by Zoe Fishman
“So, how is Mona?” she asked as she shifted Franklin to her left breast.
“Okay, I guess. She seems eerily rational, considering.”
“Yeah, if you consider kicking your best friend who’s traveled hundreds of miles to take care of you out of your apartment so that you can have sex with some random guy rational.”
“Come on, Kate. She has cervical cancer. Her uterus is going to be removed in a matter of days. Honestly, I don’t blame her.”
“True.”
“Besides, think about it. How does she know what sex will feel like with no plumbing? The odds of it being as enjoyable, at least for a long while, are pretty slim.”
“Emotionally, yes. You’re right. I’m a bitch.”
“You are sort of a bitch.”
“Mommy’s a bitch, Franklin,” she cooed at him as he continued to suck. “Does she feel well? What’s her energy level like?”
“She says she feels fine—that sometimes she even forgets that she has it.”
“What stage is her cancer?”
“Stage two-A.”
“Is that early? It hasn’t spread beyond her . . . well, what would it need to spread beyond?”
“Her pelvic wall. I have been a googling maniac since she told me, believe me.”
“As has she, I’m sure. Although that will drive you to drink real quick. The number of message boards out there designed to terrify you is stunning.” She shifted Franklin to her left breast.
“I know. But as I was saying, it’s spread a bit beyond the cervix but not beyond the pelvic wall. This hysterectomy should hopefully take care of it entirely. Plus, she gets to keep her ovaries, so she won’t have to deal with early menopause.”
“No radiation or chemo either?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s good.” She shook her head. “Poor Mona. I really am a bitch. Please forget I ever said that thing I said before.”
“What thing?”
“Thanks. I have just been on such a roller coaster since Franklin was born. Up, down, side to side. I cry like it’s my job now.”
“You?”
“Yeah. And the night sweats! Unbelievable. I wake up to feed him and it’s like I just swam.” I grimaced. “But—and this is a big but—it is all worth it.” She cradled his tiny head in the nook of her arm. “Well, mostly. The vaginal tearing I could live without.” Was there anything that Kate was not going to tell me? “Anyway, I’m crazy in love with this little worm. And for Mona now never to be able to have one of her own? It’s awful.”
“It is awful,” I agreed. “And she was always so into kids.” I was suddenly seized by the need for fresh air. “Hey, do you need anything?” I asked. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Ben will be home in about ten minutes with dinner.” She cocked her head and stared into space for a minute. Below, on her lap, little Franklin did the same. “Ooh, if you got us some chocolate chip cookies from Bodega, I would love you forever.”
“Done.” I stood up.
“Sar, this is the first time I’ve felt like myself in weeks. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Existing?”
12
I stared at the ceiling and listened to Kate attempt to soothe Franklin in the next room. It was 5:43 A.M., and I had just returned from the bathroom, tampon in hand, only to be rendered useless by the pristine appearance of my underwear. There was not even the faintest hint of anything red, pink, or brown anywhere in the vicinity, despite the fact that I was now two days late. The thing was, I was never late.
I clenched my fists under the down comforter as I talked myself off the ledge of uncertainty. Yes, technically I could be pregnant, but my body could also just be adjusting to its newfound freedom. It was only the start of my second month off birth control, and I had been on that since what felt like the dawn of time.
Sunlight slowly began to filter through the blinds. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath. I was definitely not necessarily pregnant. A few more days of a no-show and then I would worry.
I thought about Mona. I hoped she was sleeping the sleep of a sexually satiated someone. As for Nate, I had tried to conjure up his face but could come up with nothing but that ridiculous sweater. Ben shuffled into the kitchen with Franklin nuzzled into his bare chest. Okay, that’s cute. Even my noncommittal uterus agreed.
“Hey, Ben,” I said softly. He turned around, surprised to see me swaddled on the couch. Only my eyes peeked out.
“Wow, Sar, I am so out of it that I literally forgot that you were staying with us.”
I pulled the comforter below my chin. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that.”
“Don’t bother responding. Exhaustion gives me no filter.” He stood there silently for a second. “I forgot why I came out here.”
“To make coffee?” I suggested.
“I don’t think that was it, but that is an excellent reason.” He seemed confused by the fact that both of his hands were occupied by his son.
“I’ve got it, don’t worry. Take a load off.”
I threw off the comforter and padded to the coffeemaker on bare feet, only slightly self-conscious about my lack of bra. Last night, over Thai food and two bottles of wine, Kate and Ben had told me their birth story. Apparently Ben had been front and center. He could handle this, certainly. I located the coffee and scooped it into the machine.
“Is Kate drinking coffee?” I asked.
“She lives on it these days, even though she probably shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think caffeine is so great for the baby.” He shrugged. “But I’m not saying anything to her about it. I learned around day two of Franklin’s life not to question her about anything she puts in her body. She practically knifed my mother when she was here.”
I grinned. “What did she do?”
“Kate says she looked at her glass of wine funny.”
“Cardinal sin. I can definitely see Sylvia pulling something like that, though.”
“Oh, no doubt.” He yawned. “Anyway, Franklin is a thriving little dude. I’m staying out of it.”
“Good man.” I leaned against the counter as the coffee machine percolated behind me. “How are you doing with all of this?”
“All of what? All of this dad stuff?” I nodded. “I don’t sleep that much, and I’m stressed about money of course, but really I can’t complain. Kate does all the work. Things will change when she goes back to her job of course, but right now I’m pretty damn happy.”
“You like being a dad?”
“Love it.” Franklin shifted slightly in his arms. “It was time for us, you know? Is it time for you guys?”
“Sure, I guess so.” I fought the urge to turn away from him and rifle through their cabinets.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“No, it is.” I didn’t feel like getting into it with Ben. “Milk and sugar?” I asked.
“Both, please.” I turned to make his cup, dropping my spoon in the process. It clattered loudly, and Franklin mewed in alarm.
“Sorry!” I said apologetically, practically knocking the mug off the counter as well.
“Every morning is another opportunity to feel as though I’ve been run over by a Mack truck,” announced Kate as she joined us. Her eyes were slits behind her thick-framed glasses. She stopped to drape her arm over Ben’s shoulder and gazed lovingly down at her son.
“Hey, Kate, you have a giant clump of baby puke in your hair,” said Ben.
“I know,” she replied with a sigh. “Every time it brushes my cheek I get an intoxicating whiff of spoiled milk.”
“You’ve never been more beautiful,” replied Ben with conviction.
As I stirred milk into my mug, I took in their new-family glow. Kate seemed happy. Exhausted, but happy. And her honesty about the trials of new motherhood was, although a bit over-the-top at times, refreshing. What’s more, she didn�
�t come from perfect parents—being a bridesmaid at her wedding had shown me that. Her mother was a perfectionist in the worst sense of the word—at one point she practically had the florist in a headlock over some slightly wilted chrysanthemums—a personality trait that I was sure had done a number on Kate.
Kate was working it out anyway—learning as she went. Why shouldn’t I be able to do the same when the time came? I looked down, surprised to find my free hand resting on my stomach.
Later that morning, we set out to stroll the neighborhood. And what a production strolling with an infant was. The stroller, the baby bag, the packing of said baby bag, the baby, dressing the baby, getting out of the door without smacking him with it, only to hear the distinct rumbling of his tiny bowels. Back in the door, onto the changing table, out of the outfit, into another diaper, snap-snap-snap into another outfit, and once again out the door we went—forty-five minutes after our original starting time, at which point Kate started to obsess about where she would breast-feed him.
As we descended in the elevator, I wondered how people living in five-story walk-ups did this. On the bright side, there was no need for a gym membership. On the other side: everything else. On the street at last, Franklin blessedly passed out. On cue, the rest of us exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Kate replied. She eyed my leather wristlet longingly. “Are you carrying everything you need in that tiny bag?”
“I am.”
“Good for you. Savor it. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
“Oh, come on, Kate. It’s not that bad, is it?” asked Ben as he pushed the stroller.
“No, but getting out of the house alive is a miracle these days.”
“It will get better,” I said, as though I knew anything. “You’re in the weeds now because you’re only five weeks in, but soon you’ll be a pro.”
“At least you have a car in Farmwood,” said Kate. “That is a game changer in terms of kids. You can just stash all of your supplies in there.”
“Who says I can drive?”
“What, you don’t drive?” asked Ben.
“I’m working on it.”
“No kidding. Huh,” said Ben.
“What?” I snapped.
“Nothing, nothing! I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re such an independent person.”
“Ben, independent people in New York City have no need to drive,” said Kate. “Sarah lived here for an eternity. It’s not such a big deal.”
“Thanks, Kate,” I said. “I’m embarrassed about it, I guess. It’s sort of become this Achilles’ heel for me. I’m actually taking driving lessons.”
“Well, that’s smart.” Ben leaned down to adjust the shade on Franklin’s stroller. “You’ll get it in no time.” I wondered where Ray was at this moment. I hoped not careening into oncoming traffic courtesy of his latest student.
We continued our walk in relative silence. I studied Brooklyn as though I would be taking a test on it later. Such character this place had. Every brownstone was like a person to me—cracked and weathered from years of wear and tear, baking warily in the morning sun like a retiree in Florida. Kate’s voice rose beside me, shaking me out of my daydream.
“Ben, when you talk to me like I am a crazy person, it makes me want to choke you,” she yelled. “Don’t make me feel crazy for worrying about when and where Franklin is going to eat. These are my breasts and my milk and this is my job. A job that you don’t have the first clue about, and a job that you were adamant about me taking on, I might add.”
“This whole blaming me for your decision to breast-feed is getting really old,” replied Ben.
“I will blame you for whatever I want to blame you for!”
“Can I help at all?” I volunteered weakly.
“No,” they barked in unison.
“Well, I just want to point out that there are some shaded benches around the perimeter of the park up ahead. Maybe you could feed him there?” I suggested. They looked at Franklin, who was just waking up, and then back at me.
“Okay. Good idea.” Ben pulled ahead to wheel the stroller at a faster clip and Kate put her hand on my arm.
“Sorry, Sar.”
“Please don’t apologize! It’s okay.”
Hearing them argue about the whys and wherefores of baby care had reduced my libido to the size of a wasabi pea. See, I’m not pregnant. In the movies, pregnant women are wildly sexual and everyone knows that movies are always true to life. Great, it’s settled.
I reached into my wristlet and eyed my phone. No word from Mona yet, and it was practically lunchtime. Well, lunchtime for geriatrics and new parents that had been awake since six A.M., but still. She and Nate were probably lingering over eggs Benedict somewhere with the rest of bed-headed, unmarried Brooklyn.
You didn’t grab brunch with someone you were just using for sex. There was probably more to this Where’s Waldo, Part Two, scenario than Mona was admitting to, but that was not a surprise. She’d always had a habit of playing down whatever it was that she was involved with.
Her official job title was editorial director, but whenever anyone asked her what she did for a living, she just said that she worked in publishing. Her father had been a famous art collector before he passed away, but she always just told people that he had liked art whenever they praised some of the work on her apartment walls. Stuff like that. It occurred to me that perhaps she was playing down her diagnosis as well, and my stomach dropped.
On the bench, Kate put what appeared to be a patterned sheet with a hole cut out of it over her head while Ben held a squirming and screaming Franklin beside her.
“One minute,” she huffed as she fiddled with her bra underneath the sheet.
“What the hell is that thing?” I asked, baffled.
“They call it a hooter hider.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not.” She looked up and blew her hair out of her face in exasperation. “And I paid forty dollars for it.”
“Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
“It’s horrible, okay? But how the hell else am I supposed to feed him without the whole world seeing my spare tire?”
“Your spare tire?”
“Yeah. I could give a shit about my breasts. It’s the stomach that nobody needs to see.”
“She’s ridiculous,” said Ben. Kate shot him a look that could have iced the bench she sat on. “Sorry. You ready for him?”
He passed Franklin, who began screaming even louder, and Kate wrestled him under the hooter hider apologetically. We watched the outline of his tiny body writhe underneath it as Kate attempted to get him to latch. Two endless minutes later, the hider was around Kate’s neck, her breasts and stomach exposed to the world.
“Fuck it,” she said. “I surrender. World, meet spare tire. Spare tire, meet world.” The tiny slice of Franklin’s mouth that was not involved in his lunch turned up.
“He’s smiling!” announced Ben.
“Totally,” I agreed. I leaned back against the bench and pulled my own shirt up. “All for one.” Kate smiled at me appreciatively.
“I gotta get a picture of this,” said Ben.
“Do it and die,” I replied calmly.
Mona opened her door before I could knock.
“He’s here,” she whispered.
“Waldo?”
“Nate, his name is Nate. Don’t forget that.”
“But, Mona, I thought it was just you and me going to dinner,” I whisper-whined.
“I know, I know, but he really wanted to meet you.”
“For the record, this is definitely not someone you’re just sleeping with, Mona, and you’re kidding yourself if you think otherwise.” We stared at each other, me angrily and her hopefully.
“All of this whispering makes me nervous,” announced a deep voice. Nate emerged from the depths of Mona’s apartment and joined us by the door.
As soon as I
saw him I remembered that I had met him before, at a party on the Upper West Side a million years ago when he and Mona were doing whatever it was that they were doing. We’d had a pretty entertaining discussion while Mona pretended not to care that he had shown up when in fact, it was a very big deal to her that he had shown up—a classic Mona move.
“Hey, wait, I have met you before!” he exclaimed, reading my mind. He was cute in a tall and gangly way, with teeth that were slightly too big for his mouth and sandy brown hair that was cropped a little too close to his head. He smiled and reached out to shake my hand.
“I remember,” I replied. “It’s all coming back to me.”
“Hey, let me get your bag.” He reached to grab it. “Sorry, I should have met you downstairs to do this. Seems almost cruel to offer to take it now.” He handed it back to me. “Here, you relish the finish.” I set it down dramatically and smiled.
“Sarah, do you mind if Nate joins us for dinner?” asked Mona. “Ocean is his favorite sushi spot too.”
“I understand if you’d rather have alone time,” said Nate. “Just thought I’d ask.”
“Sure, of course,” I half-lied. Dinner would be fine with him. Not the same, but fine. He made Mona happy, and that was the important part. I needed to remember that.
Over dinner, I realized what it was about Nate that annoyed me. He was a comedian. Not a full-time comedian, but a part-time comedian who made a quasi-living as a paralegal during the day. There was something about a struggling comedian at thirty-eight that begged judgment.
“So, Virginia, huh? Is it exclusively for lovers?” he asked as he freed three edamame beans from their shell and popped them into his mouth.
“What? Oh, you’re talking about the slogan.” That was another thing. He just wasn’t that funny. “No, haters live there too.”
“Mona told me that you were having some trouble with the driving thing.”
“Oh she did, huh?” I glared at Mona.
“Sarah, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people can’t drive,” Mona said.
“It’s not that I can’t drive, Mona, it’s that it makes me very anxious. There’s a difference.”
