuff going on.” We’re more alike than either of us realizes. “I know Marco and I married young. But I never thought it would come to this. No one ever thinks their marriage will be the one in two that ends in divorce.” I can’t believe my ears. “We were always so sure of each other. We even said, ‘We may not know much of anything with certainty, but we know each other.’”
“Charlotte,” I gasp, touching her shoulder.
She closes her eyes, opening them only a second later, still fixated on Marco.
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions about what could happen to Marco and me. And the kids! Oh god, the kids.” She exhales, long and loud. A panicked exhalation. “But couples rarely bounce back from this.”
Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
“Char—” I don’t have the words. She does.
“How do you come back from infidelity?” At last her gaze on Marco breaks, and she looks at me with watery eyes. “How?”
“Oh, Charlotte.” I wrap her in my arms.
She stands against me, limp. “I know this is not what you need to deal with right now, Halley.”
“Shut up.” I hold her tightly. “This is exactly what I’m here for.”
Charlotte, as if from years of practice putting on the brave mom face, deftly suppresses any tears and sniffles. She looks anything but strong; however, she doesn’t look as if she will break. It’s almost robotic, her posture, the way she’s talking, the way her eyes return to Marco.
“You know how I told you that you shouldn’t have a baby for Adam if you don’t really want one?” she says.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even suggest that you should consider it.”
“Yeah. I thought, what with you being Super Mom and all, that you’d say at least a consideration was owed to Adam. To myself.” I look out the window at my husband.
“I didn’t suggest it because I knew you didn’t want to hear it,” she says. “Because you don’t want to be a mother, Halley.” She turns to look at me. “I told you what I wished someone would have told me five years ago,” she says. “That having kids for the wrong reason is one of the biggest mistakes you can make.”
The pitch of her voice rises. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my children to pieces. But having a baby to save your marriage, or because you think you have to, or because your husband wants one and you’re not sure . . . don’t do it, Halley.” She looks me square in the face. “Don’t.” She looks back to Marco. “Making choices for the wrong reasons can lead you to make some very wrong choices later on. I’m not making excuses, but . . .”
“Oh, Charlotte. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
At first I am overwhelmed, then sad, and then I’m upset. I look out the window at Marco, who’s laughing at something as Adam talks. And now I’m enraged. How dare Marco. To hell with it, how dare those two men out there! Breaking the rules. Changing the plans. Risking their marriages.
“Look, Marco and I haven’t exactly talked about it yet,” Charlotte says. “And the kids don’t think anything’s wrong. And I don’t want a divorce. Really, I don’t. I don’t want this to ruin our marriage.” She turns away from the window and leans against the sink. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I just don’t see a way around this . . . this mess.”
“How long?”
“May. Five months.”
“Five months?” I say, surprised she’s managed to keep such a secret for so long. I waited a good month or so before I told Charlotte about my problems with Adam, but five months? Why wouldn’t she come to me with something as big as this? What she must be going through, all alone!
Now is not the time to chastise, and I remind myself that Charlotte and I really are two peas in a pod. Here we are, in the throes of the most difficult stages in our marriages, and we try to carry on without each other’s support. When we need each other more than ever.
“I’m here for you, Charlotte,” I say, touching her arm. “I know we’re both going through some shit right now, but whatever I can do, just say the magic word.”
She smiles weakly. “Thanks, Hals. I think right now I need to stay strong for the kids. They can’t be made victims in this mess. I love Marco. I love my family. I don’t want this to break what we have.”
“I know.”
“I just have to figure out what’s best for everyone.”
“And don’t forget yourself in that equation, Charlotte,” I remind my sister, who is always apt to put herself last.
“Eh,” she says with a lackluster shrug. Then she groans and tosses her head back. “God. I never thought we’d have this conversation, did you?”
I look out at Adam, then to Marco, and bite my tongue. How dare he do this to my sister. After all she’s sacrificed to give him a family, to make them a home. I want to hit Charlotte with a barrage of questions. How did you find out? Are you sure? Is it just one woman or many? Is this the first time? How can you not want to leave him after this? Again, now is not the time.
“No,” I say with a sigh. “Never in a million years did I think we’d be here.”
Charlotte hooks an arm around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder. “Never in a zillion years,” she whispers.
The rest of the afternoon moves along with relatively little added drama—a feat given the conversation in the kitchen. George smashes his fingers in the patio door, and Charlotte shouts at Marco for not being more vigilant. Ray says something that gets under my mother’s skin, but that is old news as soon as baby Davies pulls himself up with the assistance of the coffee table. I’m guessing this is one of many firsts for Baby. Adam and I split a piece of cake, which is an endearing gesture, though one that is made more for show than as an endearing couple’s thing. Adam and I share a few words, mostly about work. At least we aren’t snipping at each other as we did earlier. Mom brings up the topic of some longtime friends at her and Ray’s country club and how after forty-three years of marriage they are divorcing. “Isn’t that despicable and tragic?” Mom says, beside herself.
We all are thinking of the irony behind her words, Dad in particular as he inadvertently blows some bubbles into his cup of coffee. When she adds that it is even more tragic that all three children of this unhappily married couple are also divorced, I am alert. Charlotte is alert. Mom can steer a conversation anywhere she damn well pleases. Luckily, Ray finds something fascinating on his cell phone and interrupts the potential convo crash.
I am almost out of the woods, and for that matter, so is Charlotte, we daughters who unfortunately are potentially facing the same fate as the country club couple’s. But when Adam gets up to leave, saying he enjoyed the afternoon and is very proud of Alice and her win, Mom asks, “Where are you going without your wife?”
Adam looks to me, blindsided.
“Uhh,” I splutter.
“You’re both here in separate cars. What’s that all about?”
“It’s nothing, Mom,” I brush off.
“I’ve got some work to do at the office,” Adam says. “And Halley—”
“I’m going shopping with Marian,” I finish the lie. “At the Grove. It’s easier if we drive separately.”
“Oh.” Mom shrugs, as if she never really cared to know the answer to her prying question in the first place.
“See you . . . at home,” Adam says to me. The way he says this breaks my heart. It’s so uncertain, a blatant lie, and sounds utterly contrived.
“See you,” I say, but instead of Adam, Charlotte catches my eye. She’s got her knees pulled to her chest, sitting on the love seat, her hands wrapped around the mug that reads “#1 Mom.” She’s looking at Adam with the most depressing of expressions. I know my sister w
ell enough to know that she won’t cry, not out in the open, in front of everyone like this. But I swear a single tear rolls down her cheek as she watches Adam walk out the door.
Yes, we’re more alike than we realize.
Eight
The ballet is just what Nina and I need tonight. Since last Saturday afternoon at Charlotte’s, I’ve been looking forward to a relaxed evening out with a friend who’s a steady, calming presence—the person to remind you to enjoy the things you have that make you happy. When you want to remember that everything really is all right . . . or at least it’s going to be.
The ride to the Los Angeles Ballet from LA’s Westside, where I met up with Nina at her place, is like any drive with my good friend. There’s the requisite stop at the Starbucks drive-through and a golden eighties Madonna song on the radio we can’t help but turn up and sing along to. And there’s Nina’s classic fight with the GPS that offers continuous suggestions for alternate routes to beat the traffic. Nina insists there isn’t a way to turn the setting off, and I think Griffin would figure it out if his wife weren’t so inoffensive and cute in her battles with it. “Darn machine!” “Dang thing.” “No, I don’t want to take that route, dummy!” “Make it stop, make it stop!” There is never any worry that baby Rylan will pick up a swear word because his mother is behind the wheel.
I give Nina the scoop about last weekend, including how things still have yet to change with my nosy, judgy mother—this gives Nina a laugh—and how Alice won first place at her science fair. Then Adam comes up.
“We were not our best selves that afternoon, Nina,” I confess as she switches lanes. “We had all the telltale signs of a separated couple. Downright embarrassing, actually.”
“I know Adam’s taking it a bit rough,” she admits. “He doesn’t like the way you two are interacting any more than you do.”
Apparently, as Nina explains, Adam has taken to mountain biking. She compares Adam’s newfound activity to my walks to and from my office.
“I’m glad you two are finding your own time to reflect and work things out,” she says. “Many couples wouldn’t make the effort. I think most would just call it quits without trying.”
Nina’s probably right. Even though the separation sucks, and the entire way Adam and I got here is so stupid, we’re trying to save our marriage, our love. We’re not giving up. There’s comfort in knowing that neither of us really wants to be doing it. We’re trying to find our ways, on our own, to responsibly and peaceably deal. Although, Adam wasn’t earning any points with that whole “hold baby Davies” shtick. I don’t mention this interaction to Nina, as much as it is a sign that Adam is throwing wrenches in what was a perfectly functioning relationship. I don’t want to pit her against her brother. Instead I casually mention that Adam was very interested in baby Davies and I was not. We’re not making much progress on the baby front.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to make of this whole separating idea at first,” Nina says near the end of our drive. “It seemed so drastic. But I really don’t think it’s a bad idea, you two getting clarity, working things out separately, so you’re not . . . tense together.”
Tense is the perfect word for how Adam and I were around each other Saturday. Hostile would be too severe a word; tense is just right. And that is all wrong. Yes, there is an upside in all of this. The distance is what we need to try to make things right again, to step back and not live in constant tension around each other, so we can come to some solution. But if we couldn’t spend what should have been a completely relaxed and fun afternoon without a baby-themed argument or unnecessary tension simply from being around each other, what does that say about us? How are we supposed to reverse that?
At the ballet, Nina and I settle into our seats. They’re on the terrace level overhanging the orchestra—better seats than I could have imagined. That’s a perk of being a corporate lawyer. I tell Nina to thank Griffin again for the tickets.
When Nina drops her hands to her bump, I’m reminded of the 4-D ultrasound she mentioned wanting.
“Do you have your 4-D appointment yet?” I ask, and her expression is not what I anticipated. Instead of giving an enthusiastic grin or clap of the hands, maybe even a bounce in her seat, Nina only nods. Her face is almost blank. “Are you still going to do it?” I query, confused by her reaction.
She smiles, lips pressed together. “Yeah, we are.”
“Ah. Well, that’ll be exciting, huh?”
She only nods some more, then tucks a lock of hair behind an ear decorated with a rock of a diamond stud.
“I wonder what it’ll be like,” I say. “Aren’t they supposed to be pretty real looking? I mean, obviously they’re real, but . . . you know.” I faintly recall Charlotte’s 4-D images of Leah. The clarity and definition put the classic ultrasound black-and-whites to shame.
“It’ll be great,” Nina says mistily. She presses a pinkie to the corner of her eye.
“Oh, Nina. I didn’t mean to make you cry, honey.”
“Emotions.” She brushes it off with a sniffle. “It’s fine. Thanks for asking me to come to this, Halley.”
“My pleasure.”
She rubs a hand on her stomach, her face glowing. “It’s nice to have some me time. I know they say to enjoy all your free time and not to get too eager to meet Baby ASAP. Because once Rylan’s here, goodbye free time.”
“I bet.”
“But it’s so hard. I can’t wait to meet him, Halley. He’s going to be strong and beautiful.”
“He will be.”
“And healthy.” Nina nods some more, as if to reassure herself. Then, from nowhere, she says in a timid way, “You know there’s a chance?”
“A chance?”
“Of Down syndrome.” Nina looks straight at me, now wearing a poker face. “I mean, there’s always a chance, but since I’m over thirty-five, the risks are . . . higher.”
“Aren’t there tests for that?”
“Yes. There are lots of tests. Invasive tests, too. Tests that could even cause miscarriage.”
I press my lips firmly together, not wanting to discuss the taboo topic of miscarriage. Nina’s been down that road before, and it nearly took everything out of her.
Nina instinctively rests both hands on her stomach. “We did the noninvasive tests,” she says. “First and second trimester. Then Griffin and I had a prenatal appointment the other day, and my usual doctor wasn’t in. This doctor pestered us about why we didn’t choose to do amnio or CVS, and then she rambled on about the risks and how if we did those tests we could be much more certain whether or not Rylan was a risk and—” She groans under her breath. “It bothered me.”
“I’m sorry, Nina.”
“There’s a one-in-less-than-three-hundred chance of a woman my age having a baby with Down syndrome. And tests aren’t always accurate, so swearing by them will only do you so much good. I mean, think of the women who are told they’re negative, and they’re that one in three hundred. Or the women who are told they’re positive, and it’s a false reading. There’s one out there, somewhere.” She sighs heavily. “As if I wanted to be thirty-six, nearly thirty-seven, by the time I had my first child! And even if I did, so what? Down syndrome is a challenge, yes, but not one you can’t overcome.”
I’m about to offer my support when she quickly says, “Griffin and I love Rylan no matter what, you know? We’re ready for him however he comes. I want to enjoy my pregnancy. Not worry about tests.”
“Completely understandable. What did your regular doctor say?”
The first set of bar bells rings, alerting the audience that the performance is about to begin.
Nina’s body language and tone soften. “She’s wonderful. Totally supportive. She knows how difficult it’s been for us to conceive. Of course we’d steer clear of anything that could cause miscarriage, no matter how slight the chance.”
“Then you’re in good hands, Nina. Don’t let this other doctor get you upset.” I wave a dismissive
hand.
“Yeah.” Nina smiles weakly. “Just being made to feel like some over-the-hill, clueless mother . . . And all this test talk . . .”
“Gets your feathers ruffled. I get it. And, Nina, you’re far from over the hill. Seriously. And you’re going to be—no, you are—a perfect mom to Rylan.”
“Thanks, Halley.”
“And hey,” I say with a chuckle, “I can totally sympathize with your ‘supposed’ over-the-hillness. Not a year goes by my OB doesn’t say”—I affect a high-pitched, whiny tone—“‘Your window is only open for so long.’ God!”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Nina says with a laugh.
The final alert of the ballet’s commencement is made. Stragglers shuffle through the doors and into their seats.
“Honestly,” I say. “Thirty-five. The magical year. I swear, I’m still a good half a year away from it, and it’s haunted me more than thirty ever did.”
“Why can’t it just be accepted that some women wait to have children?” Nina says. “Or have to wait? I understand making us aware of potential complications, risks, et cetera. But does anyone ever stop and think, Maybe they can’t have a baby when they want?”
I sniff and say, “Yeah.”
“Or think, Maybe they don’t want a baby?”
“And as if it somehow makes you less of a woman because you don’t,” I add. “Less of the person you’re meant to be.”
The lights dim and the orchestra strikes up, and two best friends, who couldn’t be on more opposite ends of the baby spectrum, decide they’re right where they want to be right now.
I’m looking through the refrigerator, trying to decide between having a bowl of cereal and actually making something for dinner. I cannot order takeout for the third night in a row. Marian and I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while, and I’m fairly sure the half-eaten Whole Foods sandwich that’s been sitting on the top shelf for several days is no longer good. I opt for cereal as Marian emerges from her bedroom, ready for her date. She’s a knockout, wearing skinny black jeans, narrowly pointed cherry-red Valentinos, and one of her many band T-shirts. This one says “AC/DC” in silver sequins.
Everything the Heart Wants: A Novel Page 13