Michaela Newman seems to have everything. Sometime in her early thirties, she left the financial services firm where she’d been a bond analyst since graduating from business school and started her own financial consultant business. If her designer clothes, spectacular apartment at the Marina Bay condo development, 7 Series BMW, and twice yearly trips to Canyon Ranch are any indication of financial success, Michaela is a winner.
To boot, she’s also stunning, tall, and voluptuous, with dark, glossy hair that falls just below her shoulders. Michaela is the woman every other woman hates on sight. And there’s some reason for women continuing to hate her after that first impression. The truth is that Michaela can be brash and self-serving and even, on occasion, cruel.
I met Michaela about the time I met Ross, at a small women-in-business seminar I hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place. Neither, it turned out, had Michaela, but she’d been offered a nice honorarium to speak. Michaela, I was to learn, didn’t do much of anything without a self-serving motive.
I was never really close to Michaela, not in the way I’m close to Alexandra, Kristen, and Tracy. We had no common history and no shared interests other than owning our own businesses. I’m not quite sure why we called each other friends; maybe we never actually used that term.
So, if we weren’t friends, what were we? Circumstantial urban acquaintances? Or maybe Michaela was something like an unexplained rash. There seems to be no cause for it; it’s just suddenly there, and it itches, but after a while you learn to live with it, and one day you notice with surprise that it’s gone, and you realize there’s only a faint memory of irritation and you miss it, sort of, for about a minute.
Whatever the case, Michaela was in my life at the time I met and got engaged to Ross. And at the time I found out I was pregnant. And the reason this is significant is because, for reasons I still can’t fathom, Michaela wanted a child.
All right. I admit to being judgmental. Just because Michaela doesn’t seem the motherly type doesn’t mean she isn’t potentially the motherly type. The fact is she’s responsible and intelligent, and responsibility and intelligence are two good qualities for a parent to possess. Right?
There I was passing judgment on my friend’s maternal capabilities when I myself wasn’t at all sure I would make a good parent. At least Michaela wanted a child. At least she was actively pursuing adoption, having given up on the possibility of marriage and having declared quite emphatically that she would never be so insane as to go through a pregnancy without a husband, and at the age of forty-something.
It’s also true she had stated quite definitely that the very idea of childbirth disgusted her. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to childbirth, either. Why, I wondered, couldn’t it be like it was in the old days? Why couldn’t the doctors just knock you out completely? It seemed a civil way to do things. And when you woke, all bathed and stitched and wearing a pale pink, satin bed jacket tied with a bow, a nurse would hand you your baby, all clean and pretty and already preferring a bottle to a breast, and you hoped, once you were home, you’d have no drug-addled memories of the actual birth.
Anyway, there I was, engaged to a wonderful man and pregnant with his child. And there was poor Michaela, wading through the bureaucratic red tape of legal adoption, spending large amounts of money to no avail, and going home every night to an empty, albeit luxurious, apartment.
And I had to tell her that I was going to have a baby.
“She’ll find out,” Alexandra told me. “You don’t owe her information.”
Alexandra never liked Michaela. In fact, it was mutual loathing at first sight.
“I don’t loathe her,” Alexandra once protested after a particularly acid exchange between the two women over cocktails at the Four Seasons. “I just distrust her. And I despise her. I don’t know why you’re friends with that woman. I don’t know why you keep asking her to join us.”
Frankly, I’m not sure why I continued to include Michaela in our social plans. I guess I began to suspect that in spite of—because of?—her beauty and arrogant bearing, Michaela was a lonely person. Maybe I was her only real friend. Maybe she felt it was better to spend an evening sparring with Alexandra than to sit home alone.
“Sit home alone?” Alexandra had laughed. “Michaela? She’s out with a different guy every night, you can be sure of it.”
“I’m not so sure you’re right,” I’d protested. “A lot of men are intimidated by gorgeous women.”
“That’s a myth perpetuated by average-looking women to help them deal with their killing jealousy. Besides, I have my spies. I hear things about Michaela.”
“You’re so suspicious!”
“And you’re such a bleeding heart. But, it doesn’t matter what I think. I tolerate her for your sake, honey.”
“Barely. You barely tolerate her.”
“I’ll try to be good. I’ll try to be better. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I knew that for my sake my friend would try to control her strong feelings of dislike for Michaela, but I had absolutely no hope for her success.
Anyway, Wednesday came around. I got to Leopard a few minutes early and took a small table away from the already crowded bar. I wanted some privacy when I told Michaela my news.
At precisely six o’clock, Michaela arrived. She looked spectacular, as usual. Both men and women stared as she made her way to where I sat. I wondered if it bothered Michaela that people were so blatant about their interest in her. Unlike Alexandra, she didn’t seem to enjoy the attention.
“Hi,” I said. “I love that jacket.” I tried to keep the rabid envy out of my voice. “Chanel?”
Michaela dropped gracefully into the seat across from me. “It’s horrid. I’m throwing it out when I get home.”
I almost fainted. I almost asked if I could have the Chanel piece. But I did neither.
Michaela ordered a glass of champagne. She made no comment when I asked for a glass of seltzer with lime.
“I’ve got some news,” I said when our drinks had arrived. My tone was tentative, gentle. “I’m pregnant. Isn’t that funny? I wasn’t even planning it and—”
The look on Michaela’s face stopped me cold. “Well, isn’t that just wonderful for you,” she said, with full sarcasm.
I felt as if I’d been slapped in the face, hard. I felt nauseous.
“Sorry, Anna,” Michaela said briskly. “But you really can’t expect me to be thrilled for you when I’ve been going through hell with this adoption process.”
I attempted a smile, which, I suspect, came out a little wobbly. “Could you at least be mildly pleased? Neutral even?”
“I thought Ross didn’t want a family,” she replied.
“He didn’t.” I was a bit thrown by Michaela’s non-answer to my question. “But now he does.”
“Now he says he does.” Michaela’s words were murmured but I heard them. And I decided to steer the conversation away from me.
“So,” I began tentatively, “is there any good news about the adoption?”
Michaela’s answer came firing back. “Everyone I’ve been dealing with is an ass. I had to fire my attorney for doctoring his bill and the so-called professionals at the agency are just incredibly stupid. I swear I want to bitch slap them all, and I would if it would shake some sense into them but all it would do is get me arrested. But once I get the kid, those bitches are going to hear from me.”
I attempted a sympathetic smile. “Oh,” I said. “I see.”
Michaela left shortly after that, claiming another appointment. She hadn’t left any money for her drink. She was probably too rattled by my news to remember that she’d consumed nine dollars worth of bubbly.
Poor Michaela, I thought, watching her leave the restaurant, Prada bag over her arm, Manolo Blahniks tapping smartly against the Italian marble floor. Life can be so unfair. She has so much but not the one thing she really wants.
13
Foray into Suburbia
Paul met me at the train station that Saturday at noon, which was very nice of him considering my visit was probably ruining his well-honed schedule.
“Where are the kids?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. Hello.” I leaned over and pecked my brother’s cheek. Paul didn’t seem to notice.
“The neighbor’s watching them for a while,” he said. “I had to make a few stops before meeting you.”
“Thanks for picking me up.”
“No big deal. The station’s between the dry cleaners and home.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
Ten minutes later we were in the kitchen of Paul’s small ranch house. It was clean, but kids’ toys and backpacks and sports equipment were strewn everywhere. I removed a pink sneaker from one of the kitchen chairs and sat. Paul opened the fridge and took out a half-empty plastic jug of orange juice.
“It’s all I have to drink,” he said, unapologetically. “This and coffee.”
“Juice is fine,” I replied. “I’m off coffee for the duration. I’m pregnant.”
“Huh.” Paul poured two small glasses of juice and handed me one. “Congratulations. I thought you and Ross decided to pass on the kid thing.”
“We did decide to pass on the kid thing. But things happen, you know.”
“I do know. So, how’s Ross handling it?”
Better than I am, I thought.
“Great. He’s thrilled. He’s acting like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“That must be a big relief.”
“It’s a lot better than his leaving me,” I replied.
Paul looked at me closely. “Have you told Mom and Dad yet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No. I’m going to, though. Soon. I want to see my doctor first and all.”
“Why are you putting it off? Mom’s going to be thrilled. And even though Dad’s not overly fond of Ross—”
“He isn’t?”
Paul grimaced and put the plate of gourmet sandwiches I’d brought on the scarred, wood table. He’d gotten it at a yard sale after he’d moved out of the beautifully decorated house he’d shared with Bess.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I thought you knew that.”
Well, the truth was I did sort of know that. I mean, my father isn’t exactly subtle, or a good social liar. And he and Ross are so different in so many ways. It dawned on me then that for all I knew Ross might not like my father all that much.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Well, what I was going to say is that Dad will be thrilled he’s getting another grandchild. I’m sure of it.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t argue. Neither Dad nor Mom is much in the grandparent department. They prefer golf vacations in North Carolina with other comfortably situated couples to family trips to Disney World and Sunday dinner en famille.
“Will you tell Bess?” I asked.
“Sure, if you want me to. Or you could call her yourself.”
“I’m kind of uncomfortable doing that,” I admitted. “Since the divorce, things have been a little awkward between us. I’m sorry.”
Paul shrugged. My delicate feelings were the least of his worries.
“She’s a good mother,” he said, blandly. “She might be of some help along the way.”
“Okay,” I said, a bit ashamed. “Thanks.”
Paul and I ate lunch in relative silence, and at two o’clock I helped him herd Matthew and Emma into the family’s requisite truck-like car. Paul drove me to the train station; he kept the motor running while I said goodbye.
I leaned over the back of the seat and blew the children kisses. Neither seemed particularly sorry to see me go. Matthew was staring out the side window; Emma was playing with a lavender-haired doll. I climbed out of the monster truck.
“Good luck, Anna,” Paul said, as he pulled away.
I waved half-heartedly.
What my brother didn’t say but what I know he was thinking: You’re going to need it.
14
Do No Harm
“I made an appointment to see my gynecologist this Thursday,” I said. Ross and I were at the condo; we’d met there after work to discuss color choices for the master bathroom. “Her office is in Chestnut Hill.”
Ross looked up from the paint samples he was studying. “Good. I’ll send my car service to take you there and back. I don’t want you dealing with the T. There are too many deranged people in this city, and God knows how many germs are floating around those filthy cars.”
I didn’t want to take the T, either. A car service was a better option, but ...
“I was kind of hoping you would come with me,” I said.
“Anna, I can’t.” Ross handed me the stack of paint samples. “Take a look at these. I’m leaning toward Seashell for the master bath. We’ll need an accent color, of course.”
“Why can’t you?” I asked. I put the stack of paint samples on the unfinished kitchen counter. One slid off to the floor. Ross picked it up and straightened the pile.
“Because I’ve got meetings all day Thursday,” he said. “Maybe Cocoa Cream instead of Seashell. See what you think. And remember the tile we chose. There’s a sample in my office.”
I didn’t care about tile and paint color. Not right then. I cared about me.
“Couldn’t you reschedule something?” I asked sweetly. “My appointment is at ten o’clock. I guess it should take about a half hour. We’ll be back in town by eleven. Eleven-fifteen.” And, I thought, most days you’re hardly in the office by ten. You’d never schedule a meeting before eleven. I know you, Ross.
Ross put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently.
“Anna, I’m sorry, I can’t. Why don’t you ask one of your girlfriends to go with you?” Ross dropped his hands and stepped away from me. “I mean, it is a woman thing, after all.”
Nurturing another human being inside you for approximately thirty-six weeks? Ejecting that human being through your vaginal canal? Oh, yes. It was a woman thing.
“Don’t you want to be involved in the pregnancy?” I asked. The books all said that today’s fathers were involved. Today’s fathers were supposed to be involved whether they liked it or not.
“Well, sure,” Ross said amicably. But his eyes showed he was losing patience for the conversation. “Of course. But let’s face it, Anna. There are certain things you’ll have to do all on your own. I can only be there for you up to a certain point.”
I realized I could forget about Ross’s being my labor coach.
“Okay.” I smiled gamely. “I’ll be fine.”
Ross planted a tiny kiss on my forehead. “I know you will. Call the office when the appointment is over and let me know how it went. Leave a message with Tad if I can’t be disturbed.”
Poor Tad, I thought. I hope Ross pays him well. The young man officially worked for the company, but as far as I could tell, Ross used him pretty heavily as a personal assistant.
I went back to my apartment soon after. It was only nine, but I was bone tired. I got into bed, eager for oblivion, but sleep didn’t come easily. I was getting used to lying awake and staring at the ceiling, my mind whirring busily with worries.
I thought about the fact that I’d been on my own for a long time. I thought about the fact that I’d done pretty much everything on my own, from building a business to buying an apartment, from taking a vacation in Jamaica to going to the hospital for a cervical biopsy. I thought about the fact that I was good on my own, strong and competent.
But as I watched the light of the street lamp outside my window flicker across the ceiling of my bedroom, none of those facts mattered. The truth was I did not want to go to that doctor’s appointment alone and I did not want to go with anyone but my fiancé.
Sometimes we don’t get what we want. On Thursday morning I took Ross’s company’s car service out to the medical building in Chestnut Hill. Maybe, I thought, as I ro
de the elevator to the second floor, maybe after this I’ll ask the driver to take me to the mall; Bloomingdale’s might be having a sale, and I could use a new pair of navy pinstripe slacks.
And then I remembered that I was pregnant and that any pair of pants I bought right then might never be worn. With a sigh I got off the elevator and walked to Suite 206.
There were two obviously pregnant women in the waiting room. Both were with men I took to be the fathers. One man wore a UPS uniform; his arms proved the workout he got every day on the job. The other wore a sober dark suit; I guessed he was in finance or law. The women looked calm, relaxed. Uniforms inspire confidence.
I smiled awkwardly at everyone—they smiled awkwardly back—and walked up to the receptionist’s desk.
Observable social truth: Women who aren’t pregnant go to the gynecologist alone. Women who are pregnant go with their mates. That is, if they have mates. That’s the rule. Even the receptionist knew this.
“Is your husband with you Mrs.—uh ...” The overweight but pretty girl scanned the screen before her. I wondered if the doctor scolded her about her weight. I wondered if she encouraged her to embrace herself just the way she was.
“Ms. Traulsen,” I said. “And it would be my fiancé. Ross Davis. And no, he’s not here. He’s—he’s out of town on business.” I looked at the blandly pleasant face of the receptionist, and then the ridiculous lie came bursting out. “There was some really important meeting he just couldn’t miss,” I said. “In Europe. Switzerland. Basel, in fact.”
“I bet you can’t wait until he gets home!” she enthused. “I hope he brings you some chocolate.”
I thought, What? Why chocolate? And then, “Oh, sure,” I said. Switzerland. “Yes. I can’t wait until he gets home. With chocolate. Of course. Yes.” And maybe a watch? And a cuckoo clock? I was mortified.
The receptionist suggested I take a seat. The doctor, she said, would be with me soon. I took a seat at the other end of the waiting area from the two couples. Liars, I thought, should be segregated from good and decent people.
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