by Ariella Papa
“No, I was here scouting for some new independent art.” I wasn’t sure why I said that or how much further her head could tilt before it broke free of her neck. I swallowed. “Yes, I’m good. Any more tips on getting my guys into preschool?”
“Tips,” she laughed thinking that was the joke and then realized I wasn’t kidding. I saw a flash of something cross her face. Maybe I shouldn’t be so open about my ambition. Maybe I should try a different approach.
“The pictures were great,” I said. “You really made them look beautiful.”
“Well, they are,” she said. I felt myself blush as I always did when anyone praised my kids. I so wanted to hear good things about them, but then when I did I suspected it.
“You must have great pictures of your own kids.”
“Thanks. I do, but they are way cuter in person,” she said, cocking her head behind her. “That’s my son, Sage. His sister is around here somewhere.”
She was gesturing to a kid I had taken for a girl wearing a pink scarf with purple pom-poms. His hair was a little on the long side, but I guess now he did seem like a boy.
“Does Sage go here too?”
“He should in September. Siblings automatically get in.”
Couldn’t she have intervened on the scarf? Shouldn’t she have? What did other people say? It wasn’t even cold. It was June. But whatever, I’m sure she had some insight into the admission’s process. I was not above a little schmoozing.
“So I noticed you had some album packages on your site.” There were fairly expensive options. I really only planned on getting a few prints, but now I was hatching another plan. “I’m thinking they might be nice to have around and maybe send my mom in Florida.”
“Yeah, they do make a really nice gift,” she said, slipping hesitantly into a sales pitch. “I work pretty closely with you on design. We review page layouts and such before I put it together. I can show you some other ones I have done if you want. They are fairly time intensive. I try to do it in six to eight weeks.”
“That’s fine. I’ll call you this week about it.”
“Awesome,” she said. She glanced back at her son and gave him a bright smile. Then she turned back to me, “So Ruth is doing much better.”
“Much,” I said, nodding. For a second, I had no idea who she was talking about. But then I remembered my neighbor. Kirsten brought her up once before. I still hadn’t been over. I tried to cover. “There’s much less crying from there these days. I was thinking of maybe bring her over some food.”
“I bet she would love that.”
I nodded. How did either of us have any idea about what this woman would want? But I was willing to take it one step farther. For the good of the admissions process. “Maybe we can all have a play-date one of these days.”
I could see immediately that I had gone too far. Kirsten didn’t want to have a play-date with me any more than I did with her, but for whatever political or financial reasons she was going to. I decided to quit while I was ahead. “Well, I’ll call you about that photo album.”
“Sounds good,” she said and turned back to her androgynous child to rave about the way he had blended a variety of play-dough colors together in a heap. Was this the level of support I should have been giving my kids? Was this the Brookese way?
I left, making sure to say good-bye to everyone who was important. The school was certainly not what I had expected. My own experiences with education had been way more strict and traditional than what this was.
I considered catching a cab, but I wanted to test the convenience of the subway. I was never on the train this late anymore, but it was packed, and I stood, again holding onto the pole. I imagined the call with my mother tomorrow. She was certainly going to check in about the school, since I had foolishly told her I was taking the tour. I don’t know why I always had the need for her approval. It was a double-edged sword because I knew she would never approve of this place and though I didn’t necessarily know if it was for me, now that I had told her I wanted into this school, I felt like I had to succeed.
But I was distracted as I had been for the past couple of weeks. I scanned the faces of the packed subway car. Lately, wherever I went, I looked for Keith. I knew that he lived in the meatpacking district, close to work. There was no way I was going to run into him at the grocery store or dropping off the kids at day care, but still I looked for him everywhere.
Sometimes when I was getting dressed in the morning I imagined Keith looking at me, holding my clothes between his fingers, pushing back my hair. At the office, I imagined how he might peek his head into my office on the way to the copier. He had a copier on his floor, but in my fantasy he needed to come to mine. If I had a meeting with a colleague on his floor, I suggested they host it in their office on the off chance I could run into him. I was hyperaware of anything having to do with him or his department, any chance I might get to see him. I found myself wanting to say his name to talk about him, but I held my tongue.
Logically, I knew that this was all foolish. I had never felt this way, not about anyone, not even Peter. But I couldn’t help myself. I was beginning to feel transparent. I wondered if the people on the train could tell how keyed up I was. I needed to collect my thoughts, to focus on the task at hand.
I reminded myself of my goal to get the kids into Brookese and refused to let myself think about Keith again. I was in control, not some stupid schoolgirl crush.
And it worked. That is, until Keith was standing in the doorway of my office the following day.
“Hey,” he said. He looked away and then looked back at me as if I had told an off-color joke he was trying not to laugh at. He had looked at me this way before. I was beginning to crave it.
“Hi,” I said. I felt my body flush. Damn it! I was acting like a teenager, and I had never even been that kind of teenager.
“One more day until Friday,” he said. Normally I had little patience for this pat office banter, but I would have traded any cliché to keep him close to me.
“Another day, another dollar,” I said hesitantly. I had never uttered a phrase like that in my life. I was trying it on and it worked. He smiled.
“Did you get lunch yet?” Lunch?
“I brought my lunch,” I said flatly. He couldn’t have been asking me to lunch. I never even took a lunch unless it was a lunch meeting. Did people go get lunch together when no meeting was involved? Is that what coworkers did? Maybe.
“Oh, well, I was going to see if you wanted to grab a sandwich downstairs,” he said. He was waiting for me to do something. I had no idea what to do. The fact that I was actually talking to him after imagining so many conversations between us was surreal. “Anyway, I guess you’re covered.”
“Yeah,” I managed. We didn’t say anything. How could anyone be so attractive? I wasn’t really sure what was going on. He looked away from me to his shoes. There was a shift about to happen. I was about to go from interesting to awkward in his eyes. In anyone else’s eyes I had never been anything but awkward. For once I didn’t want to be that. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He looked back at me and smiled a slow smile. “Tomorrow sounds great. How about one?”
“Great,” I said. “Oh, wait, I have a meeting at one.”
“Noon?” He suggested.
“Oh, well, actually I have an 11:30 that usually goes long.” He nodded as if he expected as much. What was I doing? I imagined Peter’s bald spot on the pillow next to me. “Maybe tomorrow isn’t so good after all.”
“Well,” he looked away again and then back at me. It occurred to me that he had done all of this before with other women and was certainly going to do it again. But that didn’t dissuade me from wanting him.
“Sorry,” I said. “Maybe some other time.”
He nodded. “Why don’t you let me know?”
I nodded. I couldn’t say anything. And then he was gone.
I tried again to keep my mind off him for the rest of the day, but it wasn’t work
ing. So I picked up a Martha Stewart magazine on the way to the subway. I studied it all the way home. I planned on making my neighbor—Ruth, that was her name—an extravagant dessert and a meal that required some concentration. I plotted all of the ingredients I was going to need.
I got the twins at day care and took some extra time with the caregivers. Then I read the twins extra stories before putting them to bed. I tried to engage them. I finished up the meal they had barely touched. I scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom. I even did the bathtub. I didn’t stop. I kept myself moving, kept myself busy, kept my mind occupied.
But it was as if there were two of me, one going through the motions, doing what was needed, doing it as good if not better than ever. Proving to everyone, proving to myself that I could. But the other one was standing beside, looking on, waiting, waiting for the moment again when I could think about Keith.
I waited up for Peter, and when he came home, I initiated sex with him. And it was good, as good as ever. He was super considerate, waiting, asking, but after so many years not knowing, not being sure of what would make me happy. And all throughout I couldn’t help thinking that Keith wouldn’t need instruction, that if he touched me he would know what I wanted. So it was Keith that I was thinking of when I finally came. It had never been easy for me, but thinking of Keith helped me get there. He stayed in my head long after when I staring at Peter’s bald spot on the pillow beside me, wondering what I was going to need to do to get back some control.
Chapter 9
Ruth Takes One Step Forward and Two Steps Back
I am having a good day. My feet are immersed in a warm tub and about to be scrubbed. I am getting a pedicure.
Pam and Steve decided that it would be a good idea for her to come down to see us once a week. I wasn’t consulted. This was week one of her visits.
I wanted to explain to Steve that his mother coming, which he assumed would help me, caused me to feel like I needed to clean and look presentable when I wanted to veg. Though vegging all day made me feel bad about myself so maybe this was his devious plan. Lately, it was as if maybe other people did know what was best for me. I was merely an audience member in decisions made about my life.
It was this first weekly visit that allowed me to have this time to myself at the spa. Pam and the liquid gold that I pumped out of my breasts made it all possible. I had put off pumping for a long time. The machine scared me, not to mention the idea of nipple confusion. I had put it off for eight weeks. And then two days ago after my visit from Kirsten, I was feeling ready to take on anything. I strapped myself to the machine.
It took a moment to press the button and as soon as I did it my breasts became pulled and stretched and well, pumped the way you might do with a cow. Part of me was in awe of the little plastic cups being filled with milk. My milk. But I also felt invaded by what the machine was doing to my once perky breasts. To make matters worse, Steve chose that moment to wonder into the living room to check the score of the Red Sox game.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Are those really your tits?”
I could tell that he was immediately sorry, but I burst into tears anyway. Because, yes, they were my tits, my rack, my cans. I had always liked them, unlike lots of other parts on my body. Now they were never going to be the same again. They were always going to be breasts, at best boobs, no longer for sex or my own enjoyment. The device made it official. These mammary glands were for nourishment, not nookie.
Ugh.
And I knew that Steve was trying in his own way, but he just didn’t seem to get it. He didn’t get that there were times that he might want to think about being a little more sensitive. He didn’t realize that, no, I didn’t want to have sex the moment I got the all clear from the doctor. And, yes, it was a big deal if he went to a not-even-that-close friend’s bachelor party in Vegas for four days. And, no, I did not think Abe was ready to be with a sitter.
It amazed me that Steve could be so blasé about all the things I obsessed about. Things never occurred to him. He didn’t seem to consider whether or not Abe could really breathe when his hand was flung over his face that way or if he was cold in his onesie as his mother so often insisted or if he was crying because I ate too much dairy, or because he needed to eat more or because he was actually a defective model.
Also, he didn’t want to deliberate the decisions we made about Abe, he preferred to make a decision and stick to it. And, yes, that is how I used to be. And that is also how I thought I was going to be as a mother, but now that Abe was here, the stakes were so high, I didn’t know if I could commit to anything without heavily weighing all the options. And I wanted to volley these choices back and forth with him, but that bored him or frustrated him or something. Maybe it only frustrated me.
How was it possible that Steve didn’t get it? Yes, he would come home from work and try to help out, but he also was starting to think it was cool to disappear for a time and do God knows what.
I thought when we married that we were on the same page about everything. Everything fell into place after we met online. It was as if we were following a script. And then, especially through all the fertility treatments, the one focus we both had was to have a baby. I knew that he was happy that we had Abe, but it amazed me that he was removed from him. For better or worse, Abe was the center of my world and I wasn’t sure that Steve felt the same way.
Or maybe he did. Honestly, lately I didn’t know what to think or feel. Every day a new thought popped into my head that made me question my sanity.
But none of that mattered because I am here now, getting my calves scrubbed by a woman who barely speaks English. It was too bad she doesn’t because I want to tell her what an amazing job she was doing rubbing life back into me. I will have to show my appreciation through a tip.
My cell phone rings. It’s my best friend, Liz, from Boston. I’ve been dodging her calls for about a month. I remember the way I tried to come off as confident right after Abe was born. She came down for the weekend. It was a good visit, even though she acted a little offended that I didn’t want to go to dinner with her and abandon Abe. He was still sleeping in chunks and though I was physically exhausted, the worst of it hadn’t hit yet. Since then, I’ve been afraid to talk to anyone except, strangely, Kirsten. I don’t think I can be responsible for the things I say.
But I am relaxing now. This is as good a time as any to talk to an old friend. She’s called a bunch of times, and if I don’t want her to stop calling and write me off completely, I need to put forth some effort. I answer the phone.
“Hey, Liz,” I say as brightly as possible.
“Oh, Ruthie, how are you? I was worried you had been sucked into some militant Brooklyn mom’s circle never to be seen or heard from again.”
“No, just been a little busy.”
“Oh, God, I can imagine,” she says, though I doubt it. There was no way to imagine. It was something you had to be in and experience to understand and even then you didn’t understand. “How is Abe? You have to send some more pictures. Everyone at the work is dying to see him.”
Liz and I came up as production assistants together on Good Morning Boston. It was our first job out of school. We worked together for seven years, and she even moved into my apartment building when I saw that there was a studio for rent. We were super tight. She was one of my bridesmaids, but talking to her now I felt as though there was no way to ever download everything I had been through to her. She was talking to me like everything was normal. I wondered for a minute if I would ever see her again.
“By the end of the day, when I want to hop on the computer and upload photos I am exhausted,” I offer as an excuse.
“Yeah, I noticed you haven’t been responding to any of my emails. I was hoping that maybe I can see him in person soon,” she says. I immediately start to panic. Is she coming to New York? I haven’t worn anything with a zipper months. I don’t think I could bear to be seen this way.
“Really, when?” I ask keep
ing my voice calm or trying.
“Well, I have been trying to call you and I’ve emailed, but you haven’t gotten back to me. I thought I would try one last time to invite you to my thirtieth birthday blowout this weekend.”
“Oh, wow, this weekend. I totally forgot it was your birthday.” I wish I hadn’t said that. This is awful. I planned her twenty-fifth surprise party. I took her out for her birthday every year. Her birthday is like Steve’s; it’s one of the days I know off hand. But I have a good excuse, I think. I decide to be honest. “I don’t even know what day today is.”
She giggles, thinking I’m kidding.
“Well, you guys are welcome to crash with us. I would love for you to be there.” I imagine all of the stuff I would have to bring to Mike and Liz’s one-bedroom apartment in Southie.
“I wish I had seen the email, Liz, but this weekend is such short notice for us and Abe isn’t really on a great schedule yet. I think he might ruin the party.”
“Well, I thought you guys might want a weekend away, you know. Maybe, your mom could watch Abe and you guys could come up here and get a break.”
The idea is delightful and disturbing at once. I can’t believe Liz is really serious about leaving such a young kid alone and part of me really wishes there was a way that I could ditch it all for a weekend, Steve included. I wouldn’t even need to go to the party. It would be nice to just lay in someone else’s bed and sleep.
But, there is no way. And Liz even thinking there might be a way makes me feel as though we are on such completely different paths that our friendship is doomed. I should never have answered the phone.
“I would love to be there, Liz, but I’m not sure it’s going to work.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I mean, I’m only turning thirty once and I would love to have you there. “
“I’ll talk to Steve,” I say. I am not going to. And then it occurs to me that he—like Liz and her boyfriend, Mike—in his warped view of our responsibilities, might think that we could make it work. Asking him would be a test. I am not sure I want to know the result.