by Sally Koslow
Even women who believe passionately in the right to choose will waltz around the actual word abortion, especially when they have given birth to a child they love.
“Thanks,” I said as I stared out the window at my tidy lawn, every fallen leaf bagged and carted away. “Promise you won’t disappear over the next few days, okay? And good luck in getting this job, if that’s what you want.”
The phone rang. I was grateful for a reason to stop posturing. “Arthur,” I mouthed as I answered. “Fine, thanks,” I said politely. I didn’t care to be observed in battle-ax mode. “Really?” I said. This was interesting. This was new. “I’ll call you back—Talia stopped by and can’t stay.”
We bid our goodbyes, Arthur and I, Talia and I. More hugging, more sniffles. I finished my blueberry-apricot muffin and half of Talia’s, hung up my new bed jacket, plucked dead leaves off my houseplants, and stared out the window. I called a few clients, then finally dialed Sheila’s number.
I cleared my throat and explained what I had in mind. The receptionist switched me to a nurse who explained the drill. An ultrasound I’d expected. But counseling? What had I ever done to deserve that?
“When’s her earliest opening?” I asked. “Tomorrow at four? I’ll take it. Great.” But there was nothing great about it.
CHAPTER 32
Quincy
“Quincy and Jake,” Dr. Frumkes said as we sat in her office, “I have good news and less-good news.” Which first? her face asked. I squeezed Jake’s hand. “I’m sorry, but two of the embryos did not survive.”
“How do you know?” Jake asked.
“We can no longer find them on the sonogram.” There were other words as well, sounds that got sucked into a vortex of medical gibberish that meant nothing beyond dead.
My heart revolted. These were not embryos. They were Speck and Peanut, or maybe Jubilee and Speck, imagined, loved, gone. In the time it took to draw a breath, my red sweater turned black, my soul shriveled. Dr. Frumkes’ mouth kept moving, but I couldn’t listen. I needed to insulate, to stuff cotton batting into my ears, to crawl inside myself. Jake’s grip became fierce, trying to ensure that I didn’t drift away. He cupped my chin in his other hand and turned my face toward his. “Quincy, did you hear what the doctor said?”
I stared at him. Pick on someone else, God. “Doctor, can you please repeat what you told us?” It was Jake, struggling for normal.
Dr. Frumkes leaned forward and took my hands. “Quincy, we’ve had some unfortunate luck here, and I’m profoundly sorry, but—please hear me—one of the embryos is absolutely fine. Healthy. Viable. We’ve got a fighter.” She stopped for a moment. “This happens.”
I would rather have had all my news bad than false hope. I was able to say nothing. Breathing became coal miner hard.
“Are you hearing me?” the doctor asked.
“Define reasonable,” I said finally, inflectionless.
“There’s no medical reason to believe this embryo won’t develop,” she said, precisely and a bit too loud, as if she were afraid we would lawyer up and sue for malpractice. “This is still good news.”
I nodded to indicate that I had heard. She advised modified bed rest—I would be allowed to walk a block if necessary—mentioned the term grief counselor, and gave me a name and number. We were instructed to be in close touch, to return in one week without fail. We were dismissed.
Your family dies in a plane crash but you survive. Are you happy or sad? You win the lottery the day your parents split up. Happy or sad? Everyone gets laid off but you. Happy or sad? Life is a bully, trying to make philosophers of us, seeing how much we can take.
Not that much, not that day. I was inept, a dishrag of an expectant mother, a failure. How could I protect my remaining baby?
Like used-up prizefighters, Jake and I shuffled out of the doctor’s office. “We should eat,” he said. I mutely followed him around the corner to Madison Avenue, where we fell into a diner buzzing with customers, since there is no hour of the day when New Yorkers don’t scarf down eggs, home fries, and toast. The hostess showed us to a booth and we slid in. Without checking the menu, Jake ordered lunch; I, tea. We stared at each other, too fearful to be happy for what remains, too overcome to say a thing.
The food arrived and ten minutes passed. Jake picked at his cheese omelet, refused a coffee refill. My tea grew cold. “I’ve got to get out of here,” I said.
He paid the bill and held me tight. “I’ll ride with you,” he said as we waited by the curb and he tried to flag a cab. “I’ll take the day off.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” I prefer to mope solo. “I’m going to go home and sleep.” Perhaps for a week.
“You sure, Q, honey?” As if I was made of papier-mâché, he helped me into the taxi.
“I’m sure. I just want to get in bed.” We kissed before he shut the door.
Once I arrived home I immediately threw a quilt over the three cribs in the living room.
CHAPTER 33
Chloe
With some couple, opposites attract. Not Xander and me. Some people say we look alike, but it’s more than that. Both of us crave organization, and one of our rituals is a quarterly meeting where we order in pizza and look at our life as if it were the Federal Reserve. Thanks to these summits, we have an up-to-date will (which I need to amend so that Talia doesn’t inherit the aquamarine earrings she has nearly bitten off my earlobes), a safe-deposit box inventory, and files of folders subdivided by genus and species—mortgage, stock and bond portfolio, charitable donations, tax returns, paint colors, captioned personal photographs, and DVD and book lists, as well as appliance warranties with their manuals. Xander is Keaton Inc.’s president, I its secretary-treasurer.
When people behold our bountiful possessions, they must think we take them for granted, like a tall man does his height. But I believe one reason we’ve been blessed is that we’re willing to pay attention to the small stuff. We dot the i’s.
The previous day had been the first of the month, when I looked over my calendar to sign and address cards from the dozens I bought at the beginning of the year and intended to mail four days before each occasion. That was when I realized five months had elapsed since our most recent economic caucus. Xander had had me cancel the last huddle because he was working late—he’d been doing that even more than usual—and I’d neglected to reschedule. At dinner, I reminded him that we were due for a powwow.
“I don’t have the time for that right now, hon,” he said, not even looking up from his black cod, orzo, and roasted asparagus with Asiago cheese, a cooking class menu I’d reproduced with A-minus results, though Xander had made no comment. “Maybe next month.”
“But it’s been a while.”
“I’ve got a lot going on,” he said with what felt like a rebuke. I must have pouted, because he frowned and added, “Could you back off? I need a little space right now.”
Since when did my husband, so fussy about language that he looked wounded if I blurted out “irregardless,” use “space” that way? His sentences were always heavy with op-ed words. Cohort! Context! Cogent! Cognizant! Coalesce! Cohabitant!
“Space for whom?”
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I feel as if you’ve checked out around here.” I didn’t even know why this flew out of my mouth. It wasn’t as if we’d been overlooking, say, sex. We had a date every Tuesday and Thursday at ten-thirty and Saturdays at eleven-thirty, and at our last quarterly meeting we’d decided to wait at least nine more months before trying to conceive a second child.
“Checked out?” he said, his face reddening. Then, in slow motion, he cocked his head, as if to survey our dining room. For that evening, I’d found pink tulips for the table, lit candles, tried hard. I’d dimmed the chandelier, and on the sideboard was a glistening bowl of blackberries I planned to serve with biscotti I’d baked myself while Jamyang was feeding Dash his dinner. “Who do you think makes all this possible?”
I threw down my
napkin, ran up to the bedroom, slammed the door, and threw myself on the bed. I didn’t even fold back our white velvet duvet, as smooth as a skating rink, though I tossed away the pillows so my makeup wouldn’t streak the shams. They landed on the thick carpeting with a soft thud, scattering a pile of fabric samples across the floor. I glanced at them with annoyance; I’d asked my decorator for pale pink toile, not the historically accurate rose Marie Antoinette might have used to upholster a minor château!
I waited to see if Xander had followed me upstairs, but I didn’t hear his footsteps. I forced myself to take deep breaths and tried to recall Autumn Rutherford’s tape from that morning, which was rattling in my brain. You can do no wrong at this juncture, she’d sung into my ear as I walked the treadmill. Take risks. Even what turns out wrong will right itself. Adopt a what-will-be-will-be attitude and what will be will be very good indeed. The potential for your life has no limits. Look at every opportunity.
Autumn’s prognostications had seemed sensible when I’d heard them earlier. I wanted to believe her. I blew my nose, dabbed my tears, and tried to remember the gist of the rest. You may have been hurt in the past and so find it hard to trust people, but don’t let suspicions get out of hand had been intermingled in her wisdom. I had a long and winding road ahead of me if I wanted to reach the apex of self-improvement.
I decided to listen to the next day’s tape right then. I pulled my iPod from the bedside table and stuck the buds in my ears. Look in the mirror, Autumn trilled. I got up and walked to the full-length mirror. Who is that? A star in the making! Lady Luck is shining on you. I’d have to take her word on that, since I looked like I’d gone through a half marathon, not a short crying jag.
I realized I was being a brat. Xander provided for us luxuriously, yet had little time to enjoy anything himself. Before I saw him again, I’d best reapply my eye makeup, but I wanted to soak up a bit more psychological rehab first.
Think of your life as a beach book so juicy you can’t wait to turn the page and see what thrilling escapades will occur next in the heroine’s life. Become that heroine. Write your own story. Make it anything you want.
I closed my eyes and tried to take myself on a more daring path, but I couldn’t see beyond my own front door, which I’d recently repainted in cerulean blue and had refitted with a shiny brass knob. Maybe I wasn’t thinking big-picture enough, but except for my subzero confidence, my life already felt close to ideal—Dash, our Keaton Inc. prosperity, and certainly Xander, though I’d like to have him be, as Autumn would say, more present in our lives. My beach book was going to hit the remainder pile the week it was published. It surely wasn’t going to warrant reviews, even in someone’s sloppy blog. Certainly it wouldn’t be optioned for a movie!
I opened my eyes and noticed, as I got up to walk to the bathroom, that the light on my phone was blinking. The first message was about a job that had struck me as respectable but dull. It was at a large agency and my assignment would be on floor accounts, the challenge being that people in the Swiffer Generation, as the interviewer referred to people I assumed were my age, didn’t place a high priority on the state of the wood beneath their feet. The recording was from someone in human resources. “Great news!” she warbled. “Mrs. Keaton, we are delighted to make you an offer. Please return my call at your convenience, any time after eight in the morning.” I was even less enthusiastic about the job knowing the hour at which the busy bees there would hit the desk. The second message was from my decorator, who’d found a collection of antique maps she wanted to hang in Dash’s room; some weeks ago, Xander had vetoed the idea of re-creating a log cabin. The last message was from Winters Jonas, from Bespoke Communications. “Chloe, let’s talk once more,” he said, and left his cell number. His voice was a low growl. “It’s down to you and another candidate.”
I’d hoped to complete my twenty-four-tape crash course in ego repair before I needed to make major decisions. How should I react to antique maps in a young child’s room? Xander would probably find them brilliantly educational, but what if Dash started jabbering about, say, the country of Yugoslavia and his friends thought he’d made it up? He’d come home furious for having been led astray, and demand to know the truth about the Tooth Fairy, too. If I was dithering about antique maps, I certainly wasn’t up to accepting a job or possibly choosing between offers. A smarter job hunter would enjoy playing one position against another, but I understood this game even less well than football or bridge.
I redid my makeup and changed into a flowing white robe Xander had given me last Christmas. I walked first to his library, my rustling satin the only sound except the big clock ticking in the hall. His library door was closed, no lamps lit or richly scented pipe smoke wafting into the hallway. I continued down to the living room and dining room. Empty. “Xander,” I called out, quietly, for fear of waking Dash. I got to the garden floor and saw that his jacket was missing from the hook in the hall. I heard noise in the kitchen and opened the door, hoping he’d be there and that our mutual apologies would outdo one another.
But it wasn’t Xander. It was Jamyang, who had her back to me, brewing mint tea. She turned and looked up, pushing a wave of black hair away from her face, portrait perfect, with eyes darker than charcoal. She smiled ever so slightly. “I’ll be finished in a minute,” she said, spooning dainty drops of honey into the green glazed stoneware cup that she kept in her room. Did she think that to place it in our cupboard would violate boundaries, or was she afraid that our decadence might contaminate her purity?
“No need to hurry,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t. I wished Jamyang and I might talk, perhaps not exactly as friends, but I wanted, at least, her respect. I worried that she thought I was spoiled and pesky. In the months since she’d joined our household, I’d never succeeded in sparking conversation, light or otherwise, though Jamyang’s vocabulary had expanded right along with Dash’s. Our exchanges ventured only as far as practicalities.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, although once we’d gotten past “Missy Chloe,” time and again I’d suggested that she call me by my first name.
I looked at Jamyang’s tea and realized I craved some hug-in-a-mug hot chocolate. My cooking instructor always spouted off about how it was a crime to use anything less than the darkest imported chocolate, the more bitter the better, with pours of heavy cream and organic milk to which he added vanilla beans, cinnamon, and slivers of candied ginger. His production would take me thirty minutes. But our teacher was across the river in the Village, most likely dreaming of wild rabbit stuffed with foie gras and truffles. I dumped a packet of Swiss Miss into a saucepan, poured in whatever skim milk remained in the carton, and waited for my concoction to simmer while I scavenged for mini marshmallows and pictured my cooking instructor having a stroke.
As I went through the steps, I felt Jamyang’s watchful eyes. Could I, who had a good ten years on Jamyang, move to the other side of the globe, unfamiliar with the language and customs, the money and transportation system, and manage even a fraction as well? I knew the answer to every question. Did I honestly want to know what she thought of Xander and me? Perhaps her silence was a gift.
“Dash ate an avocado today,” she said. “And two clementines.” She had the kind of round, full lips Hollywood celebrities used artificial fillers to fake. Had Xander noticed? “And he could use some harder puzzles. Smart.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking that she knew Dash’s brains came from Xander, not me. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”
“And new pajamas.”
Usually Jamyang wore baggy jumpers over long-sleeved T-shirts and leggings, her hair tightly braided. But that night she was in a sleeveless T-shirt, which showed slender arms toned by repeatedly picking up a growing boy. Her feet were bare—pale and as exquisitely formed as a marble statue’s. To my surprise, her toenails were painted a trendy shade of bloody red. Why had she gone to the trouble? Perhaps the real question was, for whom?
Did Xander notice Jamyang,
an orchid flowering within his own home? Did she want him to notice her? I told myself I was a crackpot to think this, but couldn’t stop.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. “Good evening, ma’am.”
“Good evening, Jamyang, sweet dreams.” She turned away and padded noiselessly into the hallway that led to her room.
My hot chocolate was ready. I poured it into a gaily striped red mug and sipped it while I read trashy magazines in bed, waiting for Xander. Usually I relished photos of celebrities shoving toilet paper into their trunks or conveniently falling in love with their costar right before their movie release. But before I got to Fashion Police, I’d closed my eyes. I’m fairly sure sometime later, Xander kissed me goodnight.
When I woke in the morning, he was already in the shower. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said a few minutes later as he strolled toward his walk-in closet with its still life of suits—navy or charcoal—neatly hung on wooden hangers. He selected a charcoal pinstripe and turned toward his ties—stripes, dots, and small geometric patterns, arranged by color. “Which cravat does the lady prefer?” He held up two, blue and pink.
“Pink, definitely.” Was he going to pretend our words the night before hadn’t been ugly? Did he think I’d acted like a child, and was going to magnanimously overlook my behavior?
He started dressing. Crisp white shirt, light on the starch. Discreetly engraved matte gold cuff links. Black lizard belt. Well-cobbled, perfectly shined Lobb shoes, heels always in repair.
“Xander, about last night,” I said.
He took his thin gold watch from the velvet-lined box where it rested every night. “Honey, I can’t be late.” He kissed me on the cheek. The faint citrus scent of his hundred-dollar-an-ounce cologne lingered after he left the room.
It was eight-ten. I called the Swiffer lady to get the details on her offer. The salary was more than twice as much as what I earned now, although of course it was for a full-time job, not a part-time one. She wanted my answer within a week. I thanked her, told her I’d be back in touch soon, and put a note on my calendar. I knew I was going to say no, but it seemed rude to reject her on the spot.
