by Zoe Fishman
Thinking back, Naomi was still surprised at her decision to keep their baby, despite all the odds stacked against her. For her, Noah had been a gift—a wake-up call in the form of a baby. Naomi had never been very religious, but it was the closest thing to divine intervention she had ever experienced. She had been lost, and now she was found.
Gene didn’t want to be found, so he had left her in their giant, unpaid-for apartment in Dumbo, to pick up the pieces. Naomi’s parents had swooped in, reserving judgment until she was safe, and cleaned up the mess. They had somehow managed to sell her apartment, get her home to the apartment she had grown up in on the Upper West Side, and prepare her for two new lives—hers and Noah’s. She smiled, thinking about their selflessness. To rescue their hot mess of a pregnant, alone, and adult daughter like that. . .Wow. She teared up at the thought.
Naomi picked up her cell phone to call them, realizing suddenly that she and Noah hadn’t seen them in more than a month. It was amazing how Brooklyn and the Upper West Side could feel like two separate continents, mass transit be damned. She dialed the number and looked at the clock. It was 11:00. They would no doubt be reading the paper—her dad waxing poetic about Maureen Dowd and her mother concentrating intently on the crossword, a scooped-out bagel on a plate in front of her.
“Hello,” answered her mom.
“Hi, Mama. It’s me.”
“Hi, baby,” she answered, her voice dancing with delight. “How are you? We miss you.”
“I’m well,” Naomi answered, her eyes suddenly tearing up again. What was it about hearing your mother’s voice when you were down? Tears were a Pavlovian response, even now, at thirty-two. She wondered if Noah would have the same, eternal reaction to her concern.
“You don’t sound well, Naomi. Are you okay? Is Noah okay? Do you want to come up here for some turkey chili tonight?”
Naomi laughed, moved by her mother’s breathless questions and inevitable invitation. “Mom, I’m fine. A little moody this morning, that’s all. Noah’s off with Gene for their play date.” Her mother’s silence followed. She and her father had been outraged by Gene’s reentry into their lives, and still had a hard time accepting Naomi’s decision. It had been a bone of contention between them, but eventually her parents had surrendered to her explanation of his child support and Noah’s need for a male role model in his life.
“Gene might be an asshole, but he’s Noah’s father,” she had explained. “He’s back and he’s grown up a lot. He wants to be involved. As long as we keep his presence to a minimum, I really don’t see what the problem is. It would be unfair to deny Noah this happiness.”
Her father had shaken his head in frustration. “He’s not a good man,” he had said to Naomi. “I don’t like it, but what can I do? This is your child and your life. Please just promise that you won’t forget what he did to you. Don’t get caught up in his bullshit.” He had paused and taken Naomi’s hand in his own. “And if he misses a payment, you tell me, and I will kill him.”
Naomi had laughed at the thought of her sweet father taking a hit on anything besides a tennis ball. One look into his eyes had shut her up though. He was serious. In that moment, Naomi understood the gravity of their sacrifice for her so many years before. Although they had never been anything but accommodating, it had strained them beyond belief. And now, looking at the wrinkles and creases in her father’s kind face, she could see that it had aged them as well.
“Okay, Dad,” she had replied. “Okay.”
“Oh,” Naomi’s mom finally replied. “I hope they have their jackets and hats on. It is freezing out!”
“Yes, they do. Everyone is bundled into their little igloos, don’t worry. Hey Mom, have you ever gotten a migraine?”
“Noooo, thank goodness. I rarely get headaches, knock on wood. Why?”
“I got this horrible headache last night. It was awful. Felt like a sumo wrestler was sitting on the right side of my head.”
“Baby, that doesn’t sound good. You don’t normally get headaches do you?”
“Well no, except this is my second one in like, a week,” answered Naomi. Her voice trembled a bit from the sudden frog in her throat. I’m scared, she thought.
“Oh honey, that sounds painful. Do you have your period?”
“No, Mom,” answered Naomi, laughing at the predictability of her question. Ovulation or menstruation was the answer to almost all of her physical ailments according to her mother.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” her mom asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.
As if on cue, her father picked up the other phone. “What’s all this whispering?” he asked.
“I am definitely not pregnant,” answered Naomi. “Unless I am giving birth to the next messiah.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” answered her mother. Naomi rolled her eyes. Technically, Noah was an “accident,” but it wasn’t as though she hadn’t been involved with his father at the time. Nevertheless, her mother seemed convinced that Naomi had never seen a condom or a package of birth control pills, which annoyed Naomi to no end.
“Ruth, of course she’s not pregnant, come on now,” her father interjected. “What’s the problem, Nay? You feeling okay?”
Naomi teared up again, despite herself. What was it with her inability to accept concern? “I’ve been having these crazy headaches,” she explained. “And my body has been feeling a bit off lately.”
“What do you mean, off?” asked her mother. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“Give her a break, Ruth,” said her father. “She’s telling us now. Go on, Nay.”
“Well, in yoga the other day my limbs just felt really heavy. Just to stretch my arms above my head seemed to take a ridiculous amount of effort.”
“Maybe you’re just out of shape,” said her father.
“Maybe,” answered Naomi. “I thought about that. But it feels different from just being out of shape. I can’t explain it. And then, a couple of times, on and off, my legs have gotten this weird tingling sensation. Not too extreme or anything, just this slight vibration for what seems like no reason.” Wow, it feels good to say this out loud. Without meaning to, Naomi had kept all of this to herself. It was as though she were ashamed by her physical limitations. God forbid I need help.
“Mom, Dad—hello? You’re not saying anything! What?!”
“I don’t know, Nay, this sounds kind of serious. Tingling is never normal in my book, especially if it’s accompanied by painful headaches. Have you called your doctor?”
“No, not yet,” answered Naomi. There it was, the lump in her throat again. Why am I so scared of the doctor? I gave birth for chrissake! A physical should be a cakewalk. Even as she tried to reason with her fear, she knew why she was so disinclined to go. Instinctively, whatever it was that was going on inside of her felt serious. Something that would require more than one doctor appointment serious.
“Why not?” asked her mom, slightly panicked. “How can somebody not call her doctor when her body is vibrating?”
“Mom, please, take it easy. I just haven’t had time.”
“You don’t take care of yourself like you should.” She paused before continuing. “Nay, I’m sorry. I’m just worried. The last thing I should be doing is yelling at you.”
“Listen, my friend Bill is a neurologist at Mount Sinai,” said her father. “I want you to see him. I’ll set it up. He owes me a favor.”
“Whoa Dad, take it easy! Shouldn’t I see my GP first?” A neurologist? What?
“Honey, your father is right. The headaches and the tingling sound like brain stuff to me. Your GP will just send you to one anyway, once you describe your symptoms. This will make your life easier.”
“And Bill is a nice guy,” added her dad. “Don’t worry. You know what, I’m going to call him now to set it up.”
“But Dad, I—”
“Nay, it’s not such a big deal. Don’t worry. He’s a good doctor who can tell you what, if anything, is going on.
We love you, honey.”
Naomi sighed deeply. Ten minutes ago she was just someone who had a bad headache last night. Now she was going to see a neurologist. “Okay, guys. Thank you. I love you, too.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I set it up,” said her father.
“Nay, go lie down,” her mother added. “With Noah out of the house, you should get some rest.”
“Okay, I will. Bye. Talk soon.”
She hung up the phone and put her head in her hands. What’s going on in there? she asked her body. The idea of her brain being in trouble made her want to cry. A sick brain was never a good thing.
Feeling the need to be with someone, Naomi decided to pop down to see Cecilia. She brushed her teeth and searched for something to bring down to her. Her eyes rested on a tube of styling cream that Felicity had given her. Naomi knew it would sit in her bathroom cabinet, unused, for months on end, despite her best intentions to try it out. She grabbed it, closed her door, and bounded down the stairs.
She knocked on Cecilia’s door and realized that just getting out of her apartment after the heaviness of her conversation with her parents made her feel better. Normal.
The door opened and a frazzled Cecilia poked her head around its edges. Upon seeing Naomi, she smiled and then, immediately, blushed—her snow white skin enveloped by a pink cloud. If Naomi didn’t know any better, she would think she had a fever. Wait, maybe she did.
“Hey Cee! Are you sick?” she instinctively put the backside of her hand against Cecilia’s forehead.
“No, no, not sick.” She pulled the door closed behind her.
“Can I come in, then?” asked Naomi, oblivious to her awkwardness. “I brought you a present!” She waved the tube in front of Cecilia’s face.
“Uh, actually, no,” answered Cecilia. She smiled coyly. Understanding struck Naomi like a lightning bolt.
“You have a man in there!” she whispered excitedly.
Cecilia nodded in response, her eyes twinkling.
“Oh my God! Okay, when he’s gone, you come tell me everything!” She kissed Cecilia on the cheek and raced back up the stairs—her energy rejuvenated by Cecilia’s conquest.
Back in her apartment, she collapsed on her bed, her heart racing. She was so happy for Cee! She was having sex! What a wonderful, unexpected turn of events on an otherwise dark day.
Sex. Sweet, wondrous sex. Naomi thought back, happy for the distraction. How long has it been for me? She cocked her head, pondering her libido or lack thereof in her pajamas. Oh shit, I can’t even remember!
It couldn’t have been. . .Wait, was it? Gene!?!? Have I really not had sex in eight years? She considered Noah’s birthday. What!? Have I not had sex IN ALMOST A DECADE!? She raked her hands through her hair in amazed frustration. Oh wait, that guy! Thank God. What was his name?! Michael? Mark? Mark! She breathed a heavy sigh of relief, remembering him.
Her parents’ friend, Cindy Carpstein, had set her up on a blind date with Mark when Noah was almost two. Naomi had seen her at a party and she, a single mother herself—two kids in college—Lauren at Wesleyan and Andy at Prince ton, thank you very much—had insisted that Naomi return to the dating world.
“With this face,” she had said, touching her cheek, “ya can’t sit inside all day watching Sesame Street. I have someone for you.” She had nodded wisely and brushed off Naomi’s attempted refusal. “He’s my friend Shelia’s son.” She paused here for emphasis and whispered, “A doctor.” With that, she had sauntered off to refill her wine spritzer at the bar. A week later, true to her word, Cindy had come through.
Mark, clearly used to being set up by everyone his mother came in contact with, had called Naomi to ask her out, and Naomi had begrudgingly agreed. They had gone to the River Café in Brooklyn and Mark had been perfectly acceptable—for someone who wasn’t Naomi. Relatively funny, well-mannered, a good conversationalist, with nice eyes and a receding hairline. Naomi drank three glasses of Riesling on an empty stomach and then, seized by the moment, she had gone home with him to his ridiculously spare bachelor’s loft in TriBeCa. The sex was forgettable as a result of her wine fog and Mark’s less than skillful technique, but she was determined to reclaim her vagina as something other than a birthing canal. She doubted that that was Cindy’s intention when she set her up, but that’s what the blind date had meant for Naomi. A reclaiming.
She had snuck out of Mark’s apartment under the cover of night, satiated only by the fact that she had done what she needed to do, and returned to her asexual existence with great fervor.
Naomi rolled onto her belly. She flexed her fingers and toes. Maybe her body was just telling her to slow down, to take it easy for a change. Her anxiety about Mini-Noah was silly. What was there to worry about? It was a paper doll. And if Gene screwed up, so what?! It was time for her to release her grip on things that were out of her control. To be kinder to herself.
Do I buy that? she wondered, as she closed her eyes and burrowed beneath her blankets. That the tingling and the headaches are just wake-up calls from my body and nothing else? I want to believe it. More than anything. But I don’t think I do.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drinks
Sabine sat at the bar, halfheartedly attempting to edit a manuscript about a female werewolf with a raging libido. How this was a bestselling series, she had no idea, but fans had gobbled up the two previous novels with gusto. The writing was fine, but the premise. . .well, what could she say? What seemed ridiculous to her was obviously a winner with the book-buying public.
She rubbed her temples and wondered, for what had to be the eleventh time that day, why she couldn’t just bite the bullet and pen her own novel about some sort of skin-puncturing, horny half mammal. She certainly knew the winning formula by now, after years of finessing manuscripts.
Sabine knew the answer went far beyond the obstacle of her own taste. She just didn’t have the drive. Novels like this one might make her eyes roll in constant frustration and disbelief, but she had to hand it to the authors—their commitment to their craft was impressive. Sabine considered her own lack of follow-through and shook her head in disgust. She just didn’t want it badly enough.
“That bad, huh?” a voice offered from behind her left shoulder. She turned to see Bess.
“Hey!” she exclaimed, jumping off her stool to give her a hug. “How are you?”
“Good. Just another day at the mines, shoveling salt.” Bess pointed to Sabine’s heavily marked-up manuscript on the bar. “Looks like you’re having the same kind of day.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s pretty bad.”
“At least I can leave my salt at the office,” Bess said. “You have to bring this mess home, huh?”
“Most of the time. I just don’t have time to do any actual editing at the office, you know? Between all of the other stuff going on, there aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Isn’t it ironic that the one thing that concretely fits your job description is the very thing that you don’t actually do at your job?”
“Indeed,” answered Sabine. She shuffled the papers together and collected them in a rubber band.
“What kind of manuscript is that? I saw you shaking your head in frustration when I walked in.” Bess hoped that she was successfully masking her nervousness. She had secured her tape recorder tightly around her rib cage, feeling like an inept James Bond in the process. Her previous attempts at remembering verbatim what Sabine, Charlie, and Naomi revealed were only mildly successful at best. Tonight she had to kick it up a notch. Relying on her memory was not an option at this point.
“Oh, it’s a werewolf romance, what else?”
“Oy,” replied Bess, commiserating. “That sounds fun.” Bess settled herself on the stool beside Sabine. “Could you ever write a romance?” she asked Sabine. “I mean, I know that’s probably not your bag on a personal level, but you could probably do it with your eyes closed, huh?”
“I don’t know if I could
write anything anymore.” Sabine sighed heavily before continuing. “I mean, the other day, I was finally inspired—after months of dormancy—and when I got home to write it down, I couldn’t even get past the first paragraph without being distracted.”
“Distracted by a guy?”
“Guilty as charged.” Sabine laughed. “But regardless, it’s so weird. I mean, do I even want to be writing anymore?” asked Sabine. “Or do I just think I do?”
Bess gazed at her thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. It’s hard to know. I try to sniff out leads for interesting stories that have nothing to do with the idiotic monotony of my day job, but my follow-through is pathetic,” she confessed.
She thought about her article. This time was different, obviously, but it also came with a hefty price tag—the cost of her blossoming friendships with three pretty amazing women. On the flip side, it didn’t have to be a scathing exposé about the passive state of the female drive.
Even as she tried to reason her way out of her guilt, Bess knew that she was betraying these women on a personal level. She was invading their privacy without their permission and then, adding fuel to the fire, judging them cold-heartedly. Bess cringed a bit at the thought, although she hoped not visibly.
“It’s reassuring to hear that I’m not the only one struggling,” said Sabine. “Most of the time I’m beating myself up for being such a slacker, but I guess it’s hard for anyone trying to hold down a nine-to-five, you know? I mean, could you imagine if we had families right now? Taking care of babies and trying to juggle the day job with the other stuff? I have no idea how Naomi does it.”
Bess nodded. “I know. I can’t imagine, either. Speaking of, she and Charlie are coming, right?”