'How do you stand it?'
'I come to this beach a lot.'
'Do you miss the city?'
'Only five times an hour.'
'Then tell him you want to move back.'
'I might as well say that I want to move to Moscow. Anyway, his mother wouldn't hear of it. And if Julia Grey won't hear of something, then the matter is closed.'
'I bet she's subtly meddlesome.'
'Not subtly. Unapologetically. For the first two weeks or so, she left us alone. But now that the honeymoon is well and truly over, she calls me up at least once a day.'
'Lucky you.'
'I've never said this about somebody before . . . but I actually hate her.'
'It's that bad?'
'Yes – it's really that bad.'
From all indications, it was going to get worse. Because now that I was legally ensconced with her son, Mrs Grey felt it her right to direct all aspects of my life. She also made it very clear that her only real interest in me was in my role as the Grey Family Breeder.
The daily phone call would come promptly every morning at nine a.m.
'Hello, dear,' she'd say briskly. Then, without any of the usual pleasantries, she'd immediately launch into her agenda du jour.
'I've made an appointment for you with an excellent obstetrician in Greenwich.'
'But I like the doctor I've been seeing locally.'
'You mean Dr Reid?'
'Yes, I mean Peter Reid. His office is a five-minute walk from my house – and, more to the point, I'm really comfortable with him.'
'I'm sure he's very nice. But do you know where he went to medical school? McGill in Montreal.'
'McGill is an excellent university. And, to the best of my knowledge, babies are born in Canada. So I'm certain Dr Reid . . .'
She cut me off.
'My dear, McGill may be a good university, but it is not an American university. Whereas the specialist I'm sending you to – Dr Eisenberg – went to Harvard. You have heard of Harvard, haven't you, dear?'
I said nothing.
'He also happens to be chief of obstetrics at Doctors Hospital, with practices both in Manhattan and Greenwich. And he's Jewish.'
'Why should that matter?'
'Jews always make the best doctors. It's something about their innate sense of social inferiority: it makes them far more conscientious and rigorous. Because, of course, they always feel the need to try harder and prove a point. Especially in the case of Dr Eisenberg – who's still trying to gain membership of the Greenwich Country Club. You don't have any objections about being attended to by a Jew, do you, dear?'
'Of course not. What I object to is being told which doctor I will be attending.'
'But dear, we are paying for your care . . .'
'It's my husband who's paying . . .'
'No, dear. George's salary at the bank might stretch to cover the services of Dr Reid, but it certainly wouldn't pay for an eminent man like Milton Eisenberg.'
'Then I won't go to Dr Eisenberg.'
'Yes you will, dear. Because it is our grandchild. And we must have the best for him.'
'Let me be the judge of which doctor is the best for . . .'
'The matter is closed, dear. The appointment with Dr Eisenberg is at ten thirty tomorrow morning. I will send a taxi to collect you at ten.'
Then she put down the phone without saying goodbye. When I vented my anger that night at George, he just shrugged and said, 'But she means well.'
'No, she doesn't.'
'She wants you to be seen by the best doctor imaginable.'
'She wants to manipulate everything.'
'That's unfair
'Unfair? Unfair! Don't you dare talk to me about unfair.'
'Humor her, please. It will make everyone's life easier.'
So I found myself transferred over to Dr Eisenberg – a curt, gruff man in his early sixties, devoid of any warmth, yet brimming with his own self-importance. No wonder Mrs Grey approved of him.
Every day there was a phone call. Every day there was some new matter that Mrs Grey needed to discuss with me. Most of the time, the subject of the call was meaningless.
'Hello, dear. I want you to go to Cuff's on Sound Beach Avenue and buy your husband this morning's edition of the Wall Street Journal. There's a story about a Princeton classmate of his, Prescott Lawrence, who is doing marvelous things on Wall Street.'
'I know George gets the Wall Street Journal at the bank.'
'But maybe he won't get it today. So be a good girl and pop round to Cuff's, and get the paper.'
'Fine, fine,' I said, then completely ignored the directive. Later that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was a paperboy, with a copy of the Wall Street Journal in his hand.
'Here's the paper you ordered,' he said.
'I didn't order it.'
'Well, someone did.'
An hour later, the phone call came. 'Dear – did you get the paper?'
I held my tongue.
'Do make certain George reads that piece about Prescott Lawrence. And please don't make a fuss about such a simple little request in the future.'
Day in, day out the calls came. Eventually, around four months into my pregnancy, I snapped. It was a hot day in July – the temperature inching towards ninety, the humidity touching similar figures. The house was stifling. I was feeling top-heavy and bloated. Our bedroom had become a sweat box. I hadn't slept well for days.
Then the morning phone call came from Mrs Grey.
'Morning, dear . . .'
Before she had time to launch into this morning's demand, I hung up. The phone rang again a few seconds later. I ignored it. Five minutes later, it rang again – but I didn't pick it up. In fact, I didn't answer it for the balance of the day – even though it continued to clang into life every twenty minutes or so.
Around three that afternoon, the constant ringing finally stopped. I felt enormous relief. I had won a small victory. She'd finally got the point. From now on, she wouldn't badger me.
Around six twenty that night, the phone clanged back into life. Thinking it might be George, calling to say he was delayed at the office, I answered it. That was a mistake.
'Hello, dear.'
Her voice was as composed as ever.
'Would you mind explaining to me why you hung up on me this morning?'
'Because I didn't want to talk to you.'
There was a pause. I could sense that she was a little stunned by that statement. Finally she said, 'That is not acceptable.'
'I don't care if it is acceptable or not. I will simply not deal with your appalling behavior towards me anymore.'
She let out a small, low laugh.
'My, my, we are feeling emboldened tonight, aren't we?'
'Not emboldened. Just fed up.'
'Well, alas, I am afraid you will simply have to put up with my alleged meddlesome nature. Because you have married my son and . . .'
'Marrying your son doesn't give you the right to tell me what to do.'
'On the contrary, I have every right. You are carrying our grandchild . . .'
'He or she is my child.'
'Try fleeing this marriage and you will discover quick enough whose child he is.'
'I am not planning to flee this marriage.'
'Yes, you are. Why else is your brother visiting you at least once a week?'
'Because he's my brother, that's why. Because I'm lonely here.'
'That's because nobody likes you, dear. You don't fit in . . . something I'm certain you've complained about to your very dear brother during those long afternoons you spend together at Todd's Point . . .'
'How the hell do you know about my brother's visits . . .'
'It's a small town. People talk. Most especially, they talk to me. And dear, never use profanity with me again. I won't stand for it.'
'I don't give a damn what you will or will not stand for . . .'
'Oh yes you do,' she said mildly. 'Because know this: if yo
u want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it's also fine by Mr Grey. Just leave us the child . . .'
It took a moment for this to register.
'What did you just say?' I said, hushed.
Her tone remained cordial, mild. 'I said, I am very happy for you to leave this marriage after the birth of your child . . . on the condition, of course, that we retain custody of the child.'
'We?'
'George, of course . . . legally speaking.'
The phone trembled in my hand. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
'Do you hear what you're saying?' I asked.
'What an extraordinary question,' she said with a mock laugh. 'Of course I hear what I'm saying. The real question is: do you, dear?'
'Say I simply vanished . . .'
'To where? A cabin in the woods? Some one-room apartment in a big city? You know we'd spare no expense finding you. And we would most certainly find you. When we did, the very fact of your disappearance would strengthen our legal case against you. Of course, you might consider waiting until the child is born, and then suing George for divorce. But before you choose that route, do remember this: Mr Grey is a partner in one of Wall Street's most venerable law firms. If necessary, the full legal artillery of that firm can be turned against you. Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale.'
The phone began to tremble again. I suddenly felt ill.
'Still there, dear?' she asked.
I couldn't speak.
'Have I upset you, dear?'
Silence.
'Oh my, I sense that I have. Whereas my purpose was simply to point out the stark alternatives should you attempt to do anything silly. But you're not planning to do anything silly, are you, dear?'
Silence.
'I want an answer.'
Silence. I couldn't open my mouth.
'An answer. Now.'
'No,' I whispered, 'I won't do anything silly.' Then I put down the phone.
When George came home that night, he found me curled up in bed, a blanket pulled tight around me. He looked alarmed.
'Darling? Darling?'
He shook me by the shoulder. I looked at him blankly.
'Darling, what's happened?'
I didn't answer him. Because I didn't feel able to answer him. The ability to speak had left me. I was here, but I was not here.
'Darling, please, tell me what's wrong.'
I keep staring at him. My mind felt curiously empty. A void.
'Oh God . . .' George said and ran out of the room. I nodded off. When I came to, help had arrived – in the form of my mother-in-law. She was standing at the edge of my bed, George at her side. As I came to, George was kneeling by my side, stroking my head.
'Are you better, darling?' he asked.
I still felt unable to respond. He turned back to his mother, looking deeply worried. She nodded her head towards the door, motioning for him to leave. As soon as he was gone, she walked over and sat down on George's bed. She looked at me for a very long time. Her gaze was dispassionate.
'I suppose I am to blame for all this,' she said, her voice as temperate as ever.
I turned my eyes downwards. I couldn't bear looking at her.
'I do know you are there, dear,' she said. 'Just as I also know that these sorts of little afflictions are usually a sign of deep personal weakness, and are often self-inflicted. So please understand: you are not fooling me. Not at all.'
I closed my eyes.
'Go on, feign sleep,' she said. 'Just as you're feigning this breakdown. Of course, if it was something to do with your pregnancy, I might have a certain sympathy. Mind you, I loathed being pregnant. Loathed every minute of it. I suppose you must hate it too. Especially given how much you hate the family into which you've married.'
She was right about my contempt for her family. However, she was so wrong about my feelings towards my pregnancy. I despised the circumstances in which I had landed myself. The absurdity of my marriage, the abhorrent nature of Mrs Grey . . . The one thing – the only thing – that was maintaining my sanity was the child I was carrying. I didn't know who or what this child would be. All I knew was that I felt a deep, absolute, unconditional love for him or her. I didn't totally understand this love. If asked, I probably wouldn't have been able to explain it in a rational, straightforward way. Because it wasn't rational or straightforward. It was just all-encompassing. The child was my future, my raison d'être.
But now, Mrs Grey had blanketed that future with a dark specter.
If you want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it's also fine by Mr Grey. Just leave us the child. . .
A scenario began to unspool inside my head. The baby is born. I am allowed to hold him for a few minutes. A nurse comes and says that she's bringing him back to the nursery. As soon as he is out of my hands, a bailiff arrives bearing a writ. Mrs Grey has made good on her threat.
Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale.
A shudder ran through me. I felt as if I had touched a live wire. I clutched myself.
'Feeling cold, dear?' Mrs Grey said. 'Or are you just playacting for my benefit?'
I shut my eyes again.
'All right – be that way. A doctor should be here shortly. But I'm certain he should confirm what I already know: there is nothing physically wrong with you. Still, if you persist in continuing in this absent state, I'm certain there are several good sanitoriums in Fairfield County, where you'd be looked after until the baby arrives . . . and maybe even afterwards, if your mental state remained unchanged. I'm told that getting someone committed isn't that difficult. Especially if, like you, they are showing all the usual signs of mental distress . . .'
There was a knock on the door.
'Ah, that must be the doctor.'
The doctor was a solemn, taciturn man in his fifties. He introduced himself to me as Dr Rutan and explained that he was dealing with Dr Eisenberg's house calls this evening. He had all of Eisenberg's warmth and charm. When I didn't answer his first few questions – because I still felt incapable of speech – he didn't express concern or worry. He simply got down to business. He took my pulse, my blood pressure. He listened to my heart. He placed the stethoscope on my expanded abdomen, and listened there too. He did some prodding and poking with his hands. He opened my mouth and – using a tongue depressor and a penlight – he gazed inside. Then he pulled out a small penlight, and shined it in my eyes. Turning towards my husband and mother-in-law, he said, 'Everything is working fine. So either she is having a minor breakdown, or what could best be described as a very big sulk. It's not uncommon during pregnancy. If the woman is of the delicate sort, the whole experience can overwhelm them, throwing everything out of proportion. And so, like little children, they retreat into themselves. And sulk.'
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 30
