The Best of Friends

by Sara James

  The weeks passed slowly. Given my history and age, I’d switched to a high-risk ob-gyn practice in New York. These days I braced myself before every look through the porthole, but week after week, the flickering lighthouse held steady. And soon it seemed as if a fog had lifted and I could see more. There was the head, the abdomen, budding arms and legs, fingers and toes, as the baby rocked gently inside its underwater cradle. And finally it was time for amnio.

  While Ginger’s doctor had only performed a handful of procedures, my practice performed several hundred a year. My procedure went smoothly. But the wait was another matter. Ginger had spent those long days of uncertainty thinking about her sister Tish. And now I couldn’t help but think of Tish, too. As an older mom—three years older than Ginger had been when she delivered Kimber—I’d been encouraged to see a genetics counselor who’d matter-of-factly informed me of our baby’s risk of Down’s as well as far more catastrophic chromosomal missteps. I knew how Tish’s severe health problems had plagued her, causing anguish and uncertainty for her and the rest of the family.

  But I also knew that so much of life was unpredictable, no matter what tests were available. After all, Tish’s first sign of trouble only came when she was four years old. I knew far too well that traumatic, devastating events could happen to anyone, at any time. And I’d also seen families, including the Mauneys, make their way through such heartache with courage and grace. What’s more, I knew how gentle and compassionate Ginger was. My friend who had been unable to film her beloved baboons in their distress. My friend who had been the first to offer to fly to New York when my first marriage had ended. My friend who felt more at home with a pride of lions than with the proud Masters of the Universe who strutted through New York. My friend who rarely complained. After all, what was there to whine about when you compared your life with that of a beloved younger sister who suffered seizures so frequent and severe that they limited her choices and often robbed her of control.

  Ginger’s secret fear, the one she’d confided so many years before, had been that she and Tish could have traded places. Tish might have been Gin. She might have been Tish. It was a fear that made her feel guilty and ashamed. But I believed that very fear had forged her. And I couldn’t help but believe that witnessing a sister whose life was necessarily narrow had driven Ginger to expand her own horizons, to have the courage to gamble, to reinvent herself. Ginger knew she was fortunate. It was a gift she dare not waste. But what I didn’t think Ginger knew was that in a way she’d incorporated a part of her sister into herself. Ginger was worried that in choosing Africa, she’d run away from Tish. I felt that in choosing Africa, Ginger was living her life, a great big dream of a life, for both of them.

  I realized I hadn’t said any of this to Ginger. It had only just become clear to me. I needed to tell her that having her as a friend actually had reduced my worries about having a child with medical woes. It had by no means erased those fears, and I prayed nightly for a healthy baby. More than anything else, I just wanted our baby to survive. I wanted this test to tell me there was nothing so catastrophically wrong that our baby would die before it could be born. I just wasn’t sure I could make it if another child growing inside me were to wither away.

  Being forced to wait always makes me want to escape, to catch a plane. Fortunately, by then the doctors had determined that my pregnancy was far enough along that such a choice was safe, so I headed to Tampa, Florida. It was the early autumn of 2000, and the presidential election was just weeks away. NBC had gathered a focus group there to watch the debate between Texas Governor George W. Bush and Vice President Al Gore. Afterward I’d interview the Floridians to see what they’d thought. As I pawed through my wardrobe searching for the largest jacket, only to discover I still couldn’t button the button, I realized my pregnancy must be a secret in name only. I chose a skirt with an elastic waist, wore a don’t-ask-me smile, and said nothing.

  When the plane landed, I couldn’t stand it any longer. It was just after nine in the morning. I stood in the lobby of the hotel and used my cell phone to dial the doctor’s office.

  When I got off the phone, my hands were shaking. I punched in the numbers for Andrew.

  “G’day. How was the flight? Are you feeling okay? Or am I not allowed to ask that, either?”

  “Today you can ask anything you want. Anything, Andrew, because I am great! The amnio is back and everything is fine!”

  I do not remember what my husband said, because, after all, the news was exactly what he’d predicted. I thought of the little flicker inside me, which I could now think of as a baby. Our baby. So much happiness feeding on that slender wick of wonder, that flaming beacon of life. I had no idea what my future would be like. I just knew that now I felt like I was living it.

  FOR ME, THERE were two pregnancies—before and after amnio. With my status secure, I reveled in everything. The baby had started kicking, all right, kicking so hard we nicknamed it Thumper.

  “You’re carrying high. That means a boy.”

  “You’re carrying forward! Definitely a boy.”

  Secretly I agreed. Suddenly I could eat anything and wanted to eat everything. Work was busy and diverting and flying never bothered me. I always made a point of walking around the metal detector at security, opting for a pat-down to avoid needless X-rays. Baby first.

  When I wasn’t on the road I generally filled in on Today, enjoying the opportunity to catch up with all of my pals there, both on-and offscreen. And on that fateful election night of November 7, 2000, I anchored the coverage for one of NBC’s sister networks, CNBC. A few weeks later, shortly before the Supreme Court designated George W. Bush president-in-waiting, I escaped with Andrew for a Roman holiday. When I returned, my friend Soledad O’Brien, the Weekend Today anchor, lent me her fabulous maternity clothes, including leather pants which I wore to my baby shower, so I could get through the long, snowy winter in style.

  But as I moved into the third trimester, I realized that while I’d accepted that I was going to have a baby, I knew nothing about being a mother. Fortunately, I lived in New York, a city in which it’s not uncommon to tackle motherhood in your thirties, forties, or even fifties rather than your twenties, and I had plenty of friends who could offer recent advice.

  “Get a baby nurse,” advised Sharon, unofficial spokesperson for the group. Years after we’d compared notes on our disastrous dating lives, she’d married a wonderful man named Steve Seltzer. Nine months and one week later, they’d had daughter Samantha, soon followed by son Jake.

  “What’s a baby nurse?”

  “What’s a baby nurse??? A baby nurse is indispensable. She stays at your house overnight, feeds Baby when he wakes up, and gets him on a schedule.”

  I listened politely but had already crossed this tip off my list. I was accustomed to getting up at 4 A.M. when I read the news on Today. I’d anchored an overnight newscast. I was accustomed to surviving on little sleep. I called Ginger.

  “So, Gin, I figure that while I’m home on maternity leave, I’ll have loads of free time when Thumper is napping, right?”

  “I don’t really remember any.” She sounded doubtful. “Come to think of it, I can’t remember much of anything during the first six months. Nad used to call Kimber ‘Abu Nidal’—the little terrorist who had taken us hostage for life.”

  That sounded ominous and uncharacteristically melodramatic. Perhaps sensing my distress, Ginger tossed in a comforting disclaimer. “But look, maybe your baby will be different.”

  I cheered up. Ginger lived in Africa, after all, where her only available role models were elephants. I lived in New York, and while pachyderms were scarce, books and classes were widely available. I read Dr. Sears. Penelope Leach. The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy. And, of course, the bible, What to Expect. I signed up for any class with baby in the title, from “Infant CPR” to a jazzy little number called “How to Diaper an Infant.” The nurse who taught the class looked at every one of us with mild alarm. Clea
rly we were in for it if we couldn’t even figure out how to Velcro a Pampers.

  And then there were the childbirth classes.

  Andrew was dubious.

  “Why Bradley? Didn’t the quack recommend Lamaze?”

  “It’s similar, but Bradley focuses on going through childbirth without drugs. I want to do this by myself so I have the genuine birth experience, and that means I won’t get an epidural.”

  Andrew looked incredulous. “Why not?”

  “What do you mean why not?”

  “Pretty simple question. As you know, I’m no fan of drugs, but why not take medicine if it reduces pain?”

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “Because it’s unnatural. It interferes with my authentic experience and it means Thumper gets drugs that slow him down when he’s born. Women have been having babies without drugs for a gazillion years and doing just fine. It’s just all the movies, the Hollywood hype, trying to convince us it’s going to hurt a lot.”

  “Sara, let me give you the egg flip on this. It’s gonna hurt.”

  “Well, I’m strong. Besides, I’m also taking pregnancy yoga, like LP did. I’m learning breathing techniques.”

  Andrew’s mouth clamped down at the corner as it does when he’s stifling a laugh.

  “But didn’t Ginger say—”

  I cut him a look.

  “Have it your way.” He shrugged.

  My mom was more blunt. “That sounds ridiculous. You hate pain.”

  OUR BABY WAS due on March 6. The day came. The day went. Dateline executive producer Neal Shapiro sensibly insisted I stop coming to work. No babies born at the office, thank you.

  As a natural childbirth devotee, I didn’t worry about the delay. Babies had their own schedule. Dr. Kessler was tolerant, to a point, but demanded I be induced if the baby hadn’t arrived in two weeks. “Much as you are clearly enjoying this pregnancy, Sara,” he told me, “you are going to have the baby.”

  On the night of March 19, I was typing an e-mail to Mom and Dad when I felt a light squeeze in my abdomen.

  “Andrew! Grab the watch, let’s time my contractions!”

  I followed the Bradley instructions to get into a warm bath to ease the pain. A few minutes later I jumped up again, dripping.

  “We have got to get to the hospital. This baby is going to be born any minute!”

  “Sara, your contractions are only twenty seconds long and they’re twelve minutes apart. According to those classes you made me take, it’s still very early.”

  “Arrgh!” I screamed. “The classes are wrong. This hurts!”

  “Okay, okay, settle down. That’s why they call it labor. Let’s call Dr. Kessler and tell him we’re on our way.”

  My apartment was only half a mile from the hospital. The doorman flagged a taxi for us, wished me luck. I bit down on a scream.

  The taxi driver took one look at me and hit the gas. Unfortunately, he also hit a pothole. I moaned and grabbed Andrew.

  “Ouch! Take it easy,” said my husband, extracting my fingernails from his arm.

  When we arrived at the hospital, I wondered if I would be five centimeters dilated, or all the way to ten. Dr. Kessler shook his head compassionately. “Zero.”

  How could such a thing be possible? I held on for a few drug-free hours, but by 5 A.M. had had enough. “You know, there’s no crime in it, Sara,” Dr. Kessler comforted me.

  Andrew said nothing. Not one thing, for which I will always be grateful. I’d flunked Bradley but I no longer cared. After the epidural, I was actually enjoying my birth experience. And before I knew it, the long months of waiting compressed into a few frantic minutes of pushing, followed by a strong, welcome cry.

  It was shortly before noon on the first day of spring, March 20, 2001.

  “It’s a girl!” Dr. Kessler said.

  “Hello, Sophie James Butcher,” I said, laughing and crying as I looked into her large, serious eyes. Our gorgeous, glorious baby. “Now get a cuddle from your dad.”

  I watched as Andrew cradled our little treasure, still dressed only in her birthday suit, before he carried her off to be weighed, pricked, and swaddled. She was perfect. I was forty years old and I’d just become a mom. I knew one moment of being utterly, perfectly happy.

  “THERE ARE EATERS and there are sleepers. You got an eater,” pronounced Nurse Nancy at the pediatrician’s office, squeezing one of Sophie’s juicy thighs. My baby had just had another excellent checkup. She was sailing over milestones. First smile. First clap. Rolling over. Nearly five months old, she loved her toys, loved to be held, seemed to take everything in with her wide hazel eyes. The only problem was, she never shut them, waking every two hours to nurse. I stumbled and blinked outside. I had trouble dialing the phone. I wept when someone left the freezer door open and I had to pour out the stored breast milk. I snapped at anyone who suggested I was tired. But in a few months, I was going back to work.

  “Let the baby cry it out,” one friend suggested.

  “I can’t.”

  “Ferberize her,” said another.

  “You and Andrew will figure out what is best, and Sophie will be okay,” said Andi, whose credentials as a psychologist as well as producer made me feel better.

  It was so difficult to get Sophie to sleep that we sometimes let her sleep all night in her car seat. “What’s with her neck?” asked my pal Lynne.

  “It’s just a little crooked. It’s okay.”

  Lynne cocked her head in an unflattering imitation. “Have you asked the doctor if it’s okay?”

  Sophie moved to a crib. But while her neck straightened out, her sleeping patterns didn’t.

  I called Ginger. “Why didn’t you tell me how hard it was?” I wailed.

  “I did,” she reminded me gently. “Abu Nidal, remember?”

  I remembered.

  “But I’m sure she’s also wonderful.”

  “Oh, Gin, she’s fantastic. I take her to the park, and she loves the grass, the swings. She is everything to me.”

  I stopped, keenly aware of how trite such tributes sounded. But they were heartfelt. I had no words to express the size of my feelings for our little girl, the wonder of being a parent after so long. There was life before Sophie. And there was life after. I realized there was much I needed to figure out, about how I was going to be Sophie’s mom and work, too. But I couldn’t think until I’d had some sleep. Ginger understood.

  “Look, it’ll work out. You’re going over to Australia in a couple of weeks to take Sophie to meet Andrew’s family, right? When you come back, your nanny will start and you’ll still have a little time before you go back to NBC. Aren’t you lucky that Dateline gives such long maternity leave.”

  But life didn’t quite work out that way. Because Andrew, Sophie, and I returned to New York on September 9, 2001.

  27

  GINGER (2001)

  I STEPPED OUTSIDE THE dark editing suite into the crisp sunshine. After a cold night, the last vestige of an African winter, it was a beautifully clear, breezy day. Standing against a bare wall to catch the sun, I warmed my hands, then punched our home phone number into a borrowed cell phone, hoping to reach Nad and Kimber.

  The phone rang and rang. No reply. They must be out in the park, I thought. While I’d been away in Windhoek for the past few weeks working on the edit of our latest film, The Chase, about game capture in Namibia, Nad was home in Etosha doing double duty at work and with Kimber.

  After a few more minutes of soaking in the sun, I walked back into the edit suite, opening the door and letting pale light cast a shadow across the computer screen. Josef Nyberg, a bright, talented Swedish film editor, looked up and asked, “How’s Nad?”

  “Don’t know. There was no answer. I’ll try again later.”

  “Come and take a look at this sequence.”

  I sat down beside Josef, who had stopped cutting film and started drumming his pencil to the soulful African rhythms of Erykah Badu. Rapid shots of giraffe, eland, black rhinos, ropes
, trucks, helicopters, and men set to a background of vibrant music filled the edit suite. The pace was quick, the atmosphere fun. Just then, the door to the suite abruptly slid open.

  “A plane just hit the Twin Towers in New York!” The man breathlessly speaking was someone I’d passed in the halls at the editing studio, nodded to, but didn’t know.

  “What?” I was completely disoriented. Music, airplanes, rhinos, buildings. “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard it on the radio just now, on my way back to the office. I don’t know anything more.” Then he was off, running down the hall.

  “No, that is crazy.” Josef shook his head. “I’m sure he misunderstood.” Josef turned back to the editing machine.

  For a few moments I thumbed through index cards, trying to concentrate on the right order of shots for the scene we were about to cut. But I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I kept thinking of a plane, the Twin Towers. New York. Sara and her family. No. It wasn’t possible. But still.

  “Josef, I’ll be back in a sec. I’m just going to go check the Internet.”

  I walked into the office next door and logged on to CNN.com. The connection was slow, too slow. When Sara was nervous her toes curled, but I’d always run my hands through my hair over and over again. Waiting for the connection to work, I felt like I was pulling my hair out of my head. Then, slowly, in bits and bytes, an image began to appear. Light gray blocks at the bottom of the screen, blue to the left, and a mass of black, white, and dark gray in the middle. A building. The sky. An explosion. I fell back into a chair and tried logging on to other web pages, but the screen was frozen on the image of a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers.