The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  • • •

  Why are there so many choices here? Yes or no? Red light, green light? Which one do I buy? There should be a single, uniform test so I don’t have to stand here and debate whether a plus sign or a double line is going to dictate my whole future.

  How do I do this? I’ve never purchased a pregnancy test before. Do I shop based on price? Do I buy in bulk in case I get a false positive? What’s the best brand? First Response? ClearBlue Easy? EPT?

  I don’t know.

  The irony that the wall of condoms are housed right next to the pregnancy tests is not lost on me. Way to rub salt in the wound, Walgreens.

  Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll grab the cheapest and the most expensive tests, I’ll toss them in my basket, and then I’ll get the heck out of here. I will go home, try one now, one in the morning like the directions instruct, and then I will call Kelly and tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about and everything will be fine.

  Yes.

  This is a solid plan. I will approach this problem with my usual systematic organization and all will be well.

  I sweep a couple of boxes into my basket and then I cover them up with a box of panty liners. If I see an enema between here and the register, I’ll add that, too, for camouflage purposes. I quickly walk away from the tests.

  No enemas between there and here.

  Which is fine.

  Now I’m going to get in line, give my purchases to LaShonda, the sweet cashier (with the cute rhinestone-studded manicure) who can never remember my name, despite my daily Diet Coke purchases. Then I’ll shove everything into my bag and go home.

  I can do this.

  I’m five deep in line, waiting my turn when I hear, “Kitty Kord, is that you?”

  Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around.

  Now’s an excellent time to pretend I’m not Kitty Kord. I am a random and anonymous young professional girl named Katherine. In New York. Here, I can buy as many pregnancy tests as I’d like without worrying the news will travel back to my family, my friends, my old teachers, my ex–tennis coaches, my sorority sisters, or any one of a thousand other people who might judge me.

  LaShonda brightens when she hears my name and she waves. “Hey, Miss Kitty! How you doing this afternoon?”

  I smile and offer a weak fingertip-wave in return before plastering a smile on and turning around to face whichever nonstranger is behind me. For a blessed second, I don’t recognize the deep tan and the eyes like stained glass because they don’t belong here. Yet once I do, then I truly want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

  My anxiety-tinged mortification takes the form of nervous chatter. “Bobby! BoJo! Bob-bay! Vinnie Bob-a-rino!”

  Oh, my God, stop talking. You are not a Saturday Night Live skit.

  “Bob-o-link.”

  Mean it. Shut it down, self.

  “Robert Bobby Robby Rob Jordan!”

  But I am apparently unstoppable.

  Bobby’s bemused by my greeting. As am I.

  “So . . . what’s shakin’, Bob-bacon?” I pour on the false brightness, attempting to block the contents of my basket with my computer bag. “What are you doing in town? Thought you lived in California full-time now.”

  No, I’m sure you live in California because you never came back the summer after your first junior year. And sometimes Betsy sticks your postcards on our fridge. Why are you here? Here today, right now, witnessing my abject humiliation, and not back in LA writing postcards?

  AND CAN YOU SEE WHAT’S IN MY BASKET, DAMN IT?

  I don’t say any of that, though.

  He still exudes that laid-back beach vibe I used to so appreciate. “Yeah, man, still doing the LA thang, still taking classes. Should be done in December, though. Got some gnarly family stuff going on, so I came home for a visit. Y’know, running interference. Met my dad for lunch and now I’m doing errands because I have time. And what time is it? It’s time for Fritos.” He shakes the bag at me.

  I practically dislocate my shoulder trying to hide my basket behind me. Please don’t glance down. Please don’t glance down. Please don’t glance down.

  “Super. Sounds so great!”

  He gives me a slow, appraising grin. “Nice to see you again. You look happy, Kit. Pink cheeks and all, kinda like a glow. Grown-up life agrees with you.” He notices LaShonda motioning toward her open register, sun glinting off her rhinestone-studded nails. “Hey, it’s your turn at bat. When you talk to Sars, tell her I’ll catch her on the flippity-flop. And you take it easy, Kitty.”

  Take it easy why? Because you think I’m pregnant because you can see what I’m buying?

  “You betcha. See you later!”

  I maintain eye contact while he pays the other cashier for his gum and Fritos in the hopes he won’t spot my purchases. “LaShonda, do you mind double-bagging everything?”

  Did he notice the tests?

  Can he see them now?

  His expression tells me nothing.

  She replies, “I surely will, Miss Kitty,” with a kind nod. “I threw in a Twix bar, no charge. You have yourself a blessed day.” She counts back my change, gives me my still-ill-concealed merch, and I practically sprint away after saying thank you. My bus is waiting at the stop, so I’m able to board before Bobby can catch up to me. I pay my fare and find a seat in the front.

  As the bus chugs up the Outer Drive, I try to decide what’s worse—possibly being pregnant or the way Jackass Jordan will gloat when she finds out.

  From where I’m sitting?

  Both options make me feel sick.

  • • •

  This test must be defective.

  Stupid cheap test.

  I try again.

  This test must be defective, too.

  Stupid expensive test.

  Yet I can’t escape the obvious truth, which is that I need to buy more tests.

  • • •

  “Yes, I actually do enjoy always being right,” Kelly says. She brings me a bone china cup on a silver tray with sugar cubes and slivers of lemon, the very portrait of domesticity. She makes it look so easy. I watch as she expertly navigates her sunny kitchen, pouring hot water from the kettle into a teapot. “Give this five minutes to steep. It’s ginger tea and it’ll save your life.”

  I inhale the vapors. “Mmm, nice. I appreciate that the scent of it doesn’t make me want to immediately puke on your parquet.”

  “Ginger’s your best defense against nausea. Ginger ale, ginger tea, ginger root, what have you. Works in any form. Also, carry a bag of oyster crackers at all times.”

  “What’s wrong with regular saltines?”

  “They’re bigger, denser, and higher in calories. You’ll eat more than you mean to and being pregnant doesn’t give you license to become a fatty.”

  “You are the very model of compassion.”

  Kelly tosses her braid over her shoulder. “You want a hug? Go to Mum. You want the truth? Come to me. What’s the plan?”

  I’ve peed on so many sticks this past week, I could build a log cabin out of them. Every single test I took came back positive, so I scheduled an appointment with my doctor, who confirmed the results. Congratulations! I’m screwed.

  “I’m still weighing my options. I’m only six weeks along, so I have time to decide whether I should . . .” Ugh. I can’t even finish the sentence. “I mean, you know I’m steadfast in a woman’s right to choose; I’m just not sure if that’s a choice I can make for myself.”

  And that’s why I’m stuck in limbo.

  Betsy was stunned that I was even considering other options.

  “What’s to think about?” she asked, a couple of days after my confirming doctor’s appointment. “You said you want to dump Ken and you’re looking to get out of this town. A bab
y makes both those choices impossible. Why abandon your goals for what amounts to a pharmaceutical mistake? You’ve never even wanted children!”

  I replied, “It’s not that simple, Betsy. I was all Team No Way until Kelly had her baby. Little Sophia gives me . . . pause.” The first time I held that precious child, I felt like I’d been pulled into another dimension, as the weight of her in my arms felt so right. But I wasn’t sure how to explain that to Betsy.

  “It absolutely is that simple,” she argued. “You like Sophia? Great. Babysit for her. Buy her outfits from Baby Gap. Put her school picture on your desk. Just don’t let your feelings as an aunt cloud your better judgment.”

  “I know, in theory, termination is the clear choice. Thing is, this isn’t about me only—Ken has a say, too.” When I told him I was pregnant, he immediately dropped to one knee and proposed, saying, “We get to jump-start our future together!” Then he maxed out his credit card to buy me the best ring he could afford.

  Although his reaction made me fall in love with him all over again, I haven’t yet said yes.

  When I mentioned Ken, Betsy practically exploded, leaping up from her spot on the couch. “No, he has zero say! What kind of fucked-up patriarchy are you subscribing to where he has dominion over your body and your choice? My God, somewhere in North America, a chill just went down Betty Friedan’s spine.”

  “Was she a Kappa at Whitney?”

  “Oh, my God, Kitty, please do not reproduce!”

  I was shocked by her reaction. Where was the rancor coming from? I walked over to Betsy and held her shoulders. “Bets, you’ve never spoken to me like this. Ever. This is so out of character. What’s going on with you? Are you okay? Is your job putting too much pressure on you? I feel like I don’t know who you are right now.” I searched her wild eyes. “Is my reasonable, rational, supportive friend in there? If so, can you maybe send her out?”

  Betsy was shaking beneath my grip. “Don’t you understand? I’m not upset about me, Kit. I’m upset about you. I don’t want to stand here while you throw away what could be a brilliant career to step right into our mothers’ sensible heels. Is that really the life you want? Getting roasts into the oven and planting flower boxes and volunteering for the PTA? Look at Kelly—she was the most badass chick to exist and now she knits. Kelly knits! And not with the bones of some virgin she sacrificed, just regular old needles. You can’t go Stepford. You can’t turn into one of those women who are all smug when I tell them I don’t want kids, all ‘You’ll change your mind!’ with a wink and a nod, like they know my heart and mind better than I do. That’s so obnoxious. That’s so not you. You’re meant for more than pushing a stroller to Mommy and Me classes.”

  And yet, a part of me didn’t think that sounded like the worst thing in the world, especially as Kelly’s borderline blissful. (In as much as she can be while still being Kelly, that is.)

  “What if I’m not meant for more, Bets? What if I’m meant for exactly this?”

  “You are meant for more! Of course you are! You’re Kitty Kord—you can do anything once you set your mind to it. You took me from the nerdiest freshman at Whitney and made me into a Tri Tau. I’d be such a loser without your intervention. You have the rare ability to step in, orchestrate change, and make everyone thank you afterward. Look at all your success at Eiderhaus so far! Don’t waste that gift on carpools and playdates. Please.”

  While I let what she said sink in, she ran into her room and came back with her Day Planner. “Look, we can schedule the appointment right now, you go in, it’s done, you take a day to recover, we eat ice cream, I hold your hand while you cry, but then you move on with the life we’ve been talking about ever since graduation. No harm, no foul, no one needs to know.”

  I said, “I would know.”

  And that’s the hurdle I can’t clear.

  • • •

  Little Sophia toddles over from her play mat and pulls on Kelly’s blouse to be picked up. Kelly scoops her up and sets the baby on her lap. I have to stop myself from reaching out for her.

  “Would you look at this kid?” Kelly says. “She’s perfect, right? She walks around in a state of constant wonder and every time the dog barks or the bell rings or she takes a shit, her little mind is blown. There’s no job I could hold that could ever compare to being here, witnessing her figuring out her life one handful of Cheerios at a time. She’s the greatest gift I can imagine. She taught me what real love is. Will she be an estrogen-addled teenager someday? Yes. Will I hate her then as much as she hates me? Yes. I accept that, which is what makes now all the more precious.”

  “What are you saying? You won’t hate Sophia,” I argue. “Mum and Dr. Daddy didn’t hate us when we were in our teens.”

  She pours the tea, careful to keep small fingers away from the steamy teapot. “Of course they did. Why do you think we were shipped to tennis camp in Wisconsin all summer, every summer?”

  Huh.

  “You were a terror, maybe, but I was nice.”

  “Ha! So you don’t recall your shrine to Marky Mark and your subsequent Vegas-style freak-out when Mum took down your clippings to hang the new wallpaper? I thought we were going to have to shoot you with a tranquilizing dart. How about when you forced us all to that Vanilla Ice concert for your birthday? Mum. Me. Dr. Daddy. At Vanilla Ice. What about when you decided you were English and would only speak in that horrific British accent? But you didn’t know the difference between Brits and Aussies and you were always wishing us a ‘g’day’? Do you have any idea what a self-involved pain in the ass you were? You were the worst. We all hated you.”

  “We’re all tight as can be now. Whatever I was like as a teen, I grew out of it,” I say.

  “Yes, we do grow out of our difficult phases because it’s the cycle of life. Understanding what to expect is half the battle. So if you decide to say yes to Ken and to get married, and really to go through with everything, then I’ll be here to guide you and show you what to look out for, like I always have.”

  “Kelly, I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just keep thinking about it, weighing your options. Figure out what’s most important to you. The right decision will hit you out of the blue and your path will become clear. You have some time; take it.”

  I wrap my hands around the cup, trying to absorb some of the warmth. “My mind is spinning off in a million different scenarios and each one makes a degree of sense.”

  “You’ll figure it out. But, P.S., in the spirit of full disclosure, having a kid will ruin your vagina. For the rest of your life, it’s going to feel like a map you can’t quite refold. Thought you should know. Other than that? Two thumbs-up for babies! Right, Soph?” Sophia reaches around and grabs ahold of Kelly’s braid. Sophia sucks on the end of it while dandling on Kelly’s knee to the chant of, “Two thumbs-up! Two thumbs-up!”

  If motherhood could tame the savage beast that is Kelly, what might it mean for those of us who aren’t borderline sociopaths?

  • • •

  I leave Kelly’s when Sophia goes down for her nap, largely because Kelly threatened both my and my unborn child’s life if we dare disturb her sleeping daughter. She sends me off with a couple of cans of ginger ale and a bag of oyster crackers.

  I sip and nibble on my drive back to the city from the burbs, and my stomach settles. My route south takes me past all the pretty homes and the huge trees with leaves just beginning to turn. I loved living up here as a kid. I wonder, would I want all of this again with Ken at my side? Or is the lure of life in New York and becoming Katherine too strong to ignore?

  And even if Ken and I were to get married, we surely couldn’t afford a North Shore life for years. At best, we’d be able to swing a condo somewhere off-trend, like Rogers Park, and that’s with my parents’ help. I just wish I knew what to do. Regardless of what decision I make, I’m sure I’ll spend the r
est of my life second-guessing myself.

  I have to park four blocks away from the apartment because there’s a Cubs game today. I make my way past drunken fans, and each time someone comes too close, I find myself automatically protecting my still-flat stomach.

  Maybe I subconsciously know what to do after all.

  I unlock the three dead bolts on the three-flat’s main front door and climb the stairs to our place, where I work three more locks. If this is the kind of security the Big Ten, Yuppie enclave of Wrigleyville requires, how much scarier would Manhattan be? I find myself cradling my stomach again.

  “Bets? You here?” There’s no answer, but I’m not surprised. She spends a lot of Saturdays at the office. The message light on the answering machine is blinking with two new messages. We’d planned to upgrade to voice mail, but decided the expense wasn’t worth it since we were moving anyway. I click PLAY.

  “Hey, babe—it’s Ken. There’s something small, gold, and shiny here, and it’s waiting for you. Gimme a buzz when you’re home. Love you.”

  I feel myself smiling. The second message begins.

  “Sars, it’s Jack.” She sounds upset. Well, too bad because (a) a lot of people have problems and (b) I’m sure she deserves whatever it is that’s bringing her down. “I’m . . . livid. I need to talk. I can’t believe her nerve. I really can’t. If she thinks she can just waltz in and be a mother now after—”

  I erase the message before I have to listen to another vile word. The mystery of whether or not Bobby saw the contents of my basket is solved. Funny, but I thought I could trust him.

  Oh, well.

  Still, I cannot fathom the kind of nerve it takes that woman to call my home and comment on my life and my decisions. On the rare occasion we’re forced together, I’ve actually felt sorry for her. Once in a while I think, How did we go so far off track that we can’t even be civil? And then something like this happens and I remember all over again.

  Jack Jordan thinks I can’t be a mother?

  She’s so wrong. So flipping wrong.

  I’m Kitty Kord, and I can be anything I want. And now, my choice is crystal clear. Without another second’s hesitation, I pick up the landline.