“Yes.”
“Same here. My mother thinks I’m crazy to get pregnant by a total stranger, but I told her that if I knew a decent guy well enough to ask him for his sperm, I’d be sleeping with him in the first place, know what I mean? Of course, she nearly had a heart attack when I said that, and she told me to go to confession.”
Peyton can’t help laughing. There’s something appealing about Allison’s direct approach.
Maybe if she knew her better, she’d tell her what Beth Somerset said when Peyton called to announce her pregnancy.
Now that you’re ready to settle down and raise a family, you’ll be able to find a nice man and get married.
Yeah. Sure. As if the streets of Manhattan are just teeming with nice men seeking pregnant single women.
On the third floor, Allison leads the way down the hall to the last door, which is ajar, held open by a white New Balance cross-trainer.
“Hello, hello,” Allison calls, stepping into the apartment without knocking.
Peyton hesitates only a moment before following her.
A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy are seated in a tiny living room. Norah Jones is playing on the stereo, candles are flickering, and a large platter of nachos is on the coffee table.
“Guys, this is Peyton,” Allison announces, her coat already draped over a chair and her hand reaching for a chip.
Introductions are made. It turns out this is only the group’s second meeting, but Peyton can’t help feeling like an outsider. The others seem so comfortable with each other already.
Julie Bernard is the hostess. Long, kinky blond hair, wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses, no makeup, seven months pregnant.
Wanda Jones is a stunning, statuesque African-American woman, well into her first trimester but still barely showing.
The slightly aloof, redheaded Kate Dunham is in the throes of Braxton Hix contractions but says the midwife claims she’s still a week away from delivery.
All three women are single, although Kate has a live-in boyfriend and a diamond engagement ring. Only Allison has been through this before, with two teenagers at home, the products of a disastrous early marriage.
Despite her reservations, Peyton finds herself drawn into the conversation as it bounces from nursing pads to epidurals to home delivery.
“No way,” Wanda declares, munching a tortilla. “I want to be in the hospital and as medicated as legally possible.”
Julie’s mouth tightens. “You should at least consider other options, Wanda.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not good with pain.”
“Oh, come on, who is?” Allison asks. “At this point, I say, bring it on.”
“Where are you going to deliver?” Julie asks, turning to Peyton.
“The hospital, definitely.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not sure. I guess whichever one Dr. Lombardo sends me to.”
“You really need to be more proactive,” Allison tells her. “Take charge of your pregnancy from the beginning.”
Peyton protests defensively, “I am in charge. I just . . . I haven’t had a chance to ask all of my questions yet. That’s all.”
“Too bad Rita couldn’t make it to our meeting tonight. She was going to talk to us about cardinal movement and delivery empowerment.”
“Rita?” Cardinal movement? Delivery empowerment? Peyton feels like she did as a high school freshman who boldly joined the Spanish club despite barely knowing what hola meant. That tiny detail couldn’t hold her back. She had made up her mind to be in the Spanish Club the moment she found out about the biennial trip to Acapulco.
Mexico was wonderful, but it can’t hold a candle to motherhood, she thinks now, smiling inwardly at the preposterous comparison.
Then again, maybe not so preposterous. For the second time in her life, she’s learning to speak a whole new language, one that she’ll carry to a foreign destination.
Cardinal movement. Delivery empowerment. And now . . . doula?
That’s the term Allison just used to define the Rita she mentioned.
“Actually, Rita isn’t a doula. She’s technically a midwife,” Julie contradicts. “We met her last month, at our first meeting.”
“Doula, midwife . . . same thing,” is Allison’s laid-back response, but Julie begs to differ. According to her, a midwife is certified to do everything a doctor does, but in the comfort of the patient’s own home.
“Anyway,” Allison says pointedly, making it abundantly clear that she isn’t someone who enjoys nit-picking over technical details, “none of that really matters because what Rita really is, is a guardian angel. That’s what I call her, anyway. She’s been so sweet about taking all my calls and answering all my crazy questions that I just gave her a guardian angel pin with my baby’s birthstone in it.”
“How do you know what the birthstone will be?” asks Julie, who is quickly establishing herself as a nitpicker, in Peyton’s opinion.
“I’m due in the beginning of June. It’s a pearl.”
“June is moonstone.”
“It’s actually pearl.”
“I don’t think so, but whatever. Anyway, the baby might be born in May. That’s an emerald.”
“It won’t be. Both my other kids were two weeks late and induced.”
Julie persists, “Yes, but that doesn’t mean this one will be.”
“Trust me. It does.”
“So Rita’s going to deliver your baby?” Peyton asks Allison, to steer the irksome conversation away from birthstones and back to the midwife.
“Yes, and Kate’s and Julie’s, too. And maybe Wanda’s.”
“Maybe not,” Wanda pipes up.
“Oh, you’ll be convinced the second you meet her. She’s great. Hopefully she can make the next meeting.” To Peyton, Allison says, “Rita had to cancel tonight because she has a patient in labor.”
Peyton can’t think of anything to say other than a lame “Oh.”
As the conversation drifts on, she can’t help wondering if she’s out of her element, and not just amidst these know-it-all New Yorkers. Maybe she should have given single motherhood more thought before jumping headlong into artificial insemination.
But Dr. Lombardo encouraged her not to delay. Her fertility was diminishing with every month that brought her closer to her fortieth birthday . . . or so he said.
She got pregnant on the second attempt.
“Yes, but what happens if you do meet somebody now?” Kate is asking, wincing as another contraction subsides. “It’s hard enough when you’re on your own. But now you’ve got to find somebody who’s going to love you and your baby.”
“Or babies,” Allison contributes wryly. “Believe me, he doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah, and what are you talking about, Kate? You have somebody. You and Gary are getting married in the fall, right?”
“Right. I’m just saying—”
“You just want the rest of us to live happily ever after, right?” Julie says. “But trust me, Kate, some people aren’t meant to be married. I’m one of them.”
“But don’t you want your baby to have a father someday?” Wanda asks. “I know I do. Babies need two parents.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, you should have married the guy who got you pregnant,” Allison tells her.
“Not an option.”
“Why not?”
“He’s already married, remember?”
On that bleak note, Peyton tunes out of the conversation again. She’s fallen in love three times, to no avail. That part of her life is history. Looks like she’ll have to be content with sex dreams about her ob-gyn from here on in.
“If you hold out a few more hours, you can have a Saint Patrick’s Day baby, Laura.”
“. . . Few . . . more . . . hours?” the woman sprawled in the bathtub grunts between gasps for breath. “Are you . . . out . . . of . . . your goddamned mind?” The last few words are hurriedly snarled before giving way to a high-pitched moa
n.
“Laura!”
“It’s okay,” Rita assures Laura’s embarrassed husband with a smile. “Believe me, I’ve heard worse. And I was only kidding about holding out, Laura. Bad joke, huh?”
“You don’t really think it’s going to take a few more hours, then?” the man asks, face pale, mouth drawn. “I don’t think she can take much more of this.”
It’s been a grueling twenty-hour labor already. Suspecting that Michael Chesterson is as worried about his own stamina as his wife’s, Rita shakes her head and assures him, “It won’t be long now.”
Leaning over the tub, she dips another clean cloth into the warm water and wrings it out swiftly with one hand as her patient’s grip tightens painfully on the other. “You’re doing great, sugar pie,” she croons, expertly mopping the woman’s sweaty brow.
“. . . Hurts . . .” Laura says through clenched teeth as the contraction wracks her body.
“I know it does. Try not to fight it. If you’re tense it’s more painful.”
“ Need . . . music . . .”
“Quick . . . go change the CD,” Rita orders Michael.
He rises to his feet, looking relieved to have a few moments’ reprieve. “Which one do you want to hear next, Laura? The Rachmaninov or the Beethoven?”
“I . . . don’t . . . give . . . a . . . flying—”
“I’ll put on the Rachmaninov,” Michael says quickly, and disappears into the next room.
“Men,” Rita says conspiratorially, catching Laura’s eye.
Her patient manages to smile, then says, amidst grunts and pants, “Yeah. They’re . . . morons.”
“Not always. Michael will be a good daddy. You’ll see.”
“He . . . better . . . Ow . . . here comes another one. . . .”
Waiting for the contraction—and Laura’s anguished howling—to subside, Rita takes stock of the items she placed earlier on a clean towel draped over a small folding table wedged between the sink and the toilet. In addition to her blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, fetoscope, and Doppler, there are two sets of sterilized towels, a bottle of mineral oil and one of ammonia, sterile gauze, a small bowl in case Laura vomits during delivery, a plastic bag for the placenta. Her bag in the next room holds other equipment she rarely uses: an oxygen tank and mask, a laryngoscope, an IV line, and drugs including Pitocin and Methergine.
Everything is ready. Glancing at her patient, Rita notes that the torturous pain seems to have momentarily receded.
Swiftly trading the washcloth for a rubber glove, she says apologetically, “I’m going to have to check you again, Laura.”
“Oh, no . . . no . . .”
“I’ll be as gentle as I can. It might be time to push, but I won’t know unless I see how far you’re dilated.”
Expertly inserting her latex-covered hand into the birth canal, she murmurs, “I’m so sorry,” at Laura’s primal scream of pain.
The cervix is at ten centimeters. Time to start pushing.
“Come on back in here, Dad,” she calls to Michael, discarding the glove and smiling down at the writhing woman in the tub. “We’re going to have ourselves a baby.”
“Welcome,” the familiar electronic mail voice announces as the sign-on screen gives way to a mailbox icon with the flag raised. “You’ve got mail.”
Mouse in hand, Derry left-clicks on the icon, then takes a handful of cheese popcorn from the bag in her lap as the list of incoming messages pops up.
Singing along with the Journey CD on the stereo, she scans the subject lines, looking for something more interesting than spam, bargains, and endless dirty jokes forwarded by her teenaged nephew. She licks the salty cheese dust off her stinging index finger, its nail bitten painfully low thanks to a lifelong habit that’s intensified in the stress of these last few weeks.
After drying her finger on her sweatpants, she repeatedly presses the Delete key, scrolling down the list of mail.
Boring, boring, boring . . .
Baby?
The single-word subject line is enough to set her heart pounding. She glances from it to the unfamiliar sender—[email protected]—and back again.
Baby.
Probably spam.
She should just delete it.
Her finger twitches on the button, but somehow, she can’t make herself do it.
Holding her breath, she double-clicks on the message.
Dear Mrs. Cordell:
If you and your husband are interested in adopting a healthy white infant, please respond to this e-mail as soon as possible. We specialize in discreet, affordable adoption for deserving couples.
Sincerely,
Rose Calabrone, Cradle to Cradle Adoption Agency.
Pulse racing, Derry rereads the e-mail several times before clicking on the underlined blue link at the bottom.
A web page begins to load.
This old computer is so damned slow. If only she could afford a new one, or even a high-speed connection. But the monthly Internet access fee has tapped out the household budget as it is. Linden keeps threatening to get rid of AOL altogether. Especially since Derry got laid off from her latest waitress job earlier this month.
She needs AOL more than ever, though, considering she’s been spending more and more of her time in front of the computer.
She can’t help it. She hasn’t been in the mood for anything other than junk food and idle Web surfing these past few weeks. She doesn’t feel like going out, or job hunting, or watching television, or making love.
Especially making love. Why bother? She isn’t going to get pregnant, ever.
As an increasingly frustrated Linden pointed out, there are other reasons to sleep with your husband.
Whatever. Lately, Derry is too depressed to think about his needs, let alone any of her own, beyond the unattainable one: motherhood.
As she waits for the Cradle to Cradle Web site to load, she chews her ragged thumbnail and gazes absently out the window at the lights of Co-Op City and the east Bronx, reminding herself that adoption is out of the question. She and Linden can’t afford it, even if she manages to land a better-paying waitress job.
Nor would they have been able to afford expensive infertility procedures even if Dr. Lombardo had presented that option. Linden ruled that out before they even got the crushing verdict. It wouldn’t be covered by their health insurance, and they can’t afford it. They can’t expect her parents or his elderly mother in a Florida nursing home to provide financial assistance.
Maybe one day, he said to appease her, if we win the lottery, we can look into adoption. . . .
Derry shakes her head and shoves another handful of popcorn into her mouth. She’s been over and over the “options,” or lack thereof. The bottom line is that the Cordells are too poor for parenthood.
Unless . . .
All at once, a chubby Gerber baby materializes on her screen.
Derry gazes at the image for a moment, tears slowly filling her eyes. She wipes them with her sleeve, rubs her popcorn-dusted hand on her sweatpants. You’re a mess, she tells herself miserably. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake.
In the background, Steve Perry is singing “Don’t stop . . . believing. . . . Hold on to your dreams.”
It’s a sign, Derry tells herself. Sniffling, she reaches for the mouse with a trembling hand and clicks again.
The baby gives way to a montage of images: pregnant birth mothers hugging ecstatic-looking couples, women cradling newborns, happy toddlers, a close-up of a baby’s fist wrapped around an adult’s sturdy finger. The soft strains of a Brahms lullaby play over the computer’s speakers, all but drowned out by Journey until Derry reaches over impatiently and turns off the stereo.
This isn’t the first time she’s looked at an adoption Web site . . . but it’s the first time an adoption Web site has directly solicited her. How did they get her e-mail address?
It’s spam, she reminds herself. That e-mail probably went out to anyone who’s ever looked
at an adoption Web site.
But it was so personal. It was addressed to her. Dear Mrs. Cordell . . .
So? That doesn’t mean it isn’t spam.
And anyway, you can’t afford to adopt, remember?
If she were wise, she’d sign off the computer and crawl into bed in the next room, where Linden is already snoring.
Instead, she takes another handful of popcorn and hits the Reply button, telling herself that it can’t hurt.
Nothing can hurt any more than she already does.
The best thing about New York, as far as Peyton is concerned, is that you can get anything you want at any hour of the night.
Including fresh, ripe watermelon just after midnight on Saint Patrick’s Day. The small market is surprisingly bustling at this hour on a weeknight.
God, it’s late. She should have fallen into bed the second she walked in the door of her apartment, instead of checking the refrigerator for snacks—and then deciding to venture out in search of some.
The truth is, she would have been asleep hours ago if she hadn’t lingered so long at the Pregnant and Single meeting. But once her initial reservations gave way to female com-raderie, she found herself reluctant to leave.
Nurse Nancy was right. Those women understand what she’s going through in a way nobody else in her life can. She’s looking forward to seeing them again.
Now, heading purposefully toward the produce case, Peyton sidesteps a group of attractive, well-dressed men, all in varying shades of green, obviously fresh from a party or pub. She finds herself fighting the urge to check them out, the earlier conversation at the support group still fresh in her mind. She really has no business interacting with members of the opposite sex from here on in, unless it’s on a professional—or medical—level. Or in her dreams.
“What else?” the smiling Korean grocer asks as she plunks down a clear plastic container filled with luscious pink cubes.
“That’s it.”
She watches him weighing the purchase, then punching the numbers into the register.
“That’s seven sixty-three.”
“Seven sixty-three?” she echoes in dismay. She has only the five-dollar bill she shoved into her pocket along with her keys on her way out of the apartment. Who would imagine that a small container of melon could be so pricey?
Lullaby and Goodnight Page 4
