Great With Child

by Sonia Taitz

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Love does entail some sacrifice, Evelyn,” said Abigail warmly.

  “You’re not supposed to love the clients, stupid!” Mrs. Mac-Adam suddenly bleated, sounding wonderfully like her old self again.

  “Well, yes, I know, but I do. I love you like family.”

  “I’m not like family, you ninny. I am family.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  It had been a good idea to bring Mrs. MacAdam up to New York. After a short time, her troubling listlessness was gone, and she was back to being cranky and argumentative.

  “Look, I appreciate this a lot, but I can’t stay here,” she’d say. “I’m useless and I’m in your way.”

  “Nonsense,” Abigail reassured her. “Besides,” she began adding, “I need you to help me plan my nuptials.”

  “I thought you’d never ask. By the way, in my day, these things tended to happen before the baby came,” Mrs. MacAdam grumbled. “But if you want my advice, wear shocking pink—that way everyone knows you’ve been the Great Whore of Babylon.”

  Plans for the wedding rarely progressed with banter like this. Abigail knew her first big challenge was not the ceremony but getting her friend on her feet, in every sense of the word.

  Sometimes she wanted reassurance, and other times, Mrs. MacAdam just wanted her own space—the bustling household drove her mad. For now, she lived in Abigail’s small apartment. Abigail took the sleeper couch in the living room, moved the table out of the dinette and put the baby there, and gave the older woman her own bed. Arlie helped them adapt to these new arrangements. But it was all a bit cramped, especially with a wheelchair to negotiate.

  Until their parents came home, Martin and the older children, Ellen and Hal, continued to live in uncle Richard’s place. But they often came over to Abigail’s, and they got to know Mrs. MacAdam. While Hal and Ellen were at first a little intimidated by the imperious woman on wheels, Chloe and Martin gradually began to love her just as she was. Martin had begun by calling her “Chairy”; Mrs. MacAdam had soon fixed that, and was now allowing him to call her “Grandam.”

  Eventually, Abigail, Chloe, and Mrs. MacAdam would also move into Richard’s Village townhouse, where there was plenty of room. The stairs were not yet navigable for Evelyn, but in time, they would be. Perhaps, Abigail thought, they could also hold the wedding there. The parlor level was gracious, if drab, but they could festoon it with flowers, as well as a traditional wedding canopy. Abigail began to imagine Mrs. MacAdam standing by her side as she took her vows with Richard. The unwieldy wheelchair would be gone, and with it, a world of pain.

  Happily, Mrs. MacAdam had finally agreed to see about getting a new leg. Abigail had ordered a catalog, and Evelyn had leafed through it, marveling at the options—even running legs that looked like they had steel rockers on the bottom, poised for a sprint. But the lifelike ones were the ones that drew her wistful eye.

  “The new leg will be prettier than the other,” she noted, fretting slightly. “They forgot to add the age spots and the varicosities.”

  “I bet they can customize it for you in any way you like,” said Abigail.

  And she was right.

  Mrs. MacAdam had insisted on talking to “the man” herself, at an enormous prosthetics emporium in New Jersey that boasted “Advanced Design, Ergonomics, and Expert Fittings.” Their phone call had reassured her.

  Abigail drove her there, and she and Mrs. MacAdam found themselves in the most peculiar waiting room, surrounded by a glassed-in panoply of hands, legs, and feet. Male, female, white, black, brown. There was also a glass cabinet full of eyes—every variation of color and striation—and another case of prosthetic ears along the wall, leading Abigail to experience a literal sense of the phrase “the walls have ears.”

  “Why don’t I wait for you out here?” she said, her voice and face revealing far more apprehension than Mrs. MacAdam herself felt. Aspects of her mother’s cancer crept into her mind. “Or should I just leave and come back in about an hour or so?”

  “So you’re a bigger ‘fraidy cat’ than I’ll ever be!”

  “No, of course, no problem, I’ll come in with you.”

  The anatomical displays, while perhaps troubling to Abigail, seemed deeply reassuring to Evelyn MacAdam. Trying to relax, Abigail watched her pick up the pamphlets about how you could actually improve your speed and strength with some of the latest designs. She read them, too, and tried to shed her sense of pity. Unlike her own mother, Mrs. MacAdam wasn’t dying—she was getting better, in fact. Maybe she could someday win a marathon (or even an Olympic event), bursting through the ribbon, her gray updo flying out of its pins. Maybe this world of replacement parts wasn’t sad at all. Maybe it was, as was so much else that one usually overlooked, a portal to redemption and restoration.

  Inside the consultation room, the older woman spoke openly to the expert. Her agenda was touchingly modest: “I want to be walking by the time this one goes down the aisle,” she said, pointing to Abigail.

  “But I was thinking of having the ceremony in Richard’s townhouse, and there’s really no aisle—”

  “Oh, shush,” said Mrs. MacAdam. “These details bore me.”

  “Is this your daughter?” said the prosthetics man.

  “As close as one can get, yes. I love her dearly, but don’t tell her that, or she’ll be spoiled rotten.”

  “And you say she’s getting married soon?”

  “But not before this one’s on her feet,” said Abigail. “And right by my side.”

  “And I want to look good, no clumpy brogues with Velcro,” said Mrs. MacAdam. “I shall attend the festivities like a real lady, in high heels. Can you make me a leg that can wear elegant silken pumps?”

  “That we certainly can. In fact, I’d be happy to make you a couple of options—and you can try some of the samples today. This one here”—the man took a half leg (from the shin down) out of a large closet drawer—“is for flat shoes, like sneakers or walking shoes. You’ll find it gives you the best balance. And then we’ll make another that’s perfect for those heels.

  “Let me look at your leg now, please.”

  Evelyn obediently raised up her ankle-length skirt and showed him what was left of her right limb.

  “So much is still there,” the man said kindly. “Amazing and wonderful. Because you happen to have an incredible amount of muscle and joint to work with. Not only the knee but that nice bit of leg below it.”

  Kneeling before her, the man examined the stub of Mrs. MacAdam’s fibula. About a quarter of it remained, along with the miracle of an intact, functional knee.

  “The cut end healed up a bit ragged—”

  “That’s Grenada for you—”

  “No matter, we’ll make a nice mold and put a comfortable and snug cushion right there. You’ll love it. Nice thick piece of foam.”

  Abigail thought she saw tears in Evelyn’s eyes.

  “Is this hurting you?” she asked.

  “It’s repairing me, and for you and this dear man I shall always be grateful.”

  Evelyn MacAdam then ordered two legs to be made for her—one for high heels and one for flats, and both with the “veins and varicosities.” The man took notes and snapped pictures, for which she posed with alacrity and joy.

  41

  “I’m restless now, and I want to go home,” Mrs. MacAdam suddenly announced in November. She stood before a full-length bedroom mirror, admiring her new leg from every angle. It looked splendid in a new white sneaker, fresh from the box.

  “This could be your home,” Abigail replied, kneeling to do up the laces. “Right here with me and Richard and the baby.” Several months had passed, and Mrs. MacAdam was walking. She and Chloe had taken their first tentative steps at the same time, and Abigail delighted in watching them both on their feet. They had all moved into Richard’s town house now, where Mrs. MacAdam had her own room and bath.

  “Fine, I’ll have two homes. But
it’s getting cold up here, so maybe I’ll just winter where I won’t freeze my nethers. And I do need to tend to my business—our business, my clever attorney, or did you forget?”

  “That might be a wise compromise,” said Abigail. The crops did need supervision, and besides, every day Mrs. MacAdam seemed to have another good idea for a culinary herbal hybrid. She had come back to life with her new mobility, and if she now felt strongly that being in her own home, on her own land, would do her a world of good, who was Abigail to challenge her? Abigail felt that this growing sense of self, of individual purpose, was the very thing her own mother had never fully enjoyed.

  But there remained the matter of the flight, which Mrs. Mac-Adam still dreaded. Of course, Abigail was again willing to accompany her. But this time, she decided, Richard, Chloe, and Martin would come down to Grenada, too. Even after Martin’s mother, Lauren, had returned home, he’d stayed close to his beloved uncle Richard and to Chloe, who was like a sister to him.

  Abigail wanted them all to see where “Grandam” MacAdam had lived, alone for all those years, her own dreams seemingly broken off. And how successful she’d become.

  Little Chloe would be too young to remember any of this, but Martin, who was now four, probably would. His parents had assured Richard and Abigail that the boy could miss a few days of coloring, counting, and describing the weather in pre-K. Arlie could help Lauren with the older children until the family returned.

  Arlie had decided not to study information technology with Tim. She’d wrestled with computer jargon for several miserable months until she admitted that she hated it. It was boring, impersonal. She had no gift for it, and it meant nothing to her. Arlie realized that her calling was caretaking.

  Most of all, they were lucky to have Evelyn MacAdam in their lives, Abigail thought. She was lucky to have found them, too. Under a heap of wreckage and a squabble over claims they had all found lasting treasure.

  A few weeks later, they flew through the air, en route to Grenada. Richard paced up and down the aisle, pausing here and there among his loved ones. There was slight turbulence at times, but Chloe, perched high in her car seat, seemed entranced between worlds.

  “P’lows,” she pronounced, as she gazed at the clouds.

  “No, they’re not pillows, silly, they’re water vapors,” Martin corrected. “Right?”

  “Right,” Abigail replied, smiling at the way he always understood whatever Chloe said, or tried to say.

  “You’re a clever little man,” Mrs. MacAdam declaimed. “I want you to be the ring bearer.”

  “Yes! I’ll do that! What is it? When?”

  “Uncle Richard and I are planning to get married soon, Martin. We’ll give each other wedding rings. We’re not sure exactly when, but soon.”

  “I happen to know when, Martin,” said Mrs. MacAdam. Abigail turned to look at her with surprise. “Just before New Year’s, as a matter of fact. You’ll be off from school, then, and so will your brother and sister.”

  “Is that right, Evelyn?” said Abigail, with an indulgent smile. “That wouldn’t give us much time though, would it?”

  “It’s certainly a nice time of year,” agreed Richard. “But didn’t you just say you want to avoid the New York cold?”

  “I will avoid the New York cold, and more to the point, so will you.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Richard.

  “That’s why you’re coming down, actually,” said Mrs. Mac-Adam. “Cora-Lee has to measure the bride for a pretty frock—there can be touches of white, if you insist, Abigail—but it will be so warm outside that you can float in gossamer and silk. And after I check my basmaries, we’ll see if they’re good for the centerpieces. And Richard’s boutonniere. Not to mention the wedding canopy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll find pretty flowers in New York,” said Abigail, pleased that Mrs. MacAdam understood that she’d want the traditional Jewish chuppah. “I really don’t want to put you to any—”

  “Don’t you see? I thought lawyers were supposed to be rather intelligent. The wedding will be in Grenada, my dears. On my estate and on my dime—I’ll fly down everyone you wish. Family, friends. You do have friends, don’t you?”

  “Well, not so many,” said Abigail, “but I was planning to invite Rona and her husband and maybe baby Dylan. And Tina, for sure. But you mean, you’d fly my sisters, and their husbands, Annie’s kids? My father—and even Darlene?”

  “I couldn’t ask you to pay for my brother and sister-in-law,” added Richard.

  “You don’t have to ask. And I’ll put them up all up in style, too. The sky’s the limit. I’m a rich woman, as you both know. Richer than ever, thanks to this blushing bride here.”

  “That’s very generous, and we’re very grateful,” said Richard, “but there are so many details to settle. First of all, I’ll need to get a license.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Abigail considered. “We are lawyers, after all, aren’t we?”

  “And it is just simple paperwork,” he agreed. “We’d need to take care of that in any case. But who would perform the ceremony?”

  Abigail reflected for a moment. Whoever they chose, wherever they married, she wanted to add a few touches from the Jewish tradition—a mazel tov blessing for luck, the traditional breaking of the glass. She wanted Evelyn MacAdam and her father to walk her to the wedding canopy, and to stand by her side underneath it.

  “What about that handsome man you know down here?” said Mrs. MacAdam. “The one who’s always calling me to see how I am?”

  “You mean Jay—Jackson Moss?”

  “Yes. Mr. Moss seems able enough for the task. He could get certified to marry you in no time. He and I can make things move around there.”

  “Jay would be wonderful,” said Abigail. “Would that be OK with you, Richard?”

  “Of course it would. We’ll touch base with him right away and ask him. Once he’s qualified to marry us, the State of New York will naturally give full faith and credit—”

  “OK—I’ve had enough soul-crushing legalities for now,” Mrs. MacAdam interrupted. “Let’s talk about the celebration. Festive music and piquant food, I’d say.”

  “Jerk chicken is always good,” Richard offered.

  “So we will have a big beach barbecue?” Martin burst in, pealing with joy.

  “He knows you live by the ocean,” Abigail explained.

  “With fireworks so loud you’ll need cotton in your ear,” Mrs. MacAdam replied, nodding forcefully.

  “No, thank you,” said Martin, upon consideration. “It would scare Chloe too much.”

  “Mabby! Mabby!” he shouted a few minutes later, using his pet name for her as he reached out for Abigail’s arm.

  “What?” said Abigail, looking up from her papers. The wedding venue settled, she was going over some transfer documents for Evelyn. Everything looked good, but she was being meticulous, as ever.

  “I want to come down right now!”

  “Don’t be afraid, we’re flying, not falling,” she said, calmly meeting the child’s worried eyes. “And we’re almost there. We’ll be there soon. Everything will be all right.”

  Abigail had no fear anymore of being aloft. Her family had grounded her, and gathering Evelyn MacAdam into the heart of it had given her focus.

  “Yes, loves, we’ll come down very soon,” said Richard, walking over to Martin and little Chloe and smoothing their shoulders.

  “Uncle Richard, please explain again what’s Mabby doing,” said Martin, turning his gaze upward.

  “A favor for an old, good friend,” said Richard.

  “Grandam is our good friend?”

  “Yes, that’s right, darling.” He ruffled his nephew’s hair. “You can be a friend and a grandparent and a generous, great person—all at the same time.”

  Martin ran over to Abigail, scrambled onto her lap, buried his head in her chest, and inhaled. They looked out the window together for a long time, and then the little boy
began to close his eyes. Chloe, too, dozed calmly.

  It was windy in Grenada, Abigail could see. Several hours had gone by, and now the azure sea was capped by small white waves. Then the land came into view, yellow and brown and green. Palm leaves swayed from treetops, all growing closer. A faint ridge of dormant volcanoes rose in the distance. The plane turned, swooping gently.

  “Look up, everyone—see how beautiful!” Abigail said. She took Richard’s hand in hers and squeezed it. Soon, down there, they would be married. She would wear a summery dress and stand, beloved, under the basmary boughs.

  Abigail looked at the family around her and the sky around them and felt nothing but gratitude. Then she descended, from heights, past swirling waters, to the sturdy earth below.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Ellie McGrath, Jan Olofsen, Anne Greenberg Bookin, Debra Berman, Bonni-Dara Michaels, Susan Weinstein, Jean Rosen Cohen, Lynn Auld Schwartz, John Patrick Shanley, Tammy Williams and Yona Zeldis MacDonough for their friendship and support, both literary and personal.

  I would also like to thank Lawyers for Children; Donovan, Leisure, Newton & Irvine; Cravath, Swaine & Moore; and Coudert Frères for allowing me to practice my legal skills, such as they were. A special nod to the late Charles Black for showing me that attorneys could also be artists, mensches, and more.

  To my mother and father, Gita and Simon Taitz, whose wisdom and courage continue to animate everything I do.

  To my brother, Emanuel, and nieces, Jenny and Michelle—great parents all.

  And to my family—husband, Paul, and children, Emma, Gabriel, and Phoebe—endless gratitude for embracing me with the gift of love.

  A READER’S GUIDE

  1.Abigail’s mother, Clara, is the child of Holocaust survivors, and her father, Owen, is a lower-class immigrant from Wales. To what extent does this background motivate Abigail to focus on the “American Dream” of professional achievement as a lawyer?

  2.Does having a baby conflict with those dreams?