Babyland (5 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Babyland
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6
The Other Road Traveled
D
ecaffeinated tea isn't so bad, I lied to myself heartily. And in only eight months or so you'll be able to have a normal cup of tea or coffee.
It was no use. The absence of caffeine in my diet was taking a toll in the form of a nasty, dull headache. Everyone said it would go away in a few days, but it was four days and counting. What constituted a “few” in the general opinion?
I dumped the cup of so-called tea into the sink and reached for my address book. I opened it to the section marked
T
. Under the number for my parents' home and the one for their time-share, under my brother's number and the number of his ex-wife, was the one I was seeking.
I met my friend Kristen Tremaine when we were sophomores in college, back when her name was Kristen Rivers. We were both enrolled in a course on the great mistresses of European history. The class's raging debates—such as, were these mistresses truly powerful players or merely victims of an abusive paternal regime—inspired us in more ways than one. For Halloween that year I dressed as Madame du Pompadour and Kristen dressed as Nell Gwyn. We were the hit of every party and fast friends from that night forth.
Still, in the second half of our twenties, our lives took very different paths. The last thing on my mind was marriage. But for Kristen, it suddenly was the first. When she was twenty-six she met and fell in love with a guy named Brian Tremaine, an Arlington local who'd gone to only one semester of college before realizing he could make a pretty decent living working for his uncle's mid-sized construction company.
Brian is friendly and hardworking, an all-around stand-up guy. There's nothing odd about him except for his being so very different from all the other guys Kristen had ever dated—highly educated professional men who wore dark suits to work, drove Mercedes, and took ten-day vacations to Cancun every February. Men you were supposed to date when you came from a home in which both parents were professionals, when you had gone to Harvard Law, when you were well on your way to partnership in a small but prestigious law firm. Men like, well, men like Ross.
“But what do you guys talk about?” I'd asked Kristen when she and Brian had been together for about six months.
“Plenty of stuff,” she replied easily.
“Like what?”
“Like camping,” she told me. “We both love to camp. I bet you didn't know that about me.”
“No,” I admitted.
“And we both love Dave Matthews. Do you know that between the two of us we've been to nine concerts? And we talk about the family we're going to have some day.”
Kristen had made up her mind. Her decision to marry Brian came as a shock to me and our other friends from college. An even bigger shock was Kristen's decision after the birth of her first son, Robbie, to quit her promising position at the small law firm to be a stay-at-home mom.
Eleven years into their marriage, Brian is owner of his retired uncle's construction firm and Kristen the mother of three children ranging in age from nine to two. They live in a big, yellow, Victorian-style house in Wakefield, a house they bought as a fixer-upper and will probably still be restoring on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It's obvious Kristen and Brian have little money to spend on luxuries like European vacations and jewelry and fancy cars. Each year they rent a cottage on the Cape and take along a grandmother or two; Kristen wears a simple gold wedding band without diamonds; Brian drives a Honda Accord; Kristen chauffeurs the kids in an old Jeep. And from what I can tell, they're really happy. Things could be far worse for the woman who saw her future in an unexpected place and had the courage to reach for it.
Anyway, after her wedding I continued to keep up with Kristen, but until recently our very different lifestyles precluded the possibility of spending a whole lot of time together. We exchanged cards at the holidays and e-mails every few weeks, and whenever Kristen could sneak away we'd meet for lunch, an event that Kristen says is “better than a day at a spa.” I think Kristen has forgotten just how good a day at a spa can be; she hasn't been to one since the day before her wedding eleven years ago. (Note to self: For Kristen's next birthday, a gift certificate to Belle Sante on Newbury Street.)
Anyway, about two months after I met Ross I felt ready to introduce him to Kristen. I was a little apprehensive; I knew Ross might be a difficult sell to someone as down-to-earth as my college friend. Kristen came into Boston for the occasion; Brian was supposed to join us but an emergency on one of his jobs prevented him from coming. Kristen hired a babysitter at a last-minute bonus rate rather than cancel a meeting she knew was important to me.
Well, the meeting didn't go very well. No one threw a drink in anyone's face, but the conversation was forced and awkward. Kristen hadn't seen any of the gallery exhibits or movies Ross and I had; she hadn't gone to Cancun for a long weekend like Ross and I had; we didn't have first-tooth or first-day-of-school stories to share like Kristen did.
Just before we left the restaurant to walk Kristen to the train station, Ross excused himself to say hello to a business associate he'd spotted at the bar.
“Well,” I asked, with some trepidation. “What do you think?”
“He seems nice,” Kristen said quickly, avoiding my eye. “His suit is very, um, beautiful.”
I smiled half-heartedly. I certainly couldn't tell Kristen that Ross's suit had been purchased at Louis' of Boston for not much less than it had cost her and Brian to buy their house.
After that I knew there was no way the two couples were ever going to become close friends. I just couldn't picture Ross hanging out with Brian on a Sunday afternoon drinking beer, eating sandwiches from Subway, and watching football on Brian's twenty-inch television, kids tumbling in and out of the family room clutching sippy cups and Barbies and soccer balls.
Anyway, Kristen might not be a big fan of Ross but she is a big fan of motherhood. I called her one afternoon around two o'clock when I knew she'd be home between delivering one child to toddler gymnastics and picking up the older kids at the end of their school day.
“Anna, I'm so happy for you!” she cried when I told her the big news. “You're going to make a great mom.”
I laughed nervously. “I don't know about that,” I said. “I'm an absolute wreck about the whole thing.”
“Well, of course you're a wreck. Every mother-to-be is nervous, that's natural. It doesn't mean you're not going to be just wonderful!”
“Do you really think so?” I asked. I needed to hear Kristen's warm support. I needed to believe it.
“I know so. Oh, Anna, really, this is just great. And anything I can pass on, I will. Of course, some of B.J.'s clothes have already been through Robbie and Cassie so they're not much good at this point. But maybe you'll want everything brand new! Have you registered yet?”
I was suddenly overwhelmed by the practical realities of being a mommy-in-waiting. Mommies were responsible. Mommies were reliable. Mommies were dependable. Okay, no one would deny that Anna Traulsen was responsible, reliable, and dependable. But at the Mommy level?
“Oh, Kristen,” I said, “I haven't done anything yet. I mean, besides tell you and Alexandra.”
“And your family?”
I sighed. “Actually, I haven't told the families yet. I kind of want to wait, just to make sure everything's okay with the—with the baby.”
How strange those words sounded! The baby. My baby.
“There are two ways of thinking about this, Anna,” Kristen replied promptly. “One is to keep the pregnancy a secret until the initial danger period is over. That way if you lose the baby you don't have to make all those sad phone calls and listen to everyone's disappointment. Okay?”
“That's what I was thinking,” I admitted.
“But there's another way. You can tell everyone, share your happiness, and then, God forbid, if the pregnancy fails, you have all those people to support you and pray for you. Right?”
“Right,” I said, not because I was sure Kristen was right but because I was touched by her happiness for me.
We chatted for a few minutes more and then Kristen had to run off. I asked her to give my love to Brian. It was only after I'd hung up that I realized she hadn't once mentioned Ross's name.
7
Adjustments
“S
o, can you meet for lunch someday soon?” I asked. “Just something quick.”
I imagined Tracy flipping through her date book, highlighter in hand; she's super-organized, even more than I am. “Sure,” she said after a moment. “How about tomorrow at eleven-forty-five. I've got a client at one o' clock so that should give us plenty of time to chat about wedding plans.”
Or about another big event, I thought as I hung up the phone.
I met Tracy at a book group I tried to be part of five or six years ago. Tracy was trying, too, but we both dropped out after only two meetings when the hostess handed out a quiz she'd devised. Reading groups are supposed to be about lightly intelligent conversation, fancy appetizers, and good wine. They're not supposed to be about tests and reports and grades.
Tracy, the daughter of an Irish-American father and a Japanese-American mother, is a physical therapist associated with the department of orthopedic surgery at Beth Israel Hospital. She's forty and in fabulous shape, which is only partly due to genetics. She works out and eats right and basically makes me feel like a fat slob when I'm with her. I'm not a fat slob, I know that, but it's hard not to have a doubt when you're with a person who wears a size two. I can't help experiencing a tingle of guilty pleasure when I show up for an event in a more stylish outfit than my petite friend. It's horrible of me, I know.
A few years ago Tracy married a very nice, very smart man twenty years her senior. His name is Bill Lomas and he's an engineer with a large construction firm. Bill became her patient after he injured his knee while playing a Saturday afternoon game of touch football along the promenade.
Tracy and Bill live in a small condo in Bay Village, a tiny six-block enclave of eighteenth-century houses between the South End and the Back Bay. Together, they have no children. But Bill has two children from a former marriage, which makes Tracy a stepmother. Bill's daughter is in graduate school; his son is married and the father of a two-year-old, which makes Tracy a step-grandmother.
To that point in time we hadn't talked much about Tracy's domestic situation. Sometimes I wanted to ask her how she felt about not having children of her own, and about her relationship with her stepchildren, but I never did. I guess I never sensed a true conversational opening. I wish I had just made the opening myself.
The next morning I met Tracy at Green, a small, casual café that specializes in power drinks, salads, and other healthy fare. (It's a nice enough place, but I prefer restaurants that aren't afraid of butter.) As soon as we'd settled at a table for two with our trays, I broke the big news.
“I'm pregnant,” I said.
Tracy's face tightened just a bit. “If it's what you want,” she said carefully, “I'm very happy for both of you.”
You could at least pretend to be enthusiastic, I chided silently, and then I felt silly for being upset. What did I want, a parade?
Maybe Tracy was just tired. Or maybe she wasn't feeling well. Really, I thought, is Tracy ever wildly enthusiastic about anything? In some ways she's the opposite of Alexandra, low-key, pensive, certainly more reserved. Really, I thought, I can't expect everyone to be all excited about my news when I'm not even sure how I feel about it.
“Thanks,” I said brightly. “And don't worry about the wedding,” I added. “This won't change anything for you as matron of honor. Everything's going to happen as planned.” I don't know why I said that. I knew, deep down, that nothing would ever again happen as planned.
“Okay. So, is this what you want? To have a baby?” Now Tracy's face was flushed. Clearly, she was upset but for the life of me I couldn't understand why. Was she that worried about my happiness?
I reached across the table and patted her arm. “Of course it is,” I assured her. “I know I said that Ross and I weren't going to have a family but, well, you know. Things have changed.”
I wondered, Why have things changed? Because we wanted them to? No. Things changed because they just did and here we are, stuck with the change.
“Then I'm glad for you, Anna, really.” Tracy raised her glass of Evian in a silent toast, and I raised mine in return.
“I'm glad for me, too,” I said. I was only partly lying.
“So, when is the baby due?”
I considered. “By my nonprofessional calculations,” I said, “early December. Which means that I'll be approximately six months pregnant when I walk down the aisle.”
Finally, Tracy smiled. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'll be there to help you waddle along.”
“Oh, no, will I really be waddling by then?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I've never had a baby. I don't really know much about anything.”
Something in the tone of Tracy's voice prompted me to change the subject. “So,” I said, “let me tell you about working for the infamous Beatrice Kent.”

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