Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  “But you’ve already got the something new, Anna!” Mrs. Davis exclaimed.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Mrs. Davis’s eyes gleamed with grandmotherly pride. “The baby! You’ve got to carry something borrowed and something blue, something old and something new. And you’ve got the new! You’re carrying Ross’s baby!”

  My baby, I amended silently. Our baby.

  I shot a look at Tracy; her face was strained with disbelief. “Er,” said my formerly articulate friend.

  “A baby is hardly an accessory,” I protested feebly. “What I mean is, I think the new thing is supposed to be a gift from your future husband.”

  The second the words were past my lips, I knew I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake.

  Mrs. Davis stiffened. “Well, dear, what greater gift could Ross have given you than the baby?”

  How, how, how could I have answered that?

  “I think Anna meant a more traditional gift,” Tracy said quickly, starting to life. “Like a diamond tennis bracelet. That’s very popular, you know. Bill gave me one on our wedding day. See?”

  Tracy held up her right hand to show Mrs. Davis the piece sparkling on her wrist. Mrs. Davis glanced at the bracelet, then looked to Tracy’s face.

  “In this case,” she said, evenly, “it might be more suitable if the bracelet contained the baby’s birthstone. What would that be? Yes, I believe it’s aquamarine for December. I’ll have to check to be sure.”

  More suitable for whom? I asked silently. I imagined the kind of tacky birthstone jewelry I’d seen in the bargain basements of certain department stores in ugly strip malls along Route One. I remembered the time I’d agreed to accompany a particularly cheap client to Guy’s House of Baubles in search of a hideous charm decorated with the birthstones of each of her siblings.

  Mrs. Davis went off to “powder her nose” in the dressmaker’s tiny but immaculate bathroom. And I found myself staring blankly at the shelves of sparkling bags and tiaras, of seed pearl chokers and rhinestone-encrusted hair combs, of satin-covered guestbooks and silk embroidered gloves.

  “Well,” Tracy said, “if Ross doesn’t come through with a diamond bracelet we can always buy a C.Z. bracelet at Landau’s.”

  “Oh, if he knows he’s supposed to do something he’ll do it,” I said testily. “I’m not worried about that. After all, I am the mother of his child, and he’d do anything for her.”

  There was a beat of silence before Tracy said, “Do I detect a tone of bitterness?”

  I turned my back on the display case of bridal accessories. “Sorry. No. I’m just feeling a little off, that’s all.”

  Tracy frowned and took my arm. “What do you mean by off? Do you feel sick? Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I said. “Really. I guess it’s just the stress and all. Planning the wedding ...” I let my vapid explanation trail off. Truth: I wasn’t fine. Everything was in place, plans were being followed, but something, something was just not right. It wasn’t the dreams—not entirely; it wasn’t the absurd notions I entertained about Jack—not really; it wasn’t Ross’s lack of desire; it wasn’t anything I could name. And if anyone—even Tracy—told me the uneasy feeling was simply due to hormones, I was going to start screaming and never stop.

  Mrs. Davis reappeared, and Tracy smoothly suggested we be off to lunch right away. Before Mrs. Davis could protest, Tracy took hold of her elbow and was leading her through the door. I followed, wishing the day were over.

  51

  Love Happens

  “Coming, coming!” I flung open the door to the building, expecting to see my friend covered in blood or otherwise in distress. “Gosh, Alexandra, I can only run down so fast. What’s the crisis?”

  Alexandra wasn’t covered in blood, but she did look different somehow. Was she taller? I looked down at her feet. No. The heels were her usual.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, barely suppressing a giddy grin. “You’re not going to believe it. I hardly believe it myself.”

  “Well come upstairs and tell me.” I closed the door and followed her up to my apartment. “I’m guessing it’s not something bad. That grin reaches from ear to ear.”

  “No, it’s not something bad. It’s something wonderful.”

  We went into my apartment, and I closed the door. “Let me catch my breath and then you can tell me.”

  “I have my breath. I’m telling you right now. The man I told you about. The one I was—”

  I raised my hand. “There’s no need to specify. How could I possibly forget?”

  “He called me last night. I saw him this morning. We met for coffee.”

  “Wow,” I said. It was the last piece of news I’d ever expected to hear. “That is a headline. So, where do I begin? I have a million questions.”

  “Start with the most obvious.”

  “Okay. Why did he call after all this time? No, wait,” I said. “If we’re going to talk about this I really need to know his name. I’m tired of thinking of him as your Mystery Lover.”

  Alexandra seemed to find this inordinately funny. When she finally stopped laughing, she said, “His name is Luke Romane. And he called because he’s free. We can be together.”

  “He got a divorce after all?” I asked, shocked. “Oh, don’t tell me his wife died.”

  “She didn’t die,” Alexandra replied impatiently. “I’m not a ghoul. I wouldn’t be grinning over someone’s untimely death. She asked Luke for a divorce.”

  “Oh,” I said. Curiouser and curiouser. “And he said yes?”

  “Yes. He moved out of their house last week.”

  And he immediately called Alexandra. There was something unseemly about the situation. “Well, he didn’t waste any time, did he?” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

  “Enough time has been wasted,” Alexandra said shortly. “No more.”

  I wondered, Did I have the nerve—or the right—to ask my friend if she thought the love of her life had acted like a coward by staying in the marriage when he was in love with another woman?

  “So, for all those years he couldn’t leave her,” I said tentatively.

  “He wouldn’t leave her,” Alexandra corrected. “He made an active choice to stay with his family.”

  I didn’t dare bring up the term hypocrisy. “Okay,” I said. “But now when she decides to leave him ...” I stopped. What was my point, exactly?

  “What’s your point?” Alexandra asked, her tone challenging.

  I shook my head. “Nothing, I guess. I’m just trying to get my head around this. I’m stunned. I think I’m happy for you. I know I’m scared for you.”

  “I know you are. I would be for you, too. Happy but concerned. Thank you, Anna.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “But are you sure you don’t want to think about this a bit before getting back together?”

  “You don’t turn away love,” Alexandra said definitively. “You don’t turn away your soul mate. It doesn’t matter how we’re together, Anna, just that we are.”

  Well, I didn’t know how to argue that. Maybe Alexandra was right.

  “You’re in for a long haul of divorce and stepparenting,” I said. “His kids might hate you. They might hate him if—when—they find out he cheated on their mother. Loyalty to the mother is a very strong emotion.”

  I automatically put my hand on my stomach and spoke silently to the baby: I will fight to the death for you, Little One. Just love me in return.

  “I know, Anna,” Alexandra said. “But nothing can be worse than being without him. Look, I thought he hated me. I thought I’d hurt him beyond repair.”

  “Didn’t he hurt you beyond repair?” Had I not understood anything?

  Alexandra answered promptly. “No. He didn’t hurt me. Life did. His intentions were never bad. Mine might have been, when I married Gus.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. Just listening to Alexandra’s story was exhausting.
How had she carried the burden of her past for so long without breaking?

  “Nothing,” she said. “I take that back. I never really wanted to hurt Luke. Not really. Maybe just a little bit. A therapist would say it was understandable, but I’m not proud of my behavior. I’ve forgiven myself for agreeing to marry Gus, but I’m still paying the price. Memory is a harsh reality.”

  “You could try to forget,” I suggested stupidly.

  Alexandra ignored the remark. “I have these flashes of memory,” she went on, “just horrible blinding flashes, and I feel so deeply ashamed and humiliated.”

  “Humiliated?” My stomach sank. “Oh, Alexandra, Gus didn’t hit you, did he?”

  “No, no. The marriage wasn’t abusive or even miserable, but it didn’t have to be. It was just wrong. Let me tell you something, Anna.” Alexandra pinned me with her eyes; I had no choice but to pay particular attention. “There are few personal experiences worse than waking up next to someone you don’t love but have pledged to love. It’s jail; it’s a prison. It kills your soul. And it’s completely unfair to both people.”

  “Oh,” I said after a moment. “Okay.” I suddenly felt defensive: Why did Alexandra think I needed to know that?

  “I’m trying to understand,” I said. “Why, exactly, did you marry this Gus?”

  Alexandra sighed. “Because I wanted to save myself. After two years of torture with Luke, I wanted to give myself a normal life. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said. I did understand. By marrying Ross I was hoping to embark on a normal, stable journey through the rest of my life.

  I decided then not to ask Alexandra if she’d been in love with Gus.

  “What was I thinking?” Alexandra now spoke more to herself than to me. “I must have been temporarily insane. But enough of the past. I’ve been given this chance—I don’t know why I’ve been given it, but I’m thrilled—and I’m frightened—I could—I feel—”

  “You’re crying,” I said. I’d never seen my friend cry. Not even at the funeral of a thirty-four-year-old colleague who’d died the previous year of breast cancer. It made me uncomfortable somehow. It made me feel that everything was suddenly changing. If I couldn’t count on Alexandra to be who I thought she was, what could I count on?

  And that selfish thought frightened me, too. Was I so immature?

  “I’m crying,” Alexandra said, and she sounded proud. “It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Welcome to the wonderful chaos of life!”

  52

  Betrayal

  “I’m not sure why we have to do this,” I said.

  Ross was leaning languidly in the doorway to my bedroom; I was finishing dressing. Getting ready to leave the house had become a chore since my body started exploding. I looked again at my reflection in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. Was there really a tummy bulge or was I imagining it?

  “Because,” he said, “we’re all going to be related in a few months. We’re going to be family. And with the baby coming, it’s very important the grandparents get to know each other better.”

  I wasn’t at all convinced it was important for my parents to know Ross’s parents any better than they did. To date they’d met only once, right after Ross and I got engaged. Mr. and Mrs. Davis had hosted a small party at their home—Mrs. Davis had referred to it as an “elite gathering”—and in spite of the champagne toast and shrimp wrapped in bacon, the evening was less than successful. Some might even have called it a disaster. When Mrs. Davis proudly showed Ross’s baby pictures, my father yawned loudly in her face. When Mr. Davis gallantly complimented my mother’s dress, she told him it was about to go into the garbage. (“Mom,” I said later, “you implied that Ross’s parents aren’t good enough for one of your new dresses.” My mother replied, “Whatever. I can’t be responsible for how people interpret everything I say. You don’t want the dress, do you? If not, it’s in the trash.”)

  “Are you almost done?” Ross’s voice broke through my unpleasant memories. “We’ll be late if we don’t leave in the next five minutes. And you know my father hates people to be late.”

  Four minutes later we were in the backseat of Ross’s company car, being driven to the new and well-reviewed Cashmere.

  On the way I told Ross about Alexandra and Luke.

  Alexandra hadn’t asked me to keep it a secret. But Ross was my fiancé, and there’s an unwritten rule that between a husband and wife there should be full disclosure.

  Still, I’d kept things from Ross in the past. So, why be open now? Because for the past few days I’d been feeling guilty. Guilty about having accepted those flowers from Jack; guilty about not having told Ross where they’d come from. Guilty about thinking Jack might be in love with me; guilty about my own disturbing feelings for him, about what could be called my “crush,” even though I knew the “crush” was all just some crazy, pregnancy-related hormonal thing, not my fault, out of my control. Some crazy hormonal thing and, very likely, cold feet. Maybe, I realized, maybe that was why I found myself thinking about Jack when I should have been thinking about Ross. Cold feet. It was normal to feel scared as the wedding approached; it was normal to consider, for one last time, all the possibilities you were rejecting by choosing just one man, just one life.

  Just one man. And if that one man were Jack Coltrane—what a ridiculous notion—what would I be choosing? Someone who charted his own course. Someone who took chances. Someone who made me feel.

  Someone risky.

  Cold feet. I tried to comfort myself with the fact that I’d never once done anything that could truly be considered cheating; I’d never betrayed Ross by as much as a kiss on the cheek. Ross, as far as I knew, was completely oblivious to the absurd thoughts running through my head. And, I vowed, I would do anything to keep him in the dark because none of it mattered in the end. Nothing, I reminded myself, that I was feeling in those days was real. Nothing.

  Still, for all the stupid stuff in my head I felt I owed Ross something, some gesture of solidarity. So, I told him about Alexandra and Luke.

  Really, how had I expected him to react?

  “That woman is a loser, Anna,” he said, contempt dripping from every word. “You should spend less time with her and more time with—Well, frankly, I don’t think any of your friends are up to par, but I suppose Tracy is the least objectionable.”

  There were so many things I wanted to say, so many, but I couldn’t even open my mouth. I tried; I did. But I felt as though I had been heavily drugged into submission. It’s like in my dreams, I thought, as I stared out at the darkening city. I’m being choked.

  And maybe I deserved to be. I’d just betrayed my dearest friend. I betrayed Ross every time I listened to Alexandra trash his character. I betrayed Ross again every time I thought about Jack. What was wrong with me? Was I loyal to no one? Trustworthy Anna Traulsen could no longer be trusted.

  We arrived at the restaurant, exactly on time. The Davises were already there, at a table in the bar. My parents, as usual, were late. When they made their entrance any shred of hope I’d had for a successful evening died an ugly death.

  My mother was wearing what amounted to a cobalt blue running outfit, although she probably had bought it at a suburban store that featured “leisurewear” and “athletic chic” for the never-been-to-a-gym, over fifty-five set. Mrs. Davis, in her proper skirt suit, looked infinitely lovely compared to my mother, but somehow, amazingly, she seemed the one making the faux pas. My mother has that kind of power, an unshakeable self-confidence that bullies those around her into automatic self-doubt and timidity.

  And my father, admittedly never the most elegant of conversationalists, was inordinately silent. I’d seen it before; undoubtedly he was furious with my mother—had she nagged him mercilessly on the drive into the city?—and was inflicting his bad mood on all of us.

  It was an excruciating hour and a half. I tried, however subtly, to hurry things along; thankfully, and without consultation,
Mrs. Davis joined me. We were partners in discomfort, and silently I forgave her for any minor crimes she’d committed against me. I was mad at Ross, annoyed with my parents’ lack of social grace, dismayed by Mr. Davis’s boorish recitation of his latest financial achievements.

  Finally, the dinner plates were cleared. “Would you care to see the dessert menu?” the unsuspecting waiter asked.

  As if we’d rehearsed, Mrs. Davis and I replied in unison. “No, thank you,” we said.

  “I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache,” Mrs. Davis added, looking fixedly at her water glass.

  “I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit tired,” I said, looking fixedly at my fiancé. “I think we should go home.”

  My parents made no move to pay for dinner.

  53

  Making Sense of It

  A few days after she’d broken the big news, Alexandra persuaded me to take a stroll through the Public Garden.

  “Exercise is good for pregnant women,” she said as we walked past the equestrian statue of George Washington on the Arlington Street side of the park.

  “Exercise is good for every woman. I guess I should think about getting some.”

  “We are nearing forty,” Alexandra pointed out. “We’re losing bone and muscle mass as we speak.”

  “Gee, thanks for the upbeat reminder,” I said wryly.

  “Oh, Anna, don’t be glum. It’s such a beautiful day. A walk will be good for the soul.”

  Well, I thought, my soul could use some soothing. I couldn’t forget the contempt in Ross’s voice when I’d told him about Alexandra and Luke. From now on, I vowed, glancing at my friend’s dramatic profile, my friends’ lives are their own. I will not practice full disclosure with my husband. At least, not with the husband I’ve chosen.

  “How are things with Luke?” I asked.

  “Good. There’s some strain,” Alexandra admitted. “It’s odd being familiar strangers.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “It’s so odd to know nothing about his life for the past eight years. I mean, I love Luke and yet in a daily, mundane sort of way, he’s a stranger. I know nothing about him anymore.”