Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Maybe I like that about you.”

  “Why? Are you hiding some dread secret?” I joked. “In the distant past did you mastermind a sinister event resulting in the destruction of an entire middle-class suburban neighborhood? Are you on the run from the police? Is that your real face?”

  “Yes, I lived with a man in college,” Alexandra said without preamble. “Only he wasn’t really a man. Oh, sure, he had the physical parts, but emotionally he was about nine years old. What can I say? I had to learn, too. Satisfied?”

  “For now. You can ask me a question about my past life if you want. I’m sure there’s still something you don’t know about me.”

  “Okay,” she replied. “Tell me something I don’t know about your former love life.”

  “Like what? Be specific. But not too intimate. You know I don’t—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But that narrows the field considerably. Can I ask if you’ve ever had a threesome?”

  “No, you may not,” I replied. “But if you did have permission to ask, the answer would be no. Most emphatically, no.”

  Alexandra sighed. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. Your life, my dear Anna, has been rather—”

  “Unexciting?” I suggested. “Decidedly not glamorous? Fairly dull?”

  “Those are your words, not mine. But yes, that’s about what I meant.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “I can’t deny it.” And, I realized, it’s only going to get duller. Suddenly, I felt miserably old. I felt—over.

  “I think I’ll go home,” I said.

  “But it’s only seven thirty!” Alexandra protested. “Stay for just a bit. After all, this was your idea.”

  I picked up my purse and sighed. “If I hurry I can be in bed by eight. Goodnight, Alexandra. Don’t stay out too late.”

  40

  Retrospect

  Soon after I got my first apartment after college, my mother sent me three cardboard boxes filled with my childhood trinkets and toys. Report cards, too, and books, drawings done in kindergarten, a few tiny dresses and goofy hats, and the photo albums I’d kept in high school and college. She also included an envelope full of miscellaneous shots of my brother and me together, photos she’d never gotten around to putting in an album.

  I’ve never checked my parents’ attic or basement but I’d bet there’s not a trace left of Paul or of me.

  Over time I tried to forgive my mother for being who she is. After all, I reasoned, she’d kept the stuffed bear and the finger paint masterpiece in the first place. She’d taken the photos of birthday parties and Christmas mornings. What did it matter that as soon as I got my own home she’d shunted every trace of my past out the door? I couldn’t stay a child forever, could I?

  But my mother could want me to be her child forever. Couldn’t she?

  Anyway, by the time of my pregnancy I’d gotten over being hurt by my parents’ lack of interest, enough to vow that I was going to shower my own child with endless affection and concern until the day I died.

  That evening, after leaving Alexandra alone at the bar, I went home and poked through those cardboard boxes. And while I picked through ragged dolls and crayon drawings, I wondered, Had I ever been young? Really young, wild and carefree and devil-may-care? Had I ever thrown caution to the wind and worn jeans without underwear and shown up for work with a hangover? Had I ever made out with a boyfriend in public or passed notes in class or snuck outside food into a movie theater? Had I ever shoplifted a piece of gum or walked on a lawn with a No Trespassing sign?

  Of course not. I just wasn’t a high-spirited, devil-may-care person. In fact, more than once I’d been called an old soul, but I’m not sure that was an accurate description. Didn’t “old soul” imply a sort of ageless wisdom? I’d certainly never felt in the least bit wise.

  I scanned the various photographs I’d spread out on the dining table. Anna in pigtails on her first day of kindergarten; Anna in an upsweep, heading out for the senior prom. Anna in her high school graduation portrait, all solemn-eyed and hopeful; Anna in her college graduation portrait, black mortarboard perched smartly atop her sensible head. Good, efficient, conscientious, law-abiding, status-quo-keeping Anna.

  Looking at those pictures, I wondered, Is this all there is to me?

  Yes. Maybe. No.

  I swept the loose photographs into a messy pile. It’s okay, I told myself. Nobody wants you to be other than who you are. Nobody but you even suspects there’s something more to Anna Traulsen. Nobody but you suspects there’s anything wrong at all.

  41

  Showers, Showers Everywhere

  Alexandra and I met for a quick lunch the next afternoon at the Au Bon Pain on Newbury Street. I felt bad for having run out on her the night before; besides, there was a new worry on my mind.

  “Good afternoon, dear Anna,” she said when she swept into the storefront twelve minutes late. “I trust you got lots of sleep last night, although I must say you don’t look very rested. And isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “It’s okay,” I replied, stirring the broccoli soup I’d gotten while waiting for my friend to show up. Surprisingly, that week I could eat broccoli with no problem, but crackers made me queasy. “And no, I didn’t get lots of sleep because the phone rang at eleven last night and I was stupid enough to pick it up.”

  “So, does this late-night phone call have anything to do with why you’re so glum?” Alexandra took the seat across from me, undeterred by my grumpy answer.

  “You don’t want to know. Really, you’ll be bored.”

  “Probably,” Alexandra admitted. “But we’re friends. Remember, we have the right to bore each other now and then.”

  “You’ve never bored me.”

  Alexandra unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “I’m saving the boring stories for when we’re creaky old ladies with blue hair and stockings rolled to our knees.”

  “If I ever wear stockings rolled to my knees, put me out of your misery.”

  Alexandra raised her right hand as if to pledge. “It’s a promise. Now, what’s going on?”

  “My mother,” I said, “assumes she’s hosting the baby shower.”

  “What happened to the wedding shower?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” I replied dryly. “It seems the bride has taken a backseat to the baby. But that’s the least of my problems right now. Kristen has offered to host the baby shower, too. I can’t have two baby showers. Well, I suppose I could, if my mother invited one group of people to her party and Kristen invited another group to hers, but I don’t want to have to endure two baby showers. I can barely wrap my mind around one.”

  Alexandra shrugged. “So, tell your mother or Kristen thanks but no thanks.”

  “I can’t do that,” I protested. “My mother would be devastated.”

  “You mean she’d be pissed off and you’re afraid of standing up to her and making her really listen to you for the first time in your life.”

  “Right.” There really was no point in arguing that truth. “And I can’t say no to Kristen because she sounded so excited, and I know she loves to host adult-only parties and hardly ever has the chance since having the three kids.”

  “Anna,” Alexandra pronounced, “you’re a wimp. You’re putting your friend’s feelings above your own.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as a generous person.”

  “Self-effacing,” Alexandra corrected. “Remember, Anna, this is your baby shower. A party in your honor shouldn’t be something inflicted upon you. It should be something you want and will enjoy.”

  “I suppose I could suggest they share the hostess duties,” I said.

  “You know as well as I do that won’t work. Your mother and Kristen hardly know each other. And your mother, well, she’s not the easiest person to get along with. Even Kristen might be tempted to strangle her.”

  “My mother is strong willed,” I corrected, warningly. “That’s all. Besides, you’ve only met her once
and she wasn’t in the best of moods that day. She’d only come into the city for a sale at Lord & Taylor, but when she got to the store she couldn’t find anything she wanted to buy. It set her off.”

  “Did I say anything nasty about your mother?”

  “No, not really,” I admitted. “But you were thinking it. I just wish there was a clear, incontrovertible reason for choosing one hostess over the other.”

  “There is a clear, incontrovertible reason,” Alexandra said. “Your mother comes first. She has priority. Why? Because she gave birth to you, and so until the day she dies you owe her your life.”

  I wondered, Years from now, would my daughter resent everything I said or did, no matter how altruistic my motives? Probably.

  “Is there another clear, incontrovertible choice?” I asked.

  “In my opinion, yes. You’re an adult. Your mother treated you like a child, like someone who has no opinions or rights of her own, by assuming you’d want her to give you a baby shower. Kristen, on the other hand, treated you as an adult for whom she has respect. She asked if you would like her to host your baby shower. I’d reward the person who considered me an equal. I’d accept Kristen’s offer.”

  Alexandra had a point. She always does.

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised. “Anyway, I suppose I should be grateful my mother is showing any interest in my life at all. Generally speaking she’s a devoted proponent of laissez-faire parenting.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Alexandra said brightly, suddenly. “How’s the wedding shower shaping up?”

  “You,” I said, “are a troublemaker.”

  “And you’re pathologically afraid of causing trouble. We won’t have to eat cucumber sandwiches, will we?”

  “At the wedding shower?”

  “At either shower.”

  “I like cucumber sandwiches. But no, we won’t. My mother hates cucumbers. They give her gas.”

  “Cucumbers cause gas in everyone over the age of thirty.”

  “They don’t give me gas.”

  “You’re special, I guess. So, what about the bachelor party?”

  The question took me by surprise. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Ross hasn’t mentioned a bachelor party. I kind of forgot about the men.”

  “Of course you did. Weddings are all about women. The men are merely accessories.”

  “I’ll ask Ross if his brother is organizing a party. I can’t imagine the Davis boys at a strip club. They really are like the Crane brothers, you know. Maybe they’ll go to a steak house for dinner.”

  “I thought Ross doesn’t pollute his body with red meat.”

  “He doesn’t,” I said. “Not often. But I think most steak houses offer a broiled fish these days.”

  Alexandra grinned. “Well, maybe Rob will hire a private stripper to go along with after dinner cigars and brandy. Wait, does Ross drink brandy?”

  Ross’s drinking brandy wasn’t the question. Ross’s getting a lap dance was. He didn’t seem at all like the type to appreciate a stripper, even a highly paid one. His father, on the other hand, did seem like the type. His brother, I thought, could go either way. If turning down a lap dance meant ridicule from the father, then Rob would say, “Bring it on!” and probably burn his trousers afterward.

  “Anna?” Alexandra’s voice startled me back to the moment. “Did you hear me? Does Ross drink brandy? Or is he on a strictly oxygenized water diet until the wedding?”

  “Of course he drinks brandy,” I snapped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “It’s the idea of Ross getting a lap dance, isn’t it? Don’t worry, honey. I’d bet my last dime against that ever happening.”

  “It’s a good thing Ross would refuse a lap dance,” I pointed out. “You make it sound like a character flaw.”

  “Not at all. I think with Ross there are certain things you can count on, like his being faithful.”

  Had Alexandra finally seen the light? “I’ve been telling you that Ross is a good person.”

  “It’s not that he’s a good person,” Alexandra shot back. “It’s that he doesn’t like mess. Cheating is messy. It’s too haphazard for his taste.”

  “You’ll never like Ross, will you?”

  Alexandra shrugged. “Probably not. But he’ll probably never like me, either. Our mutual dislike cancels itself out.”

  “That makes no sense,” I said. “Besides, have you ever considered how hard it is for me to live with the fact that my fiancé and my best friend hate each other? It’s very awkward, you know.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, Anna. I’d like Ross if I could. It’d be easier on me, too. We three could be all chummy and cozy and take vacations together and—”

  “Don’t be like that,” I snapped. “There’s no need.”

  Alexandra grimaced; she looked contrite but how could I be sure? “I’m sorry, Anna,” she said. “Really. Sometimes I’m a jackass, I know. I wish I knew why.”

  I do, too, I thought. But I said, just a bit stiffly, “It’s okay. Thanks for the advice about the shower.”

  42

  Acid Bath

  “You know who I think is cute?” Kristen looked around the large round table at Tiger with bright-eyed expectation. “Orlando Bloom. I know, I’m old enough to be his, well, his older sister, but I just think he’s so adorable! Don’t you think so, Anna?”

  It was the last time the five of us—Kristen, Tracy, Alexandra, Michaela, and I—would be together at one table. Had I known what was going to happen, would I have put an end to that silly chatter right then? Would have, should have, could have. There’s just no benefit to that kind of thinking.

  “I’m going to be a mother soon,” I pointed out. “I’m almost a married woman. I feel silly talking about what celebrity I have a crush on. It’s, I don’t know, unseemly.”

  “Well,” Kristen replied briskly, “I don’t feel silly and I don’t think it’s unseemly, and I’m a wife and mother. So there.”

  “Unseemly? Oh, please, Anna.” Alexandra laughed. “Kristen’s right, you don’t always have to be Miss Propriety. Come on, tell us. Who would you like to fool around with? Who would be your free pass once you tie the knot?”

  Kristen was looking at me eagerly now. Tracy betrayed a wry but amused smile. Well, I thought, what harm would it really do to engage in a little game with my girlfriends? As long as Ross didn’t find out. “Hair Guy,” I said promptly.

  “Who?” Michaela inquired. Her tone suggested she’d been forced to pick up a particularly slimy worm with her teeth.

  “Hair Guy,” I repeated. “You know, from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”

  Alexandra shook her head. “Poor Anna. First and second and third: He’s gay. You can’t have sex with him.”

  “In my fantasies I can do whatever I want,” I protested. “He’s very good-looking. He has wonderful muscles. He’s the only man I’ve ever seen who looks truly good in a sleeveless T-shirt.”

  “Well, I’ll give you that,” Kristen said, laughing. “Have you seen him doing push-ups? By the way, Anna, his name is Kyan Douglas, and I think he’s called Grooming Guy, not Hair Guy.”

  Michaela grimaced. “Just how much time do you spend watching television?” she asked Kristen. “Well, I suppose when you don’t have a job ...”

  “Personally,” Kristen said, undeterred, “I’m partial to Ted Allen, the Food and Wine Guy. He’s so sophisticated and witty. I mean, Brian’s a wonderful husband, but he’s hopeless in the kitchen. If he could just spend an afternoon with Ted he’d be perfect. Maybe he’d stop buying cheese in a plastic tube.”

  Not for the first time I thought, Yes, Ross and Brian are not meant to be friends.

  Tracy laughed. “Enough with the men we really, really can’t have. What about heterosexual men? What about the men we can’t have because they’re celebrities and we’re nobodies? Nobodies with average bodies and no money for serious couture and daily visits to the spa.”

 
“That’s easy,” Kristen said. My friend, I realized, had played this game before. “George Clooney.”

  Alexandra groaned. “Of course! Everybody says George Clooney!”

  “Have you seen him in Ocean’s Eleven?” Kristen demanded. “The scene where he and Matt Damon are breaking into the vault? Did you get a good look at those arms?”

  Chris Noth was Tracy’s hands-down choice, as Mr. Big or as himself, whoever that is.

  “Michaela,” I said, although the look on her face made it clear she thought our fluffy conversation beneath her. “What about you? Who would be your free pass?”

  “Do I really have to pick just one? How dull. Leave me out of this.” She took a sip of her drink and then said, “Alexandra, what about you?”

  Alexandra leaned back and crossed her legs. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled. “Let me see. Russell Crowe is attractive. And I wouldn’t kick Robert DeNiro out of bed for eating crackers. But if I have to pick just one I’ll say Benicio Del Toro.”

  Michaela rolled her eyes magnificently. “He’s far too bulky.”

  “Too bulky for what?” Alexandra snapped. “Your taste? Well, then it’s a good thing he’s my free pass and not yours.”

  “I prefer slim men,” Michaela said, her voice suddenly husky. “The essential thing about slim men is that there’s nothing in the way of what’s important.”

  “What’s that?” Kristen asked, without a trace of self-consciousness.

  Michaela directed her words to Kristen, whose cheeks grew increasingly red.

  “Isn’t it obvious? When a man has a fat stomach or is too pumped, the package isn’t quite as accessible. It’s not as pow, right out there, in your face—or wherever—like it is on a man built like Ashton Kutcher or Brad Pitt or Jude Law. And let’s be honest,” she added, looking around the table. “Men are good for one thing and one thing only. Sex. Otherwise, they’re entirely disposable.”

  “You’re a bit of a freak show, you know that?” Alexandra’s assessment came shooting like a bullet from a gun.

  Michaela shrugged. “If it makes you happy to think so. I just know what I like. A slim man with a big package he knows how to use. A man who does his job and then leaves before he can open his mouth and bore me. A man who knows his place.”