Crossing the Street

by Campbell, Molly D. ;

  Here is what actually happens: Alex screams. Bryan, who can barely see, he is so bone-tired, nearly drops Alex while placing him on the changing table. I sit on the chair in the bedroom, helpless. Alex stumbles over to D, who is enthroned in the bed, looking bloated and also completely spent. She takes the baby and attempts to put him to her breast, where he grabs on, tries to take a pull, and then falls backwards, howling.

  D, who I am sure, wishes they had a listing for “wet nurses” in the Yellow Pages, begins to whine. “My nipples hurt. My breasts are engorged! I am going to get a breast infection! Where is the breast pump? Bryan, DO SOMETHING!”

  That was my first day there.

  So, yeah. The place was in chaos. My antipathy towards my sister was not even noticed, because she was so engrossed with her nipples, the fact that Alex might starve to death before he was two months old, her incision, Bryan’s inability to respond to her demands fast enough, and the adorableness of Alexander Villiers Dallas—who was even lovable while shrieking.

  Bryan, on the other hand, was a great target. I managed to blame him loudly for the disappearance of my cat within the first five minutes that I was in his presence:

  “Do you realize that my cat is missing due to your extreme negligence?”

  Bleary eyed and half conscious, Bryan took my suitcase out of my hand and began leading me towards the guest room. “Huh?”

  I followed him through the diaper-strewn living room. “SIMPSON. You let him OUT. Remember the night you showed up at my apartment? The night you spewed your soul about how much you adore your wife?”

  Bryan nearly fell over my suitcase as he twisted around to grab me and nearly stop all the circulation in my arm. ”The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Then he let go. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let’s not revisit the past, okay? Forget all that.” He looked down at the dent he had just put in my arm. “Oh, sorry.” He patted the spot, as if hitting the place he just pinched would help. “I shouldn’t have even come over to your apartment, I know.”

  He set my suitcase down in his office, the “guest room.” There was a pullout sofa, a stack of clean sheets, and two towels set on the surface. I would need to make up my own bed. Naturally.

  “But I am on edge. Diana is on the verge of an emotional breakdown with all of this baby stress.”

  “You mean she hasn’t had one? Over the failure to latch? You think she is still within the range of emotional normalcy?”

  Bryan looked on the verge of tears. “Beck, I swear, if I had the strength, I would slap you. Alexander is a couple of weeks old, and I have had, what, three hours of sleep in that time? I have to hold down a full-time job and live with all of this baby-latching nonsense. You think you can just show up and start hurling accusations? Especially after I just apologized?”

  That stung. “Accusations? What? You think my cat might NOT be missing? That I just haven’t noticed him, sitting there in the corner of the living room?”

  “STOP.” It was the loudest whisper I had ever heard.

  “Just STOP. You are yammering on about a CAT. A damn cat! I am sorry for letting him out; it was an accident. My life was just a little crapulous at that moment, as you recall. So please accept my apology, get a kitten, and move on. Because right now, I have a starving newborn, a wife with sore breasts, and a massive headache.”

  “Oh. So things are not blissful at the moment.” I smirked a little. It felt great.

  “Beck, are you here to help out? Lend a hand? Save the day? Because if not—if you are here to cause trouble—you should just turn around and go back where you came from. I cannot deal with any more shit beyond what is going down between myself, my kid, and my wife right now.” He snapped his fingers so close to my face that I flinched.

  Whoa. It sank in. As I heard Alexander begin to bawl in the background, I got it. This was an epic shitshow, right here in Lincoln Park. Three people were in the agonies of trying to become a family. Nobody was succeeding at it. For me to stir the pot with my jealousy, my guilt, and my missing cat would just be evil. D had plenty of problems right now. I could revel in her misery without adding to it. Okay, maybe I could grow up and not revel in her misery. Yeah. Maybe I could be an adult here. Bob’s final advice to me came to mind.

  I wrested my suitcase from between Bryan’s knees and pointed to the nursery. “Go help D. I can unpack just fine. Then if you give me a grocery list, I can go shopping for you. Or wash dishes. Or something.”

  Bryan ran a hand under his nose and wiped it on his pant leg. “Okay.”

  Pitiful.

  ▷◁

  “It says here in the breastfeeding brochure that you shouldn’t supplement with formula.”

  D was frantic, Alex was sobbing, and I had a headache. “It says here that failure to latch might be due to flat nipples. Are yours flat?”

  D glared at me with wild eyes. She thrust her right boob in my direction. “Oh, I don’t know, Beck! DOES THIS LOOK FLAT TO YOU?” She squeezed it, shooting milk over Alex’s bobbing head, right in my direction.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. Have you had a lactation consultation? There is a phone number right here. They come over to your house and analyze the situation.”

  Diana cupped Alexander’s little downy head in her hand, stroking his beet red, screaming little cheeks with her fingers. He would try to nurse, take a couple sips, and then drop off the breast. He looked exhausted and frustrated simultaneously.

  “You know what? Screw the breastfeeding! I don’t want some hippy woman with flowers in her hair to come over here and comment about my nipples! I don’t need anybody to tell me that I am a failure at this!”

  D struggled back into her nursing bra, humped off the bed, and carefully placed Alex into his bassinet. She leaned over and kissed him, trying her best, I imagine, to ignore his screams. Then she grabbed me and dragged me into the living room.

  “Call the pediatrician.” She scrabbled around in the papers that were stuffed inside the diaper bag they gave her at the hospital. “Here is her number: Dr. Stephanie Gordon. Go ON. Call them right now and tell them that I need the name of a formula brand for Alexander.” Then call my OB and tell them that I need a home nurse to come over TODAY to give me a shot to dry up my milk. She thrust another scrap of paper at me—this one for Lincoln Park Obstetrics and Gynecology. “DO NOT JUST STAND THERE LOOKING LIKE AN IDIOT. DO IT.”

  “There are shots to dry up your milk? Really?” I was learning so much new information that would be totally useless to me in the future.

  Diana pressed her hands to her breasts, as if that would start stemming the flow. “Yes! Of course! How do you think our mother’s entire generation managed not to breastfeed? It’s a hormone or something. Beck, make the call! My son is starving to death and my nipples are killing me!”

  She scuttled back into the bedroom to comfort her son, clutching her breasts.

  I sat down on the sofa, pulled out my cell, and phoned Dr. Gordon’s office. After a lengthy conversation with Loretta, the nurse practitioner, I disconnected. My first reaction, I have to admit, was elation. But I tamped that down.

  D was in the rocking chair, humming and stroking Alex, who was sighing jaggedly. My heart melted at the dimples in his elbows as he tried to settle himself by stroking the yellow throw that Ella knitted, which D had draped over her shoulder.

  “I have bad news,” I whispered, sitting on the window seat beside the rocker. “They don’t give meds for drying up any more. You are just going to have to gut it out. They say to wear a tight bra, take cold showers, use cabbage leaves as compresses (??), and it should be about a week or two. You can’t pump. Oh, and here is a list of formulas—tell me which one to buy, and I will get some right away. They told me not to bother calling the OB, because they would tell me the same thing.” I tried my damnedest to suppress a grin.

  The shock that registered in D’s eyes was
epic. I thought she might explode. Alex whimpered and shifted in her lap, his little eyelids fluttering. D put her face on his head and began to cry softly. “Call the fucking lactation consultant.”

  ▷◁

  Belinda was very understanding. I guess you have to be empathetic in order to counsel desperate new mothers about how to be successful at what everyone who has never had a baby thinks is the easiest and most natural thing in the world. After all, didn’t peasants in the olden days just drop the baby in the wheat fields, deliver the placenta and eat it or something, and then strap the infants on to their chests with a burlap sack, and the babies just sucked away while their mothers harvested?

  But that isn’t really the way it is, according to Belinda, who was very credible. She did have very large breasts. Belinda told us that she had trouble getting all three of her children to nurse, and that this was very common.

  First, to Diana’s chagrin, she examined D’s nipples. Sure enough, flat as pancakes. The solution was horrifying: D was to grind her nipples between her thumb and forefinger for about two minutes before putting Alexander on the breast. Belinda assured us that it would hurt at first, but not too bad after the first week or so. This procedure would make her nipples stand up and pay attention.

  Diana turned a pale shade of green when Belinda demonstrated that. I winced. Bryan gulped.

  Secondly, and I wonder why the hell Belinda didn’t START with that one, was the nipple shield. This made much more sense to me. It is a nipple, like the ones on baby bottles, sort of. The mother places this over her flat nipple, and VOILA! The baby just latches right on and drinks like a champ!

  Belinda sort of failed us on this one, because it was apparent that she frowned on the whole nipple shield scenario. When Diana, her eyes moist with relief, asked Belinda to produce one of these gifts from God so that she could nurse Alex right away, Belinda informed us that she didn’t have any ON HER.

  What good is a lactation consultant without equipment? For heaven’s sake.

  So we all mumbled assorted thanks to Belinda, and as we gave her the bum’s rush out of there, Bryan grabbed the car keys to hustle right over to the CVS for a case of nipple shields.

  Meanwhile, D, who was convinced that Alexander was dehydrated, attempted to force water into him with an eyedropper. I had had enough, and so I snuck into the guest room to call Theo.

  “How is everything going?” He sounded so rested.

  “Not well. The nursing is a nightmare. But Bryan just went out for nipple shields, and so that will be the saving grace, we hope.”

  There was a pause. I forgot that until about forty-five minutes ago, I had no idea what nipple shields were, either. “They are things you put over your nipples so the baby can latch on better.”

  Another pause.

  What did that mean, I wondered. “I’m exhausted. As are we all.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  This wasn’t like Theo. Usually he was so interested in all the details. “Are you in a hurry or something?”

  “Sort of. I’m with a client.”

  “Oh, Theo. Sorry to interrupt. Are you in the midst of a bunch of paperwork?”

  There was rustling at the other end. “No. I’m at the grocery store, and I nearly dropped my phone on a melon.”

  “You’re at the grocery store? Working with a client? What? Is she buying the grocery store?” I had him.

  Theo is an honest man. A kind man. A color-coordinated man. He is the last man on earth I would suspect of hiding a second girlfriend. The world was conspiring to convince me that I was destined to be single, evidently. “Theo, what is going on, really?”

  He breathed heavily into his phone. I heard the woman in the background whisper something. Ugh.

  “Beck, all right. I’m not actually at the grocery store. I am with a client, though. We just finished closing on her new office building. Really, it’s nothing. Just having a celebratory drink.” Another throat clearing. Really, this was SO telltale.

  “Well, Theo, have a wonderful celebration. We will talk when I get home.”

  “Oh, Beck, this isn’t what you think!” He sounded convincing, I have to admit.

  “Theo, I have to go. They need me to run another load of laundry. Give my best to your client.” I hit the “hang up” icon.

  I laid back on the bed, against D’s Pottery Barn throw pillows. Goose down. I pulled a tiny, needle-like feather out of my neck. This was such a surprise. Theo, perhaps being non-monogamous. I pulled another feather out of the pillow and, disgusted, threw the pillow on the floor. Lying flat, I stared up at the light fixture above the bed, filled with dead insects. D’s cleaning woman didn’t look up, apparently. I shut my eyes. An argument began inside my head.

  What are you so bummed about? My God, you complain about Theo at every available opportunity.

  Well, I never expected him to just rush out and have a date with someone the very first time I leave town!

  Be honest. Do you really want to have an exclusive relationship with Theo? I mean, the man wears SOCKS that match his polo shirts. And we are talking POLO shirts. All Ralph Lauren, all the time . . .

  But Theo is intelligent, kind, exactly what every girl dreams of. And he is good in bed, by the way.

  Oh, for God’s sake! Sex isn’t everything!

  This, coming from a writer of erotic fiction. Sense the irony here?

  I just like having someone to do things with. A companion. And yes, a sexual partner! What is wrong with that?

  I’ll tell you what is wrong with that: You are trying to convince yourself to hang on to a guy that you just “like.” This isn’t Facebook! Liking a guy is no reason to stay with somebody. And it would seem that Theo has picked up on this and is just acting accordingly.

  So what am I supposed to do? Just grin and ask Theo to introduce me to the other woman?

  I don’t know. All I know is that you are not in love with this guy. Face it. You are not. Your feelings of anger at the woman he is either stalking at the grocery store or drinking champagne with from room service come from pride, not love. So you have to admit this. So live and let live.

  Shit. Beck, you just told yourself off. You are most likely going crazy.

  Just then, Alexander started crying again, and I leapt from the bed and rushed into the living room, hoping like anything that I would see Bryan coming through the door with a crapload of nipple shields.

  ▷◁

  As soon as Alexander began getting enough to eat, his personality changed completely. He transformed from an angry, red ball of screams into a pacific little fellow with deep blue eyes and a gummy grin. He cooed, for God’s sake. And naturally, he turned the three of us into his love slaves.

  It was the afternoon before I was scheduled to go back home. We were in the living room, casually draped over the sectional: Bryan and D on one end, Alex propped up on Bryan’s knees, drooling happily. I was at the other end, feet up on the coffee table, phone in hand, Googling.

  “You guys. You need to get the What to Expect the First Year app. It tells you all the stuff you need to know. For instance, did you know that co-sleeping is a thing? It makes the baby feel more confident.”

  Bryan looked up. “Really? What is co-sleeping?”

  Diana flung us both the stink-eye. “It’s not going to happen, okay? I love Alexander, but I need my sleep. He is NOT going to share our bed. No way in HELL.”

  Whoa. I bit my lip and looked at Bryan. He smiled weakly.

  “I would probably roll over on him and smother him, anyway.”

  “No, Bryan. You wouldn’t. They have these little bed pods that you put the baby in. They have built-up sides, so you can’t roll on him. See?” I held out my phone with the picture of one on it. “On sale on Amazon right now. Only fifty bucks.”

  Bryan looked mildly interested, but before h
e could get up and take my phone to examine the sleeping pod, D burst out, “I TOLD you, we are absolutely NOT having him in bed with us! I need my rest! I cannot have you snoring in my ear all night, and Alexander rooting around and making all those baby noises right next to me. My God, are you two crazy?

  Bryan laughed, but got up, hoisted his son high up onto his shoulder, and headed towards the “guest room.” Diana pointed at his back as he disappeared. “I know you are going to look them up on Amazon! Don’t order one, or you may be co-sleeping with Alex all by yourself!”

  D leaned back on the sofa cushions. “Do you think I will ever get the hang of this maternal thing?” She rubbed her temples. “It is just one crisis after another. I’m losing confidence by the minute, and I can’t have alcohol as long as I’m breast feeding.” She let out a ragged sigh.

  “They do say that you won’t get a full night’s sleep for the first twenty years.”

  Diana shot me a desperate look.

  “That was a joke.”

  She sat there, looking deflated. “This is not at all what I pictured. This isn’t the way it looks on TV. This isn’t the way it looks in magazines. I should have known that I would end up frustrated, fat, and helpless. My nemesis is just a ten-pound infant!”

  I snorted. “D, you have discovered the limits of your powers. Grown men fall under your spell. But males who aren’t yet potty trained? They just don’t get it. Their hormones haven’t kicked in. For the first time in your life, you are up against a guy that isn’t putty in your hands. I am so happy.”

  Diana stuck her tongue out at me.

  Neither one of us knew that a tsunami was on its way.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bob was covered from head to toe with flour and sugar. She looked like a small Yeti, one who was very enthusiastic about tasting the batter in the large blue mixing bowl.