Look at this, Grace, Peg’s e-mail said. He’s entrancing those people. I just realized. Taking them out of themselves. Ty is sort of like a medicine man. A shaman.
P.S. have you called him?
A shaman. I sort of knew what that was. Like a witch doctor or something. I Googled it. Definition: a person with special magical powers who can mediate between the visible and the spirit world. Hmm. I didn’t know about the mediation part, but listening to him sing definitely could take you away from reality for a while.
Your father is a shaman, I said internally to The Bump, who was by now becoming too large and rambunctious to conceal under baggy clothes. But you’re still going to have to clean your room and take out the garbage one day.
Intellectually, I knew I needed to get myself together, finally, and tell him, but I just wasn’t quite ready. So the universe conspired to remind me of him constantly. As if my burgeoning belly wasn’t enough.
I was on my way to Ed and Boris’s for veggie sushi one evening and—oh, hey!—there was Ty. On posters advertising his CD. Plastered all over the construction wall surrounding the high-rise going up near their apartment in Chelsea. I had to stop and regroup before I went in the building; there is nothing like one hundred or so Tyler Wilkies brooding at you all the way down a city block to put you off your futomaki.
Then: Ty on the JumboTron. In freaking Times Square. Lip-synching one of his gut-wrenching songs. I just step out of the office for a minute, hoping for a bagel and maybe a glimpse of the Naked Cowboy. And I’m presented with this. At least I couldn’t hear the words.
In the next month or so, I suddenly became exponentially more pregnant. The small person borrowing space inside me started bouncing around, making his presence known. A morning came when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, naked, swollen, and began to finally, truly understand that I was going to have to woman up and call Ty immediately. This was awful, what I had done. How could I have let myself become so paralyzed?
The very same day Peg came home after her Sunday matinee in a state of distress.
“Grace,” she said, “I have to show you something.”
She led me to the laptop in her bedroom and opened up one of those garish, TMZ-like sites that proliferate like mold on the Internet. She scrolled down to a photo. It was Ty, with Roberta, sitting in a booth at a club. He was smiling at the camera. She was cuddled up close to him, arms around his neck, lips pressed to his cheek.
The caption:
TYLER WILKIE ENGAGED
The blurb said that model and makeup artist Roberta Smilyak had been traveling with pop singer Tyler Wilkie on the Midwest leg of his concert tour. A longtime friend of the couple confirmed that they were “very serious” and “making wedding plans.”
Peg took my hand.
“How did you find this?” I asked.
“I get Google Alerts about Ty. I thought it would be fun, keeping up with him. Grace, I bet that website is lying,” she said. “Or exaggerating.” “Yes, probably. The part about marrying her, anyway.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call him.”
“When?”
“Now.”
I sat cross-legged on my bed with my cell. Reminded myself to breathe. For strength and courage, I had the ultrasound photos spread out across my comforter.
I dialed Ty’s number. His voice mail picked up.
It wasn’t the smartest or bravest decision I ever made, but listening to his greeting, I rationalized that it would be perfectly fine for him to find out the basics this way, in a brief, easy message. When he called me back, I could go into more detail, answer his inevitable questions, apologize profusely, and we could start to figure everything out. Together. I would no longer be alone with this. God, why had I waited—
The beep.
“Um—hey. Hey, Ty! It’s Grace. I need to tell you something. I, um . . . remember that weekend we spent together, before you left? Back in September? Well, something happened. We, uh, we made a, uh, baby.”
I was starting to cry. Crap. Pull it together!
“A baby. We’re going to have a baby. A baby boy. You and me. I hope he’ll look like you . . . I hope so. Well, that’s all. You have my number. Talk to you soon, Ty. I hope you’re okay. I’ll talk to you soon. ’Bye.”
I threw the phone on the bed and lay down and hugged a pillow. My heart was pounding. I picked the phone up again and checked it, to make sure it wasn’t on mute or vibrate. I cranked it all the way up to eleven, as they say, and settled in for a sleepless night.
The first two days, I was certain I was going to hear from him any minute. He was, of course, traveling and very busy. Probably waiting for a quiet, private moment to call me back.
By the third day, I told myself that I must have really surprised him with my message, and he was just taking a little extra time to absorb the news and regain his equilibrium.
The fifth day, I stayed home from work, in bed.
On day six, I had the hopeful thought that something terrible must have befallen him, and Peg, though Google-Alerted about it, had decided not to tell me so as not to upset me and endanger the health of the baby.
That night I got up when I heard Peg come in from the show. She was standing at the kitchen sink, filling the teakettle. She turned off the water when she saw me. “What’s the matter?”
“I called Ty on Sunday. Right after you showed me the website.”
“Yes, I thought so! What did he say?”
“I left him a message. Told him everything.”
“Oh, honey, you did?”
I nodded. “He hasn’t called me back. Oh, Peg—”
Her arms were so strong, so immediate. She held both of us up, me and The Bump.
the chapter where, understandably, certain people get very upset with me
And just when I thought things were as bad as they could get—
Julia called. Insisting we meet for lunch. Tomorrow. She probably wanted to find out if I’d worked off that spare tire I’d been developing. The thought of what she was in for made me giggle. Kind of hysterically.
It was early for lunch at that Japanese place in Chelsea we liked. I peered around the dim, empty dining room. She wasn’t here yet. It was hard to savor under the circumstances, but for once I beat her!
A gracious Asian lady led me to a table along the back wall. The room was toasty warm, but I debated whether or not to leave my coat on. Like it was going to make a difference, at this point. I took it off and smoothed my stretchy black sweater. The lady brought me a glass of water, no ice, and I gulped it down.
The bells on the door jingled. Here she came, making her way toward me, sleek and chic. Smiling. Happy to see me.
I smiled as genuinely as I could and stood up.
She slowed to a stop ten feet away. Her mouth fell open.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you kidding me?” she said. “Are you kidding me?”
I clasped my hands over my belly in a futile effort to minimize the shocking visual. “So what do you want to be called?” My voice was cheerful, if a little tremulous. “Grandma? Grandmama?”
She didn’t move or respond, just stared. Julia Barnum, struck dumb.
To try to jar her loose, I went for a laugh. “Mammaw?”
“Who is the father?” Her voice was deep and scary, like when I was ten and wore her mother’s sapphire ring to school without permission and lost it.
“Could we sit down, please?”
She came over and tossed her four-hundred-dollar handbag under the table, jerked a chair out, and sat. Painful, bloody retribution brewing in her eyes.
“Grace, who is he?” she demanded.
“You don’t know him.”
“When will I meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
Her nostrils were flaring. Our server approached, got a look at Julia, and backed away.
“And why is that?”
“He is . . . not in
volved, at the moment.”
“Did you consider an abortion?”
I shook my head.
“When are you due?”
“June eighth.”
She looked at me for a long time. Really looked at me. Pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket and blew her nose. Then she laughed! “Well. I think I might actually be glad about this. I get to be a granny!”
“Oh, Mom.” The floodgates opened. I covered my face with my hands. She pulled a chair up next to me and held me and said comforting things while I soaked the shoulder of her tailored jacket.
“It’s all going to be all right, my darling,” she said soothingly, as my tears slowed. “All will be well. But you are going to tell me who the father is. And you are going to tell me how this happened.”
It was hard not to roll my eyes and give her the clinical version, just for kicks.
“Okay,” I said. “His name is Tyler Wilkie. He’s a singer. He has a song on the radio, you may have heard it.”
She stared at me. “Of course I have heard it, what do you think, I live in a cave? I have his whole CD on my iPod!”
She handed me a paper napkin and I blew my nose. “Well, this is interesting.” She settled back and crossed her arms. She sounded like an evil genius plotting world domination. “We will make him pay. Pay big, to support his child.”
“Mom! Look at me. This is not your business. If you do anything—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you don’t authorize. How on earth do you know him?”
I told her the whole two-and-a-half-year saga. The story of my life pulled inside out by this sweet, beautiful, amazing, talented, irresponsible child-man. I left out the part about Roberta. Julia was already dangerously close to rampage.
“Well. It sounds like you care for him. Maybe he’s not a total creep.”
“He’s not!” My voice wobbled. “I—I used to think he might be my best friend.”
She handed me a fresh napkin. “Then why isn’t he involved? Does he know?”
“He’s on tour. I haven’t seen him in almost six months.”
“But you did tell him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“Mom, this is my business.”
“Grace, what did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. I left him a message, and he never called me back.”
“You left him a message? That he was going to be a father?”
It didn’t sound great.
“When did you call him?” Julia asked.
“A week ago. Eight days.”
“Eight days ago? Why did you wait so long to tell him?”
“I don’t know! I was waiting for it to feel right, and time got away from me.”
“Call him again. Something happened, maybe he lost his phone.”
“Even if he did, he could still check messages from another phone.”
“No. Something happened. You have to try again.”
“Julia,” I said evenly. “Thank you, but I am handling this.”
She sat back in her chair, arms crossed. Deceptively quiet. I thought she was just strategizing and regrouping.
“Does your father know that you’re pregnant?”
Oh, boy. “Yes. But only very recently.”
She struggled with this, visibly.
“Only because he lives closer. And I knew I was going to be seeing you for lunch and you’d be in the loop very soon.”
I think this helped.
“Mom, stop hating him,” I ventured. “I have.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” She twisted around looking for the server and spotted her, watching us furtively from behind a nearby potted tree. “Menus!” Julia barked, sending the poor woman scurrying.
At around seven months I had only gained twenty of the recommended twenty-five pounds. It’s not like I was Shamu, but everything was swollen. My face. My fingers. My ankles. And I knew from catching a glimpse of myself in a restaurant window that I waddled.
It was a briskly windy, chilly Thursday. A few days after my lunch with Julia. After work I’d stopped in Gristedes for a few grocery items and was now on my way back home. I was at the intersection of Seventh and Christopher, waiting for the Walk signal.
The light changed and by the time I got halfway across the street I realized that Ty was standing on the corner directly in front of me.
I almost dropped everything.
He took his sunglasses off and stared at me and my stalling approach. His hair was longer. And his beautiful face! What it did to my heart. But there were raw things happening on it. Shock. Concern. Anger.
When I reached him, I said, “Oh, you’re back early.” Stupid.
He took the grocery bags from me.
He was, apparently, speechless. At my building he just stood there looking at me, watching me fumble with the keys. My damned, unsteady hands! I finally got the door open.
He followed me up, carrying the bags. I now got winded by the third-floor landing, so I paused to catch my breath.
“Sorry,” I said, gasping. Our son chose that moment to knee me in a kidney and I winced and grabbed my back and said ow! Tyler simply watched me like he had never seen a pregnant woman before and the very idea confused the hell out of him.
If he would just say something!
He followed me into the apartment. Peg was at a rehearsal, thank God.
He tossed the bags on the kitchen table and paced around. I unpacked the groceries, watching him cautiously. Wondering what to do next. What to say? It was hard to understand what was happening. Why was he here? Had he gotten my message?
I went into the living room and sat on the couch and watched him do agitated laps. He seemed so freaked out; it occurred to me that he might be afraid to try to speak.
Finally he stopped in front of me and crouched down, pale and intense. He had not shaved in a couple of days. He looked tired. How I wanted to touch him. He was so close, I could have.
He uttered one sharp word.
“When?”
“June eighth is the due date.”
He ran his eyes over me once more, lingering on my ginormous midsection. He stood up, abruptly, and left.
The next day after work he was skulking in my lobby. He followed me outside. Took my elbow and steered me around a puddle on the sidewalk.
“Are you going to say anything?” I asked.
“I am trying to figure out how to forgive you for this.”
“Well,” I said, voice shaking, “I didn’t do it all by myself.”
He pulled me to a stop in front of Planet Hollywood. The flow of people on the sidewalk instantly diverted around us. “Do what?”
“We both decided to have unprotected sex, not just me!”
“I know that! What the hell are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
He took off his dark glasses. “I’m talking about you not telling me I have a child about to be born. Jesus Christ! What the fuck is that?”
“I did tell you! I left you a message!”
He rubbed his face with both hands and glared at me a little less vehemently. “I never got any message. When did you leave it?”
“Almost two weeks ago.”
He shook his head. “I lost my phone in Albuquerque. Need to get a new one.”
“What? You were in Albuquerque almost a month ago.” According to his website.
“Exactly.”
“How can you go that long without a phone? It’s—it’s irresponsible!”
“I kept meaning to go get one, and then I’d forget. No one was fucking calling me that I wanted to talk to, anyway.” Again, with the pointed glare.
“Well, what if your family was trying to reach you, or something?”
“Yeah, Grace, what if. And why the hell did you wait until two fucking weeks ago to finally call and tell me about this?”
“I—I was nervous.”
“Of what? Of
me?”
I nodded.
“Damn, girl.” He smiled, but it was bleak. “Did you ever know who I was?”
This felt very bad.
He just looked at me for a long time. “Okay,” he finally said. “So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. My mom is trying to talk me into moving in with her, in New Jersey.”
Another long silence.
“It’s not a terrible idea, I could save up for my own place. And maybe you’ll want to come out to my mom’s and—and see him, sometimes. . . .”
His face changed. “It’s a boy?”
I nodded.
“Shit,” he said. He walked in a circle. And another. People walking past us eyed him warily and gave him extra room.
“Shit!” He leaned against the building, dazed.
cahoots
The weather took a wonderful, balmy turn that weekend. I had the windows open in my bedroom and was boxing up old books and papers, trying to clear space for my impending small roommate and all his accoutrements. He must have been energized, too, by the fresh air I was absorbing.
“Hey, what are you doing in there?” I said to The Bump, pausing to pat my belly. “Rearranging the furniture?”
The downstairs buzzer rang. I ignored it and continued packing.
Again with the buzzing. I stood there holding Bleak House, debating whether or not to go to the intercom. Maybe it was a delivery for Peg?
I opened the screen on one of my windows and leaned out to take a peek. Jean and Rebecca Wilkie were standing on the stoop. Rebecca was looking right at me.
Holy crap.
I buzzed them in. Listened to their long trek up the stairs. Opened the door when they got to our landing.
“Hello,” I said.
“Grace!” Jean came right in. We shared an awkward hug. She touched my belly and kissed my cheek. “Oh, honey,” she said, tears in her eyes. She seemed disappointed in me, but also excited. I latched on to that.
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