Tales From the Crib (22 page)

Randy added, “You’ve got to stir briskly.”

Zoe leaned in and asked, “Isn’t that Metamucil?”

The chubby gangster girl heard Zoe and demanded to know if this was accurate.

“Metamucil is a brand name,” Olivia said.

“It’s a
kind
of psyllium husk,” Randy said, adding her usual nothing to the discussion.

“This is what you bitches call a miracle diet?” the gang girl shouted. “Your book says we can only eat nine hundred calories a day.”

“Then we’re supposed to drink constipation medicine twice a day?!” barked another participant as she leafed through the book.

“Please don’t touch the books until you’ve purchased them!” Olivia said. I despised this woman, but had to admire her boldness. It was pretty clear that at least one of these very pissed-off women was packing some sort of weapon, or at the very least could crush a windpipe with her thumbs. And yet, the only thing that seemed to register with Olivia was that she was getting her greasy fingers on the pages of her twenty-nine dollar book.

Randy giggled. “You read, you buy. This is
not
a library.”

Suddenly I was overcome with a need to join in. “Yes, but it
is
a class and we all paid one hundred dollars to be here tonight under the assumption that we would actually learn something. All we’ve learned is that you’re selling books. I didn’t even know we weren’t supposed to exceed nine hundred calories a day until that woman opened your book.”

“I told you the no-no foods!” Olivia shot angrily.

“How ‘bout some of the yes-yes foods so we know what the hell we can eat,” another woman shouted.

Zoe beamed. “It’s a Blubber Flush riot! Where the hell is a camera crew when you need one?”

“Look, you bitches better knock the fat outta this bullshit class right now and tell us what we can eat, and give us the names of them vitamins,” the gang girl shot.

Another woman joined in. “Excuse me, but does it concern anyone that a nine-hundred-calorie-a-day diet and regular use of laxatives is basically what anorexics do? “

“No one here’s anorexic, bitch,” the gang girl shot. “I got weight to lose, so sit down, shut up, and let this freak show get on to the part where we find out what we need to eat to get skinny.”

“Okay,” said a startled Olivia. “Sounds like you’re all ready to move on to the step-by-step Blubber Flush plan.” It was satisfying to see her look this terrified.

“Let’s do the plan,” Randy said, nodding at double speed.

Chapter 26

Three weeks after taking the Blubber Flush class, Zoe lost six pounds. Her hips jutted like spears from her low-rider jeans. I, on the other hand, shed a pound and a half. It was no fault of the program, though. At the very end of Olivia and Randy’s presentation, one remembered, “Oh yeah, if you’re pregnant or nursing, you shouldn’t be a Blubber Flusher.” Still, I felt so motivated hearing about their principles of weight loss that I incorporated a few into my lifestyle. I figured cutting out candy and capping my calories at 2,500 a day couldn’t hurt my milk supply. I also joined Candace’s stroller club, which was a group of about six women who met twice a week to push strollers and gab for four to five miles.

It was May, so I had no more excuses not to exercise. The weather had finally warmed enough where I actually wanted to be outdoors taking a walk.

Adam looked more like a little baby boy than an infant, crawling and cooing back at strangers who said hello to him.

It was funny, but the busier I got, the more I was able to do. I’d written four pieces for
Salon
, was in the midst of editing and fact-checking my cover story with
Mothering,
and even contracted with a handful of online parenting magazines, which paid surprisingly well.

Zoe was at the house on Saturday night. We’d planned to catch a movie while Jack and Natalie played house with Adam, but a hotly sought-after artist finally returned one of Jack’s numerous calls and said he’d be willing to meet to discuss representation—right then. Ever the supportive girlfriend, Natalie immediately agreed to meet Jack later that evening and cook him dinner “whenever” he arrived. Even I was starting to fall in love with her. I wondered how I used to respond when similar situations arose in our marriage. I was pretty understanding, wasn’t I? Is that what went wrong between us? Was I not self-sacrificing enough for Jack? Then I looked around my house and realized I was living his suburban dream, not mine, and gave myself a break. After thirteen years of marriage, even St. Natalie might stomp her foot with disappointment once or twice.

“I have a confession to make,” Zoe said, leaning in conspiratorially over the kitchen table.

“Roll ʼem,” I joked. When she didn’t laugh, I urged her to continue. “Want a longevity cocktail?” I offered.

“Why not?”

After mixing the sour grit and returning to the table, I placed the drinks on the table. “Remember when we used to drink things like fuzzy navels and sex on the beach? Now it’s Blubber Flush juice.”

“Doesn’t that seem like forever ago?” Zoe sighed.

“I can’t believe Richie is dead.” I nodded.

“Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“What’s going on with you, Zoe?”

She said that, compared to Richie Cantor’s, her problems were small.

“This is true, but it doesn’t make yours irrelevant either,” I said. I always hated when Aunt Rita completely negated my feelings by telling me how much worse off she was at my age. In grad school, I was rejected from a summer writing workshop in London, and Aunt Rita immediately started in with a story about how she was rejected three times from the Brooklyn College Masters in Education program before she was accepted. I think her point was that persistence pays, but the message I got was that my disappointments were so small compared to hers, they didn’t count. And if they didn’t count, how could I indulge in nurturing them? Anjoli, on the other hand, always seemed to choose my lowest points to tell me how charmed her life was. When the exchange program didn’t work out, Anjoli chimed, “London is beautiful in the summer! When I was with the Joffrey, we toured London, Paris, and Rome and it was the most culturally awakening and exhilarating summer of my life.”
Gee, good to hear
.

Zoe said she met someone else, and was thinking about leaving Paul. They’d been together four years, so their relationship was as significant as many marriages. When I pressed for details, Zoe said that she was sad to see the relationship with Paul peter out, but what really bothered her was her cheating on him. “I know we’re not married or anything, but I feel like shit, sneaking around behind his back,” she said. “God knows I can’t stand him these days, but I can’t stand to hurt him either,” Zoe continued. “I’m not even sure I love Tommy. I think I just love the way he makes me feel.” I wondered what the difference was between loving someone and loving the way he made you feel. “Or, God, I hate to admit this, but sometimes I think I just like the attention from someone new. Is that awful?”

“Please,” I shooed my hand. “A dog sniffed my crotch in the park this morning and I was flattered.”

Zoe burst into laughter. Encouraged, I added that sometimes I bought things on eBay and paid quickly in order to get good feedback from the seller. My mother regularly showed up on Page Six. I was thrilled that there was a buzz about my quickie with PayPal.

“I’m so glad I have a friend I can be honest with, and not worry about being judged,” Zoe said.
Gulp.

“Zoe,” I said meekly. “When we finish talking about you and Paul . . . or you and Tommy ... I mean, when we get done talking about you, there’s something I need to come clean with you on.”

With that, Adam began screaming, demanding to be fed. When I lifted him from his crib, Adam looked like a drunk recovering from a bender. Half of his red face was covered with drool and the left side of his hair was standing up. And like a drunk, he was disoriented, confused, and wailing. But also like a typical intoxicated male, his cranky tirade was nothing a little C cup couldn’t fix.

“So dish,” Zoe said as I returned to the table with Adam latched onto my breast. “Are you cheating on Jack?”

“No,” I said, inhaling to gain the courage to tell Zoe about my pseudomarriage. “Jack and I aren’t really married anymore. I mean, technically we are, but we’ve emotionally divorced.”

“Emotionally divorced? “ Zoe repeated. I could see the wheels turning. She thought it might make a good title for her next reality TV show.

“We’re living together as friends,” I explained. “We’re going to raise Adam together, but have separate lives.”

Zoe was rough to read. Finally she spoke. “Didn’t they do a piece on this in the
Times?”

“Apparently so.”

“So how’s it going?”

“There are ups and downs, like anything else, I guess. I haven’t had a real date yet, while he’s been the hottest thing on the market since he took off his wedding ring.”

As I said the final word, the phone rang. It was like musical accompaniment for the word.

“May I speak with Jack Fenton’s next of kin please?” a woman asked.

Next of kin? What will these telemarketers come up with next?

“This is his wife,” I said, rolling my eyes to Zoe to apologize for the interruption.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but your husband has been involved in an accident this evening and- ”

“Oh my God!” I shouted. “Is he okay?”

With that, Zoe stood and took Adam from my arms while I paced the room getting details. He was at the hospital ten miles from our home, unconscious with possible brain injury and paralysis. Apparently he had a head-on collision with another driver and seconds later was hit by a minivan after his car was knocked into another lane of traffic.

“It was a very serious accident,” the woman said. “Five cars were involved, ma’am.”

“He’s going to be okay, though, right?” I begged urgently. At this point, Zoe was motioning frantically for information.       

“I can’t say, ma’am,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you’re welcome to come to the hospital and speak with his doctors.”

“Just tell me this,” I began, even then knowing I was asking for answers that the present did not offer. “He’s going to survive this, right?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said with genuine sympathy. “You need to speak with your doctors about your husband’s condition.”

In less than two minutes, Zoe and I had stocked Adam’s diaper bag, grabbed our coats, and loaded into the car. Rushing to the hospital, I realized I had to call Natalie and tell her why Jack would be tragically late for their dinner date. She asked me the same questions I did of the anonymous woman on the phone. Only then did I understand how difficult that woman’s job really was. People are at the most stressful moment of their lives and all they want is answers. And the reality is that no one has them.

Doctors brushed by us for the next hour, politely telling me they were doing everything they could. I hated the way that sounded. It was almost like a preemptive apology for his death.
We did everything we could, but the injuries were far, far too serious.

“What do you need?” Zoe asked.

“Call Jack’s parents,” I said, jotting their number on a piece of paper from the hospital reception area. “And my mom. Oh, and call Candace and tell her what’s going on so the stroller moms don’t wait for me at the park in the morning.”

I looked around the sterile reception area and saw five other families that appeared to be just like ours. Some of them were older. Others had several kids. Two families looked different—one Asian, the other black. Another family looked as though they’d been through every struggle life had to offer from economic hardship to bad hair. But as we sat in the hospital waiting room, we were bonded by fear. We all looked absolutely terrified. Shocked. Drama had visited our lives as we were unexpectedly, comfortably coasting through our mundane existences. An accident like this happens in less than the time it takes you to spread jelly on roast, wash your hands, or place the DVD in the player.

“Is he okay, Lucy?” Natalie rushed into the hospital in her casual date clothes—a white cotton oxford, Levi’s, and a violet suede jacket that came to her knees.

“No word yet,” I clipped. “Natalie, this is my friend, Zoe. Zoe, Natalie.” The two nodded politely.

“When are they going to know something?” Natalie rushed. Then she smiled at the sight of Adam. “Hey, you,” she cooed. He recognized her and smiled back.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “It could be a while. The doctors have been coming out every twenty minutes or so to give us an update.”

“And what’ve they said?” Natalie asked as a doctor emerged. “Doctor, how’s Jack?” she rushed to him and grabbed his arm. He looked at her, puzzled as to who she was.

“Dr. Friedman, this is Natalie, Jack’s sister,” I lied.

“We’re doing everything we can for your brother,” he answered. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your family medical history.” Natalie shot me a concerned look.

“Natalie is Jack’s stepsister,” I backpedaled. “Their parents met late in life so she’s not going to know any of that,” I answered as though she weren’t standing three feet from me. “I can tell you what you need to know,” I said, fully aware of how horribly timed my feeling of smugness was.

A little after ten that night, Candace came to the hospital and offered to take Adam home to sleep at her house. After four hours of nursing, pacing, and playing, I was ready for the break. Sure, Zoe took him on walks and St. Natalie put in her time, but Adam wanted to stretch out on the floor, roll around, and pursue his dream of sitting up. His attempts reminded me of my own crunches at the gym. I gladly tossed Candace the keys to the house, told her where she could find quarts of frozen breast milk (the freezer), and wondered how I got so lucky to find a friend like her. Not only did she take care of Adam for me that night, she drove Zoe back to the city, then the next morning stocked my fridge with dinners that she and the La Leche League mothers had prepared.