Babyland (16 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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33
Epiphany
I
sat on a bench in the Public Garden, a book closed on my lap. It was a beautiful day but I saw nothing of the flowers and the newly green leaves.
The tumult of emotions I'd experienced the morning before while dressing had frightened me. The panic and rage, the hints of desperation and despair—who was I? Not Anna. At least, not the Anna I'd known for thirty-seven years.
What was happening to me? Who was I becoming?
A mother and her little girl were walking along the paved path. I watched as they detoured onto the grass and went down to the water. The mother took a clear plastic bag from her purse; it was filled with small chunks of bread. Together they began to toss the bread to the ducks. Both mother and daughter had bright blonde hair; I wondered how many other traits they shared.
And I wondered about my own child. Would she have my auburn hair and blue eyes? Would she be tall like me, or would she favor Ross's family and have to shop in the petite section? Would my child have perfect eyesight, like Ross, or would he have to wear glasses or contacts like my brother and me? Would my child be interested in art or politics or sports or business or all of those? Who would my child be all on her own?
And suddenly, I wanted very badly to know the answers to those questions. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to meet the little boy or girl growing inside me.
I watched the mother and her daughter and thought, I can have that. I am going to have that. Someday, before long, I'll be feeding scraps of bread to the ducks with my own child and cherishing every moment of it.
Wow.
I am going to have a baby. I whispered the words aloud. I am going to have a baby.
And it was wonderful. I was flooded with joy, and it was pure. It wasn't colored by stress over the wedding plans, or Mrs. Kent's sometimes unnerving behavior, or the contractor's latest blunder at the condo. The joy I felt had nothing at all to do with anyone but the baby and me. Not even with Ross.
So what if I swelled to gigantic proportions? So what if my honeymoon was postponed for months or years? What did it matter that I might have to put my business on the back burner for a while?
All that really matters, I realized, is what exists between my child and me. And what exists is love.
Suddenly I became aware, really aware, of the world around me—the slightly chilled April breeze, the squawking ducks, the giggling girl, the bright red of the early tulips. And I felt a deep sense of peace along with a great sense of excitement. Oddly, the feelings were thoroughly compatible. It was an epiphany, the moment at which I really accepted the fact that I was going to be a mother—a rare moment when I was still, quiet, and alone.
But not really alone, I thought. Never really alone again.
34
Hauntings
T
here was no reason to mention the night of the party when I'd been so nasty about Jack's date. Personally, I was hoping to forget my immature behavior; I hoped Jack already had. Because I'd realized in a calmer moment that I must have been experiencing a flash of jealousy due to a silly, passing crush probably brought on by hormones—the bane of my existence!
Did I really want Jack Coltrane as a boyfriend? Did I really want rude, grumpy, smug Jack Coltrane as my lover?
Absolutely, positively not. Besides, I was marrying Ross in September.
“There you are,” I said. “I've got the sketches for the Gott party space.”
Jack tromped into the studio. His hair was wild. I noticed he must have been in the sun since I'd seen him last; his face and neck were bronzed. Jack was not a man for sunblock. I worried about his contracting skin cancer—can we be any more paranoid about the sun?—but I also thought he looked very attractive with a tan—very Mediterranean; his dark brown eyes seemed even darker and more liquid.
“I got held up by traffic.”
“Your unspoken apology is accepted,” I said, shaking off the entirely inappropriate thoughts of Jack's sun-darkened body. “Besides, I've been keeping busy.” I held up the oversized glossy magazine I'd been reading.
“What's so fascinating?”
“I'm reading an article on the latest developments in digital photography. I'm not sure I understand it all but it's kept me occupied.”
Jack tossed his bag onto one of the worktables. “Since when do you read
Photo-Op
?”
“Since you were late, and it was either read this magazine or snoop through your files. And I know how you hate people who snoop.”
“Fair enough. So, anything else worthwhile? I haven't looked at that issue yet.”
“Well,” I said, flipping back a few pages, “there's an interesting piece about this photographer named Leslie Curtin. I can't say I like her work very much. What's shown here, at least. But she's certainly provocative. Do you know her?”
Jack turned away. It was a moment or two before he answered. “I knew her.”
I waited for more, but there was nothing.
“Are you going to tell me how you knew her? I mean, did you work together back in the olden days, when I was still a schoolgirl?”
Jack turned back to face me. The black look on his face told me that my lame teasing had not been a good idea.
“It was a long time ago,” he said shortly. “I've forgotten most of what went on.”
Ah, I thought. So something had “gone on.” But what? And I wondered, Had Jack really forgotten what had happened long ago or had he blocked it out?
“I'm not asking for details,” I said. “But if you don't want to talk about it ...”
“I don't.”
“Okay,” I said. I closed the magazine and tossed it aside, as if I didn't care. But I did. In spite of the promise I'd made to myself after that awful party to put all questions about Jack's personal life out of my head, I was curious. What had gone on between Jack Coltrane and Leslie Curtin in the dark and distant past? One thing seemed abundantly clear. It had to have been a romantic relationship. One that ended badly.
I snuck a look at Jack; he was frowningly absorbed in work. I realized that he'd never mentioned a serious relationship to me, but why would he? Most men don't easily open up about their personal life, especially about their past romantic relationships. And Jack, I reminded myself, was primarily a colleague, not a friend. A sometimes churlish colleague. What did I expect from him? A tearful confession of youthful heartbreak, offered as casually as a comment about the previous night's Leno show?
There was really no reason for me to be hanging around Jack's studio, so I stopped pretending to read e-mail on my Blackberry, stuck it back in my purse, and walked to the door.
“Anna?”
Jack was looking at the screen of his computer, his right hand on the drawing wand.
“Yes?” I asked, my hand already on the doorknob.
Without looking away from his work he said, “We were involved.”
“Oh,” I said, casually. “Okay.” And I left.
35
Curiosity Kills
B
efore going home that afternoon I detoured to the Barnes and Noble in the Prudential Mall. In the extensive magazine collection I found the current issue of
Photo-Op
. I pulled it from its slot, and with a quick glance to the left and to the right, I opened to the table of contents.
As I stood there pretending to be a casual reader I wondered crazily if my true motives were obvious. Reason quickly assured me that for all anyone knew I was interested in learning about zoom lenses. Only I knew that what interested me about the magazine was the picture of Leslie Curtin that accompanied the feature article. It wasn't a very good picture. I wondered why a photography magazine would print something so dark and muddy. About all I could tell was that she was very thin and had long hair. Her clothes didn't give a clue as to when the photo was taken. Maybe this is an old picture, I thought. Maybe now she's fat and bald. It was an unworthy thought, but there it was.
I replaced the issue of
Photo-Op
and reached for another magazine about the world of photography. And then another, and another.
I scanned for every mention of Leslie Curtin. The mere mention of her name had rattled Jack. So, who was this woman? What exactly had happened all those years ago? Jack said they'd been involved. I wondered, Had Jack and Leslie been married?
And why did I want to know? Simple female curiosity, I told myself briskly. Women like to know the stories of their friends' lives. Women like to understand. Understanding some of Jack's past might make me better able to deal with him in the present.
The magazines didn't tell me much. Leslie Curtin lived in Los Angeles; she summered in Martha's Vineyard. From that information I surmised she was doing quite well as a photographer. Or maybe she had another source of income; maybe she was independently wealthy. There was no way to know. She'd gone to the University of Chicago undergraduate and had gotten a Masters in Fine Arts from the Rhode Island School of Design. All pretty standard stuff. Not the sort of information I was hoping to find.
For a moment I considered flipping through every other photography-related periodical on the racks—at quick glance there were about fifteen. And then sanity took hold. Really, Anna, I told myself, don't get crazy about this. Besides, there's a much easier way to get the information. You can Google her from the privacy of your own home.
I stuck the third magazine back into its slot on the rack and left the store. As I passed through the mall's revolving doors and into the early evening sunshine, I realized that a Google search might yield only the sort of information I'd already gleaned from magazines. Even Leslie Curtin's own web site was unlikely to reveal a list of her former lovers.
I wondered if I knew anyone who could tell me something about Jack's past. And if I did know someone, I wondered if I would dare to ask. Because he or she would inevitably ask why I wanted to know about Jack Coltrane's former love affairs. And what would I reply? What could I possibly say when I was engaged to another man and pregnant with our child?
I stopped on the corner of West Newton and Huntington Avenue to wait for the green light. Traffic was heavy; it's always heavy in Boston. No wonder Jack had been late. And while I waited I wondered if my interest in Jack's romantic past was mere curiosity about someone I saw almost every day of the week. No. I had no desire to know the intimate details of my mail carrier's life.
The walk sign finally turned green, and I crossed Huntington Avenue. Not far off the corner is my favorite nail salon. I decided to stop for a manicure. Sure, I'd had one just three days earlier, but sporting the three-carat rock made me obsessively concerned with the state of my nails. I took a seat on the brocade couch to wait my turn. A recent issue of
People
caught my attention, and I began to browse.
There was an article about a California boy who'd lost his arm to a shark. Even though he'd defied the lifeguard's orders to leave the water, the boy's family was suing said lifeguard for negligence. Several celebrity moms were taking up a collection for the boy's hospital bills.
There was a mention of a minor celebrity who had committed suicide after the half-hour comedy he'd starred in wasn't picked up for a second season.
There was a report that the wife of a major celebrity was undergoing a stomach stapling operation.
And there was yet another short piece about yet another May/male–December/female celebrity couple. Disgusted, I tossed the magazine aside.
Really, Anna, I chided myself, since when have you become so interested in gossip? Jack's personal life is his personal life. Not your property. Anyway, why do you need to know about his past? It's not like he's someone important in your life. It's not like he's Ross.
The smiling technician beckoned to me, and I rose to follow her.
36
Libido Limbo
W
e met at Velvet for a drink before going off to the Huntington Theatre to see a revival of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
The outing had been my idea, but now I had little enthusiasm for light conversation or for dramatic performance.
The situation with Ross and the bedroom had really begun to worry me. I wanted to talk to my friends about the problem, but unlike Alexandra or Michaela, I rarely brought up the topic of sex; I never, ever talked about the particulars of my sex life. And whenever someone veered too close to sharing the particulars of her sex life, I found an excuse to leave the room. Some things are just meant to be private, like how much money you make, and what you eat straight from the carton when you're depressed and alone, and what you do or do not do when your clothes are off.
I looked at my friends: Kristen was trying to engage Michaela in small talk; Tracy and Alexandra were having more luck with each other. So far no one had commented on my silence. Being pregnant, I thought, somehow excuses you from having to be properly social at all times. “Oh, don't mind her. I know she's been kicking the leg of the table for the past ten minutes but, you know, she's pregnant.”
The waiter brought us our drinks—a martini for Alexandra, champagne for Michaela, a light beer for Kristen, and a cranberry juice with sparkling water for me. Well, I thought, at least my drink is the prettiest.
Everyone took a first appreciative sip, and I thought, Maybe I'm being overly sensitive about Ross's lack of interest in sex. Maybe I have nothing to complain about in the end, as long as he isn't interested in having sex with some other woman, and I'm pretty sure he isn't. Anyway, I'm not even all that interested in sex.
Still, I wanted Ross to be interested. I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted him to want me.
“Is a man ever really too tired for sex?” I blurted. Kristen's eyes widened, and Tracy cleared her throat, but I was undeterred. “I mean, if a man says, ‘Not tonight honey, I'm tired,' is he lying?”
Alexandra nodded. “I'd say there's a good chance he's lying. It could be he's having an affair and doesn't want to waste his energy on you. It could be that he's caught an STD from his mistress. Or ‘I'm too tired' might really mean he's been traumatized somehow and has lost total interest in sex and just the sight of your naked body causes his penis to deflate. Which could also mean that he's finally realized he's gay.”
Kristen shook her head, clearly amazed. “Where,” she asked no one in particular, “does she get this stuff?”
“You should be writing for
True Confessions
with that imagination,” I said.
“You asked my opinion.”
“I think I want to hear another opinion.”
“Well,” Kristen said, “speaking as a woman who's been married for eleven years, I think it's perfectly valid for a man to be too tired for sex, just like it's valid for a woman to be too tired for sex. I mean, sometimes Brian has worked his usual shift and then overtime, and then he's had to take the truck to the shop or stop in to see his mother on the way home. She's not doing too well, you know; she's diabetic. Anyway, some nights he practically crawls into bed. Some nights he's even too tired to eat dinner! I can't expect him to make love to me when he's been working so hard all day. Can I?”
Alexandra sighed and looked at me as if to say, From what happy valley has this innocent sprung? “No offense, honey,” she said, “but if you were Pamela Anderson he'd have the energy.”
“That's mean,” I said.
“That's reality.”
Michaela, who had been silent until this point, now offered her opinion. “I don't believe the ‘too tired' excuse is real for women, either. Be honest. When you say you're too tired to fool around, doesn't it really mean you're just not interested? I mean, how much energy does it take to just lie there? Which is really all you have to do to meet the minimum requirements.”
I wondered, Did Michaela really just lie there? I couldn't see it, but then again, I really didn't want to.
Alexandra raised her eyebrows but wisely made no comment. “Anna?” she said. “What brought up this topic? Has Ross been failing to perform his marital duties?”
“We're not married yet,” I pointed out. “And yes, Ross has been—failing to perform. Since I told him I was pregnant he's lost interest in sex. Sex with me, anyway. But he won't talk about it. He just avoids me, and when he can't avoid me he tells me he's tired. Really, how tired can he possibly be? He's not mining for coal twelve hours a day. He's not even in the corporate trenches. Not really. His poor assistant Tad does an awful lot of his work.”
“And,” Michaela drawled, “Ross is in peak physical condition. I'm sure it's not as if he can't perform.”
I shot a look at Michaela, who shrugged elaborately. “What?” she said. “How can a woman help but notice that tight butt?”
“Just because you notice something doesn't mean you have to talk about it,” Kristen said angrily. Then, she blushed. “Not that I've ever noticed Ross, you know, in that way!”
“Anyway,” Michaela went on, “a man who spends as much time as Ross does on his appearance wants the attention.” She looked at the others—not at me—as if for confirmation. “He's not spending hours at the gym and watching his diet just for his health. He's doing it for the admiring glances of the ladies.”
“And for his fiancée,” I snapped.
Michaela looked at me and seemed surprised to learn I was still there.
“Oh, sure. For her, too.”
Why am I friends with her, I wondered, not for the first time. Can I retract the invitation to the wedding? Can I send an unvitation?
“Let's drop the subject,” I said testily. It wasn't as if I was hearing any real and useful advice on how to deal with my libido-less fiancé.
“I'm sure everything will be all right,” Kristen said with a knowing pat on my arm.
Her condescension annoyed me even more than Michaela's hitherto unknown familiarity with the shape of my fiancé's butt. “Of course it will be all right,” I snapped. “Everything's already all right. I shouldn't have said anything.”
“Has anyone seen the new Baz Lurhman film?” Alexandra asked brightly.
Tracy grabbed onto the new topic like a drowning woman grabbing for a life raft. “Yes, I have, have you? I've been dying to talk about it with someone.”
They launched into an animated discussion about the movie; Kristen made small talk at Michaela, who didn't even pretend to listen; and I sulked. A fat lot of good it had done to ask for my girlfriends' advice. From now on, I vowed, I'm keeping my personal life personal.

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