Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  Stay sane, Jane, I say in my head. It’s my new mantra, one I’ve been repeating ever since worry has become my main emotion, permeating everything in my life: It’s crept into the pixels on my computer screen, it’s appeared as stubborn itches between my toes, and it’s spread itself onto my peanut butter sandwiches—ooh, peanut butter sounds really good. I worry about all kinds of things big and small, but the real doozy is, I worry a goblin is growing in my womb. It’s ridiculous, I know, especially since I read my embryo is currently only the size of a pen’s tip. But what started as a silly, outlandish hunch has recently crystallized into pure white fear.

  I get to work editing a Q&A about women’s health concerns—Does sunburn really cause skin cancer? Is it risky to sit in a wet bathing suit?—but I’m easily distracted. These run-of-the-mill worries seem so benign compared to the fear that I’m incubating some kind of a monster in my womb. I’m rational enough to realize that voicing this concern aloud, even to Jenny, would make me seem certifiable. Plus, who wouldn’t fire a person who believes she’s harvesting an alien? Perhaps more important, who would choose to issue a biweekly paycheck to the future mother of a creature capable of serious destruction?

  Another part of me fears I’ve cooked up this delusion so it won’t feel so awful to just end the whole ordeal. I mean, what kind of normal person wouldn’t do everything she could to prevent a monster from entering the world? And yet, somehow I sense that if I visited Planned Parenthood, I’d leave my appointment with something even more terrible in my gut: a dark pit of regret and guilt. Ugh. I’m suddenly itching to get my hands on a pad of graph paper.

  “Jane, will you join me in my office?” It’s Mimi, interrupting my spiral down into the depths of anguish. I comply, and she hands me a printout. “Take a look at my notes.”

  It’s the final draft of my allergies story, and I see she’s slashed up every line with her notorious red pen, branding sentence after sentence so that the page looks like it’s bleeding. “As you can see, I’m not a fan of this expert’s advice.” Of course she didn’t think to mention this on the first or second draft. “All that business about the endless rounds of shots required and all those medications, it’s so depressing!” She’s crossed out whole quotes and scribbled down new ones; she has one of the nation’s top allergists saying, “You wouldn’t believe how effective the power of positive thinking can be!”

  “So you’d prefer me to include this advice instead?” I ask. Mimi tilts her head in a way that indicates my question is absurd. With our fact-checking department reduced to one clueless freelancer, there’s practically no barrier to these out-of-thin-air inventions making it to print. This story is supposed to ship to the printer tomorrow.

  “Listen,” Mimi says. “My puggle, Pookie, used to be allergic to his kibble. He’d break out in these horrible hives after meals. It was wretched. But I was reluctant to switch brands since the one I fed him was organic and locally sourced. So at the suggestion of his doctor, I posted a ton of positive images and affirmations around his food bowl, and that was all it took! No more allergy! I’m happy to put you in touch with the doctor.”

  “Your dog’s veterinarian recommended affirmations?”

  “Sure.” Mimi hands me a card with the name “Dr. John ‘Doolittle’ Crawson, DVM” printed on it. Is it my sanity that’s slipping away, I wonder, or everyone else’s?

  “My point is,” she continues, “see to it that we get stronger experts next time, ones who are more on message with the Hers mission.”

  “Right on.” I truly have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Also, I was talking to my niece Dahlia, who’s a total card, the most popular girl in her fourth-grade class. She thought it would be really fun to have an advice column from Mr. Mom in Hers. A genius idea, right?”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘Mr. Mom’?”

  “We’ll find a man with the last name ‘Mom’ and get him to answer readers’ parenting conundrums, obviously. So please get on that.”

  “OK, will do.”

  I stick around until late that night, scouring WhitePages.com for Mom last names and fantasizing about looking up Mimi’s snotty little niece and wringing her “genius” neck. One of my new initiatives to look like a diligent, competent employee, and not the half-crazed, monster-bearing maniac I know myself to be, is to never be one of the first people out the door at night. My rule is to count fifteen exits—half of the staff—until I dare shut down my computer. It’s already nine-thirty p.m. and I’m still held hostage in my cubicle, waiting for one more person to take off before I’ll budge. In the meantime, I imagine calling my ex, Jacob. Perhaps he’ll take pity on my situation and want to be my boyfriend again. Better yet, maybe I can convince him to meet up with me and be seduced into my bedroom where we’ll—oops!—forget to use a condom, and then I can drop the pregnancy bombshell on him; we’ll get back together and raise the kid as ours. Happily ever after.

  I must be staring off into space because I don’t notice Mimi’s approach. “Jane,” she says, startling me. “I wanted to check in to make sure you have enough to do.”

  I blink up at her, flabbergasted. It’s almost ten p.m. “Yes, I believe I have enough to do,” I say, as calmly as I can manage. “But if there’s more you need from me, just say the word.”

  When I finally make it home and climb into bed, I dream a twisted, reverse version of Sleeping Beauty: Jacob is under a spell, asleep in a glass case and awaiting a princess’s kiss, but when I find him and lean in for the crucial smooch, he keeps right on snoozing. I suppose he’s been waiting on a different princess. When I bolt awake I’m alone in the thin morning light, the creature in my belly sending shivery shock waves of worry through my body.

  The next morning, I start a countdown: one more week until Labor Day weekend, and one more day after that until the end of the November ship. Ascending the Schmidt & Delancey elevator, I scan the ten-day weather bulletin on the digital screen: It’ll be eighty-three and sunny for Labor Day. Jenny and I are heading out to Montauk for the long weekend, a trip she idiotically keeps referring to as my “maybe-baby-moon.” I imagine my friend and myself settling in to our beachy digs and mixing up Bloody Marys (mine possibly a virgin), Hers magazine the furthest thing from my mind.

  Before I even boot up my computer, Abby approaches my desk, looking apprehensive. “I’m sorry to say, but it looks like you’re taking over the prize pages.” I guess this is the result of Mimi questioning whether my plate was sufficiently full.

  “You’re kidding. What about Laura?”

  “Mimi decided Laura wasn’t sophisticated enough to handle the responsibility.” Abby knows enough to deliver this news without an entirely straight face. “She thought you’d have just the right expertise to take over the section.”

  I’ve worked on prize pages before, so I know there is zero sophistication required to beg public relations people to give away the products they represent, then to run a computer program that randomly selects winners from the entrant pool, and finally to send e-mails informing the winners they’ve won. I had this duty a decade ago, back when I interned at a teen magazine as a college freshman, and even then I could listen to the radio and maintain a conversation all while I worked.

  “I’m not going to lie, your first order of business is a toughie,” Abby says. “Splendid Soaps promised to gift a dozen decorative bath baskets worth a hundred dollars each, but the company went belly-up after when we featured them in the magazine.”

  “And I’m guessing we can’t just eat the cost and cut checks for all the winners from the deep coffers of Hers?”

  Abby shakes her head. “Not quite.”

  “So what you’re saying is, now I have the pleasant task of rounding up $1,200’ worth of stuff to make up for the prizes?” Abby nods, arching her eyebrows into a pitying kindness. “Oh, goody.”

  I spend the rest of the morning scrounging around the beauty closet in search of expensive lipsticks and scouring the
giveaway table for hardcover books (I briefly consider including in the prize packages copies of How to Finally Leave an Angry, Abusive Man before ultimately deciding against it.). I feel my brain softening to mush. It makes sense, since my body will soon be moving along the same trajectory. I suppose I could send the winners my office supply collection, though I doubt they’d feel the proper amount of appreciation. Only I seem to grasp the wonderful comfort of a tall stack of crisp, clean paper.

  It takes me several hours, but eventually I manage to assemble what liberal calculations would add up to $1,200 worth of stuff: a mishmash of makeup samples, gag gifts from P.R. firms, and fashion shoot rejects. I distribute the items among twelve boxes and deliver them to Ed, thankful to have the task off of my hands.

  “Everyone into the conference room,” Laura calls out, announcing a story pitch meeting. I situate myself on the room’s perimeter and begin rapping my fingers against the glass. I don’t say much lately at these brainstorms. Ever since Mimi and Victoria did a one-eighty on their opinions of me, I’ve been second-and triple-guessing my every thought. Plus, I suspect my alien embryo is not only suckling on me for food and energy, but also feeding on my brain for smarts. I’ve been feeling dumber every day.

  After ten minutes, I force myself to speak up: “How about we run a story on women who have higher sex drives than their partners?” I’m more confident than usual about this idea, since I’m speaking from experience; toward the end of my relationship with Jacob, I was always raring to go and he was never in the mood. I add, “Several recent studies have found that this kind of mismatch of libido in relationships is very common, much more so than you’d think.” My hormones have been raging these past few weeks, which I suspect is one of the monster’s evil schemes. This horrifies Jenny. Last night when I saw a hot guy on the street and whispered to her all the things I wanted to do to him, she looked at me as if I were insane, as if she believes impending maternity should snuff out sexuality.

  Victoria cackles. “Every woman I know practically has to fend her partner off with knives.”

  “Tell me about it,” Leah adds, in a rare moment of solidarity with Victoria. “I’ve become an expert at pretending I’m already asleep. I’d be thrilled to never have sex again.” Yeah, but you have triplets under the age of two, I want to scream. And can one of you please lend me your husband for the night?

  “Exactly,” says Victoria. “Return from la-la-land, Jane.”

  The meeting moves on, my idea left on the chopping block and me left feeling mortified. Panicky, I excuse myself and make a beeline to the supply closet. I swipe a two-inch binder, then run to the bathroom, where I lock myself inside a stall and methodically clench and unclench the binder’s rings. If I can’t handle a little dissent in a meeting, there’s no way I’m cut out to be a mother. That’s it, I think, my heartbeat churning like an overheated engine: I’ll call the clinic today.

  When I eventually calm down, I return to the conference room, resolved to keep my mouth shut. “I’m still not happy with the personal essay options for November,” says Mimi, “and we’re down to the wire—one week until the entire issue is out the door. We need a strong voice with a strong story, and we need it fast. Let’s all think along the lines of grand triumphs over adversity, massive flops, bizarre and incredible occurrences. Come on, people.” For a split second I consider suggesting I write about the weird creature growing in my stomach, but then I remember: Stay sane, Jane.

  “I know of a group of women who were abducted by aliens,” offers Johanna. I eye her to see if somehow she’s read my mind and is mocking me. Apparently not. “They’re from this town in Nevada, and they all disappeared one cool summer night. The authorities searched high and low, but after a few days and no sign of them, everyone assumed they’d been hacked to pieces by some murderous maniac wanker. Then one day, a farmer was up at dawn milking his cows, and he discovered all seven lasses lying in his field, buck naked, looking as if they’d stuck their fingers in sockets, their hair all frizzed up and their eyes all crossed and mad.”

  “Bullshit,” says Debbie. “Where did you hear about this, in line at Wendy’s?”

  “No, I swear,” Johanna says. “One of the women wrote a rock album about the experience, and I know her publicist. She’d sure fancy a profile in the magazine.”

  “That’s an idea.” Mimi sounds suspicious, like perhaps she shouldn’t have invited the entertainment director to a story pitch meeting.

  “I know,” says Victoria. “How about we find a mother who was at the tippy-top of her game, just flying high and killing it in her career, raking in the big bucks. But then suddenly it all came crashing down. Everything just fell apart out of the blue, like poof! We’ll have her sketch out the rise and the fall, the whole trajectory.”

  “That would really resonate with readers, considering the economy’s still in the shitter,” says Mimi. “Anyone know a writer who’s been through something like that?”

  We’re all silent, until Abby coughs. I can see Zoe smirking behind her notebook. I drop my pen. “Oops.” I wonder if everyone can feel it—our former boss’s presence hovering over us, haunting the conference room like a ghost. In order to resist shouting out, Louisa, for God’s sake! Get Louisa to write the stupid story, I repeat my mantra under my breath like a madwoman: Stay sane, Jane. Stay sane, Jane. Stay sane, Jane.

  “Well, let’s all think on it,” Mimi says.

  “How about we run a roundup of essays about the measures different women take to hide their pregnancies in their first trimesters,” I say, praying no one will dismiss the idea as idiotic. “You know, like bringing their wineglass into the bathroom and swapping out the alcohol for grape juice they smuggled in, or talking up the great new sushi place they supposedly just tried. Or making a big show of taking their birth control, but really only popping the sugar pills.” I brace myself for the response, hoping no one again accuses me of living in la-la-land.

  “OMG!” Zoe squeals. “Jane, you’re not knocked up, are you?” Before I can tamp down my panic and pull myself together to respond, she practically pounces. “I knew it! I could’ve sworn you’ve been acting all weird lately. Congratulations, you sneaky little snake!” When I still don’t deny the accusation, I watch as the faces all around me contort into excitement and shock. And then I am being molested, a dozen perfectly manicured hands groping my belly, anxious to feel the imp underneath.

  “Oh,” I say, cursing my stupidity. I didn’t realize my pitch would be a default pregnancy announcement. “Yeah, I guess you guys figured it out. Clever you.” I flash a smile at Mimi, thinking, Please don’t fire me. Jenny has told me it’s actually trickier to fire a pregnant woman, since she could sue for discrimination. But I don’t trust Schmidt & Delancey to play by those kinds of rules.

  “I have plenty of other ideas along the lines of best remedies for morning sickness, savoring your last days of freedom, and how to shop for a bigger bra size every week.” Everyone laughs, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Is it possible I can just let this be my decision, now that the cat’s out of the bag? I can already imagine Jenny’s disappointment in me, her insistence that I think this through in a mature, reasoned way and come to a genuine choice that’s right for me. I have a sudden urge to steal someone’s full-on computer.

  My coworkers start treating me differently. Mimi insists I take a chair during meetings, and the view is different seated among my superiors. At my desk I’m opening a new pair of scissors—the fifth for my collection—when Zoe says, “Want me to get that for you?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do, accidentally slip and stab my stomach?” I ask. Zoe raises her arms defensively.

  “Hey, Jane. How’s it going?” It’s Abby popping by to chat, a first. She’s usually not one for casual banter. “So how have you been feeling?”

  “I’m good. Starving all the time, but otherwise fine.”

  “Is it strange to know you’ll be a mom next year?”

  “I gues
s. I try not to think about it.”

  She laughs, like she thinks I’m joking. “And what do you sense it is, a boy or a girl?”

  A monster. “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “I’d want a girl, I think.” I can hear Zoe giggling. I’m not sure why she finds it endlessly amusing that Abby is a lesbian.

  “So how did you know you were ready to be a mother? And do you think most people will judge you or admire you for doing it on your own? Are you worried you won’t be able to manage it all?” This torrent of personal questions is strange, for sure, but somehow it doesn’t bother me. Abby isn’t a judger, and it doesn’t feel like prying. I suspect she’s just fishing for whether I’ll come back after maternity leave.

  “I love my job,” I say, a totally inappropriate response. Apropos of nothing, I add, “My mom’s gonna help out with the baby.” Not true. In fact, I’d prefer to permanently put off telling my parents about this turn of events. But I want Abby to know I care about my career and don’t plan on tossing it aside to change diapers. And I don’t.

  But wait, if she thinks I’m leaving for good, then Mimi wouldn’t have to bother firing me (and shelling out for my severance), which means I’d be safe for at least seven more months. “Well, my mom said she might be able to help,” I say. “She does have her hands full with my father, who’s on a very strict diet and whose memory has been going. Plus, she’s very devoted to her bridge club.” Where do I come up with this stuff? Abby looks puzzled. I should just tape my mouth shut with one of my four rolls of masking tape.