Little Earthquakes

by Jennifer Weiner

  “You’ve clearly got the skills to succeed in this market. You’ve got the look—well, I don’t need to tell you that.”

  She nodded again, her heart rising. “In Texas they had to test-market my hair a few times to get it right . . .”

  “Your hair’s not the issue,” Paul Davis said. “Your husband is.”

  “My husband,” Ayinde repeated.

  “You’re intelligent. You’re warm. You’re smart but not condescending.” Paul Davis looked at the screen again, where Ayinde’s face was frozen, lips parted, eyes half-shut. “You’re sexy but not in an obvious way. I’m just afraid that you’re not going to work as an anchor in this market. Nobody’s going to tune in to see you read the news.”

  “They’re not?”

  Davis shook his head. “They’re going to tune in to see what kind of woman Richard Towne married. They’ll tune in to see what you’re wearing, and what your ring looks like, and how you’re doing your hair. I’m just not sure they’d buy you as the person telling them about the school strikes and the car crashes.”

  Ayinde straightened her back. “I think my skills as a reporter speak for themselves. You can ask any of my colleagues in Fort Worth. Getting married to Richard Towne didn’t knock fifty points off of my IQ. I’m professional, I’m committed, I work hard, I’m a team player, and I don’t ask for special treatment.”

  Paul Davis nodded. The look on his face was not unsympathetic. “I’m sure all of that’s true,” he said. “And I’m sorry for the position your marriage has placed you in. But I don’t think there’s a news director or GM in town who’d tell you any different. Your status—your celebrity—would be a distraction to the viewer.”

  “But I’m not a celebrity! Richard’s the celebrity!”

  Paul Davis hit Eject and handed Ayinde’s tape back to her. “Let me tell you what we’re thinking,” he said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Fifteen minutes later, Ayinde wandered back into the parking lot, feeling as if she’d walked through a tornado. Special correspondent, she thought, unlocking her car and tossing her tape into the passenger’s seat, where it bounced off the caramel-colored leather and landed on the floor. Yale and Columbia and ten months in West Virginia lugging her own camera around; four years as a reporter and two years anchoring in a top-twenty-five market and they wanted her to be a quote-unquote special correspondent? To go to Sixers games and—how had that loathsome Paul Davis put it—“use your access to give viewers a behind-the-scenes look at the team”? Profiles of the players. Profiles of the coaches. Profiles of the dancers, for heaven’s sake!

  She yanked the seat belt in place. “Bullshit,” she whispered, putting the car in gear, heading home to pick up Julian, who was napping in his bassinet with the maid standing guard at his nursery door. “Richard called,” Clara told her. Ayinde sighed, loaded the baby and all of his gear into the car, and called his cell phone. Richard had watched her get dressed that morning, advising her on the plum-colored suit versus the gray one. He’d kissed her and told her she was going to knock them dead.

  “How’d it go?” he asked eagerly.

  “Not very well,” she said. She pulled out onto the Schuylkill Expressway. It was probably for the best, she thought, as Richard made indignant noises and asked whether Ayinde wanted to switch agents and if there was anything he could do to help. Maybe this was nothing short of God’s way of telling her that she was supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, that her time was best spent with her baby.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Where is my darling boy?” Lolo trilled two hours later—more for the benefit of the assembled photographers, makeup artists, hair stylists, and assistants than for Julian, Ayinde was sure.

  “Right here,” Ayinde sang back, setting down the car seat and overstuffed diaper bag on a table lined with platters of bagels and pastries, and turning sideways so that her mother could see Julian in his Baby Success!–mandated front carrier. The photo shoot was being held in a Chelsea studio, a long, rectangular room with a concrete floor and rolls of black paper hanging from the ceiling to serve as backdrops. There was a screened-off area for makeup and wardrobe, and techno music blasted from the speakers suspended from the ceiling. “This is my daughter,” Lolo said grandly. “She’s an anchorwoman.”

  “Not anymore,” said Ayinde, thinking of how she’d spent her morning. “I’m just a mom now.” She looked down at Julian, thinking that the words didn’t sound any better out loud than they had in her head on her way out of the WCAU parking lot. She’d have to work on that. Darlin’, you are now the proud owner of the best job title there is! was what Baby Success! said.

  Her mother looked at Ayinde. “Back down to fighting weight?” she asked.

  “More or less,” Ayinde said, determined not to let Lolo bait her. She’d agreed to this photo shoot for More magazine—“Generations of Beauty,” they were calling it, or something equally ridiculous—as a favor to Lolo and over her husband’s objections. “I don’t want our baby in a magazine,” Richard said, and Ayinde had agreed. Normally, she hated the way the media turned wives and children of athletes into disposable accessories, whose only job was to look good cheering in the stands. But Lolo had insisted. More than that, really. Lolo had begged. “You know how hard it is to find work at my age,” she said. “And if this goes well, Estée Lauder might consider me for their Face Over Fifty.” By Ayinde’s calculations, Lolo was actually eligible to be a Face Over Sixty, but the less said about that, the better. There was a part of her, a part she usually managed to keep hidden and quiet, that was still desperate for Lolo’s approval, or even Lolo’s acknowledgment, and it was that part that had agreed to bring Julian into Manhattan for a family portrait, while the more rational part of her mind was insisting, No way.

  “What a sweetie!” Three girls dressed all in black, with low-waisted pants and cruelly pointed shoes, were clustered around Julian. Ayinde hugged her son, taking a deep, restorative sniff of his hair and warm skin.

  Lolo’s voice rose above the girls’ coos. She’d already been to makeup. Her coppery skin and green-gold eyes looked as lovely as ever, her lips ripe and her cheekbones high and fine and her eyelashes thick and black as a bird’s wings. “They’re ready for you, darling.” She looked at the baby, as if he’d turned into a large tumor attached to her daughter’s chest. “Where’s the nanny?”

  Ayinde took another deep breath of Julian’s scent and nuzzled his curls before answering. “Mother, I don’t have a nanny.”

  “Well, the sitter, then.”

  “No sitter.”

  Lolo lifted an immaculately groomed eyebrow. “Au pair?” she asked, without much hope in her voice.

  Ayinde forced herself to smile. “Just me.” She let one of the pointy-toed girls lead her to a chair. Julian sat in her lap while a man named Corey applied blush and bronzer and coppery eyeshadow to her face and arranged her braids in a twist at the nape of her neck. “Breast-feeding,” she said ruefully, after the third couture gown failed to fit over her chest. She could hear her mother sucking her teeth from ten yards away. A champion tooth-sucker was Lolo Mbezi. It made up for the fact that she never frowned. “Wrinkles, darling,” she’d say, whenever she caught her daughter doing it.

  “Hmm,” said the wardrobe man, helping her slip into a Vera Wang dress, a shimmering column of pale-gray silk. It didn’t zip, but he told her not to worry. “A few pins, a little tape, and we’ll be just fine.” He looked over Ayinde’s head. “Oh, my,” he breathed. Ayinde turned and saw her mother, resplendent in ruched and pleated chiffon in a dozen shades of pink ranging from blush to magenta. A strapless bodice showed off her shoulders and collarbone, her flawless mocha skin, and the length of her slim neck. The skirt was a bell-shaped explosion of layers, puffing out gracefully as Lolo glided across the room, hands holding up the skirt, elbows bent just so. Ayinde suddenly felt as drab as a pigeon. “And here’s the star of the show!”

  A pointy-toed girl handed Julian to his mother. The
baby was completely naked. “You know, I’m not sure this is a good idea . . . ,” Ayinde said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a worrier!” said Lolo, beaming at her daughter and grandson. “Darling, you look lovely. Very chic. Spin round.” Ayinde did. “Marvelous. Bobby, you’re a miracle worker . . . with the pinning, you can hardly tell about the zip.”

  Ayinde closed her eyes and prayed for patience as the photographer arranged them—Lolo standing on an eighteen-inch platform, Ayinde sitting below her, trying to suck in her stomach, the naked baby in her lap.

  “Wonderful, Lolo, that’s amazing with the eyes,” called the photographer. Ayinde tried not to yawn as Julian squirmed. “Chin up, Ayinde . . . no, not quite so high . . . tilt your head a little, nope, nope, other way . . .”

  Ayinde was starting to sweat underneath the lights, and the muscles in her legs and back were trembling with the effort of sitting perfectly erect. Julian wriggled harder, batting at the dangling silver earrings they’d given her.

  “I think we need to take a break,” she managed to say before her son successfully snagged one of the earrings and yanked at it hard. “I need to feed him . . .”

  “One of the girls can give him his bottle,” said Lolo, shaking out the pleats of her gown.

  “He doesn’t get bottles, Mother. I’m breast-feeding . . .” Just like that book you sent told me to, Ayinde thought.

  “It’s okay, we’re almost done. Eyes this way, please. Perfect. Ayinde, let’s try the baby held on your other side.”

  Ayinde shifted Julian from her right arm to her left. The baby responded by peeing down the front of her gown. Lolo sucked in a horrified breath. Ayinde closed her eyes to a faint patter of giggles from the pointy-toed girls.

  “And thank you, ladies, that’ll be all,” said the photographer.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “I don’t understand why you don’t have a nanny,” Lolo said. It was an hour later, and they were eating a late lunch of chicken paillard in a back booth at La Goulue. Ayinde had changed into leggings and one of Richard’s jerseys. Lolo was impeccable as ever in a Donna Karan pantsuit. And she was eating, while Ayinde’s plate sat untouched in front of her because Julian was nursing and both of her hands were occupied, much to her mother’s unstated but evident irritation.

  “I want to raise him myself,” Ayinde said.

  “Well, of course, that’s wonderful, but don’t you want to have a life of your own?”

  “This is my life right now.”

  “All that expensive education . . . ,” her mother murmured.

  “What do you want from me?” Ayinde snapped. Lolo blinked at her coolly.

  “I want what every mother wants for her children, darling. I want you to be happy.”

  “No, really,” said Ayinde. “I know you want something, and I can’t figure out what. You send me this book . . .” Julian started whimpering. She switched him from her right breast to her left as discreetly as she could manage it, smoothed his hair, and continued. “You send me this book that says that the purest bond in the world is the bond between a mother and a child, that says that I should breast-feed until he’s three and let him sleep in my bed, and that leaving him with a nanny is tantamount to child abuse . . .”

  Lolo looked puzzled. “The book says that?”

  Ayinde bit back hysterical laughter. Trust Lolo to not even have skimmed the back cover of Baby Success!, which had become Ayinde’s scripture. “Look. Raising Julian is my job right now. This is my work. And it’s important work.”

  “Well, of course it is,” said Lolo, sounding nonplussed. “But it doesn’t mean you should never have any time for yourself.”

  “Like when it’s convenient for you,” Ayinde said.

  Lolo tilted her head. “Oh, darling, let’s not fight.” She speared a piece of chicken on her fork and held it out. “Here. Open up.”

  “Mother . . .”

  “You must be hungry. Here.” She waved the forkful of chicken near Ayinde’s lips, and Ayinde reluctantly opened her mouth. “There you are!” her mother said. She gave a pleased smile and sat back, her face glowing underneath her makeup. (Ayinde had washed hers off the instant she could, knowing that makeup in combination with Julian’s wandering hands would spell ruin for her clothes.) “All I’m saying,” Lolo continued, “is that there’s nothing wrong with having some help. You have to give yourself a rest every once in a while, even if you’re the best mother in the world.”

  “Well, maybe I should just enroll him in boarding school,” Ayinde said, trying to keep her tone light, remembering the way Lolo had flitted in and out of her childhood. She’d breeze into Ayinde’s room a half hour past bedtime, getting ready to leave the apartment for dinner and dancing, to bestow a kiss on her daughter’s forehead, usually waking her up in the process. “Sleep well!” she’d trill, her heels tap-tapping on the marble foyer. Then there’d be the sound of her father’s heavier tread and the door clicking quietly shut behind them. At breakfast time, her parents’ bedroom door would be shut, the living-room blinds drawn. Serena would pour out milk and cereal, and Ayinde would eat quietly, set her dishes in the sink, and creep out the door.

  “Well, I think you’re doing a wonderful job,” Lolo said. “But you shouldn’t take it all so seriously! It’s diapers and strollers, not rocket science!”

  Ayinde looked down at Julian cradled in her arms, his cheeks working as he nursed, her perfect, beautiful boy, his mouth the exact shape of Richard’s, his long fingers just like her own, and her mother’s. “I just want to do it right.”

  “You do the best you can. That’s what every mother does. Here,” said Lolo, waving another forkful of chicken at her daughter. Ayinde sighed helplessly before she opened her mouth and let her mother feed her lunch.

  September

  BECKY

  “Hahyahhh.”

  Becky winced, holding the phone away from her ear. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and she’d finally gotten Ava back to sleep after a six A.M. feeding and ensuing fret-fest. It seemed that seven A.M. was a perfectly acceptable time for a phone call in the Mimiverse. “Hi, Mimi,” she said, not making any effort to sound more awake than she was.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “A little bit,” said Becky, with an ostentatious yawn, hoping Mimi would take the hint.

  Fat chance. “Oh, then, I’ll be quick. Let me speak to my son.”

  Becky rolled over and poked Andrew with the phone. “Your mother,” she whispered.

  Andrew took the phone and turned onto his side. “Hi, Mom.” There was silence. A disturbing amount of silence. “All right,” said Andrew. “Okay. For how long?” More silence. “No, no, of course not! Calm down, Mom. It’s fine. No. No! Well, if I did, I apologize. Right. No. Of course you do! Okay. We’ll see you later, then. Love you, too. Good-bye.”

  He clicked the End button, rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes.

  “What?” asked Becky.

  Andrew said nothing.

  “You better tell me, or I’m just going to assume the worst,” said Becky.

  More silence.

  “She got married again?” Becky guessed.

  Andrew pulled the pillow over his face so that his words were muffled, but Becky could still make them out. “There’s something wrong with the air-conditioning in her house.”

  Becky swallowed hard. “It isn’t even that hot out anymore.”

  “It’ll just be for a few days,” said Andrew.

  Becky said nothing. Andrew reached for her.

  “Becky, she is . . .”

  “Your mother. I know. It’s been pointed out to me. But we don’t even have a guest room! Wouldn’t she be more comfortable in a hotel?”

  “She doesn’t want to spend the money.” He burrowed his face deeper into the pillow. “She’s still complaining about what our wedding cost her.”

  “Oh, please,” muttered Becky, as she got out of bed. “Remember, I wasn’t the one who wanted three hundred guests
. Nor was I the one who commissioned ice sculptures of the bride and groom. How long will Madame be staying?”

  He got to his feet without meeting her eyes. “She wasn’t exactly sure.”

  “And where’s she going to sleep?”

  Andrew said nothing.

  “Oh, come on!” said Becky. “Andrew, she can’t expect us to give up our bedroom! Ava sleeps up here, and I have to be near Ava . . .” She stuck her head into Ava’s nook to make sure the baby was still asleep, then made her way down the stairs. Andrew pulled on his bathrobe and followed her. “This is bullshit,” Becky said, measuring out the coffee.

  Andrew pressed his lips together. Whether he was getting angry or just trying not to smile, Becky wasn’t sure. She set a mug in front of him. “Let me ask you something. And I want you to tell me the truth. Have you ever said no to her? Ever? Just flat-out, ‘No, Mom, I’m sorry. That isn’t going to happen’?”

  Her husband stared into his cup. Becky felt her heart sink. She’d long suspected that this was the case—that Mimi ordered, Mimi demanded, Mimi threw fits until she got what she wanted, and Andrew, patient, kindhearted Andrew, was powerless in the face of her tantrums.

  “It won’t be for too long,” he said. “And it means a lot to me.”

  “Fine, fine,” Becky said with a sigh. An hour later, when Andrew had left for the hospital and Ava had been fed and changed and dressed, the doorbell rang, and there was Mimi on the top step, dressed in skintight jeans, a denim jacket, and a halter top, with four pieces of matching Vuitton luggage, trunk included, lined up on the sidewalk behind her.

  “Hahhh, darlin’!” she said, sweeping into the house and snatching twelve pounds of startled bald baby out of her mother’s arms, leaving Becky to drag her luggage up the stairs. “Ooh, is that coffee I smell?” She trit-trotted down to the kitchen, where Becky poured her a cup. Mimi sipped. “Decaf?” she demanded.

  Becky considered lying. “No,” she said. “I could make some . . .”