Babyland (14 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
29
Green-Eyed Monster
H
ow could I say no to what might be the last opportunity to wear my navy blue Ralph Lauren pants suit? Worn with a few strong gold accessories it would be just right for the party Ross and I were invited to at the home of a power couple he had met while vacationing with his brother in St. Barts. Ellen and Martin Mountjoy lived in a four million-dollar penthouse in the Four Seasons.
ow could I say no to what might be the last opportunity to wear my navy blue Ralph Lauren pants suit? Worn with a few strong gold accessories it would be just right for the party Ross and I were invited to at the home of a power couple he had met while vacationing with his brother in St. Barts. Ellen and Martin Mountjoy lived in a four million-dollar penthouse in the Four Seasons.
Everyone, Ross told me as we rode the elevator to the Mountjoys, was going to be there. Just about everyone was. Including my interesting colleague Jack Coltrane. I spotted him as soon as Ross and I came through the front door. He wasn't alone.
“Ross,” I said, “why don't you go on in. I think I saw the Casablancas over by the buffet. I'm going to visit the ladies' room.”
Ross looked down at me, puzzled. “But you went just before we left the apartment.”
I smiled stiffly. “Yes, I did. Butâ”
“Of course.” Ross nodded. “Right. I'll beâ”
“I'll find you.”
Ross melted into the crowd, and I walked right over to Jack.
“What are you doing here?” I asked by way of greeting.
A slow grin came to Jack's face. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I just saw you three hours ago,” I snapped. “I didn't think there was a need for niceties.”
Let me explain why I was acting like a social cretin and Jack like a polite, civilized fellow. Next to Jack stood a woman no older than thirty. She was tall and statuesque with long brown hair I can only describeâbegrudginglyâas flowing. At first glance it seemed as though she was swathed in an unwound bolt of gauzy fabric. At second glance I saw she wore a chiffon gown similar to something the female characters in
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy wear. Around her head was a thin circlet of what looked like gold but what was, I was sure, gold-plated silver.
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy wear. Around her head was a thin circlet of what looked like gold but what was, I was sure, gold-plated silver.
My mood was not generous.
I had no desire to be introduced to this creature, but perversity won out over mature restraint. “Aren't you going to introduce us?” I asked, sweetly.
Jack eyed me with some amusement. It annoyed me. “Anna, this is Rowena. Rowena is an artist. She shows at JAW Gallery. Rowena, Anna.”
I stuck out my hand. “And I'm an event planner.”
Rowena stared at my outstretched hand for a full fifteen secondsâit felt like an hourâbefore giving it a limp little shake. I noticed she wore a chunky ring on every finger.
“Oh,” she said, with barely a flicker of interest. Then she turned to Jack. “Darling, there's someone at the bar to whom I just must give greetings. I shan't be but a moment.”
Shan't?
Rowena glided off toward the open bar, her dress flowing in her wake.
“Does she have a last name?” I asked. I didn't really want to know that bit of information either, but the woman's affectations must have rattled my brain.
Jack took a slow sip of his drink before answering. “Not that I know of.”
Not, then, a serious relationship. And not a friend. Friends know each other's last names.
“You,” I said, “are on a date with a woman and you don't know her last name?”
“That's right. As a matter of fact, I don't even know if she has a last name. You know how artists can be. And by the way, what makes you think I'm on a date? Rowena could be my cousin for all you know. My out-of-town-visiting-for-the-weekend cousin. From Milwaukee. Or Timbuktu.”
“I know how artists can be,” I shot back. “I'm dealing with one right now. And I thinkâno, I knowâyou're on a date because of the way Rowenaâ” I hesitated, suddenly embarrassed.
“Yes?”
“The way she touched your arm,” I blurted. Please, I prayed, don't let me be blushing.
“Excellent observation.” Jack's tone was laconic. “But why do you care?”
“I don't.”
“Oh.”
“You don't believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. Anna Traulsen never lies. Not even to herself.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I snapped, although suddenly I knew exactly what he meant.
“Hmm. Maybe I should join my date at the bar. My drink could use some freshening.”
I just couldn't let it go. I just couldn't let him go.
“She looks like an actress in a cheesy summer Renaissance fair,” I blurted. “Is she really an artist? What does she create? Mock-medieval pottery shards?” The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Were the hormones, I wondered wildly, making me regress to childhood? Not that I'd ever spoken nastily about anyone when I was a child. I was far too shy and repressed for that.
“That's not very nice,” Jack said, although clearly he was half-amused.
“Well, you say mean things about Ross all the time.”
“That's different.”
“How?”
Jack's bantering tone changed instantaneously; suddenly, he sounded impatient, almost angry. “Do I really need to explain it to you? I hardly know Rowena. She's just my fairly amusing date for this fairly amusing party. But you're marrying Ross. You're having his baby.”
Rowena chose that mortifying moment to return, a glass of champagne in each hand. She smiled at Jack seductively. I scurried away.
I found Ross staring up at a three-dimensional piece made of paint and found objects on canvas, mounted on the wall. His face was a mask of incomprehension. Or maybe fear.
I took a deep, steadying breath and tapped his shoulder.
Ross turned and smiled. “There you are,” he said. “I thought I'd lost you.”
“You didn't lose me.” I slipped my hand into his.
“Where were you?”
“Talking to Jack. And his date.”
“Jack Coltrane?”
“Yes.” I heard an unanticipated note of defensiveness in my voice. Did Ross hear it, too? “Why?” I asked.
Ross's small frown indicated distaste. “I don't know how you tolerate working with that guy. He's just another pitiful wannabe. A whining artist. Who does he think he is?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I let go of Ross's hand. Ross was being unfair. He was making himself feel superior by cutting down someone different from him. Someone not as fastidiously dressed or as neatly coiffed. Someone he couldn't understand.
Someone he considered a rival? The thought flickered across my mind and was gone.
I kept my mouth shut. I was mad at Jack. I certainly wasn't going to defend him to my fiancé, the man who was the father of my child.
Father. Mother. Parents. Adults.
What a pair Ross and I are, I thought, suddenly ashamed of our immature behavior. Were we really such emotional idiots?
A sudden screech followed by a prolonged wail caused Ross and Iâand every other guestâto turn. In the dead center of the room, a little boy was wrangling with a well-dressed woman in her early forties. The little boy was throwing what my mother used to call a temper tantrum but what is now generally referred to as a meltdown.
“I can't believe the Geils brought their two-year-old to this event,” I whispered to Ross self-righteously. “What were they thinking?”
Ross shrugged. “Maybe they couldn't get a sitter.”
Then, I thought, one of the Geils should have stayed home. I watched in horror as Johnston Geils, the now recovered heir to the Geils impressive car dealership fortune, dashed across the living room and hurdled into the legs of a waiter bearing a tray of drinks. Miraculously the waiter kept his balance and his tray. Johnston continued on his way, deftly avoiding the outstretched hands of well-meaning guests, and tore off into the hallway.
“That child is a disaster waiting to happen,” I said, sotto voce.
Why, I thought, isn't he better behaved? Why aren't his parents better disciplinarians? And, I thought, it's an insult to the hostess to unleash a hellcat in her well-ordered home.
Where had Mrs. Geils disappeared to, anyway?
Ross shrugged. “I think it's fine. We're going to bring little Chestnut or Badger everywhere. Parties, vacations, concerts.”
My stomach sank. We were? And it occurred to me then that Ross and I had never discussed parenting styles. Why would we have? We had decided we weren't going to be parents. As a consequence I knew absolutely nothing about my fiancé's views on, for example, corporal punishment or breast-feeding or homeschooling. And he knew absolutely nothing about mine. Ross and I were virtual strangers when it came to the basics. And when it came to choice of names. Chestnut? Badger?
“So,” I said, oh-so-casually, “you'll watch the baby while you're talking business with a major broker?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Ross,” I asked, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice. “Have you ever even held a baby?”
“No, but what's to learn?”
I didn't know. Maybe there really wasn't much to learn. I tried to remember the times I had held a baby. The number wasn't impressive. We were both so inexperienced.
Ross's voice called me back to the moment. “Anna,” he said, “I have to talk to this guy. He's a friend of my dad's.”
Ross strode off. I watched as he shook hands with a man about fifty dressed in a lightweight, pale gray, suede blazer; within a minute they were deep in conversation.
Ross was going to bring a baby to events like these? Ross was going to talk business with a squirming, drooling, ten-pound baby strapped to the front of his Armani suit?
Not likely. I knew as absolutely as I knew I was wearing Ralph Lauren that Ross would routinely be handing off the inconvenient baby to me at parties, restaurants, and concerts.
Because Ross wanted me to close down Anna's Occasions. He wanted me to be entirely employed in a new venture. He wanted me to be a full-time professional mother.
“Aaahh! My Judy Sowa! It's worth a fortune!”
I whirled around to see Johnston Geils smirking up at our hostess, clutching in his grimy hands a fistful of colored markers. Behind him, on the wall, hung a beautiful painting almost seven feet tall. A beautiful painting now marred by thick marker squiggles.
Your Judy Sowa was worth a fortune, I commented silently. The party was over. It was time to go home. And when I got there, I was going to dump those damn roses.
30
Woman to Woman
K
risten wanted to know if I was up to meeting for lunch.“Sure,” I told her. “I'm usually done throwing up by ten o'clock.”
risten wanted to know if I was up to meeting for lunch.“Sure,” I told her. “I'm usually done throwing up by ten o'clock.”
We met at The Cheesecake Factory. Kristen loves their pizzas. For the first half hour she shot me questions about the state of my belly. Finally, I exploded. It was Kristen's obsession with my insides and the fact that all my troublesome insides could handle at the moment were dry bread sticks.
“You know,” I snapped, “I'm not just a womb.”
“I know, honey, I know,” Kristen said soothingly.
“I'm still Anna,” I said. “I'll always be Anna.”
Kristen couldn't hide the look on her face that said, Poor, naive thing.
“I will,” I repeated stubbornly.
“Anna, having a baby changes you forever. You're never just who you are. You're never just you. You're always someone's mother. I can't really explain it but ...”
“But everything you do changes you forever,” I argued. “Going to a particular college, moving to a particular city, marryingâor not marryingâa particular guy. Even seeing a particular movie or reading a particular book can change you forever. I swear I've never been the same since I read
Wuthering Heights
.”
Wuthering Heights
.”
“That's all true,” Kristen admitted. “But I don't know. Becoming a mother changes your identity so radically. At least it did for me. Maybe not every woman has that same experience.”
Something deep inside told me they probably did. I looked at my friend and suddenly saw her as she was when I first knew her, still in her teens, her cheeks plump with health, her hair in a long fat ponytail, a pair of nerdy glasses hiding her wide eyes.
“Are you sad you aren't you anymore?” I said.
“I'm not sad,” Kristen said readily. “Exactly. Sometimes I feel a bit wistful about the young girl I once was. The truth is I can hardly remember her. But Anna, believe me when I say I don't want to be who I was before I became a mother.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“There's just no point in dwelling on the past.” Kristen paused before going on. “Still, sometimes I feel kind of burdened. Kind of encumbered. Maybe I'm just tired. I'd love a nice long nap! But I don't think I'm going to get one until B.J. leaves for college. Only sixteen more years to go.”
Suddenly, I felt terrified. “Oh, Kristen, how do you do it? Please, tell me how to be a parent!”
“Anna,” she said, “I have no idea how to be a parent. No one does. When you're a parent, there's no time for ideas or theories. You just act. You just do what comes naturally and hope it works.”
“Sleeping comes naturally,” I said, desperate. “How can I handle not sleeping?”
“You just will.”
“I'm not so sure.”
“I am. Look, Anna, I know I complain about being tired and overworked, but honestly? I'm really happy. Being a mother is great. It's the best. You're going to love it, and you're going to be wonderful. Really.”
What was the point of arguing? “Okay,” I said, resigned to my friend's unfailing optimism. If Kristen didn't want to entertain the notion of my failure, why should I?
And then the conversation took the inevitable turn.
“Oh, by the way,” Kristen said, leaning in as if about to impart a juicy secret, “I know I shouldn't butt in, but I heard the cutest name the other day and I thought you might want to consider it.”
Et tu,
Kristen?
Kristen?
“Oh?” I said brightly.
“It's Alchemy. You know, as in the ancient science of trying to produce gold. Or something like that. Isn't that adorable!”
Adorable? What, I wondered, was up with this rage for idiotic baby names? It had affected even my sensible, suburban, attorney friend.
“Uh, is it a boy's name or a girl's name?” I asked.
Kristen shrugged. “Either. That's one of the great things about it, it's so versatile.”
I fought to turn an involuntary grimace into a smile. “Thanks, really. I'll, um, mention it to Ross but he's kind of conservative when it comes to names ...”
Was there no end to my lies?
We parted soon after that. Kristen headed back to her husband and children, the people who largely defined her. I went back to my office, to the business I'd so carefully created and built. And on the way I wondered:
Was there any way to be in a loving, committed relationship and still remain in your own possession? Or did intimacyâtrue loveârender that impossible?
I asked myself this question: Do I feel as if I'm in Ross's possession? The answer was: No.
I asked myself another question: Do I want to be in Ross's possession? Again the answer was: No.
And I had no idea if those answers mattered.
Other books
Con-Red: Recourse by Feinstein, Max
A Hard Bargain by Jane Tesh
Existing by Stevenson, Beckie
Beckman: Lord of Sins by Grace Burrowes
They Came On Viking Ships by Jackie French
Chump Change by Dan Fante
Longarm #431 by Tabor Evans
The View from the Bridge by Nicholas Meyer
Floats the Dark Shadow by Yves Fey
Love is for Ever by Barbara Rowan