Babyland

by Holly Chamberlin

  I wondered, Then what was I lucky in? Mediocre love? And what, I thought, was wrong with that?

  “Earth to Anna!”

  Alexandra’s voice called me back to life. I smiled embarrassedly at Luke.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Something I just remembered, about a job ...”

  “You really should try to relax,” Alexandra scolded. “Here, honey, try some of this paté; it’s fabulous.”

  Luke passed the plate of bread. The conversation turned to health insurance and then to the upcoming show at the MFA. I tried to participate, but one powerful thought kept nagging at my brain. What if—just think, Anna!—what if great, passionate love, the kind that’s eluded you for all these years, is finally here, right in front of you, waiting to be embraced?

  The thought was terrifying. Don’t be an idiot, Anna, I chided. You’ve made your decision. And you’ll stick with it.

  But thoughts of Jack Coltrane would not go away.

  58

  Knock Down, Drag Out

  I woke the next morning feeling as if I’d swallowed a watermelon whole. It wasn’t just an average case of gas; it was Pregnant Woman indigestion. I defy anyone to be in a good mood with a giant hand grenade in her stomach, especially on an unseasonably warm day. Eight o’clock a.m. and the temperature was already eighty, and the humidity was seventy-six percent; The Weather Channel predicted thunderstorms that evening.

  How, I wondered, toddling to the bathroom, am I going to survive being pregnant in August if I feel so bad in May? Briefly I considered working from home (my computers were linked) where I could turn up the air conditioning full blast and avoid the boiling streets. And then I remembered I’d left an important e-mail address on the desk in my office. And that I’d promised to drop off a book of Susan Sontag essays to Jack in his studio.

  Of course, I could have called to postpone the visit. But I wanted to see Jack. I wanted to hear his critical take on the senator who’d just been indicted on racketeering charges. I wanted to see the pictures he’d taken that day at the arboretum, when I’d effectively hid from him. I wanted to talk with him about the Sontag book. I wanted to talk with Jack about everything.

  I wanted to see his face.

  “You don’t look very good,” Jack said when I showed up around eleven o’clock.

  I gave him a patently false smile. “I don’t feel very good.”

  “What’s wrong? Do you feel sick?”

  “Something like that. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  Jack gestured toward the small refrigerator by his desk. “Do you want some water? Sorry it’s not cooler in here. The AC is acting up. A service guy is supposedly coming this afternoon. Or next month.”

  “Yes,” I said, “thanks.” I hoped I could drink it without burping in his face.

  Jack grabbed a cold bottle of Dasani, opened it, and handed it to me. “I see your fiancé got his name in print again,” he said.

  I took a long swig of water before saying, “Really? I haven’t seen a paper today. I haven’t even read the news on-line. Do you have the Globe?”

  “It’s not in the Globe,” he said flatly.

  I felt a trickle of sweat at my temples. I hoped I’d brought along my finishing powder. “Okay,” I said. “What paper then?”

  Jack picked up an oversized magazine from his desk and thrust it at me.

  “Ross is in Outrageous?” Outrageous is a black-and-white weekly that chronicles the nightlife of Boston’s wealthier swingers, aspiring socialites, wilder athletes, visiting models, and other dubious luminaries. “I didn’t know you read anything so vapid. Do you know there are an average of five typos or misspellings or obvious grammatical errors per page? I’ve counted.”

  Jack grimaced. “I have to keep up on what my clients are doing on their off-hours. Believe me,” he said, “I don’t enjoy it.”

  The truth was I didn’t enjoy the magazine much, either. It really was a rag, but it was an essential rag for those of us in the media-friendly professions. With some trepidation I opened the magazine.

  “I’ll save you some time,” Jack said. “Page thirty-five.”

  I opened to page thirty-five; a trickle of sweat plopped from my brow onto one of the four pictures of my party-hopping fiancé. The photos were dated; they had all been taken over the past few weeks. Ross at dinner with a man I recognized as a celebrity defense attorney; Ross in a bar deep in conversation with one of the most infamous members of the Red Sox; Ross in a tuxedo, at a charity event, posing with several members of the unofficial club of wealthy Boston businessmen; and finally, Ross at a nightclub, dancing—Ross danced?—with an unnamed buxom blonde who might not have been of legal drinking age.

  There really was nothing damning about the photographs. There were no babes sticking their tongues down Ross’s throat; he and his dance partner were feet apart from each other. There was no suggestive copy. There was also no mention of Ross’s fiancé.

  “So?” I said, looking back up to Jack. “Socializing is an important part of Ross’s business.”

  “It’s an important part of your business, too, but you don’t make a fool of yourself doing it.”

  “Ross doesn’t make a fool of himself.” I pointed at the four pictures. “Do you see him doing anything foolish in these pictures? Do you?”

  Jack laughed bitterly. “I see him prostituting himself for his daddy’s money, which it seems is all he’s fit to do.”

  I stood there, sweating, trembling; I thought I would throw up; I thought I would pass out. Finally, I found my voice.

  “Why did you even have to show me this stupid magazine?” I said. “So you could antagonize me? So you could try to embarrass me? Look, Jack, it’s my life. Why don’t you just let me live it?”

  “Because you’re not doing a very good job of it,” he snapped.

  “What?” I cried. “How dare you! What gives you the right to talk to me this way?”

  Jack didn’t answer. His mouth was tight; his eyes were black.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to hear another word about Ross. I mean it, Jack. I’ve listened to your obnoxious opinions for too long.”

  “If you really were listening,” he began. “Forget it.”

  Jack turned away, and I did something I’d never done before. I grabbed his arm and yanked. He turned back; the look on his face was unreadable. I was horrified; I was furious.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to forget it. What were you going to say? That if I were really listening I would have what? Reconsidered my marriage based on the opinion of a forty-five-year-old bachelor who knows nothing about what it takes to make a relationship?”

  “Anna—”

  “You’re despicable,” I shouted. “I hate you for making me feel so horrible!”

  And suddenly, it was as if I’d slapped him in the face. He seemed to deflate from an angry, self-righteous jerk to a confused, penitent man. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad, Anna,” he said, voice low.

  “Then what did you want?” I challenged. “How did you expect me to react to your so-called constructive criticism?”

  “I didn’t think,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Oddly enough, I believed him. Jack isn’t a liar. I believed he was sorry for hurting me. But at that moment, his apology, no matter how sincere, didn’t mean a thing.

  “Apology not accepted,” I snapped. “I’m leaving. Here’s the book I promised you.” I flung the Sontag book on his desk and marched toward the door. Wisely, Jack didn’t try to stop me by word or outstretched hand. Once on the sidewalk I stopped to breathe; I sat for a minute on the stone steps of the building, blinking against the brutal sun until I was calm enough to pull my sunglasses from my bag.

  I felt like such a fool, such a bloated, gassy, sweating fool. I’d actually been thinking romantic thoughts about Jack. I’d actually thought he might have romantic feelings for me. Idiot. Stupid hormones! They’d made
me into someone I hardly recognized.

  The air was thick; it felt dirty. I’d take a nice cool shower the moment I got home. I’d try to forget the awful scene that had just taken place.

  And I’d think about the baby. At least I had the baby. And that made me very, very happy.

  Part Two

  59

  Revolt

  There wasn’t time to wait for an ambulance. I just knew. Biting my lip against the violence happening inside me, I made it down to the entrance hall of my building, step by excruciating step. There was no sound at all from Mr. Audrey’s apartment or from Katie and Alma’s. Everyone, it seemed, was asleep. It simply didn’t occur to me to wake them.

  Once outside, I hailed a cab. Inanely I thought, I’m having incredible luck with cabs these days. Carefully, I got into the backseat.

  “Emergency room, Beth Israel. And please hurry.”

  “Someone in an accident, lady?” the driver asked as he screeched off.

  “Yes,” I said, in a remarkably calm voice. “There’s been an accident.”

  It didn’t occur to me until I was standing just outside the doors to the ER that I should call Ross. Somehow I seemed to know that cell phones don’t work in hospitals; I don’t know why. The pain caused me to double over, but I managed to make the call on my cell phone before walking through those automatic doors.

  Ross’s recorded voice met my ears. “It’s Anna,” I told it. “I’m at the ER, Beth Israel. It’s about eleven thirty, I think. Something’s wrong, Ross. Something’s very wrong.”

  60

  Answers

  Life is so much messier than art. At least in art there’s a conscious creator, an identifiable author. And sometimes there’s even a frame. But in life? Who knows? And even if there is an ultimate creator of life, a god or goddess or some non-anthropomorphic force, why should anyone assume that his or her or its motives and grand plan are transparent or at all knowable to mere humans?

  Here’s one of the things I like about art over life. You can sit down with a painter, face to face, and ask why she chose to paint a particular subject in a particular way, and you’ll get an answer. The answer might be difficult to interpret, but it will be an answer. You’ll hear it with your own ears.

  But you can’t sit down face to face with the master or mistress of the universe. Sure, you can send a question out into the air through prayer or chant or meditation, and maybe an answer will come whispering back, but how can you be sure the answer isn’t your own attempt to fill the void? How can you ever be sure you’re not playing God and hearing what you want to hear?

  Give me art over life any day. I like things someone can explain.

  61

  Loss

  There was no heartbeat. There was nothing.

  62

  Last Steps

  Ross drove me home. Unspoken agreement had led us to my apartment, not the loft. We sat for a moment in the front seat of his Jaguar, silently.

  “You go on up,” he said finally, his voice even. He didn’t look at me when he spoke, just stared ahead through the windshield. “I’ll find a place to park and be up in a minute.”

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m okay. I just need to sleep. Why don’t you go on home. I mean, it’s so hard to find parking here, and you have a spot at the loft.”

  Ross didn’t spend much time thinking about his answer.

  “All right. If you’re sure ...”

  “I’m sure. Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  I eased out of the car. As Ross drove off, I flashed back to those awkward first and only dates of high school. I remembered how I felt as the unhappy boy drove away, leaving me at the bottom of our driveway. Very alone. Terribly aware that the evening had been a huge mistake. Relieved to be home, where I belonged.

  I climbed the long flights of stairs to my apartment, conscious at every step of the doctor’s words of caution. But the only way home was to climb those stairs. Past Mr. Audrey’s door, decorated with a stark grapevine wreath. No sound from within. Past Katie and Alma’s door. From their apartment I heard distant strains of classical music. For half a second the idea of stopping there crossed my mind, but I kept on climbing.

  I opened the door to my apartment, and for the first time it seemed like an awfully lonely place. I’d been coming home to an empty apartment for years, but somehow, it had never felt really empty until that moment.

  Not all the baby gifts we’d been given were stored in the loft apartment. A sterling silver piggy bank, still in its box, sat on the coffee table. A Lamaze infant play mat was spread out on the floor beneath the table. The hideous handmade sweater Mrs. Davis had commissioned was in a heap on a dining room chair. I picked it up and took it with me into the bedroom.

  Sun streamed through the window; it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. I slipped into bed in the clothes I was wearing and pulled the covers to my neck.

  I’d never felt so tired, so flattened and boneless. Under the covers I bundled the lumpy sweater to my chest.

  “Goodbye,” I whispered. “Goodbye.”

  63

  Poking the Wound

  Thus began the worst few weeks of my life. What do you call a person who courts misery? A person who is most content being sunk in depression or self-pity?

  A misanthrope. A cynic. A defeatist.

  I don’t like misery. I’m not happy being unhappy.

  I woke to find the bedroom already dark. I reached over and turned on the light; my watch said it was eight o’ clock. Carefully, I got out of bed; the hideous sweater was on the floor in a heap. I checked voice mail; no one had called. Not even Ross. I wondered if he’d told anyone.

  Slowly I made my way into the kitchen where I realized I hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. And I was ravenous. I spread peanut butter and jelly on crackers; I wolfed down a banana.

  And still the phone didn’t ring.

  I went into the living room and pulled my college copy of Roget’s Thesaurus from the bookshelf. I looked up synonyms for the words miscarry and miscarriage. There were many.

  For example: A miscarriage was a failure. It was a non-success.

  A miscarriage was a fruitless endeavor.

  By miscarrying I had missed my mark.

  To miscarry was to botch the job.

  And then there were the more colorful turns of phrase. A miscarriage could be described as a slip ’twixt cup and lip. To miscarry could be said to roll the stone of Sisyphus.

  For a project to miscarry was for it to come to nothing.

  I tossed the yellowing paperback aside.

  My accidental pregnancy had come to nothing.

  Listlessly, I reached for the remote and began to flip through the nine hundred channels. Nothing was of interest until I reached Lifetime. The station was airing a movie about a young, kind-hearted, wide-eyed woman fighting her older, evil, narrow-eyed ex-husband for custody of their seven-month-old baby. I wept through the entire two hours.

  Maybe, I thought, I’m a defeatist after all.

  64

  Well-Meaning

  Spontaneous abortion. It’s Nature’s way of weeding out the imperfect.

  Nature.

  I was terrified. The world was full of risk; anything at all could happen at any time; this moment could be my last. My own body could rise up and rebel, destroy what it had created, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Nothing at all but recover.

  And recovery was on everybody’s mind. Everyone had ideas about how to move on. Everybody felt the need to express them.

  Get pregnant again immediately, some said. At least, as soon as the doctor says it’s okay.

  Others said, Wait a year before trying again. Get married, go on the honeymoon, relax.

  Put it all out of your mind, a nurse at my doctor’s office told me. Miscarriage is common; millions of women have miscarriages; the fetus wasn’t a baby yet, anyway. Not a real
person. Me? I’ve had three, and you don’t see me missing any sleep, do you?

  Go to a therapist for counseling. Join a support group. Women grieving the loss of an unborn child. I’m sure the hospital can hook you up.

  Get over it, go through it, ignore it, embrace it.

  People I hardly knew sent me articles clipped from women’s and parenting magazines. Ross’s mother alerted me by phone to a weeklong segment on the evening news; it was devoted to, in her words, “women with hostile wombs.” My own mother sent me a standard issue inspirational greeting card that assured me God was watching over me every second of the day. The card only made me feel paranoid.

  Kristen sent me a flowery card reminding me that she was my “Forever Friend.” Katie and Alma brought me homemade chicken soup—perfect, they swore, for soothing the wounded soul. Alexandra checked in with me every two hours on the dot, offering a delivery of groceries, wine, or magazines. Tracy came by with flowers and helped with my housekeeping.

  No doubt everyone’s intentions were good, but the clamor began to wear on my nerves. Why can’t my grief belong to me, I wondered. How am I supposed to know how I feel if they all keep talking, yammering, shouting in my ear!

  Everyone, I thought, should just shut up.

  65

  Don’t Bring God Into It

  “Can I get anyone something to drink?” I offered listlessly. “I haven’t been to the store since last week but—”

  Four days since I’d lost the baby and I wasn’t feeling any less miserable. I warned them I was a mess, but they came anyway.

  “Quit trying to play hostess,” Alexandra commanded. “We can fend for ourselves.”

  “Do you know what my mother said to me?” I asked. “She said, and I quote: God only gives us what we can handle. If He didn’t think you could handle losing this baby, He wouldn’t have allowed it to happen.”