A New Lu (16 page)

By six-thirty we've eaten plates of scrambled eggs and potatoes, fresh tomato slices and glasses of orange juice. Curran has burned up more film than any human being should.

“That's it for tonight, Curran,” I say when the dishes are in the washer. “In the morning I'll make an appointment with Tai. We'll see if she even bothers to say no.”

“Meanwhile, I'm here for you, Lu. Anything you need.” Curran looks around. “Aren't you worried, living alone at a time like this?”

“Of course not. This has been my home for years.”

“Still, wouldn't it be cool if I could get the full story on film, morning to night? I could move in with you, if you want. Paying rent, of course.”

What's with everybody wanting to share my roof? Have rental properties jumped in price again?

I hand him his camera bag. “Good night, Curran.”

As tired as I am, and unsure of my next step, I'm elated by possibility. This isn't like me, to think about stepping out from behind the screen of my column. I don't mind calling a fool a fool in print. But put myself out there? Well, I'm beginning to understand the whole image-conscious phenomenon. I've seen that secretly taped footage of fashion victims before their closets and tastes have been turned around. If Curran's camera is going to be a daily companion in my life, I need a facial and a hair appointment.

“And more clothes!”

The strange flutter low down catches me completely by surprise. At first I think it must be gas. I did try to eat bland. Acid in the OJ?

There it is again!

It's impossible to adequately describe the emotion when you feel your child move inside you for the first time. It's like being touched by an angel, from the inside.

22

The power of achievement can't be overstated. I've walked three miles today in under an hour. I feel so righteous I could crow. It doesn't matter that sweat that began in my armpits now pools about my waist. It doesn't matter that my T-shirt is plastered to my back and my leggings are wet in questionable places. It doesn't even matter that Andrea jogged circles around me the entire time, while she related details of her latest conquest. He owns a real-estate brokerage with offices in Bergen and Essex Counties. Dr. Yummy has been on rotation so she thought she should do the same.

Funny how you don't realize the world is made of pairs until your own equation changes. I don't mean romantic duets, but the basic-necessity kind.

Now that I'm sharing space, I see couples everywhere. There's Andrea and her self-involvement, chattering on and on while circling me like a happy blue jay. Curran and his flash camera. He flits in and out of my path like a deranged lightning bug. He's so dedicated about
capturing my new life on film I'm beginning to worry that I'll meet him in my hallway during a middle-of-the-night hike to pee.

Oh, there in the park is a gentleman and his schnauzer, watching the do-si-do between a pigeon and a crust of bread. Farther on, two children walk to school. They must be brother and sister. Friends wouldn't punch each other quite so hard. The world's all coupled up. Bee and buttercup. Cab and driver. Even that street person pushing the grocery cart is not alone, even if she is talking to one only she can see.

I'm so pleased with my world that I'm even ready for my talk with Tai. One week to the day since Curran came to see me. Sweet Tum and I are going to see her at 11:00 a.m.

After that first flutter I could no longer think of my child in general baby terms. Sweet Tum came to me, and stuck.

I must admit it is a bit daunting to walk into
Five-O
after my
High Noon
exit. I can always gauge my anxiety level by how many times I change my mind about what to wear. Don't let anyone fool you, even a cerebral, tough cookie like Madeline Albright cares more on some days than others about what goes on her bod.

Babs is all smiles and sweet concern as she tells me to go right ahead, Tai is expecting me. Then she giggles. “You had us fooled, Lu. You seemed so steady.”

I shrug. “Broke a leg leaping off my pedestal.”

“Good for you!” Babs means it. How little we
know
the people we know.

Crescentmoon waylays me in the hall with a basket tied in green organza ribbons.

“It's all organic aromatherapy,” she says as she presses the enormous gift into my hands. “Honey balms and herbal creams, nothing to irritate the expectant she person.”

She person? That's a little too politically correct for me. But I relish the idea of quality body care.

Now I'm standing before Tai's door. Nothing to do but face the music.

Tai is standing behind her desk. I suspect she believes chairs are for the weak of mind and body. My sleeveless linen sheath is not technically maternity wear. But, if you know where to look, it isn't difficult to figure something is going on beneath its straight-line drop from shoulder to knee. She's eyeing me so closely I feel like Horton must have while sitting on the Who's egg.

Tai wears a casual Diane Von Furstenberg sweat-wear creation, a skimpy tennis dress that I swear is an abbreviated version of a little black cocktail number hanging in every woman's closet. I'm no longer disdainful. If I had legs like that, I'd show them off, too. They won't stay that flawless forever.

She offers me, the slack of mind and waistline, a chair. “So, then. Let's get to it.”

She comes from behind her desk and picks up a trophy, the one from a London-based marathon that anchors her otherwise uncluttered desk. As she hefts the weight in her palm, is she thinking what I'm thinking, that it would make a wicked weapon?

“I don't give employees a second chance. If someone can't perform under pressure, I find someone who can. Why chance disappointment a second time?”

This is where I'm supposed to jump up and plead for that rarest of second chances. I decide to echo her instead. “I understand that would be a huge gamble for
Five-O.”

Her gaze meets mine. “You have no idea.”

“Of course.” I look down first, because I know that backing down is what I'm supposed to do. And if I match her stare I might just decide that this isn't something I want any part of.
Baby needs new shoes,
or will one day soon.

“I imagine you're in a tough spot, without a husband for financial support at this rather awkward stage in your life.”

“There are worse things. But, yes, I need my job.” Damn! I'm starting to sweat.

She puts down the trophy, the heavy thump providing the imagery of a fist on the tabletop. “I expect full cooperation from my staff with whatever vision I project.” She hasn't blinked yet. “No questions asked.”

So she wants her own back. I can catch it as fast as she slings it. “What sort of new campaign do you have in mind?”

“I am weighing the merits of your unorthodox gestation as a possible focal point.” She glances at me and—I swear—she shudders. “At best it's a gamble of immense proportions. But it's also a deliciously unpredictable tack for this magazine.” She leans toward me. “Of course, I would need a doctor's affidavit stating that you are truly pregnant and capable of carrying the fetus to term.”

“Certainly.” I pat my middle for emphasis.

She recoils as if what I have might be contagious. As the chime of a new e-mail sounds, she turns to look at her monitor. She pushes a couple of buttons to check things before turning back to me.

“I like to play my hunches. So I took an impromptu poll yesterday on Fifth Avenue. Stopped women to ask if they were mothers. If so, what would be their greatest fear after age forty-five? Amazingly, it's not breast cancer or even wrinkles. It's that they might get pregnant again.”

Tai leans forward, staring straight into my eyes. “It might be fun to give the
Five-O
reader a ride through her own personal nightmare!”

And using me to do it will be half the fun. Maybe I should give this another think.

Tai begins to pace. “I'd not be looking for namby-pamby, isn't-motherhood-all-warm-and-fuzzy. This
would be tell-all time. I'd want copy that is daring, soul-baring, excoriating!”

“I understand.” I search inside my purse for a tissue with which to mop my face. She's still using the tantalizingly conditional “would,” yet we both know she's offering me a deal. “There's one condition we need to be clear about.”

Tai freezes like a greyhound on the scent.

I pat my face before continuing. “There will be no speculation, no investigation, no assumptions about the father of my child. For the purposes of
Five-O,
this is an immaculate conception.”

There's a pause before a very cunning smile stretches her mouth. “Aren't you the sly one? Yes, that will work for us.”

Ah, we have crossed the language barrier.

“There will be conditions.”

Here we go. “Of course.”

“For instance, you'd have to work with Marc.”

When my head whips toward her, she smiles. “He's agreed to be the visionary on the project. I know nothing about children or pregnancy.”

He does?

I'm so glad I clenched my jaw when she began to speak or that question might have slipped out. “What does Marc have in mind?”

She puts up a hand. “First things first.”

It takes only fifteen minutes for her to lay out her terms, which she basically sees as me handing my gestational life over to
Five-O,
24/7, as she puts it. Curran will be my watchdog, recording any and everything he deems possible fodder for the mag. She's good at turning friends into adversaries. The CIA is missing a great operative. Marc will be the concept point person; Tai can't be bothered with that. But she has final say on every decision.

I balk only once, regarding marketing strategy. I want to be consulted.

“Absolutely not. We're taking enormous risks with you.” Tai stares at me with a predator's interest. “We may have to be creative.”

In other words, she won't hesitate to humiliate me any way she can.

Okay then, I need a very good reason to do this. “Since I'll be working, as you put it, twenty-four/seven for
Five-O,
I deserve a salary increase.”

“No salary increase,” she answers shortly, not looking my way as her e-mail chimes again.

She must hear me thinking,
Who needs this?
for after a moment of silence, she looks up. “I will consider bonuses tied to performance. Half a percent of your salary for every ten thousand additional issues sold over our basis figures with your new column in it.”

I do the numbers in my head. This could mean an extra two to three hundred a month, with just modest increases. “Agreed.”

She smiles again. “Fine. We're just in time for the board meeting.” She's giving the smile a bad rap.

In full view of the other members of the editorial staff, Tai makes her announcement about my return in the emotionless staccato voice that she uses to reel off the monthly numbers. I'm back to do a “dissection,” she calls it, of middle-age pregnancy. She announces that while I'm still on staff, read that as insured, I can be cut loose the moment things get dodgy. Tai's version of a short leash. Seems fair enough. Even I know she is taking a big chance.

Babs, Rhonda, Gwendolyn, KaZi, Crescentmoon and Curran act as silent witnesses to my capitulation. Thankfully, Marc is “unavoidably detained,” whatever that means.

To signal we're finished, Tai offers me her hand. Curran takes a couple of shots for the magazine's personal album and then they all scatter.

I can't judge the others'genuine responses. With Tai, almost
everyone nods and smiles and leaves as quickly as possible.

Not sure what to do next, I remain a moment, pretending to pack up my Blackberry and check my cell phone for messages. Tai, too, remains until there are only the two of us.

As she's about to leave she stops near me and points to my midsection. “I don't suppose you'll confide in me, off the record, how you did it?”

“Oh, I don't mind. After all, we're adult women.” I lean toward her, brows arched and voice pitched in candid mode. “It all began with the birds and the bees. You are familiar with that story, right?”

She smiles and this time it almost seems genuine. “Aren't you terrified?”

“On alternate days.”

“The rest of the time?”

“I'm petrified.”

She laughs then. A real laugh. “I want all the juicy details. Every awful twitch. You're prepared to do that?”

“That which doesn't kill me will make me stronger?”

“Exactly. I don't want you dead, but I expect you to bleed like hell in print.”

This is the moment when I realize that her hostility is not just personal dislike of me. Her arrogance is the general disdain of all narcissists toward others.

I leave with my pride and my nerve pretty much unruffled. As for the future, it's going to be a day-by-day thing.

Now for the scarier of the two tasks of the day, I'm having dinner with Dallas and Stephen. Her idea. I hope we achieve détente, if not an outright favored-nations agreement.

23

I see Dallas elbow Stephen as she catches sight of me crossing the dining room. I'm late. Pretty late.

The elastic in my most generous pair of panties gave out on the way home from
Five-O.
The dreaded panty hose I put on in place ruptured in strategic places as I tried to wrestle a shoe box from a high shelf. Then an old can of mothballs overturned as the box came free and left greasy streaks on my front. After I'd traded my dress for maternity slacks and top with beaded edging, I couldn't find my car keys. After twenty minutes, and more than my weekly allotment of curse words, I gave up and called a cab.

I'm limping only slightly. The rubber heel tip from one of my sandals is stuck in the revolving door of the building that houses the restaurant because some overanxious boyfriend shoved the door into my shoe while trying to hurry through. The scrape will heal. The shoe will mend. But my relationship with my daughter is in doubt.

“Sorry I'm late. Traffic,” I say, the most polite kind of lie for a situation I don't want to rehash.

“So, you weren't planning to stand us up?”

I look around just to make certain Dallas isn't addressing someone who's come up behind me. “As I said. Traffic.”

She looks annoyed but says no more.

“Hello, Lu.” Stephen, who popped out of his chair as I approached, looks pleased to see me but nervous about it, as though he's been warned ahead of time about whose side he's on. He air-hugs me in one of those wide-armed loops that don't really touch a person. The kiss he lays high up on my cheek contains more nose pressure than lip action.

Don't get me wrong. I like Stephen. He's tall, smart and terribly earnest. He's a younger version of the sort my mother was pointing out at church socials and science fairs when I was fifteen to counter the suspicion that I, like my generation, was absorbed with dangerous types riding motorcycles or slinging electric guitars at amplifiers. In other words, Stephen is a nerd. A nice, attractive, smart, all-around-good-guy nerd. He's an actuary.

Once again, I Googled my way to knowledge. An actuary is one who is good at “Evaluating the likelihood of future events, designing creative ways to reduce the likelihood of undesirable events, and decreasing the impact of undesirable events that do occur.”

Stephen's life is built around creating safety nets. No accidental, messy futures for him. My mother is very happy to welcome him into the family.

I set my purse and scarf on the chair beside me. One thing about a threesome, there's always that empty chair. “How's life, Stephen?”

“Can't complain. Well, I won't.”

We all nod and smile. After two years' acquaintance I understand that this passes for humor in Stephen's world.

“Chardonnay?” he suggests as the waiter lifts the bottle from its icy bucket in anticipation.

“Absolutely not!” Dallas answers for me. “Not in her condition.”

I smile at the waiter. “I got loaded before I came, just in case.”

He gives me one of those vague eyebrow lifts, which could mean anything from “with this crowd, I don't blame you” to “what do you expect from me, I only work here?”

“Club soda with lime, please.”

“How are you, Mother?” As she says this, Dallas looks pointedly at my midriff.

“Happy as a clam at sea.”

“Why don't you tell Stephen all about it.”

I get it now. This is my punishment. I'll have to explain what needs explaining to her young man. Where is that club soda? I'm going to need extra lime!

“Let's see. You know Dallas's father and I are divorced, Stephen. We made a last attempt at reconciliation back in February, before the decree was finalized. It didn't take. The reconciliation, that is.”

“You clearly weren't thinking of that possibility at the time.”

“Don't put words in my mouth, Dallas.” I don't do contrite well, especially when my tendon still stings from the run-in with the revolving door. “I did not expect your father to change his mind. In fact, I was certain before we returned home that not to go ahead with the divorce would be a mistake.”

I can see by her expression that Dallas isn't going to let me off that easily. “I don't see how you can now defend that point of view, in light of subsequent events.”

“Was I defending myself?” I practically snatch up the drink the waiter places before me and gulp.

“Why don't we order?” Stephen suggests this, having no doubt evaluated the future of this conversation, and the likelihood that it will bring about an undesirable mother-daughter event.

Once orders are placed and everyone has had a time out, Stephen turns to me and says, “I've always meant to ask you, why did you choose the name Dallas? Were you a fan of the eighties show?”

“Yes, Mother, why did you name me after a stupid TV show?”

“You know very well I didn't. I never liked Larry Hagman. He always seemed so smug, in a creepy sort of way. I named you after one of my favorite movies,
Stella Dallas.
But I couldn't very well call you Stella. There would have been Stanley Kowalski catcalls following you all your life. Dallas seemed more subtle.”

“Well, it didn't help that much. People still ask me who killed JR.”

She doesn't join in the chuckle Stephen and I share. Sometimes I think my daughter was born without a funny bone.

Salads arrive and we gratefully dig in. Stephen and Dallas talk about their jobs and their at-home situations. I'm struck again by the fact that they live in separate states and don't really see each other that often.

We are well into our berries with crème fraîche and espressos—decaf for me—before Dallas again broaches the subject of what-to-do-about-Mom. “Your doctor is certain this is safe for you?”

“My doctor is planning to write a paper about me, I'm so okay. I just need to take it easy, exercise, eat right, get enough rest, the usual.”

Dallas stirs her cup slowly. “So, then, you won't be working for a while.”

“Not exactly.” I smile.
“Five-O
took me back.”

“What do you mean?” She leans closer so the next table won't overhear. “The last time we talked you said you'd quit.”

“I thought I'd quit. It turns out I was just taking a few personal days.”

“What about the ultimatum? And your boss's demands?”

“I gave her an alternative column idea.”

Unlike Davin, who needs a few beats to catch up, Dallas is bang on the spot. “Mom, you didn't!”

“Didn't what?” Stephen's head lifts from a contemplation of his berries, looking like a buck sensing fresh danger.

“Mom's going to write about her…condition.”

“A column?” Stephen's tone implies he's struck by the novelty of the idea. “That should certainly increase circulation.”

“It won't have quite that sideshow freak quality,” I say in a soothing tone. “It will be about alternative life choices. I doubt it will be on the radar of anyone under fifty.”

“Well I think it's fine that you're having a child. Unconventional, unquestionably, but hardly shocking.” He turns to Dallas. “You have to admit, Dallas, that it will be a good thing for your mother to have companionship in her old—er, declining—uh, her life.”

“Most lonely people just get a pet!” Dallas mumbles.

“This dinner was your idea.” I say it softly, but with a direct look at my daughter.

Dallas sighs like a much-put-upon parent. “I don't know what I expected. I should have known—”

My purse rings. Actually, these days it plays “Brahms Lullaby.” As I reach for it, I say, “Excuse me.”

“Lu?”

“William?” I am amazed I recognize a voice I've never heard on the phone before.

“You said you'd call.”

“I did, didn't I?” Dallas is frowning at me. Is it because it's bad manners to talk on a cell phone in a restaurant, or the fact I spoke William's name aloud?

“Can you talk?” He sounds great on the phone, as if maybe he should have a job that requires him to speak
on the phone. But Dallas is watching, and he wants to talk more.

“Okay.” Does that sound neutral enough to throw off my daughter?

“I wasn't completely honest with you that night we were together.”

Oh, goody. Every ugly thing I can think of runs like a news strip through my mind. He's married again. He has herpes. He's gay—uh, bi. “Really?”

“About Jolie, that is. Look, I'd prefer not to discuss it now. But her doctor found something in her amniocentesis. That's why she was here. That, and Jon. He's coming out here this weekend to discuss options with her, and I'd just as soon be somewhere else. I'm thinking of coming into the city.”

“Come here.” Before I can think better of it, I add, “You know the address? Good. Call me and I'll meet the train in Montclair. No trouble. Bye.”

“You're having a guest?” Dallas's tone could make having one's teeth cleaned sound suspect.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I know I'm smiling, and I shouldn't be so transparent, but I can't do a damn thing about the happiness percolating through me in a way decaf can't.

“You're seeing someone, aren't you? A man.”

“Would you be happier if I was seeing a
woman?”
Oh, dear. Now I've shocked Stephen. He's just shot what he says is a fine aged port out his nostrils.

As the cab pulls up to the curb I noticed two men sitting on my porch steps. They pop up when I exit.

“Where have you been!” Cy is practically shouting as I reach them. Curran is nodding in agreement.

“I've been out to dinner with my daughter and her fiancé.” And when did they unite?

“Why didn't you tell me?” Cy demands.

“Most def!” Curran looks equally annoyed.

I survey this pair with what little self-control I have left as I fish for my key in my purse. “Friends I can use. Parents I've already got.”

Curran gets it, but Cy just looks hurt. Must be the reference-to-age thing.

I put one arm about his shoulders and sling the other around Curran's waist. “Look, guys. I think it's time we get this straight. It's my little parade. You can't lead. You can follow—at a discreet distance. Otherwise, get the hell outta my way. Okay?”

William is coming to see me!

I lie in bed, wide-eyed and exhausted. Happy, and really scared.

Some moments are just so delicious that you—well, you can get by for a long, long time on just the memory without ever being tempted to want more. William was to have been one of those memories.

Now I suppose I'll have to readjust!