Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  Anyway, about two months after I met Ross I felt ready to introduce him to Kristen. I was a little apprehensive; I knew Ross might be a difficult sell to someone as down-to-earth as my college friend. Kristen came into Boston for the occasion; Brian was supposed to join us but an emergency on one of his jobs prevented him from coming. Kristen hired a babysitter at a last-minute bonus rate rather than cancel a meeting she knew was important to me.

  Well, the meeting didn’t go very well. No one threw a drink in anyone’s face, but the conversation was forced and awkward. Kristen hadn’t seen any of the gallery exhibits or movies Ross and I had; she hadn’t gone to Cancun for a long weekend like Ross and I had; we didn’t have first-tooth or first-day-of-school stories to share like Kristen did.

  Just before we left the restaurant to walk Kristen to the train station, Ross excused himself to say hello to a business associate he’d spotted at the bar.

  “Well,” I asked, with some trepidation. “What do you think?”

  “He seems nice,” Kristen said quickly, avoiding my eye. “His suit is very, um, beautiful.”

  I smiled half-heartedly. I certainly couldn’t tell Kristen that Ross’s suit had been purchased at Louis’ of Boston for not much less than it had cost her and Brian to buy their house.

  After that I knew there was no way the two couples were ever going to become close friends. I just couldn’t picture Ross hanging out with Brian on a Sunday afternoon drinking beer, eating sandwiches from Subway, and watching football on Brian’s twenty-inch television, kids tumbling in and out of the family room clutching sippy cups and Barbies and soccer balls.

  Anyway, Kristen might not be a big fan of Ross but she is a big fan of motherhood. I called her one afternoon around two o’clock when I knew she’d be home between delivering one child to toddler gymnastics and picking up the older kids at the end of their school day.

  “Anna, I’m so happy for you!” she cried when I told her the big news. “You’re going to make a great mom.”

  I laughed nervously. “I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m an absolute wreck about the whole thing.”

  “Well, of course you’re a wreck. Every mother-to-be is nervous, that’s natural. It doesn’t mean you’re not going to be just wonderful!”

  “Do you really think so?” I asked. I needed to hear Kristen’s warm support. I needed to believe it.

  “I know so. Oh, Anna, really, this is just great. And anything I can pass on, I will. Of course, some of B.J.’s clothes have already been through Robbie and Cassie so they’re not much good at this point. But maybe you’ll want everything brand new! Have you registered yet?”

  I was suddenly overwhelmed by the practical realities of being a mommy-in-waiting. Mommies were responsible. Mommies were reliable. Mommies were dependable. Okay, no one would deny that Anna Traulsen was responsible, reliable, and dependable. But at the Mommy level?

  “Oh, Kristen,” I said, “I haven’t done anything yet. I mean, besides tell you and Alexandra.”

  “And your family?”

  I sighed. “Actually, I haven’t told the families yet. I kind of want to wait, just to make sure everything’s okay with the—with the baby.”

  How strange those words sounded! The baby. My baby.

  “There are two ways of thinking about this, Anna,” Kristen replied promptly. “One is to keep the pregnancy a secret until the initial danger period is over. That way if you lose the baby you don’t have to make all those sad phone calls and listen to everyone’s disappointment. Okay?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I admitted.

  “But there’s another way. You can tell everyone, share your happiness, and then, God forbid, if the pregnancy fails, you have all those people to support you and pray for you. Right?”

  “Right,” I said, not because I was sure Kristen was right but because I was touched by her happiness for me.

  We chatted for a few minutes more and then Kristen had to run off. I asked her to give my love to Brian. It was only after I’d hung up that I realized she hadn’t once mentioned Ross’s name.

  7

  Adjustments

  “So, can you meet for lunch someday soon?” I asked. “Just something quick.”

  I imagined Tracy flipping through her date book, highlighter in hand; she’s super-organized, even more than I am. “Sure,” she said after a moment. “How about tomorrow at eleven-forty-five. I’ve got a client at one o’ clock so that should give us plenty of time to chat about wedding plans.”

  Or about another big event, I thought as I hung up the phone.

  I met Tracy at a book group I tried to be part of five or six years ago. Tracy was trying, too, but we both dropped out after only two meetings when the hostess handed out a quiz she’d devised. Reading groups are supposed to be about lightly intelligent conversation, fancy appetizers, and good wine. They’re not supposed to be about tests and reports and grades.

  Tracy, the daughter of an Irish-American father and a Japanese-American mother, is a physical therapist associated with the department of orthopedic surgery at Beth Israel Hospital. She’s forty and in fabulous shape, which is only partly due to genetics. She works out and eats right and basically makes me feel like a fat slob when I’m with her. I’m not a fat slob, I know that, but it’s hard not to have a doubt when you’re with a person who wears a size two. I can’t help experiencing a tingle of guilty pleasure when I show up for an event in a more stylish outfit than my petite friend. It’s horrible of me, I know.

  A few years ago Tracy married a very nice, very smart man twenty years her senior. His name is Bill Lomas and he’s an engineer with a large construction firm. Bill became her patient after he injured his knee while playing a Saturday afternoon game of touch football along the promenade.

  Tracy and Bill live in a small condo in Bay Village, a tiny six-block enclave of eighteenth-century houses between the South End and the Back Bay. Together, they have no children. But Bill has two children from a former marriage, which makes Tracy a stepmother. Bill’s daughter is in graduate school; his son is married and the father of a two-year-old, which makes Tracy a step-grandmother.

  To that point in time we hadn’t talked much about Tracy’s domestic situation. Sometimes I wanted to ask her how she felt about not having children of her own, and about her relationship with her stepchildren, but I never did. I guess I never sensed a true conversational opening. I wish I had just made the opening myself.

  The next morning I met Tracy at Green, a small, casual café that specializes in power drinks, salads, and other healthy fare. (It’s a nice enough place, but I prefer restaurants that aren’t afraid of butter.) As soon as we’d settled at a table for two with our trays, I broke the big news.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  Tracy’s face tightened just a bit. “If it’s what you want,” she said carefully, “I’m very happy for both of you.”

  You could at least pretend to be enthusiastic, I chided silently, and then I felt silly for being upset. What did I want, a parade?

  Maybe Tracy was just tired. Or maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Really, I thought, is Tracy ever wildly enthusiastic about anything? In some ways she’s the opposite of Alexandra, low-key, pensive, certainly more reserved. Really, I thought, I can’t expect everyone to be all excited about my news when I’m not even sure how I feel about it.

  “Thanks,” I said brightly. “And don’t worry about the wedding,” I added. “This won’t change anything for you as matron of honor. Everything’s going to happen as planned.” I don’t know why I said that. I knew, deep down, that nothing would ever again happen as planned.

  “Okay. So, is this what you want? To have a baby?” Now Tracy’s face was flushed. Clearly, she was upset but for the life of me I couldn’t understand why. Was she that worried about my happiness?

  I reached across the table and patted her arm. “Of course it is,” I assured her. “I know I said that Ross and I weren’t going to have
a family but, well, you know. Things have changed.”

  I wondered, Why have things changed? Because we wanted them to? No. Things changed because they just did and here we are, stuck with the change.

  “Then I’m glad for you, Anna, really.” Tracy raised her glass of Evian in a silent toast, and I raised mine in return.

  “I’m glad for me, too,” I said. I was only partly lying.

  “So, when is the baby due?”

  I considered. “By my nonprofessional calculations,” I said, “early December. Which means that I’ll be approximately six months pregnant when I walk down the aisle.”

  Finally, Tracy smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be there to help you waddle along.”

  “Oh, no, will I really be waddling by then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never had a baby. I don’t really know much about anything.”

  Something in the tone of Tracy’s voice prompted me to change the subject. “So,” I said, “let me tell you about working for the infamous Beatrice Kent.”

  8

  Domestic Bliss

  Boston’s South End is an eclectic neighborhood, combining a large and fairly affluent gay community, a long-term and less affluent Hispanic community, people now in their seventies who’ve been loyal to the neighborhood through its seriously crime-ridden druggie days of the sixties, a healthy-sized Chinese community, and people like me and Ross. We’re the upwardly mobile types, the ones who frequent the finer restaurants with regularity, the ones who buy their breakfast at pricey little cafés and their clothes at chic little boutiques, the ones who abandon their expensive urban lifestyle for an expensive life in the suburbs within a year of having their first child.

  I live in a renovated brownstone on Roland Street. There are three units in my building; I own the top floor condo, which is about eight hundred square feet, and the roof rights that go along with it. There are two bedrooms, one of which I use as a guest room and place for those artifacts of early days I just can’t bring myself to throw away or relegate to storage. (Ross, it should be said, was not very happy about the notion of my bringing some of those items to the loft. He particularly objected to the badly gilded horse with a clock in its stomach that had once belonged to my father’s favorite aunt. Helpfully, Ross suggested a storage facility in South Boston and gave me the phone number of the Salvation Army’s nearest drop-off center, just a few blocks away, in Roxbury.)

  Soon after moving to Roland Street, I had a cedar deck erected on the roof. Someday, I thought, when the final nail was hammered, I’ll buy a grill and actually learn how to use it. But at the time of my pregnancy the deck was several years old and still without a grill. There were, however, two lounge chairs and a small table with an oversized umbrella.

  On the first floor of the building lives an odd duck of a fellow named Arthur Audrey. He could be anywhere from eighty to a hundred; all I know for sure is that he served in World War II (on occasion he wears bits and pieces of his old Navy uniform), which makes him the oldest person I know.

  I’ve never been inside Mr. Audrey’s apartment, and I’m not sure I’d want to be invited in. Although he seems personally quite clean and spiffy, a variety of odd odors waft into the common hall whenever he opens his door just wide enough to slip in and out. On more than one occasion I’ve detected a whiff of sulfur, causing me to wonder if he’s conducting dangerous scientific experiments in a homemade lab. On other occasions the distinct odor of patchouli permeates the hallway. Is Mr. Audrey a closet hippie?

  Between Mr. Audrey and me there’s Katie Ford and Alma Rodriguez and their adopted son Emilio. Emilio is one of those preternatural children who are four going on thirty-five.

  Katie was born and raised in the tough working-class Boston neighborhood known as Southie. Alma was born in the Dominican Republic; she became a U.S. citizen when she came to live with her grandmother at the age of twelve. Katie and Alma have been a couple for close to eight years; before that they worked together for one of the neighborhood community action groups.

  During the day, when I’m at work, Katie and Alma make good use of the roof deck. Alma likes to sunbathe. Seeing her all bronzed and glowing while my own skin remains unspectacularly pale all year round does on occasion make me regret my prudence. Maybe someday I’ll throw caution to the wind and leave the apartment without my sunblock #45. Maybe.

  Katie is a gardener, the gifted green thumb kind. I was happy to have her take over the roof deck; now from early spring through late autumn it’s alive with color.

  “How do you do all this?” I asked once, indicating the round pots of bright green basil and the rectangular planters filled with bright pink and purple pansies.

  “The key to my success,” Katie replied solemnly, “is that I become one with the plants.”

  “How can you become one with a thing that isn’t sentient?” I asked stupidly.

  “Ah. This is why you can’t even grow a weed.”

  “I’m not sure I would know a weed from a legitimate plant,” I admitted. “Until just last week I thought dandelions were something you planted.”

  “But you choose flowers for events, don’t you?”

  “That’s easy. All I have to know about are color and shape. The florist does the rest. I know. I suppose I could learn.”

  Katie grinned. “Or you could leave the world of flora to the experts and just enjoy our results.”

  The Saturday morning just after my lunch with Tracy, I called my neighbors and asked if I could stop by. “You don’t need to call first, Anna,” Katie said. “But I know you always will. Come now. I’m making scones.”

  Five minutes later I was sitting at their kitchen table, enjoying the enticing smell of baking pastry.

  “So,” I said without preamble, “I’m pregnant.”

  The spatula Katie was holding slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the stovetop. “What! Since when?”

  I laughed. “Since about a week ago, I guess. Don’t look so shocked.”

  “I’m not shocked. Well, maybe I am. I thought you said you and your fiancé—”

  “Ross. And yes, I did say that we weren’t planning to have children.”

  “So?” Alma took a seat at the kitchen table with me.

  “What happened? I mean, okay, I know how babies are made. But was it the old-fashioned way, by accident? Or did you change your mind and get yourself inseminated or something.”

  “The old-fashioned way,” I admitted. “It was completely an accident. Ross’s boys slipped right through my girls’ defenses.”

  “Wow.” Katie whistled. “This is big.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m ... I’m pretty shaken up by this turn of events.”

  Alma eyed me closely. “I’m not hearing exuberance, Anna. Are you happy?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe. I’m definitely scared. I have absolutely no faith in my parenting skills. The innate ones, I mean. I think I can learn from books, and I hope my doctor will give me some advice, but as for what’s inside me already—I just don’t know.”

  Katie placed a plate of warm-from-the-oven scones on the table. I couldn’t remember. Did Katie bake before she became a mother? “You’ll be a fine parent,” she said. “Everyone doubts herself at first. It’s normal.”

  “Well, what if I do turn out to be a fine parent?” I argued. I knew I was being silly, but I couldn’t help myself. Would I have to learn to bake? Would I have to learn how to make meat loaf and chocolate pudding? “Isn’t saying someone is ‘fine’ at something really saying they’re ‘okay’ at something? That they’re just mediocre? That they’re just average? If I’m going to be a parent, I want to be an excellent parent.”

  Alma laughed. “I’m not sure anyone is ever an excellent parent, at least for more than a random moment or two. You’ll be a good parent, Anna. A good parent is someone who continues to learn as she goes. And that’s something I know you can do.”

  I wondered,
Could I learn? When was the last time I’d really learned something new? Baking would require leaning. Cooking would require cookbooks and new utensils and a spice rack. I would have to learn how to install a spice rack. I would have to buy a hammer and a box of nails.

  “You know,” I said, further shaken by those frightening thoughts, “you two are the epitome of good parents.” Katie waved her hand dismissively, modestly. “No, I mean it. I look at you with Emilio, and I look at how you treat each other and, well, I think there’s no way I’m ever going to achieve that kind of success.”

  “There’s no doubt,” Alma said, “that it’s easier to be a good parent when your relationship with your partner is strong.”

  “Of course,” I replied automatically. And I wondered. Was my relationship with Ross strong, really strong in the way it would have to be if we were going to pull off being good parents, raising a well-adjusted child, building a happy family?

  Suddenly famished, I reached for a scone. “I just wish,” I said, “that the pregnancy was the result of a conscious choice. I hate the idea of accidents. I hate doing things on the spur of the moment. I hate when people say, ‘oh, let’s play things by ear.’ I wish I could have planned this pregnancy, like you did.”

  Katie gave me a funny look. “Anna,” she said, “of course bringing Emilio into our lives was a conscious decision. Let’s face it, kiddo—it wasn’t going to happen any other way.”

  “Oh,” I said, stupidly. “Right.”

  “Look, Anna,” Alma said, patting my hand, “getting pregnant accidentally is not a crime. It’s a fact of nature.”