Tales From the Crib

by Jennifer Coburn

  “Can you tell Edward that I’ll meet him back at the apartment?” Anjoli asked.

  “You brought a date?” I shrieked. “Adam’s pediatrician?!” She shrugged as if to ask why not. “He’s married. It’s a wedding. Do you not see the irony?” I threw my hands in the air. “Fine, I’ll tell him. Any message for Geoff, Kimmy? “

  “Tell him this is for the best,” Kimmy said as she and my mother finally unpinned her veil from her head. Kimmy slipped on her white pantsuit—appropriately enough, her getaway outfit—and slipped out the door with my mother.

  It’s for the best, I muttered silently. I’m sure he’ll find that deeply comforting.

  As Adam and I reached the entrance to the chapel, all heads turned to us. I was dressed in a nursing t-shirt and jeans. People began to whisper. Clearly, something was wrong.

  “Is everything okay?” Geoff asked as I finally reached him at the altar. This, of course, was the moment Adam decided to test the acoustics of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He screamed like I’d never heard before. Wailing mournful, horrible tears of utter horror. I tried to shout above my son’s crying, and just as I got to the part where I said, “It’s for the best,” Adam stopped. “Best, best, best” echoed throughout the chapel.

  People turned their heads in every direction to murmur about what this might mean. But they knew. We all did. Adam began crying again, which was actually a relief because I had no idea what to say to Geoff, who was standing agape with a fresh corsage pinned to his tux. I caught Jack’s eye. He offered to take Adam, which I gladly accepted. Finally, when Adam stopped crying, I heard Aunt Bernice in a stage whisper say to Rita, “See, I told you that baby wasn’t deaf.”

  “I’m sorry to announce that the wedding has been postponed indefinitely,” I said, avoiding eye contact with Geoff’s entire side of the chapel. “I know this is a shock, and on behalf of my family, I’d like to apologize for inconveniencing you all today. I hope you will all join me in supporting Kimmy in her decision. I know she feels terrible about everyone wasting their time here today, but I know you’d all feel even worse if Geoff and Kimmy, two very decent people, made the mistake of entering into a marriage they weren’t absolutely committed to.”

  No one except Aunt Bernice looked terribly supportive. “That’s very true,” she said loud enough for others to join in agreement. But they did not. They all seemed very pissed off—at me. “Alrighty then, as a gesture of apology, my family extends invites to you and your guests at Marco’s, where the non-wedding reception will be this evening. The directions are on your invitation. And if you have any favorite Sinatra songs, the band will gladly take your requests, so um, enjoy!”

  Chapter 21

  Believe it or not, Geoff’s family took me up on the dinner invitation and insisted that Adam and I have dinner with the jilted groom. It wasn’t a friendly “let’s all be civilized about this” kind of thing. They wanted answers and since Kimmy and Anjoli had fled the crime scene, and Jack had a Valentine’s Day date with Natalie, I was stuck as the ambassador of the rogue nation. I knew Jack would have to leave the reception early with a prearranged excuse about an emergency at the gallery. What I didn’t expect was for him to be quite so excited about his early dismissal. I had hoped he might want to stick around and help me deal with Geoff’s lynch mob, but he had plans of dinner and champagne in Tribecca with Natalie.

  “So where is the runaway bride, anyway?” Geoff’s sister Anne asked as the waiter placed our menus in our hands. He looked intrigued by the question and slowed his rounds to hear my reply.

  “I’m not sure where they went,” I apologized.

  “They?!” Geoff’s mother snapped as she placed a protective hand on her son’s shoulder. “Is there another man involved?” Geoff said nothing as the women at the table took charge.

  “No, I mean, I don’t think so. I just meant Kimmy and my mother,” I explained, imagining one hundred gay men at the apartment for an impromptu altar-jumping party. Alfie was playing piano, revamping the Billy Idol classic to a new and improved “It’s a Nice Day for a Non-Wedding.” Anjoli was toasting Kimmy’s extraordinary courage, and supermodels were sipping champagne from Kimmy’s satin shoes. Meanwhile I wondered how in the world I ended up at Marco’s with someone else’s family.

  “I suppose what we’d like to know,” began Geoff’s mother as she sat erect in her chair with her hands folded like a school principal, “is why did Kimberly wait until the day of the wedding to cancel? It seems in terribly poor form.” Adam started making noises that were not cries, but more like nondescript moans that meant something to him. He seemed to be trying to add to the conversation. I bounced him to try to soothe him into silence, but he would not cooperate. Of course, he chose the moment when all eyes were on me to want to nurse.

  “I’m not sure,” I stammered. Geoff’s mother frightened me. So did his elegant sister and their stern, silent father. Geoff was a sight to be pitied tonight, though under normal circumstances he would have fit right in with this country club family. “I guess she didn’t really understand, until she was right about to do it, that she really didn’t want to marry Geoff. I hope that doesn’t sound too harsh, but it appears to be the reality. I’m not sure. Geoff, you should call Kimmy and ask her yourself. I really can’t speak for her.”

  “He’ll do no such thing!” blasted the booming baritone of his father. “Do not call that woman under any circumstances, do you understand me, Geoffrey?” I started to unsnap the flap of my dress to feed Adam when Geoff’s mother caught a glimpse.

  “You’re not going to do that at the table, dear,” she said. It was not a question.

  “Well we’re eating at the table. Where do you propose I feed my son ?”

  “Forget about this!” Geoff snapped at his mother. “I want to know where Kimmy is. What did she say, Lucy? Where did she say she was going? I’m going to her.”

  His father actually stood up from his seat as though he might physically prevent Geoff from trying to leave. “Sit down!” he insisted. Um, sir, you’re the only one standing. “Do not go groveling to that woman. She’s not going to make any more a fool of you than she already has, son. And you! Put your breast away and cease that nonsense immediately.”

  Put my breast away?! Now, let me be very clear about something. I may have had a little trouble breastfeeding at first, but after six weeks at it, I was a pro. I had bras and shirts that had more secret compartments and trick doors than the Bat Cave. I nursed so discreetly, most of the time, people had no idea I was breastfeeding. It simply looked as though my son was resting comfortably at my chest. Okay, there were times when he’d push off against my stomach to get a little extra pull of milk, but even then, no skin showed. I was pretty pleased to be such a skilled breast feeder, especially when my mother and aunts were not able to offer me any guidance whatsoever. So this “put your breast away” business pissed me off. I wondered if Geoff was like his father and if this is what she meant when Kimmy told the florist that her fiance was a control freak. Furthermore, I wondered what the hell I was doing at this dinner table with the jilted, mean family. They did not need me to console them. I couldn’t provide them with answers.

  I was simply the sacrificial lamb, a symbol of Kimmy to be slaughtered at the dinner table. With that realization I stood and told them that my son, my breasts, and I were leaving. “Geoff, I’m sorry to leave early, but given everything you’ve been through this evening, I’m sure my skipping dinner falls into the category of small stuff you’re not going to sweat. Good evening.”

  Dramatic exits are always so much more effective when the person leaving doesn’t need to pack chewing toys, a muppet, and a case of wipes into a diaper bag, then strap on a baby sling and adjust an infant into it. Three full minutes later, I was ready to walk out the door. “So good evening then,” I repeated, resisting the temptation to whip out my right boob and squirt a stream of milk in Geoff’s father’s face.

  On the bus ride home, I asked Adam if we’d e
ver go to a normal party together. “You always said normal was boring, Mommy,” I imagined him saying to me one day. Right now, I’d kill for a healthy dose of boredom. Adam floated off to sleep as I drifted fifteen years back to my wedding to Jack.

  In some ways I envied Kimmy’s and my mother’s complete conviction that they are the epicenter of everything fabulous. I would never presume to ask people to give up their Valentine’s Day to attend my wedding. Nor would it ever occur to me to have a royal wedding at the colossal St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I would never dream of asking my mother to pay for 300 dinner guests at Marco’s. When I was younger and started lightening my hair, I remember seeing those L’Oreal commercials where the gorgeous women would say that the hair color costs a bit more, but they were worth it. So I bought Clairol.

  My wedding to Jack suited our style, though, and it was thoroughly lovely. We had fifty guests in Anjoli’s backyard on a humid summer night in July. She placed white Christmas lights in the trees and a string quartet played classical music on Anjoli’s terra-cotta patio. She hired out-of-work actors to serve tiny hors d’oeuvres like lobster puffs and mini potatoes with sour cream and caviar. More than any of that, I remember looking at Jack and thinking how lucky I was to be spending the rest of my life with my best friend. To finally have found my home. When Jack and I danced together for the first time as a married couple, he whispered that he hoped we died together because the thought of one of us holding the other’s body, and not feeling the incredible warmth we shared that night, was too painful to bear. I told you Jack was never light and breezy.

  His marriage proposal was surprisingly upbeat. We were still in grad school in Ann Arbor and one night we were walking home from seeing a movie at the Michigan Theatre. “Stop,” he said. He looked at his watch and said, “Kiss me right now.” I happily complied. We were underneath the arch of the West Engineering Building as the Bell Tower gonged twelve times. “Keep going,” he pulled on my hands when I pulled away. “That will do,” he said as the final bell tolled.

  “What was that all about?” I laughed, although I secretly knew.

  The campus legend was that couples that kissed under the arch at the stroke of midnight would stay in love for ever, he explained. “So do you think it’s true?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know,” I giggled.

  “How ʼbout we find out? Whaddya say? Are you game for an experiment? We’ll get married and see about this staying in love forever business.” He smiled. I wasn’t sure if he was kidding. “I know it would be a huge sacrifice on your part, Lucy. Having to stay with me for your whole life, but in the name of social science and the love of U of M, might you consider it?” Then he got down on one knee and pulled from his pocket a velvet box with an antique engagement ring that belonged to his grandmother. A few people slowed down their walk onto the Diag to watch the proposal, though no one stopped and stared openly.

  “Jack,” I knelt down to him. “I already know I’ll love you forever, and I’ll marry you right this second if I could.”

  Our wedding was the following weekend.

  Obviously, I will be suing the University of Michigan for selling a naïve grad student false hopes for eternal wedded bliss. Unfortunately the monetary compensation for a broken heart is quite low. The best I’d get is a Chicago Dog at Red Hot Lovers.

  Our first ten years were so smooth and effortless, I remember being quite smug about it actually. People would talk about how marriage was such hard work, and I very arrogantly thought that they simply didn’t have as intense a love as Jack and I did. I guess when things really started to unravel was after the second miscarriage. It could have brought us together, but had quite the opposite effect. Jack was so distant. He never said anything about anything, and would’ve preferred if I didn’t either. Every time I shared a feeling with him, he immediately insisted that I deny it. I understand that when someone says, “Oh, don’t feel sad,” they really are trying to help. But telling me not to feel what I’m already feeling is not at all helpful. He’d also repeat like a mantra, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Lucy.” Again, I know he was trying to soothe me, but “it” was not okay. Helpful tip for husbands: If your wife is hysterically crying over the loss of her babies, her father, or you, her husband, everything is definitely not okay. Trying to convince her otherwise is emotional abandonment at its worst. I remember a few weeks ago, I was at the park with Adam and a baby in his stroller was wailing at the top of his lungs, and the mom was saying, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Guess what? If the kid’s crying, he’s not okay, no matter how much you wish it weren’t so. Deal with whatever’s bothering him.

  I wondered what Jack’s side of the story was. According to Natalie, he had no idea why our relationship broke down. Perhaps he had theories but didn’t want to share them with her despite their oh-so-long history. Was it my weight? Did we simply drift in opposite directions or does he feel I pushed him away? If I asked him where we went wrong, would he think I was trying to reconcile? Perhaps I would tell him I needed closure on our relationship. Oh God, I’m turning into my mother.

  Chapter 22

  If I hadn’t had a six-week-old baby with me, I would have checked into a homeless shelter that night. When I arrived at my mother’s home, there was a soiree that surpassed my wildest expectations. Kimmy was body surfing in her wedding gown atop the meticulously manicured hands of her guests. Anjoli was wildly playing the saxophone (she doesn’t play). Dr. Comstock gyrated his hips as though he should have dollar bills stuffed in his G-string. Oh God, on second glance, I saw that my son’s pediatrician did have dollar bills stuffed in what was thankfully not a G-string, but rather, Disney character boxer shorts. And surprise, surprise, Alfie was at the keyboard doing the campiest, gayest renditions of wedding songs ever heard. No one noticed me come. Or go.

  An hour later, as I turned the key to my home in Caldwell, I heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from the room formerly known as my home office. “Quiet, honey,” I whispered to Adam. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt Daddy fucking his girlfriend.”

  The next morning Natalie made pancakes for the three of us, and asked if I minded if she and Jack spent the day with Adam. The way she moved around my kitchen filled me with rage and inadequacy. I felt as though I was in a gender-swapped American version of Bed and Sofa. How did she know where the wire whisk was when I had no clue? Was she boiling water with my teakettle?! As much as I tried to find fault with Natalie, the reality was I couldn’t help but like her. She was smart, insightful, and pretty in a very unassuming way. (Which was difficult to do considering she was assuming my role as Jack’s wife and Adam’s mother.)

  “Enjoy!” I said, too enthusiastically. “I’m sure you guys will have a lovely day together. And I could use the break myself. I’ve got a million things to take care of.” Namely screwing the first willing guy that comes directly into my line of vision.

  What was Natalie’s agenda anyway? Oh sure, she seemed sweet enough with her schoolteacher calmness and artsy good looks, but beneath the surface was there someone far more evil and dangerous? Might she and Jack have a plan to kill me for my life insurance money? Or was she simply trying on the role of stepmommy and second wife to see how it fit her?

  “I’ve got to tell you, Lucy. I think you’re just about the coolest woman I’ve ever met,” Natalie interrupted my silent musings. “Not every mother would feel comfortable with this whole setup, and welcome me into her home like you have. I hope you know how much I genuinely appreciate your generosity.” Jack looked up from his newspaper and smiled. He was having his pancakes and eating them too. I wanted to cry. Why couldn’t this woman have the decency to be loathsome?!

  Adam had no loyalty whatsoever. Whenever Natalie made funny faces at him, he laughed. Whenever she cooed baby talk to him, he gurgled back. If I had a daughter, she’d instinctively know to shun this imposter. I heard the three of them bundling up at the front door, discussing their plans for the day. Natalie wondered if
the Natural History Museum still had the frogs. Jack thought the planetarium would be fun. A laser show, he suggested. I got the pediatric appointments, midnight nursings, and toenail clippings. These two get the planetarium. Adam would grow up to hate me, thinking Jack and Natalie were the fun ones and I was the bitch who enforced curfew and homework.

  “Good boy!” Natalie squealed. What did he do?! I nearly ran from my bedroom to see. Then I heard Adam giggle. That was my giggle! He should have giggled for his mommy. He’s never giggled for me. Ever! When they get home, I’m going to snatch back my child and be the funniest mother anyone has ever seen! The boy will laugh himself into a state of exhaustion, then fall into a deep, eight-hour slumber thinking that he has the most hilarious mother in the whole wide world and that all others are simply cheap imitations. The door closed and they were gone.

  I sat at my computer screen and stared at poor rain drenched Desdemona. I imagined her turning her coquettish little body toward me and putting her hand on her hip. “I’ve been in the rain on a cobblestone road for months,” she’d say. “How ʼbout you do something with me already? At least bring me indoors!”

  Desdemona came in from the rain, drenched and dejected. It had been a tough day. Her husband never noticed her come in, much less offered her a towel or a cup of tea. It had been so long since he’d noticed anything about Desdemona. She went to the kitchen to look for her tea kettle, and wondered where it had gone. It seemed so much of Desdemona’s life had been misplaced recently.

  “Thank you,” my character said to me from the computer screen. “Perhaps in chapter two, I will find my kettle, no?”

  Thankfully, the ringing phone interrupted my internal chatter. “Hello, I’m looking for Lucy Klein,” a woman said.