Great With Child

by Sonia Taitz

  “A sliver of each,” said Tim, “if you made them.” For all the insults, Abigail sensed that he was glad to be there, among these earthy, direct folk. In Greenwich, his mother was probably about to serve the candied, gingered orange peel that everyone admired, then chewed and discreetly spat into their linen napkins. Better to be confronted. Better to have it all in the open.

  After dessert and an assortment of liqueurs, Annie sat on the sofa. She seemed too exhausted to lift another plate or rinse a bowl. Her four little ones tumbled, curled, and molded around her, stroking her face and kissing her knee and tickling her chin. Abigail sat, watching her sister and her family. A circle of wordless, unprovable truths.

  “You look so tired,” said Annie. “I’ve fixed up your bed. Got a bed for you, too, Tim. Sorry about Dad. His bark is worse than his bite. You might want to take Liz and Art’s room though. It is empty, after all.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” said Tim. Abigail came over to him and sat on his lap. Tim kissed the top of her head.

  “Thanks for everything, Annie,” he said.

  “Mm hmm,” she peaceably replied. “I think I’d better get these little peaches settled upstairs soon.”

  “Can we help out with the dishes?” said Abigail.

  “I’ve put most of them into the washer already. Darlene’s helping out in the kitchen. You go to bed.”

  Abigail looked over to Tim. He looked like he could use a good sleep under one of Annie’s huge duvets.

  “Shall I show you your bedroom, li’l Timmy?” she said. Tim nodded like a small child. Drinks, the dinner, and Dad had chastened him.

  “I would marry you, you know,” he said. “If you wanted. You know that, right?”

  “Shhh. I know that, sweet boy,” she replied, as they trudged upstairs. “You’re a fine person, Timmy. Now go to sleep.”

  The house felt secure to Abigail that night, full of the warm breath of children, of close-knit family. Overriding the worries, the drudgery and conflicts, was a precious sense of trust. That was Annie’s doing, Abigail realized. In her own way, she was a great provider. Not the way Fudim was, not the rich kind, but, as Evelyn MacAdam had so perfectly put it, “in the only way that matters.” The kind that brought safety and joy.

  22

  Late Sunday afternoon, Abigail returned to her apartment. Already, there was an e-mail from Dave Biddle-Kammerman. Didn’t he have family? Didn’t he celebrate Thanksgiving? It was a letter of thanks, in a way.

  Indeed, Dave thanked her “on behalf of the firm” for all that she’d contributed to the MacAdam case. The tone seemed valedictory, as though Abigail had to leave—and take her gold watch with her. How does Dave even know what I’ve been doing and thinking? Abigail felt preempted by a pro. And one who worked through national holidays, weekends, and the fortunate (for him) pregnancy and childbirth of his rival.

  No slouch herself, Abigail promptly sent a returning volley—a forceful document for Bertram Fudim, Senior Partner. In it, she outlined the extensive research she had done in Grenada, the many strategies she was exploring, and her considered legal recommendations—not to mention the billable hours, which were massive. Boldly, Abigail also laid out the possibility of a countersuit asking for punitive damages in the multimillions. This ground-scorching approach would finally ensure that she not be forgotten when she took maternity leave.

  That leave would naturally be brief—just a week, after the baby came home. Abigail knew that she had already spent too much time outside the office. Yes, she’d had reasons—crises, lives almost lost. And yes, the accident that had caused all this mayhem happened on company time, on a client’s behalf, on a work flight. But all they’d remember at the firm was that she hadn’t been there. The reasons never mattered.

  Damage control accomplished, Abigail rushed to the hospital to see her little girl.

  Poor tiny Chloe. Less than a week old, her challenges were primal, and far more consequential than anything that happened at the firm. By the time life entered the corporate legal arena, it had been packaged and parsed into causes of action, dollars and cents, plaintiff and defendant; these diminished it irrevocably. And by the time the lawyers were done with it, life was unrecognizable as a formerly organic thing.

  But Chloe—she was life in its purest form.

  Simply eating and breathing were all she could cope with, and she did, with all the strength she had. At times, her eyes, which were frequently open, searched left, then right, then crossed, retreating back into an inward arena.

  “We’ve still got to fatten her up,” said the nurse, as the baby approached her seventh day. She popped the bottle into the little girl’s mouth. Chloe’s skin was still wrinkled, her limbs like bent sticks. What hair she had been born with was silently and mysteriously disappearing, day by day, and she looked like a wizened old soul. Sometimes, when the bottle left her lips, she’d drop her head to the side and sigh. Her hands, still often clenched, seemed to hint of an ancient, unforgettable vendetta.

  Life was tough. It was full of mean people, accidents, betrayals, and misunderstandings. And on top of it, you had this body to take care of, with all its needs. Abigail felt so sorry for what she’d gotten Chloe into—this world.

  “Will I ever be able to comfort my baby?”

  “Comfort? What do you mean?”

  “Breastfeed, I guess. I’m not even sure that’s what I mean,” Abigail said, ashamed of her utter ignorance, her lack of even the words to express her ignorance.

  “Did you express any milk for us today?”

  “Not yet, I’m sorry, I guess I should have,” said Abigail. “I’ve just got back from my sister’s house, and I didn’t feel up to it.”

  “It just takes practice. Don’t beat yourself up. Want to burp her now?”

  “I’ll watch you. I have a confession. I’m still sort of scared of her.”

  “Everyone says that. She’s new to this, and so are you. Just try to breastfeed as soon as she comes home,” said the nurse, putting the baby over her shoulder and patting her back gently. Chloe obliged her with a huge froggy belch.

  “A lot of mothers get the real ‘let down’ once they’re settled.”

  “The ‘let down’?”

  “The ‘let down’ reflex. It’s involuntary. The milk starts to prickle in your breasts and then it comes.”

  To Abigail it sounded like crying. That prickling in the chest, and then the flow. She felt she understood this.

  But nursing Chloe when, eventually, she did take her home, seemed impossible. Why should any child pull pointlessly on her empty (though swollen) breasts, when with far less effort and a fraction of the time, she could empty a two-ounce bottle of formula and sleep contentedly? (Or, as Abigail’s father used to say, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for nothing?)

  The new mother kept offering herself and being rejected, offering and being rejected. Her baby screeched rejection. But the nurse had said try, so Abigail did try. Chloe needed to be fed every half hour, and the feedings took a half hour, so slow was the flow of nourishment. She would wriggle, clenched to the source and twisting, desperate. Abigail, too, began howling in pain. Her nipples cracked and bled; all that seemed to flow was red and angry, wrong and unmaternal.

  “I can’t do this!” she wept, trying another position, switching to the other breast. Somewhere she’d read that Guinness helped. She bought a bottle and drank it. That helped her relax a bit, and she did “let down” more than before. But it was never enough. She still had to “top off” with formula. At least it dulled her nipple pain. Both internally and as a topical salve.

  Abigail, exasperated, decided on a plan. She would get someone in. Now. It was stupid that she hadn’t made arrangements yet. True, the baby had come early, but she had known that that could happen. How had an efficient woman like herself managed to dawdle like that? She should have found someone right after the accident. But the voices on the machine had seemed so awful! At the time, it was laughable, but now she
wondered how she could return any one of those calls, much less hire the women who had made them.

  She could call an agency and take the high road. People like herself—professional—always delegated. It was simply a personnel issue. Agencies, she began telling herself, could do all the sifting, selecting the cream of the crop. Why else would they be in business? Obviously they had years of experience in sizing people up, getting and checking references, and—most critically—making love matches between employees and families.

  But what type of person would she want to have working for her? Abigail still had no idea. Of course, the agency would know. They knew how new mothers were. They, too, were a sort of mother, sister, and friend. If their staff could save Abigail time and worry, they would be worth all the fees in the world. She worked hard; she deserved a little peace of mind. Agencies saw to that. All the ads said, “Leave it to us,” or, “Mother, your worries are over.”

  True, it seemed a bit callous to let her worries be “over” so soon. The baby was still a newborn, after all. And no nanny could breastfeed her. But if she was going to quit trying, then anyone could care for her child as well as she. Or better.

  Having resolved to call the agency, Abigail filled a bottle with formula, heated it up, crooked Chloe in one hand, and fed her. The baby drank gratefully. Then a great calm came over the two of them. They slept.

  23

  Domestic Delites had the biggest listing online, and although the name did suggest the sale of sexual favors, Abigail had to admit that they seemed experienced with the needs of new mothers.

  “You sound tired,” said the sympathetic man who took her call. (Abigail was surprised that he would understand so well, and so quickly.) “Call me Gary, and tell me what you’re looking for. A little help, huh?” He seemed to know everything.

  “Yeah. I’m really exhausted, and she never sleeps.”

  “So you’ve got a little girl, huh? And she doesn’t sleep through the night? And you’ve got to get some sleep yourself, huh?”

  “Right—you’re exactly right—and also I feel like a klutz because I don’t know anything. I paid attention at the hospital and did read a lot of books, but—”

  “Nothing like havin’ some experience, right? What’s your name and address?”

  Abigail told him.

  “So you’re lost and upset, and you need someone in there yesterday. Am I basically right, Abigail?”

  “Yes. Can you help me?” For the first time in a long time, Abigail felt like the people who chose to sit in the back of the classroom and not raise their hands. The people who needed to look over other people’s shoulders, or they couldn’t make a move. They must have felt like idiots, too. And now she would feel that way, at least in the motherhood department, for the next eighteen years or so.

  “Hey, Abigail.”

  “What?”

  “You’re in luck. Hang on.”

  “Sure.” What else could she do? She heard Gary clicking on his computer. Then he seemed to smother the phone with a cupped hand and do some yelling. After this, he said, suavely, “I think I’ve got someone great for you, and she’s available right now. What kind of hours do you need, Abigail?”

  “Well, I guess, all hours, live-in maybe?”

  “What kind of work are you in?”

  “I’m an attorney in a small firm, involved in a huge case—”

  “Good. Listen. You have a job. But your nanny has also got a job. Working for you. And you gotta respect those limits. I mean, let me ask you this, Abigail. Would your boss ask you to work day and night with no sleep?”

  “He has asked me, and I’ve been glad to,” said Abigail, quickly, with pride.

  “Oh. Well, Abigail, listen, you gotta be flexible in the beginning.”

  “No, you don’t understand, I’ve got to get back to work soon—I’m about to be made a partner at Fletcher, Caplan—”

  “I understand,” he cut her off. “Say no more. So you’re going back right away. That’s good, that’s better. Let me tell you something in complete confidence, Abigail. As one professional person to another. You know law, the contracts, the torts. I know the domestic employee.

  “They don’t like it when the mom’s around, Abigail. It kind of cuts into their act, their routine, as it were. They can’t let their hair down with you there. And that’s a good thing, contrary to what some people think. Your kid doesn’t need more tension, let me tell you.”

  “Do you mean my kid specifically? Do I sound tense?”

  “No more than the other moms I deal with. OK, I can tell you want someone easygoing, with a light touch, right?”

  “Well, I also want someone very experienced, you know, with CPR and all the other emergencies.”

  “Very sensible. Accidents do happen.”

  “They do?” she found herself saying. She of all people, with her legal background in aviation disasters, should know that accidents happen.

  “For the most part, yes. But not with Domestic Delites, though. My girls are super careful. And you need someone calm. Everyone wants competent and calm.”

  “Right.”

  “Do I know my business, Abigail? Abigail, you’re a normal mom, what can I say. And we’re the professionals. Anything else on the wish list?”

  Abigail thought.

  “Can I add ‘loving’?”

  “Abigail, I hear you. We do loving like nobody else. And who wouldn’t love your cute little baby?”

  “I know,” said Abigail. “But maybe if she cried too much, or you were a nervous type, no, you said calm, right, but what if you weren’t so maternal, I mean, all the time?”

  “Come on, Abigail,” he continued, “I’ve screened these ladies. We’re talking about nice folks here at Domestic Delites. They all love babies, or they wouldn’t be here. I got pictures all over my wall, you should see. The babies, the nannies—it’s one big happy family. Some of these nannies, you wanna hear something touching? They get invited to the wedding twenty years later.”

  “You’ve been in business twenty years?”

  “Long enough to know about happy families,” he demurred.

  “One more thing. I want my baby to know I’m her real mother,” she blurted. She knew it was a non sequitur, but it was still important.

  “Scientific certainty, Abigail: every creature, every single animal, knows its real, actual mother. They get that smell, that feel right away. It’s nature, it’s biology. It’s not an adopted baby, right?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Sometimes I put my foot in my mouth with that one. Adopted, biological, step, whatever, love is love. Believe me, you’re the one they come to when you come home, tired, from work, with all the complaints. You couldn’t get kids off you with a crowbar. I’m just kidding.

  “So let me read this list for you: Competent, calm, experienced, loving. Hours? Probably eight a.m. to six p.m.; how’s that for a start?”

  “Could we do eight to six thirty?”

  “We’ll negotiate that. That’s a long day. But you work outside the home? That’s a premium, trust me.”

  “I will be working full-time, any day. Just for the moment, I’m still home. But I promise I’ll try to stay out of the way.”

  “Now you’re talking. Too many cooks spoil the baby.”

  The agency sent Arlie. She was a thirty-six-year-old woman from Guyana, of East Indian ancestry, divorced and childless.

  “My husband was faithless,” she’d said in slow and intermittently queenly English,” so although I was pregnant, I did have my abortion.”

  Because of this confession, and because of her tinkling ankle bracelet, which Abigail found disturbing (alluding, as it did, to both sexuality and slavery), Arlie nearly didn’t get the job. Her references, however, had been amazing. One letter said:

  Never in my life have I met anyone like Arlie Rajani. Without a question, she is the most gifted person with children. My twins, who were born a bit early, needed constant care and supervision. Wi
th the patience of a saint, Arlie fed and diapered them, bathed them and took them to the park, twice daily. We trusted her implicitly, and she was worthy of our trust. We recommend Arlie without any reservation.

  The other said:

  Arlie came into our lives as a godsend. Though we had a lot of trouble with Cassidy, Arlie knew just how to handle him. When we got home from work, he’d be bathed, dressed in pajamas, and watching his ABC tape or his 123 tape. Even in the beginning of his infancy, Arlie showed him the dots. Later, she played clapping games with him and did difficult puzzles. Now he is a good student in the Huxley Academy. Anyone who has this woman for a nanny is lucky. We will miss her.

  Good with twins, premature at that, and good at being a “take charge” sitter when parents worked full-time? Arlie seemed just the ticket. Besides, Liz, who had always been shocked at the “dreck” her friends had hired, was right. There weren’t many quality people out there. Most of the other candidates had seemed dull, surly, or both. They had not been able to handle Abigail’s prepared list of questions.

  “What would you do if the child was rude to you?”

  One said, with a thrill, “Oh, Lord, I’d teach him how to behave.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, you just leave that to me,” she’d said, narrowing her eyes and grinning boastfully.

  “What would you do if I couldn’t get home on time?”

  This question stunned another candidate.

  “I got my own child, you know, in day care, and I must be home at least by seven, miss. It’s a two-way street.” Then she reached into her handbag, took out her notepad and pen, and jotted something down on it. Abigail noticed her underlining her own note two or three times before replacing it, and the pen, in her bag.

  Abigail needed someone flexible. And the fact that this candidate, like many others, had a child of her own that she didn’t see all day was guilt-inducing for Abigail. How did nannies feel, taking care of a child in its own home, when her own child was taken care of somewhere else?