Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  Twenty minutes later I was flat on my back, my feet in cold metal stirrups.

  Dr. York, my gynecologist, could never be described as a warm and fuzzy person. At least not in the context of her professional life. Who knows what she’s like at the end of the day when she hangs up her speculum and stows away her swabs.

  But I can do without a great bedside manner in medical personnel as long as they’ve got education, experience, and expertise. What I don’t care for is a tendency some doctors have to judge a patient. A symptom might indicate a particular illness, but it doesn’t describe a person’s character.

  Dr. York got up from her swivel stool and carefully stripped off her latex examining gloves.

  “You’re fine,” she said briskly.

  “Good,” I said. “I mean, I’m glad that I’m fine.”

  Dr. York looked down at my chart and scribbled a note. “I see many women like you,” she said.

  “Like me?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Dr. York closed the manila folder and placed it on the counter behind her. “Women who decided to wait a while before having children.”

  “I didn’t decide anything,” I blurted. “Well, actually, I did. My fiancé and I decided not to have children.”

  The doctor raised her eyebrows in the most obvious way.

  “Oh. I see,” she said. “The pregnancy is unplanned.”

  If I’d been deaf to the tone of judgment in the doctor’s voice, or blind to the arched brows, I still couldn’t have missed the disdain displayed by the flair of her right nostril.

  I wondered, Does getting pregnant accidentally make me a bad person? Does it mean I’m going to be a bad mother? Irresponsible? Self-centered? Emotionally unavailable?

  And by the way, how do people flair just one nostril?

  “Yes,” I said hurriedly, the awful paper crackling under my naked thighs. “But we’re going through with it. The pregnancy. That’s why I’m here, of course. We want the baby. Really.”

  I prayed, Please like me now. Please. And let me get dressed.

  “Okay.”

  That was all? I thought. No praise for my noble act?

  “I’ve read that lots of pregnancies end in miscarriage,” I blurted.

  “That’s true.”

  What had I expected to hear?

  “Am I at risk?” I asked. “I mean, because of my age.”

  Dr. York tapped my chart with her pen. “As your doctor of several years, I’d say you’re no more at risk than any other thirty-seven-year-old woman going through her first pregnancy.”

  That news wasn’t particularly heartening.

  “Should I schedule an amniocentesis?” I asked, not entirely sure what that was.

  “Well, it’s far too early for an amnio. We do one at the end of the fourth month. I wouldn’t worry about that now. Let’s see you through a few more weeks. If everything’s going well—”

  “You mean if I’m still pregnant.”

  My interruption didn’t throw Dr. York at all. “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “If the pregnancy is still in place, then we’ll schedule an amnio and whatever other tests seem wise.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “Then we’ll analyze the results, and then you can decide what to do.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t ... What do you mean, decide what to do?”

  Dr. York looked at me as if I was deeply stupid.

  “Decide whether or not to let the pregnancy continue,” she said slowly, with more than a hint of condescension, like an embittered college professor speaking to a particularly dense undergraduate.

  “Oh,” I responded.

  Again with the eyebrows.

  “Can I decide not to have those tests?” The question came out in a thin, high-pitched voice I didn’t recognize as my own.

  “Of course,” the doctor snapped. “But at your age it wouldn’t be wise.”

  What she meant to say was at my Advanced Maternal Age. I was long in the tooth, over the hill, downright moth-eaten. I was old.

  “You don’t want to spend months worrying, do you?” Dr. York went on. “Not knowing is not a healthy thing. Information is good for you and your baby. I’m going to strongly recommend you do everything I tell you to do. I’m going to give you prescriptions for vitamins and dietary supplements, and I’m going to want you to take them, every day. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. I heard the pitiful weakness in my voice. “Can I get dressed now?”

  15

  The Parents

  There was no putting it off any longer. The doctor had confirmed the pregnancy. Now Ross and I had no choice but to make the announcement to our parents. That would make it all official.

  “Do you think,” Ross asked, “that we should tell our parents in person?”

  “Isn’t that making too big a deal of it?” I countered after a moment’s reflection.

  “Well, it is a big deal.”

  “The pregnancy or the telling? I think we should just tell our parents over the phone. We’ll see them soon enough after that.”

  At least, I thought, we’ll see Ross’s parents. Mine aren’t exactly the emotional sort. I used to wonder why they even had children. Then, of course, I realized that Paul and I were more than likely “accidents.” I wondered now if Ross and my announcement—that we were having an “accident”—would cause even a mild emotional response.

  Reluctantly, Ross agreed to telling our parents over the phone. So one evening we called first my parents—Ross said that’s the way it should be done—and then his. Here’s what they said.

  Mrs. Traulsen: “Well, congratulations. When are you due, dear? Because your father and I have already booked a trip to Florida for late November and it’s nonrefundable, so you’ll understand if we’re not around for the birth.”

  Mr. Traulsen: “Have you started a college fund? It’s never too early to start a college fund.”

  Mrs. Davis: “That’s wonderful, Ross! Oh, I have so much to do! I’ve got to call Aunt Aggie right away and tell her the good news that our little Ross is going to be a daddy! And I’ll talk to Pastor Keats first thing tomorrow and see about booking the rectory basement for a party. But I’m jumping ahead. Oh. Anna. Are you there, too?”

  Mr. Davis: “Good work, son. You didn’t forget that meeting we have tomorrow with the auditors? Nine o’clock sharp.”

  When we finally hung up the receivers, Ross looked exhausted. “I’m going to pour myself a scotch,” he said. “I’m sorry you can’t have one with me.”

  “Me, too,” I said, patting his arm. “I’ll just inhale your fumes.”

  16

  Between the Sheets

  My sex life with Ross was undemanding, pleasant, and routine, and that was all right with me. I enjoyed sex as much as the next woman, assuming the next woman was basically normal and not damaged by an early prudish religious training or a horrible case of sexual abuse. But in all honesty I could take or leave sex.

  I wanted to be wanted; I just didn’t want to be wanted all that often or in unusual ways or at inconvenient times.

  When I met Ross I seemed to have met my perfect sexual partner. Undemanding, pleasant, and routine. And when Ross asked me to marry him I thought, So what if I’ll never know really over-the-top passion? There’s more to life than sex. There’s certainly more to marriage. Every married woman I knew had confirmed that truth.

  And then when I got pregnant I thought, With a baby in the next room—or, if Ross got his way, in a crib by our bedside—how could we possibly have a passionate sex life even if we were the passionate types? There was a good chance that with the baby’s arrival our sex life would disappear entirely.

  But the baby hadn’t yet made an appearance and already our intimate life was a thing of the past. I’ve read that some men are turned on by their wives’ pregnancy, but that wasn’t the case with Ross. After that first night of victory sex—in actuality there was nothing triumphant about it—he made no further sexual
advances and repulsed the few I worked up the nerve to make.

  The first time we were in Ross’s fabulously expensive bed. It was about 10 p.m. Ross had just turned out his reading light; I put aside the Bazaar I’d been studying.

  “So,” I said, nestling against his shoulder, “do you, you know?”

  Ross didn’t respond; I knew he was awake, but I thought that maybe he hadn’t quite heard me.

  “Ross?” I said. “Do—”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Anna.” His tone made his answer final.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Ross shifted away from me and yawned. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to get some sleep. Good night, Anna.” He turned toward the door, his back to me.

  “I’m not sick, Ross,” I said, trying to keep the annoyance from my voice. “I’m just pregnant. Ross, are you listening to me?”

  His answer was a slight snore. And within minutes, I, too, was asleep.

  The next day I felt bad for being annoyed with Ross. I remembered reading that a father-to-be might be a bit nervous about sex. If Ross harbored fears of hurting the baby or me, it was my job to put his mind to rest.

  A few nights later we were sitting in the living room of the loft. It was about eight o’clock. Ross was reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair. I, with a copy of The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy in my hands, was on a mission.

  “This book is really informative,” I said brightly. “It’s really putting my mind at ease about so many things. For example, did you know that having sex won’t hurt the baby? Unless the doctor orders me on full pelvic rest, which would mean she thought I was at a particular risk for miscarriage, we can have sex without any worries.”

  “That’s great, Anna.” Ross smiled at me fondly and then looked back to the magazine.

  I waited a full five minutes before picking up another book from the stack by my chair and trying again. “Huh,” I said. “Well, this is reassuring. This book also confirms that sex can’t hurt the baby. The baby’s perfectly safe in the womb. My uterus.”

  Uterus. Blah. Why do female body parts have such ugly names?

  There was no response from my erstwhile lover. He continued to read—or pretend to read—Vanity Fair.

  “Ross?”

  “Huh?” He looked up from the magazine, eyes wide and slightly startled. “What did you say? I’m sorry, Anna, I didn’t hear you. I’m reading this very interesting article about Michael Jackson’s legal woes.”

  Okay, so he had been reading. And, it seems, concentrating.

  “Nothing.” I smiled and shrugged. “Just thinking aloud.”

  Ross smiled and once again resumed reading.

  Okay, I thought. Maybe my timing is bad. Maybe Ross is too tired to fool around at night. Maybe now that the baby is coming he’s working extra hard at the office to build up that college fund my father is always talking about.

  So, I decided to abandon the idea of sex at night and apply my feminine wiles in the morning. Ross isn’t a morning person, but we all know what men wake up sporting. They can’t help it. It just happens. Ross might be groggy, I considered, but his required effort would be minimal. I was sure he could handle the job.

  The next morning Ross’s alarm clock went off at seven o’ clock. I’d been awake and ready since six. With a groan he turned off the pulsing machine. I rolled against his back and slipped my hand over his hip. And before anything at all could happen, Ross shot from the bed and was in the master bathroom, door closed, shower running.

  One more option remained. Afternoon delight. Admittedly, it was a long shot. Ross and I rarely—had we ever?—made love at odd hours. Sex was associated with bed, which was associated with sleep, and neither of us were big nap takers. But I was determined.

  So, when one Saturday Ross and I found ourselves at loose ends because the architect had cancelled his visit at the last minute, I thought, Perfect. Two hours before our next appointment, which was at a high-end furniture store in the Back Bay, and nothing to do in the meantime but flip through decorating magazines together.

  I looked hopefully at Ross. He was standing at the kitchen counter, ever so carefully peeling a grapefruit with a paring knife. His face wore a slight frown of concentration. Or was it distaste? Ross didn’t like grapefruit. He was peeling it for me. I hadn’t asked for a grapefruit, but Ross said he wanted me to eat more citrus.

  I opened my mouth. Ross flicked a grapefruit seed into the sink with a finicky flip of his manicured fingers. I closed my mouth. A girl can only take so much rejection.

  17

  The Inimitable

  I stood on the sidewalk four houses down from Mrs. Kent’s home and checked my watch. If I began walking right that moment I’d reach her door precisely two minutes before my appointment. I knew this because I’d done a few practice runs the day before.

  With each step my heart beat a little faster. I’d gotten the job planning Mrs. Kent’s party solely on the basis of my resume and portfolio; this was our first meeting. What if I blundered badly? I’d lose the job for sure. I’d never been fired and wasn’t keen on going through the experience.

  I checked my watch again. Two minutes early. I counted out thirty seconds and then lifted the knocker—was it really brass?—and rapped three times. A moment later the door opened, and I was face to face with a man dressed like a butler straight from a movie about life in an English country house.

  “Yes?” he inquired, with only a hint of impatience.

  “I’m Anna Traulsen,” I said, with only a hint of panic. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Kent.”

  The butler allowed me entrance, where I was immediately accosted by the most formidable woman I’d ever encountered. She was at least six feet tall with shoulders usually found on professional basketball players. Her chest was propped up so high and so firmly she seemed more like the bow of a ship breasting its way through choppy waters than a woman walking across a carpeted floor. Her eyes behind her metal-framed glasses were severe. Her mouth was incongruously tiny and pursed.

  In short, Mrs. Kent’s personal assistant made Mrs. Danvers of Rebecca fame seem like a ball of fluff. I don’t think I’ve ever been so intimidated in all my life as I was by that estimable woman.

  “I am Ms. Butterfield,” she said. “Mrs. Kent’s personal assistant.”

  I put out my hand to shake hers; she frowned at it before giving me a brisk shake that almost broke my bones.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Butterfield,” I squeaked. I was sure I was going to slip and call her Mrs. Butterworth, and just as equally sure she would have no reference to the popular maple syrup.

  After a piercing scrutiny she pronounced, “You’ll do, I suppose. Follow me.”

  Ms. Butterfield led me into a room straight out of a Henry James novel.

  “Miss Traulsen is here,” she intoned, as if announcing a disaster of massive proportion.

  “Mrs. Kent,” I said, with an automatic nod.

  She was a tall woman still; she must have been at least five foot nine in her youth. Her hair was thick and white and piled on her head in a charming, early twentieth-century fashion. No old lady haircut for her. She was dressed in a suit that consisted of a high-necked white blouse, a boxy jacket in powder blue, and a straight skirt that fell just below her knee when she sat. I noted that her legs were in fine shape; I thought of the old slang “gams.”

  A magnificent brooch sat close to her left shoulder; at her ears were pearls; on her wrists were several gold bracelets; and on her fingers were no fewer than three gorgeous rings, two obviously Victorian in style. And her pale blue eyes, although dulled by age, were still keen with intelligence and, I was to discover, an almost macabre sense of humor.

  “Thank you Ms. Butterfield,” she said, with a fixed, unnatural smile, “that will be all.”

  With a parting glare at me, Ms. Butterfield left the room.

  Mrs. Kent’s fixed smile relaxed into a grin; she rolled her eyes in the direction o
f the door through which Ms. Butterfield had just passed. “Oh, and don’t mind her, Miss Traulsen. She’s congenitally displeased. Between you and me, I call her Mrs. Butterpat. Not to her face, of course.”

  I allowed myself a small, tentative laugh. What, I wondered, would Mrs. Kent be calling me behind my back?

  Mrs. Kent invited—commanded?—me to sit in a chair facing her perch on an overstuffed couch and after a few preliminaries—we agreed the weather was fine—the talk turned to the business at hand.

  “There were eight of us girls in the drama club, all friends,” Mrs. Kent informed me. “And we were quite the free spirits. Always breaking into laughter at inopportune moments and getting into all sorts of trouble. Well, what was trouble in those days would be seen as mere high jinks today. But oh, we had fun. We all went our separate ways after school, of course, marrying and raising families. Still, we always managed to keep in touch with a letter or occasional phone call.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said politely. “That you keep in touch.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Kent said brusquely; I wondered if she was embarrassed to have offered me a peek at her personal life. “Today there are only five of us still alive.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Mrs. Kent looked at me with some wonder. “What are you sorry about, my dear? We all die. It’s just a matter of time. Which is why I want to give this little party, because Marion is not long for this world. Of course, she’s been telling us that for the past three years, but I have a feeling that her time really is close. I’d love to see the old dear one more time. She owes me a game of poker. I caught her cheating last time, though of course, she swears she wasn’t.”

  I made a note to self: Try not to sentimentalize the elderly.

  “Yes, well,” I said, just a bit nervously, “I have some preliminary ideas, of course. Still, I’d like to ask you some questions so I can get a better idea of what you had in mind for this event.”

  I looked questioningly at Mrs. Kent, who nodded.

  “For example,” I went on, “we might work with a theatre theme, in which case I’d like to know the names of some of the plays your club performed. We might also choose to recall your alma mater, in which case it would be helpful to know the school’s colors and to have a copy of its crest. Or, we might go with a seasonal theme. You mentioned the event is scheduled for June 15th?”