by Sonia Taitz
“It’s dripping, two ounces if I’m lucky, and then I’ve got to rush home to my little darling and let her drink it. That ought to hold her for the next, oh, ten minutes,” she added miserably.
“Why not just give her a bottle?”
“And let her have diseases, and deafness, and bad teeth?” Rona looked at Abigail as though she were a pedophile—but since that technically meant “lover of children,” perhaps the opposite.
“Is that what happens?” Abigail felt shaky. She had browsed the classics of child-rearing but had not yet absorbed all the horrors.” You mean I can’t just get someone—someone else—to give him a bottle here and there?”
“Not if you want all the benefits, Abigail,” said Rona. “I’m sorry. I have to be blunt. You seem to know very little.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, at least half a year. Minimum, three months, for the benefits.”
Abigail felt like asking what the benefits were. But she wouldn’t have been able to face them, or the fact that her own child, yet unborn, would receive them incompletely.
“I have to get back to work!” she protested. Rona should understand that more than anyone.
“You want a sick, dumb, overweight child? That’ll be even more work in the end!” Rona had moved on to the other breast. “Think long-term!”
“I didn’t know I had anything to do with all of this,” said Abigail. She had been expecting a brilliant prodigy, and good-looking, too. After all, Richard Trubridge was tall, athletic, smart. And she was no slouch, either. She had thought this paragon would emerge and do its thing, more or less.
“But with all this nursing, how will you ever get back to work, Rona?”
“Oh, I might not,” said Rona, sealing up her test tube of breast milk and putting it into a padded bag. She put her breasts back into her bra and closed her shirt buttons and patted them down. Abigail watched it all with a growing sense of dread. What an enormous rigmarole it seemed to be.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m getting close to the little imp. She grabs my boob, she looks at me, she falls asleep in my arms. I don’t know, my hormones sometimes make me cry.” Rona abruptly started crying. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Abigail, surprisingly beginning to wail along. Rona put her arms around Abigail, and Abigail gripped her tightly. They hugged each other for dear life and rocked.
“What’s the difference what happens, Abigail?” said Rona, sniffing. “We’ll be replaced by the next generation anyway, like our mothers before us.”
“And they by the next, and the next,” said Abigail shakily. It was all tragically true and utterly illogical.
“Listen,” said Rona, detaching herself with a yank. “I have to go. Dylan has to go to Tumblin’ Toddlers. Otherwise her brain won’t grow.”
“Who says?”
“The folks at Tumblin’ Toddlers. They’ve done their research. And experts back them. Babies need their bilateral symmetry and multi-zonal auricular maturation. They need music, too, both Western tonal and—eventually—Schoenbergian twelve-tone, which—oh, never mind. It’s hard to explain, and won’t be relevant ’til Dylan’s mastered the flugelhorn. For now, I’ve been singing ‘The Grand Old Duke of York,’ and of course doing some East African clapping games.”
“Uh-huh,” said Abigail, rendered momentarily mute. She wasn’t sure she knew “The Duke of York.” Was that some British song she’d missed? She felt left out and stupid. How could she teach it, or even sing along? And how was she at clapping games? It was like that bad dream where you haven’t prepared for the finals. Or was it the one where you went outside naked? Both at the same time, maybe. The naked finals, unprepared, boobs dripping and uterus sectioned.
Rona looked into her date book. “Oh crap. I forgot to do the big math dots today.”
“The math dots?”
“You know, the stickers on the oak tag boards?”
“Oh yeah, those.” She made another mental note.
“Look, Abigail,” said Rona, kindly, “you have time. They recommend waiting as much as a week after the birth, so their eyes are clear and focused. But you should be starting the language lessons now. Have you downloaded?”
“Have I—?”
“You know what, get the tapes and put them in your Pregaphone.”
“What’s a—”
“I’ll lend you mine. You’re clearly not ready. Thank goodness, you can accelerate. I’ll give you the fast-track version, and don’t forget to play it as much as possible.”
“I’m lost here.”
“Well, you can choose—I have the French, the Japanese. Latin. Kind of aim the speaker at your tummy, so the baby learns the phonemes. I can come by tomorrow and set you up.”
“Do you have to?” Abigail whined. “I feel tired.”
“It’s up to you,” said Rona pertly.
“But you did it?”
“Oh, yes. What does tired mean to the modern woman?”
“I don’t know, what?” said Abigail miserably.
Rona sniffed. Her face brightened. “Come to think of it, I brought you something.”
“What?”
She reached into her diaper bag, the multi-compartmental pouch into which she had tucked her breast milk.
“It’s a book I really liked. I started it at the hospital, and it helped me get out of the postpartum thing. It’s called I’m a Horrible Mother, But You’re a MUCH MORE Horrible Mother.”
“I’m a horrible mother? Already?”
“Well, I know I’m not horrible,” said Rona. “Anyway, it’s supposed to be funny, you know, satirical, so you, with your sense of humor, will eventually love it I’m sure. It’s all about the perfection thing.”
“Oh, the perfection,” said Abigail tonelessly, taking the book. The flyleaf promised that the book would describe “the two or three things that are not fatal to your baby,” then listed all the ways that baby could die: buttons, radiators, cats, sandboxes, cling wrap, too much dust, too little . . . Abigail, trying to live up to her reputation for wit, attempted a smile.
“It is funny,” she said.
“That part? It’s not meant to be. But dip in. You’ll love it.”
Rona stood up and hoisted her diaper bag. It was stuffed to bursting and seemed momentarily to affect her balance.
“Got to run, Abigail. I’ve been away from the little darling for an hour, and one of my books says that it’ll lead to ‘endless and bottomless angst, need and resentment.’”
“I’m really touched you came,” said Abigail, recalling, again, that no one else had visited her. It had probably been too awkward, not knowing how it would all turn out. And sickness, like parenthood, was not too much acknowledged at the firm.
“Oh,” said Rona, “I had to see you. I was going nuts; I’m probably hiding it well. And misery loves company, right?”
17
Soon after, abruptly, Abigail was notified to pack up and get out. Although the sonogram showed that her baby was a bit small, not only vis-à-vis full-term babies but also normal babies of its age, the hospital had decided the numbers were adequate and sent Abigail back into the world. Her placenta, at least, seemed secure enough, and the worst of the bleeding had stopped. Before her discharge, Abigail was advised to rest as much as possible and avoid stress. They didn’t seem to realize that she was a lawyer on the verge of partnership. Any mistake she made in any direction seemed consequential.
A few hours later, on Tim’s arm, Abigail entered her little apartment. It was now strangely altered. Yes, there was her good old closet, full of business jackets, skirts, and dresses, handsome work clothes in an array of sizes. There was her blond-wood desk, with the computer and modem, for working at home, and there, on the wall above, were her diplomas and bar association certificate. But now, in her dining nook, she saw the new bassinette and changing table, delivered and signed for in her absence. So much white, and the bassinette was lace-fringed.
Peeping inside, she saw its little mattress—a pattern of ducks and many downy ducklings. And some of them wore clothes.
The phone machine was lit up with messages. Abigail popped the button and listened warily. She’d asked Tim to keep calling around for babysitters and housekeepers. One paper in particular carried ads from these workers, immigrants from Ireland and the islands, mostly. Here and there an elderly widow, a young student, or someone whose English was poor.
“I try to call you but no answer. You call me about the job. You not here. No problem, anyway. I here at home. Tanya.”
“Hiya!! This is Stacy? I’m here for the next year or so? I’m from Jacksonville? Florida? I am thrilled about your baby? You won’t be sorry? It’ll be so much fun?”
“Yes. Yes. It is Angelica Corones speaking. I am waiting for you call me sooner. You call me about job babysitter?”
“Hello, good afternoon. Mary-Ann from Dublin. Could take care of the young one fer ye. I may charge a bit more but I’m wert it, got my papers in order, too. But I won’t scrub yer floor, I’m not a maid. Right, tanks fer listnin’.”
The next message was her sister Annie.
“Welcome home, Abigail! Your cellphone was off, and anyway, I don’t want you getting all that radiation in your present condition. Daddy just called me. He’s flying up here with Darlene for Thanksgiving. I’ll do the honors again. Do you want to come a day or two early and stay with us?”
“Thanksgiving?” Abigail shouted at the machine. It was bad enough that the pregnancy was moving along so inexorably, but the calendar, too? It was now wheeling her into a family gathering she could hardly bear to face.
“I’ll put the kids all in one room,” Annie was saying. “The little ones just crawl into my bed anyway. Daddy and Darlene have to have their own bedroom. Liz and Art, too. You can have the third room. But listen to this: Liz said she couldn’t be in until late Thursday—Thanksgiving itself—because of a breakfast in Chicago. Can you believe it? Working on Thanksgiving? You probably can, you’re two peas in a pod, drive yourself nuts for no reason.
“Anyway, get a good rest and I’ll come and get you on, like, on the Tuesday? Would that be OK? You can settle Daddy and the girlfriend. You’re good with him.”
Abigail fell back into bed and stretched her arms out to Tim.
“Welcome home,” he said, hugging her.
“Could you please come to Annie’s with me?” she pleaded, hugging him back gratefully. One challenge after another, and he was always there for her.
Abigail found it hard to envision seeing her father in her current state. They had never really discussed the details of her pregnancy, only that it would not interfere with her work. And now, with the order to take it easy, even that was not so certain.
Tim stared into her eyes. “You want me there on Thanksgiving?”
“I want you there very much.”
“Am I part of the family now?”
“I hope so,” she answered. She wasn’t at all sure. Displacing his anger from his unwed, pregnant daughter, Dad might lay into Tim. There might be a blowup. And of course, he’d give her a hard time as well. With all his ambitions for her, how could she have let herself end up like this? Abigail needed someone there to hold on to, someone with whom she could leave Annie’s house if she had to.
“Well, you know I’m a total sucker for you. But I have a family, too—and Mom gets upset if we don’t go home on these holidays. Of course, she loves my taller, more successful, and more corporate brother more, even though I’m the one who was always more tenderhearted. But that’s not the issue, and—you’re really not listening, are you?”
“Yes, I am listening,” she said quickly. “Your brother sounds like a Doberman. I used to like the cool and callous Dobermen, but now they fill me with dread.”
Tim knew the reference all too well. Abigail often praised him for being more of a spaniel. “I don’t think I fill you with enough dread, which may be the trouble. But anyhow, I’ll see what I can do. My folks like to eat early,” said Tim. “Because that’s when the real drinking begins. Then my busy big brother leaves—something work-related, or that’s his story—and mom cries all over me. She cries when she’s drunk. I think she enjoys it. But I don’t. So maybe I’ll come over later in the evening and skip the maternal pity party.”
Abigail grabbed Tim’s head and kissed him on the mouth. She lay back again. “You’re the best, and just to show my appreciation, I’m going to study all those birthing handouts you brought home from class,” she said.
“Oh, my god!” said Tim. “I just remembered. We have class in half an hour! With all the excitement of bringing you home, I nearly forgot!”
“Don’t shout, you scared me,” said Abigail. “So what?”
“So what? What do you think, Abigail, that I’m the one who has to do this and you get to stay home? I’m your coach, remember? They all probably think I’m some freak with an imaginary friend.”
“You mean you’re not?” said Abigail.
“Nothing about this situation is imaginary, Abigail,” said Tim, sternly. And then he helped her to her feet, the way he had done on the day they met.
18
“This is terrific! Everybody give Abigail Thomas a big, beautiful Hello!”
Casey, the birthing instructor, circled the room, her powerful legs striding around the expectant couples, who sat on cushions on the floor. She wove her hands in circles in the air, like pinwheels.
“Hello, Abigail!” everybody said, as she beamed at them.
“Now, since this young lady hasn’t been here all this time,” said Casey, kneeling down deftly behind Abigail and putting her hands on her shoulders, “I think she should let us all know why she’s taking this class and what she wants to get out of it.”
Casey bobbed on her ankles, waiting for Abigail to speak. For the moment, words failed the usually articulate attorney.
“Come on, Abby, everyone has shared their reason for being here. We’ve got our older couple, right, Maggie and Joe? It’s never too late to learn how to give birth the right way. Why, just the other day I heard about a fifty-eight-year old woman, first baby, and completely natural!”
The class, including Casey herself, applauded.
“And we’ve got Toni, who used to be scared to death, remember, honey?”
Toni, a pixie with scalp patterns shaved into her straw-colored hair, nodded vigorously. Her enormous husband, the sure cause of Toni’s outsize protrusion, smiled proudly beside her.
“Ah, go on, Casey,” said Sheryl, sucking on a mint and staring at Toni’s future ten pounder, still stuck under the tiny woman’s pink muumuu. “You know that half of us are gonna have Caesareans!”
“Did I hear someone say the C word?” said the instructor, lowering the heat on Abigail. She stepped over to Sheryl, her expression mock-horror, and a few students chuckled knowingly.
“Well, you did show us the movie,” Sheryl protested.
“We have to cover all our bases, Sheryl,” said Casey, shaking her orange curls. “As a matter of fact, the surest way to get a C-section is to feel the way you do, that it’s unavoidable for—what did you say—half of you? Because class, as we know, it’s the last thing nature wants for you!”
“Except for when it’s breech, right? With the big head at the end instead of the front?” said Toni.
“You weren’t listening either, Toni. That can be an obstacle, but with a few headstands and a skilled practitioner, you can turn a child around in utero. No, there are few exceptions to the rule of heavy breathing and vaginal expulsion. Now, Abigail,” she said, turning back and smiling, “I haven’t forgotten you. Where’ve you been all this time?”
“Working, mostly,” said Abigail. “I guess I feel I have to give it my all.”
Mara, who wore what seemed a custom maternity suit in fawn faux-buckskin, complete with fringes, shook her dark straight hair, all three feet of it, in indignation. “Yes, that’s what we’re about,” said Mara.
“But we give it to the next generation.”
Many of the class participants looked at Abigail as though she might be a narcissist. Abigail, returning their gaze, enjoyed her own inner conversation. They were making precisely the fallacy her own mother had made, she thought. Nurture the next generation, and leave yourself out. And then they nurture the next, and leave themselves out. Who actually got to nurture their own lives and promise? Men?
“Well, anyway,” Abigail found herself saying, with a voice she hoped sounded maternal, “I’m here now, and from here on, all I’ve got to think about is having this baby.” A smattering of applause registered her classmate’s growing, if wary, acceptance.
But Mara persisted. “What kind of work was it?” she said suspiciously. “Corporate?”
“That’s a judgment,” said Tim, shutting her up. But only for a moment.
“No. No. My lover, Gorse, is not here, as I said at the beginning of these sessions, because she is in the theater. She is an artist. But what were you doing? Some commercial exploitation of people? Some rape of the environment our babies will breathe? When will you finally be satisfied?” she shouted.
Good question, thought Abigail.
“Is this your first child?” she asked.
“Fourth,” said Mara.
“When will you be satisfied?” she parried. And before Mara could answer, she drove onward. “I’m a lawyer,” Abigail said. “True, I don’t work for the poor, the hungry, or the oppressed,” she added, suddenly hearing how bad that might sound. “Not right now, at any rate. But I don’t breed like a bunny and judge people I don’t know. And I do my utmost for any client that pays me. Right or wrong, I am an attorney.” That didn’t come out quite right, but there it was. It was what she had learned at law school and at work. She was a professional, after all.
“OK, class, that was interesting, and now we can get back to—”
