All She Ever Wanted

by Rosalind Noonan

  These were her old stomping grounds.

  Her pulse was beating a little faster as she pulled into the parking lot of the six-story building. Her fingers automatically pressed the button for the fifth floor, and suddenly she was there, surrounded by the familiar noises and faces and smells of the magazine office.

  Her gaze went right to the cubicle by the pillar—her work station. She’d been working here when she met Leo. The evening of their first date, she had slipped away from that desk to redo her makeup in the bathroom mirror. When she found out she was pregnant, she had sat there during her lunch hour, searching online for baby quilts and parenting advice. And sometimes she would stay late going over her lists of things to do, getting her ducks in a row. She had wanted everything to be perfect in the nursery and in the house when the baby arrived. Back then she had been in control—so happy and hopeful.. . .

  “Chelsea?” Stan Dombrowski looked up from his desk. He didn’t spare her a smile, but there was a warm inflection in his voice. “It’s a blast from the past.”

  People greeted her warmly.

  “How ya doing?” Marco paused on his way to the elevator, shifting his clipboard under one arm.

  “Did you bring the baby?” Tansley asked. “I want to meet her.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “I wasn’t really planning to stop by.”

  Across the room, Sasha Barton dropped a batch of proofs onto a table and threw her hands in the air. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chelsea bit back a smile as her closest friend at the magazine rushed through the rows of cubicles—the ice cube tray, the employees called it.

  Sasha threw her arms around Chelsea and danced her back and forth. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” she spoke quietly in Chelsea’s ear.

  “I didn’t know myself.”

  “Mm-hmm?” Sensing that something was up, Sasha stopped rocking. Her bracelets jangled as she leaned back to assess Chelsea.

  With shiny dark hair and mocha-colored skin, Sasha always complained that she was ordinary looking. But there was nothing ordinary about her startling green eyes and high cheekbones. Add in the emerald stud in her nose and her penchant for jewelry, and she was positively exotic. “Well, we need to talk,” Sasha said.

  For the next few minutes Chelsea fielded questions about Annabelle and passed around her cell phone so that everyone could see pictures.

  “What a beauty!” someone said.

  “You’ve got it all now.”

  Tansley cooed over the baby, and everyone wished Chelsea well. “You must be over the moon with happiness.”

  “You’re lucky to be out of here,” Marco said. “Now that we’re up for sale, every procedure is being micromanaged.”

  “You’re up for sale?” Chelsea hadn’t heard that news.

  “Yeah, but who’s going to buy a print magazine in this changing market?” Sasha pointed out.

  “Do you think Annabelle looks more like you or like Leo?” Tansley asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea said, trying to tune into a question asked by Alexa Garcia, who’d just joined the group.

  “Remember that Staten Island kitchen we’re upgrading?” Alexa asked. “The couple has decided that they want to take out the center window and substitute a gas fireplace. Do you think that can be done within our budget?”

  “I don’t know.” Sasha tilted her head to one side. “I haven’t done a gas fireplace recently.”

  “Is there a gas line running to the kitchen already?” Chelsea asked.

  Alexa nodded. “But no chimney.”

  “You don’t need a chimney,” Chelsea said confidently. “On an outside wall, you’ll vent it right through the wall. It’s actually not a bad idea if they want to replace the window.”

  “Great,” Alexa said. “I’ll call the home owner.”

  “How did you know that when you’ve been out of the biz for three months?” Tansley asked.

  “I’ve been researching it for my own house.” It felt good to be back in the office, in the thick of decisions and conversations.

  Sasha and Marco exchanged a look. “I told you,” Sasha said. “Chelsea is the Can-Do Girl. Once she starts researching something, this one never gives up.”

  “Come back to work, please!” Marco pleaded.

  “Don’t even say that,” Tansley insisted. “Chelsea is living the dream, with a great husband, a house, and an angel-faced baby. Why would she come back?”

  Because I feel alive when I’m here. Because I was happy here, and I need to find my way back to a safe, sane place.

  Tansley wanted to hear more about the baby, but Chelsea longed to talk business. Conversation began to fizzle as phones beckoned, and one by one people returned to their desks.

  “Let’s talk in my office,” Sasha said.

  As Chelsea followed her friend, her fingers twitched, longing to pick up the layouts and get a preview of the articles the staff had been working on.

  “Sit if you can find a free inch,” Sasha said, gesturing to the chair and table piled with proofs.

  The batch on the chair was old; corrections had already been made. But Chelsea felt an odd contentment just holding the pages in her hands, leafing through them. “I miss this.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Talking about the gas fireplace just now, I felt more alive than I have since Annie was born. I wish people didn’t close me out. I feel like an outsider when they tell me how I’m so much better off out of here.”

  “They’re just looking at the facts. Subscriptions are down, and the magazine doesn’t translate well to e-trade. Management announced that there will be no raises this year, and we might have to cut staff. You really are lucky to be out.”

  “I don’t feel lucky.” Tears filled her eyes, but fortunately Sasha was digging through her desk drawer and didn’t notice.

  “As I remember it, you couldn’t wait to get out of here and be home with Leo and the baby.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I was wrong.” A tear dripped down her face, and she swiped it away with the back of one hand. “I’m a terrible mother. I’m tired all the time. Every day is the same, chasing dirty diapers and a dirty house and bills. Feeding Annie every few hours. It never ends and there’s no hope in sight.”

  “You sound bad.” Sasha came around and perched on the edge of her desk. “I wish there was something I could do to help you. Have you talked to your doctor?”

  “He says it will pass.”

  “Typical man. I’m no expert, but this sounds like depression.”

  Chelsea shook her head. It didn’t matter what it was called . . . no name or label could change the dark void that waited for her back in that house.

  “You know, my sister went through something like this.” Although Sasha did not have children, her large family included a mix of white and African American women who had plenty of stories to tell. “She kept imagining terrible things happening to her baby . . . like slipping off a bridge. Stuff like that.”

  “Me, too. I get these . . . dark visions.”

  Sasha bit her lower lip and held out a box of tissues. “Tell me about it, honey.”

  She let it all spill out in no certain order. Sasha listened sympathetically, and Chelsea was grateful that her friend wasn’t trying to judge her. When Chelsea was through, Sasha cleared off another chair and sat close to her.

  “I’ve known you for years, and this is not you. You seem to be getting help, and that’s good. There’s a place inside you that holds peace and love. I know that. Right now, you’re hurting bad, but you will find that peace again.”

  A new wave of tears overcame Chelsea. “I can’t see that happening.”

  “It will. But get with your sister and that new doctor. Let them help you.”

  Chelsea pressed a handful of tissues to her eyes. “What happened to your sister?”

  “She’s fine now. But she left her baby with my mother. Just drop
ped her off one day and didn’t come to pick her up for six months.”

  Chelsea wished she could drop Annie off somewhere and leave her for a few months. It would be such a relief to be free of the baby . . . free again.

  Her own person.

  But that would never happen. She was stuck, imprisoned in the very life she had longed for.

  Chelsea felt like a shadow of her former self as she left the building, mourning the loss of her old life. After a quick stop at the grocery store she arrived home to find Annabelle napping and Eleni entertaining herself by texting.

  “How did it go?” she asked, reassured that there were no signs of a visitor.

  “Fine.” The girl didn’t even glance up from her cell phone screen. “She slept most of the time.”

  Of course she did. Chelsea wouldn’t have been so lucky had she stayed home.

  Their voices seemed to summon the baby from sleep. Annie twisted her lips and began to mouth her fist. Hungry, of course.

  Chelsea got Eleni to help her put the perishables away, then paid her, arranging for her to return Wednesday so Chelsea could keep her appointment with Dr. Chin. With the groceries half unpacked, she washed her hands and sat down to feed the baby.

  Down in the deep hole worn into the corner of the couch.

  Her black hole.

  Exhausted by the outing, she dozed off with Annie in her arms. When she opened her eyes, Annie was sleeping in her chair, though Chelsea didn’t recall putting her there. The splattering down of raindrops seemed so near. Had she left a window open? She rubbed her eyes, thinking that it was too cold for rain. . . .

  She turned and marveled at the fountain springing forth from the light on the kitchen ceiling. Water spewed out from the round fixture like a radiant sun. It struck her as beautiful until she realized it was splattering onto the floor and the electric range.

  “Oh, my God.” A pipe must have burst upstairs. She arose from the couch, then bolted to the stairs. The hallway was clear, but the bathroom floor was a pool of water an inch deep. It brimmed over the marble door saddle when she stepped into the cold lake to get a better look at the torrent gushing from behind the toilet.

  Had the feed line snapped?

  Squinting against the cold spray, she reached in to shut off the valve behind the toilet. It turned, but the jet of water didn’t slow. The valve was shot.

  Where was the next cutoff?

  With a moan, she pulled away from the gushing water, trying to remember where the next cutoff was. She pictured valves on naked pipes . . . the utility closet beside the kitchen.

  Blinded by panic she hurried down the stairs and fumbled in the small closet with the hot water heater. There it was . . . but there were two valves. She turned the top one, hoping for the best, then ran back upstairs, noting her wet footprints on the carpeting.

  The bathroom was silent, a serene pool of water over white-and-black tile. The swollen white rug was an island of pale sand in the center of the calm lake.

  It was a surreal dream . . . a nightmare.

  A little whimper escaped her throat. Why was this happening to her?

  She leaned against the doorway and sobbed. Where did you even begin to clean up something like this? And that damn valve behind the toilet . . . how could it just stop working?

  Through her tears she saw the cool reflection of light on the surface of the water. It had to be draining through pinholes in the tile, down the kitchen ceiling. Would they have to redo the drywall downstairs?

  Maybe. But right now, it was pouring out through the lowest point, the light fixture. She had to stop the water as quickly as possible.

  With a gasp, she stepped in and waded through the cold water. She grabbed the bucket that held Annie’s tub toys, tossed them into the sink, and started bailing. She grabbed another big cup and used two hands, dumping water into the tub as fast as she could. When the cups no longer filled, she got the mop. When she got down to dry tile, she went downstairs to assess the damage.

  Annie slept peacefully against the backdrop of water dripping slowly from the kitchen. Chelsea wished she could slip onto the couch across from her and sleep it all away, too.

  The step stool brought her close enough to take down the kitchen fixture. It was a struggle to maintain her balance and keep the globe full of water from sloshing over her chest, but she managed to hobble down and pour it into the sink.

  The ceilings didn’t look too bad, but there would always be the question of moisture and mold. Did they need one of those restoration teams in here, with those giant fans? She had done an article about them, but she knew they were pricey. Ka-ching. She dried her hands on the kitchen towel and called Leo.

  “Hey, hon!” His voice was cheerful but he was shouting over the noise in the background. “You caught me at a meet-and-greet cocktail party. Can I call you back?”

  “We have a problem here,” she said, feeling herself shiver from the damp cold. She’d been working in bare feet, and as she explained about the broken valve, she went over to the thermostat and turned up the heat. There went the gas bill. Ka-ching.

  “Are you serious?” Leo said. “What a nightmare!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you okay? Is Emma there?”

  “She’s coming over after her doctor’s appointment.”

  “Chelsea, I’m sorry. Who else can we get to help you?”

  “The cleanup is almost done,” she lied, realizing that Leo didn’t get it. She couldn’t wait around for someone else to show up and take care of things.

  They discussed calling in a restoration company and decided to wait until Leo got home. As they were talking, she followed a slurry of water to the closet and realized that everything on the floor there was soaked. “Oh, no, the closet! All the water got in.”

  “What was that? Sorry, but it’s hard to hear.”

  “I gotta go finish it up. Call me later, when your party is over.”

  “I’m sorry you have to do this alone, hon.”

  She was sorry, too, but she kept silent, not wanting to ramp up Leo’s guilt. “Call me later.”

  She put a plastic garbage bag on the table, then started lining up their wet boots and sneakers from the closet. There was the bin of hats. A soggy paper bag of clothes to be donated. And the butcher block of kitchen knives. She set that evil item on the center of the table and backed away cautiously.

  There wasn’t as much water to mop up down here, but Chelsea was eager to be done with it. Her hands were cold and sodden and her feet were like Popsicles on the damp floor. Thank goodness they hadn’t upgraded the linoleum to wood yet. When she finally finished the minimum cleanup, her back ached and her feet felt numb. She went to wash her hands at the kitchen sink, but when she turned the knob no water came out.

  Of course—it was on the same line as the upstairs bathroom. She plodded to the small bath under the stairs, grateful for the tiny stall shower here. She would call a plumber in the morning.

  As she lathered up her hands, Annie let out a full-fledged wail. It had been three hours since she’d been fed.

  “It never ends,” Chelsea muttered as she opened the fridge. She downed a pint of milk without taking a breath, then lifted Annie into her arms. The couch swallowed them both into the nursing den. More like a cave. Chelsea pulled a throw over her frozen feet and unbuttoned her blouse. The sight of the baby nursing lulled her to sleep, but she roused herself to switch Annie to the other side. She dozed again, but Annie rousted her with a fierce shriek.

  “What is it?” Chelsea asked.

  Her only answer was another cry and a scrunched-up face that looked like she was being knifed in the belly. Colic, again.

  Chelsea walked her around, patted her back, whispered sweet encouragements, but Annabelle kept wailing.

  Desperate, Chelsea popped her into her stroller and took her out to the driveway for fresh air. The cover of the carport gave a feeling of security, and the night air felt crisp and dry.

  There . .
. that soothed her. Her cry sputtered to whimpers, then mewls, like a little lamb.

  Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Chelsea repeated the mantra in her head as she pushed the stroller back and forth under the carport.

  For once, it seemed to work.

  Chelsea rolled the stroller up to the porch and put the brakes on. There was no way she was moving this baby right now. She grabbed the blanket from under the stroller and covered Annie up to the chin, then ran inside to pee.

  Chapter 13

  Amnio was a double-edged sword: a relief that you could learn so much about your baby before it was born, but frightening to consider that the news about the little being inside you might break your heart.

  “That’s it,” the technician said. “You should hear your results in seven to ten days. Your genetic counselor will call you.”

  Emma propped herself up on her elbows to watch as the woman wiped gel from the mound of Emma’s belly. “And you think it’s a girl?”

  “Looks that way to me, and I’ve been doing this for six years.”

  “A girl.” She lay down again and laughed. “Jake is going to be thrilled.” And she couldn’t wait to tell Chelsea. A playmate for Annabelle! After all the worries, the long months when they had trouble conceiving, it was finally happening for them.

  Out in the waiting room, Jake picked up on her good mood. “So it went well?”

  “Yup.” She slipped on her coat, unable to hold in the news. “It’s a girl.”

  “A little Emma.” He grinned. “Double trouble for me.”

  “And Annabelle is going to have a little cousin to boss around. Sort of the reverse of Chelsea and me.”

  “It’s your bossy big-sister karma coming back to bite you.”

  She linked her arm through his as they waited for the elevator. “Chelsea’s going to be pleased. Do you want to bring dinner over to her?”

  “I’ll drop you off and make a dinner run. She’s probably eager for company with Leo gone all day.”

  As they went to the car, she told him the test results would take two weeks or so, but he was more focused on the idea of having a daughter.