Although now that I thought about it, she hadn’t yet seemed all that interested in what kind of parents Jeremy and I would be. Maybe it was just a combination of fatigue and hormones. Or maybe it was self-preservation. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to carry a baby to term and then hand it over to another woman to raise. Deep down, Lainey had to be an amazingly strong woman.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I coaxed.
Lainey nodded and shrugged again—I was starting to really tire of the shrug, but tried to tell myself it would be good practice for parenting during those difficult teen years—but she finally said, “Okay, I guess.”
It wasn’t enthusiastic, but it was a start.
“Do you see anything you like?” I asked.
I’d been dying to go shopping at Pea in the Pod ever since Jeremy and I had first started trying to conceive. I’d been once before, with Mimi when she was pregnant with Luke and shopping for a cocktail dress. I’d laughed at the irony of a cocktail maternity dress, but it turned out there were racks of them, thus showing yet again how little I knew about all things pregnancy related.
“I don’t know,” Lainey said, looking around at the round-bellied mannequins dressed in cashmere sweaters and wide-legged wool trousers. “These aren’t the sort of clothes I usually wear.”
She had a point—everything displayed in the front of the store did seem geared more toward professional women. A smiling salesgirl came forward to greet us.
“Do you have any casual clothes?” I asked. “Jeans, T-shirts, anything like that?”
“Right this way,” the salesclerk said, leading us to the back of the store.
“Perfect!” I said when I saw the racks of denim, graphic T’s, and cute little sundresses. I pulled out a pair of skinny, dark denim jeans and held them up to Lainey. “These would be adorable on you!”
Lainey looked nonplussed. “But how will I be able to tell if they’ll fit me once I’m bigger?”
“We have belly pillows in each dressing room. You just tie it on, and you’ll be able to see how the garment will fit once you’ve started showing more,” the salesclerk chipped in.
“Really?” Lainey looked surprised, then—amazingly—she actually smiled. At least, it was almost a smile: One corner of her mouth definitely quirked upward. “That’s sort of cool.”
I was so excited by this first flash of enthusiasm from her, I began pulling clothes off the racks. Cotton sundresses, wrap T’s, denim skirts, more jeans. “You have to try this. Oh, and this! And isn’t this great?” I said, pulling a jersey empire-waisted dress out and holding it up to Lainey.
“You want me to try on all of these?” she asked, looking down at the armful of clothes I’d handed her.
“I’ll take those and put them in a dressing room for you,” the salesclerk offered.
Lainey modeled outfit after outfit for me. She was so tall and leggy she looked great in everything.
“What do you think of this?” Lainey asked, showing off an elegant ivory cotton sweater over a denim pencil skirt. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, her neck an elegant arc, her eyebrows arched. My fingers itched for my camera.
“Would you mind if I took your picture?” I blurted out.
I’d been trying to work up the nerve to ask Lainey to model for my planned maternity portraiture exhibit for a few weeks, but kept chickening out. I fully expected her to cross her arms, stare down her nose at me, and reject the idea.
But Lainey stopped, mid-twirl, and looked at me. “What, now? Here?” she asked.
“No, no,” I said. “In my studio. I’m putting together a show of portraits of pregnant women. My plan is to shoot each woman at different stages in her pregnancy, and, when possible, of the baby with the mother. I’d like to include you in the show.”
“You’re going to take a photo of me with the baby … or you with the baby?” Lainey asked.
I don’t know what was more unsettling—the question and all that it implied, or the cool, appraising look Lainey was giving me.
“The show will be held before you give birth, so neither, actually,” I said carefully.
“Oh,” Lainey said. “Sure, I guess.”
She’d acquiesced surprisingly quickly. “Really?”
“Why not.” She shrugged. The wall was back in place. “Do I have to be naked?”
“It’s up to you. Some of the pregnant women I’ve photographed have bared their bellies. But if that makes you uncomfortable, you could just wear whatever.”
Lainey shrugged, and turned to stare at herself in the mirror. “I don’t care. I’m not against full nudity, but only if it advances my career. You know: Playboy but not Internet porn.”
“Um, right. Good for you,” I said, trying to sound supportive. “But no, this wouldn’t be at all like that. The portraits will be very tasteful, very artistic.”
“Okay. Whatever.” Lainey brightened. “You said they’re going to be part of a show? Will anyone famous see them?”
“I doubt it. The show is going to be at my studio,” I said apologetically.
“Oh,” Lainey said, looking disappointed. She turned back to study her reflection in the mirror. “Still, I guess I can use the photos in my portfolio. If I don’t look too fat. What do you think of this skirt?”
“It’s very cute,” I said.
“Can I get it?”
“Sure,” I said. Hopefully, I’d be able to hide the Visa bill before Jeremy saw it.
After Pea in the Pod, we hit Mimi Maternity and then took a lunch break. Lainey was hungry, and I was reeling from the seven hundred dollars I’d just spent on maternity clothes. I knew Jeremy would freak when he found out about it. But, I reasoned, this was what prospective adoptive parents had to do to keep the birth mother happy. I’d been haunting adoptive-parent online chat boards, and from the stories I’d read there, a shopping spree was the least of it.
Other prospective adoptive parents bought their birth mothers cars and furnished their apartments, or sent them on beach vacations. Laws on what you were allowed to do varied by state, but most of the adoptive parents reasoned that things like cars and furniture fell under the category of living expenses, while restful, stress-reducing spa days and vacations could qualify as medical care. Everyone knew that this was stretching the limits, from acceptable expenses to what could be considered the outright purchasing of a baby. But none of them cared. They were all willing to do whatever it took to get one. And Jeremy and I simply didn’t possess the resources many of these couples had.
Luckily, I’d recently been referred some wedding jobs. A few had come by word of mouth—brides who’d been unhappy with the photographer they had hired, and were looking for a last-minute replacement. I’d also scored a few jobs from another photographer I knew, Joanie Boyle, who had broken her arm on a skiing trip. So while our financial crisis wasn’t completely solved and I was stuck spending the next five Saturdays in wedding hell—tearful brides, bossy mothers, bitchy bridesmaids—the extra money I was making would help with the expenses.
“How’s your sandwich?” I asked.
“Fine,” Lainey said, wolfing down a turkey and cheese panini. She was ignoring the spinach salad I’d also ordered for her—“You have to try one, they’re delicious here!”—and was instead chasing each bite of sandwich with a greasy handful of french fries. At least she was taking her daily prenatal vitamin, I thought. I gave her one every morning with a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice.
“You said you’re developing a portfolio?” I asked. “Have you done any modeling?”
Lainey shook her head. “Not my thing,” she said. “I just wanted to have some photos so that when I go on casting calls, they can see how I look on film.”
I nodded. I had no idea how casting calls worked, but her reasoning was sound enough.
“Would you like me to photograph you?” I offered. “Not just the pregnancy photos. I could also do some head shots.”
“You’d do that?”<
br />
“Of course.” I smiled at her surprise. I got the feeling that Lainey wasn’t used to anyone doing anything for her. Maybe that was why she was so guarded.
I picked up my turkey on whole wheat, and took a bite without tasting it. As I chewed I watched Lainey from beneath my lashes, trying to figure out what was going on. She was scowling down at her plate. I put the sandwich back down and said, “Is something wrong, Lainey?”
She shook her head.
“You seem down. Are you not feeling well?”
“I said I’m fine,” she said testily.
“Do you like your new clothes?” I asked, trying to coax her out of the sullen mood.
Another shrug.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s just …” Lainey heaved out a sigh and brushed her hair back over her shoulders. “These are the nicest clothes I’ve ever had, and they don’t really count. I won’t be able to wear any of them after I have the baby.”
Anger rose like bile into my throat. I had just spent seven hundred dollars on this girl—more money than I had ever spent on clothes for myself at one time—and she was sighing and tossing her hair around as though this were some great injustice. The ingratitude of it staggered me.
But then I tried to remind myself that she’d been through a lot lately: discovering that she was pregnant. Breaking up with her boyfriend. Being forced out of her home. Finding herself alone in the world. Moving in to the guesthouse of strangers. It would be a lot for anyone to take in, much less someone so young.
My anger ebbed, cooled by an unexpected rush of empathy. Of course this was all overwhelming for her. The shopping bags propped up on chairs and resting on the ground by our feet were full of clothes that had tummy panels and empire waists. What twenty-year-old wanted that?
“You know, there are some great stores in this mall,” I said, trying to remember if we’d paid off my Bloomingdale’s card. “Maybe we could pick up a few things for you to wear after you have the baby?”
I was rewarded by the first genuine smile I’d seen from Lainey all day. It transformed her face, turned her from merely pretty to a true beauty. She didn’t have classical features—her jaw was too blunt, her nose a smidgen too wide, her lips too thin—but altogether, they made for an arresting combination. It was a face that would photograph beautifully.
“Really?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, grinning back at her. “We’re here to have fun, right?”
When we got home from the mall, laden with shopping bags and our feet aching, we found my mother sitting at the kitchen table, peeling an apple with a paring knife. Otis was under the table, lying down on his side with his head resting on my mother’s feet.
“Jeremy let me in,” my mother said by way of greeting. She had her long gray hair tied back in a braid and was wearing a floor-length celery green linen dress. Glasses were hanging at her neck, suspended by a beaded chain.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Hiding, I think. He said something about taking Otis for a walk, but he apparently forgot to take the dog with him, and I haven’t seen him since,” Mom said. “What have you two been up to?”
“Shopping,” Lainey said succinctly. She sat down in the chair opposite my mother, tucking one foot up under her leg, and watched as my mom slowly rotated the apple against the knife so that the peel fell away in a perfect coil. “That’s so cool. How do you do that so it’s all in one piece like that?”
“Practice and patience,” Mom said. She used the paring knife to slice the apple into chunks, and fanned them out on a plate with a flourish.
“Show-off,” I said, taking one of the apple slices and popping it into my mouth.
“Can I try?” Lainey asked.
My mother handed Lainey the knife and an apple. Lainey slid the knife against the apple, hacking off a chunk. “Shit,” she said.
“Here, watch me. It’s all in the wrist,” Mom said, taking the apple back and demonstrating.
Lainey took another stab at peeling the apple. This time, she managed to turn it all the way around before breaking the peel off. “Oh, no! I almost did it that time,” she said.
“Good!” Mom said, beaming at her.
I looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what was going on. For Lainey, this was practically gregarious. Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for my childhood friends to gravitate toward my mother. Maybe she had a mysterious appeal to the twenty-and-under crowd that I’d been immune to at that age. Or maybe my friends were just hoping she’d break out her stash.
I checked my watch. “I have to get to the studio,” I said.
“On a Saturday?” Mom asked.
I just nodded. I didn’t want to talk about the extra work I’d taken on to help cover the adoption expenses in front of Lainey, in case it made her uncomfortable. “Have fun peeling apples,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Should I expect a pie to be waiting here when I get back?”
“Not unless you like being disappointed,” Mom said. “What are you working on?”
“I’m putting together the proof book for the McKinley wedding I shot last weekend. They’re coming in Monday to get it. And I need to edit some photos I took for the show,” I said.
“What show?” Mom asked.
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’ve already told you about it,” I said. “I swear, you’re as bad as Jeremy.”
“Tell me again.”
“What’s the point? You’ll just forget about it again,” I said irritably. My mother’s memory had always been awful—probably a consequence of living through the sixties—but she’d been getting even worse lately.
Lainey turned to gaze at me, and I immediately regretted snapping at my mom. It made me look petty and mean-spirited, which were not traits I wanted our birth mother to associate me with. I needed to always appear serene, warm, maternal. Lainey could still change her mind, I reminded myself, as an oily dread twisted in my stomach. Once a birth mother gave her consent to give her baby up for adoption, it was irrevocable. But, as Mike Jankowski had explained to us, consent couldn’t be obtained until forty-eight hours after the birth. It meant I had twenty-four weeks—plus forty-eight hours—to convince Lainey that I would be the perfect mother. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, not once.
“I’ve been taking fish oil capsules,” Mom said.
“That’s good,” I said, forcing my lips up into a smile.
Mom frowned at me. “Why are you grimacing like that? Don’t. It makes you look like you’re one broken nail away from a nervous breakdown.”
I would have killed my mother right then and there, except that I had a feeling that would probably make an even worse impression on Lainey.
“What does fish oil do?” Lainey asked.
“It’s supposed to improve your memory. And it’s good for your skin,” Mom said.
“Really? How?”
“It’s chock-full of omega-3 fatty acids. Wonderful stuff, you can’t have too much of it. It keeps your skin clear, your cholesterol down, your brain working,” Mom enthused.
“Maybe I’ll try it,” Lainey said. “Being pregnant is making me break out. See?” She pointed to a tiny, barely noticeable red bump on her chin. “Isn’t that gross?”
“Fish oil will definitely help,” Mom said, examining the pimple.
“I think you should check with Dr. Jones before you start taking anything,” I cautioned.
“I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just fish oil,” Mom said.
“Even so,” I said.
When I was thirteen, my mom tried—unsuccessfully—to convince me to smoke pot to relieve menstrual cramps, so she was not someone I wanted giving medical advice to our birth mother. In fact, I was now having a terrifying vision of Mom talking Lainey into taking massive doses of fish oil and the baby being born with gills and covered in scales. I made a mental note to Google fish oil birth defects and decided to change the sub
ject.
“The show I’m doing is going to feature portraits of women in different stages of pregnancy,” I said.
“I’m going to be in it,” Lainey said.
I smiled at her. “That’s right.”
My mother gave me a penetrating look. I wondered if she, like Jeremy, was going to lecture me on how masochistic it was for an infertile photographer to take maternity portraits. But instead, she said, “That’s an excellent idea.”
“It is?” I said, surprised.
“Of course! It’s a celebration of love and life and the ultimate female experience!” My mother placed a hand across her breast, as though she were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “It’s very powerful.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said, glancing sideways at Lainey. She was attempting to peel another apple.
“I’m going to write a series of poems to go along with your photographs,” Mom announced importantly. “All in free verse, each celebrating a different aspect of pregnancy. We’ll hang them on the walls next to the portraits, thereby creating both a visual and textual experience! What do you think?”
I knew what I thought: I hated the idea. The last thing I wanted was for people to be distracted from my photography by trying to make sense out of a series of poems with titles like “The Spermatozoon Strikes” and “My Journey Out: Meditations on a Birth in Process.”
“You write poetry?” Lainey asked, unexpectedly perking up.
“I do,” Mom said, coyly patting her gray curls.
“Cool,” Lainey said. “Are they in, like, books?”
Mom sniffed. “Modern-day publishing houses are corporate, profit-driven behemoths. They don’t support art, only crappy commercial pap.”
Unfortunately, Jeremy chose this moment to enter the kitchen, unseen by my mother and Lainey, who were both sitting with their backs to him. At the phrase crappy commercial pap, he arched his eyebrows at me.
Sorry, I mouthed. Jeremy shrugged, and silently backed out of the kitchen before Mom saw him.
“These days, I only read the classics. And even then, I check them out of the library. I have some of my poems here,” Mom said, pulling a spiral notebook out of the battered cotton tote she used as a handbag. “Would you like to read one?”
When You Least Expect It Page 13
