The Solomon Sisters Wise Up

by Melissa Senate

  I leaned back in my chair and glanced at my article. All four pages were marked up with red stars and absolutely not! every second line. “I have no idea what you mean, Ms. O’Connor.”

  She shook her head again and pressed her intercom. “Sherry, come in here for a moment, and collect Sarah and Diana too.”

  Uh-oh. Was she bringing an audience for a vetting session of my article?

  In moments, Sarah and two other young women entered and stood by the door, their arms crossed over their chests. They all looked so nervous. I couldn’t imagine working in this kind of environment every day with a witch like Astrid for a boss. I waited for Astrid to say something—we all waited—but she was staring at one of the staffer’s shoes. And staring. And staring. The staffer stepped back behind Sarah until she hit the wall and banged against it. Astrid then turned her attention to me.

  “I’ve called you all here because I’d like you to listen to Ms. Solomon’s article on dating. After she reads it, I’d like your opinions on how you feel Wow’s readership will respond.” She smiled, a satisfied, smug smile and nodded at me—once, as though she were sending me to my death.

  Was this school? Read aloud? Part of me wanted to storm out of her office and tell her to go blow. The other half wanted to defend my article and get it published. A monthly column was my ticket to grad school.

  “We’re waiting, Zoe,” Astrid said.

  I cleared my throat. “The Dating Diva was a Dating Dope,” I began, reading my headline. “My job is to critique people’s dates. To tell men and women exactly what they’re doing wrong. Why that hottie didn’t call for a second date. Why she won’t return his calls. Why he suddenly remembered a dentist appointment a half hour into dinner. Let me give you a scenario. Jill and Joe are at a café for a first date. Jill is talking nonstop about her job as a customer service representative for a credit card company. Joe is squirming, staring at his watch, but Jill doesn’t notice. She keeps talking. Joe makes an excuse to leave. Jill wonders what she did wrong to turn him off. The Dating Diva would have told Jill to talk less, listen more. To learn social signals of boredom. To give good date. But that was before I realized that Jill shouldn’t have to change to appeal to anyone. If Jill is passionate about her job and wants to talk about it all night, I’m sure there’s a guy out there who wants to listen—”

  One of the staffers started clapping. “I’m so sorry for interrupting!” she said. “But that is so awesome! The same thing happened to me last Saturday night!”

  Astrid stared at the young woman. “Why don’t you elaborate, Diana.”

  “Well, I was on a first date with this really cute guy who I met at a bar, and I was telling him all about my job here at Wow, how much I loved the magazine, how excited I was when I got my first chance to write an article since I’m only an assistant, how much I’ve learned in only six months out of college, and John—that’s his name—he listened for about five seconds, and then his attention started wandering. Instead of asking me questions or even breaking in to tell me about his job, he just checked out the people in the restaurant, stared at his watch, even flagged down the waiter to order another beer.”

  “Well, if he ordered another beer, Diana,” Astrid said, “he clearly wanted to prolong the date. That should have been a sure signal to you that he wasn’t bored in the least.”

  “I don’t know about that, Ms. O’Connor,” I said.

  Four pairs of eyes swooped to me. Apparently, no one ever contradicted the great Astrid O’Connor.

  “You can’t really know what’s going on in another person’s mind,” I explained. “Maybe he was interested. Maybe he’s an alcoholic. All that really matters is how Diana felt while she was talking about something important to her, something she feels passionately about, while he was more interested in the restaurant’s wallpaper and getting a drink.”

  “Diana, we did a piece in last February’s Wow about signs that your boyfriend may have a drinking problem,” Astrid said. “I think you should read it. You don’t want to get involved with a man with a drinking problem, no matter how cute he is.”

  “Um, Astrid, I didn’t say he was an alcoholic,” Diana pointed out.

  “Dear, you’ve just touched on one of the first hallmarks of those with drinking problems—denial,” Astrid said, tapping her pencil against the desk. “All right, Zoe, continue, please.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head with a devilish smile. I knew what she was thinking and I agreed: I could walk out. I could send the article to the other women’s magazines. But I wanted it published in Wow solely because Astrid didn’t agree with my point of view. I wanted her to suck it up. And so I read on, to more cheers and claps from Sarah and her co-workers.

  “Well, Zoe,” Astrid said when I finished, “I’ve always thought the young women who work for Wow reflect the readership, as they come from all walks of life, from all parts of the country. Since you’ve managed to engage them with your point of view, I’ve decided to run the piece as is.”

  “As is, Ms. O’Connor,” I said. “That’s the whole point.”

  19

  Sarah

  Perhaps choosing the week before Christmas to shop for my baby registry wasn’t my most brilliant idea. Baby Bonanza was packed. With pregnant women. With bored and miserable-looking men. With little kids running wild pushing kid-sized shopping carts. With overworked and exhausted-looking salespeople.

  “Griffen, we can come back next month,” I said, staring at the three-page checklist of everything a new baby needed that I received at the registry counter. “I figure even walking into Baby Bonanza is tough on a guy, let alone during Christmastime.”

  “No, no,” Griffen said, a brave smile on his gorgeous face. “I’m ready. And see, the store is smart, they give the guy something to play with.” He aimed the registry gun at me.

  I laughed. “Okay, you’re a trouper. Let’s start with the stroller department.”

  There were at least fifty or sixty strollers. And for some reason, they were all navy blue.

  Ten minutes later, I’d narrowed my choice down to twenty of them.

  “Which do you think, Griffen?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Let’s check one of the books,” I said, and pulled But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant! out of my tote bag. “Aha! This says that urban dwellers need a sturdy stroller, like that one,” I said, pointing. “But to beware buying one too heavy or big because you’ll need to schlep it into a taxi and crowded shops and restaurants and—”

  Griffen adopted the expression I usually reserved for documentaries about war or sports, and I read silently. He began aiming the registry gun at various items and posing like a cop about to break down a door.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d narrowed it down to three strollers.

  A half hour later, I’d made my choice. “Okay, Griffen, you can zap at this one.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t get that one,” said a very pregnant woman wheeling a toddler in a stroller. “It won’t fit through supermarket checkout aisles.”

  The last time I shopped in a supermarket was when I made dinner for Griffen a week into our relationship (the one week I wasn’t pregnant )! I tended to eat out or order in. I explained this to the woman, and she laughed.

  She added a cackle. “Honey, you’re in for a rude awakening,” she said before wheeling herself away.

  “What did she mean by that?” Griffen asked.

  “I guess mothers shop in supermarkets more than single people,” I said.

  “Well, it’ll still be just you,” he said, “So, it won’t really—”

  He very smartly shut the hell up. But I’d heard him loud and clear. It would be just me. He was here, he had been here for the past three weeks, but he was here to a point.

  Since Thanksgiving night, Griffen and I got together two or three times a week, after work and on a weekend afternoon. What he was doing with his weekend nights, I had no idea. I’d meet him at his place, and he
’d order in anything I craved, which for the past two weeks had been Pad Thai and chicken burritos. And then we’d read our baby books together and watch some TV or a movie on cable. He researched Lamaze classes for me. I practiced prenatal yoga in his living room. He rubbed my feet. I tried to teach myself how to knit. He began childproofing his apartment.

  And three times, we’d both fallen asleep in his bed, fully clothed, and I’d woken up with him spooned against me, his hand on my belly. He kissed me on the cheek. He held my hand when we walked outside after it snowed. His arm was often around me in a protective way.

  I’d gone from wanting him to needing him out of pure panic to not needing or wanting him, to wanting him, to loving him. Really loving him.

  I didn’t know what was going on. On one hand, nothing was going on. And on the other, something was. Maybe it was just a lack of anger on his part. There certainly wasn’t anything going on in the romance department.

  “What’s a onesie?” Griffen asked, scanning the checklist. “This says you need at least twelve onesies.”

  I explained onesies and sleepers and what a receiving blanket was.

  “And what exactly do you do with a bulb syringe?” he asked.

  I laughed. “When the baby has a cold and can’t blow his own nose, you have to—”

  “Okay, stop right here,” he said. “I think I get the picture. You’ll be handling nose issues, right?”

  “Sure. Especially since you’ll be handling diaper issues,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Um, but—”

  “Diaper changing is usually the dad’s job,” I said. I figured he didn’t know any better.

  “Really?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “But I don’t know how to change a diaper.”

  “We’ll learn at the baby-care class I’m signing us up for.”

  He bit his lip. “Baby-care class?”

  “Griffen, you do want to learn how to care for a newborn, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, of course, but I mean, the baby’s going to be living with you, right?”

  Maybe it was a good thing that he was reminding me of how uninvolved he actually was. A lack of anger or “getting used to the idea” wasn’t the same as involved. I needed to be careful, to be on guard. We weren’t a happy family shopping for our baby registry. We were separate.

  “Let’s move on to the infant car seats,” I suggested.

  A half hour later, I chose my car seat. Registry gun in hand, Griffen zapped the wrong one.

  Fifteen minutes later, he zapped the wrong bouncy seat. A half hour later, the wrong playpen.

  “Griffen, if this is a little too much for you, I totally understand,” I said. “We can go. I can come back with my sisters or my friends or Danielle from work. Any of them would love baby registry shopping. Really. I know this probably isn’t a guy’s idea of a fun Saturday afternoon.”

  I wondered if a father in love would enjoy an afternoon in Baby Bonanza. Based on the expressions of the men trailing behind women, that didn’t seem to be the case.

  I pretended great interest in a display of crib mirrors so that he wouldn’t see that I was perilously close to tears.

  I mean, the baby’s going to be living with you, right?

  “Griffen, my father and his bride-to-be are having an engagement party on New Year’s Eve. I don’t know if you have plans, but, it would be great if you could come. You could meet my dad and my sisters, and—”

  “Uh, I’m really sorry, but I made some tentative plans for New Year’s Eve,” he said. “So I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it.”

  “Oh.”

  The symbolism was important to me. If we spent New Year’s Eve together, we would be starting off the new year together, regardless of how “un” things were between us. Unformed. Unsaid. Unanything.

  Twenty minutes later, he zapped at the wrong crib.

  “Griffen, let’s just go,” I said.

  He took the checklist and put it down on top of a changing table, a very nice one, and then put the registry gun on top of that. And then he put his arms around me and pulled me into a hug.

  I melted against his body and hugged him back. “Oh, Griffen,” I said. “This feels so good.” And then I looked up at him and kissed him on the lips. Passionately.

  He pulled back and dropped his arms as though I’d zapped him on the groin with the registry gun. “Um, that changing table is really nice,” he said rather nervously, pointing at an armoire. “And I really like that onesie,” he said, gesturing at a Winnie-The-Pooh diaper stacker.

  He wouldn’t be coming to the engagement party. He wouldn’t be spending New Year’s Eve with me.

  I grabbed the registry gun, pointed it at his chest and zapped.

  Griffen took a deep breath and mouthed I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

  I burst into tears.

  “Oh, honey,” said a very pregnant woman. “It’ll pass, really. Your hormones go crazy, make you cry right in the middle of the changing table aisle, the frozen food aisle in supermarkets, at work, on the street, wherever. And then a few months into being a new mama, your hormones go back to normal.”

  “Whew!” Griffen said. “It’s just hormones!”

  “Right,” I said, trying desperately to smile. “It’s just hormomes.”

  Smiles frozen on both our faces, we continued on, zapping at one of everything.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the meatball parmagiana hero I’d had for lunch or morning sickness, but for the third time this week, I’d been overcome with nausea and had to run to the bathroom at work. Perhaps it was all the snacking. Christmas was four days away, and the amount of holiday cookies, cakes, chocolate and other edible treats in the office was amazing. Writers, agents, advertising agencies and God knew who else sent goodies by the sackful, and I couldn’t resist.

  When I came out of the stall, there was Astrid, freshening her trademark dark red lipstick. She eyed me in the mirror.

  “I’ve just had a brainstorm, Sarah,” Astrid said. “I’d love to do an article on bulimia for the June issue, just in time for bathing-suit weather. Women get very insecure at the start of summer, and a warning on bulimia would be a wonderful public service. Why don’t you do some research and let me see your notes.”

  “Bulimia?” I asked. “Didn’t we just do an article on eating disorders for the April issue?”

  Astrid capped her lipstick tube. “Sarah, I want you to know that I understand. The weight gain, being single, the open position for senior editor—it’s a lot of pressure for a young woman. But I think once you do some research, you’ll see that binging and purging are not the answer, that it’s not about food—it’s about our underlying emotional issues. I went through a brief bulimic period in college, so trust me, I understand. Don’t get me wrong—I applaud your motivation to be thin. Thin is definitely—and always will be—in.”

  What an idiot. The woman thought I was bulimic, but actually approved of my supposed quest to be thin.

  “Astrid, I’m not bulimic.”

  “Sarah, denial is the hardest thing to conquer in an eating disorder,” she said, smoothing her blonder-than-blond hair in the mirror. “Once you accept that you have a problem, you’ll be thin in no time.”

  “I doubt that, Astrid,” I said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that in time, I’ll be getting a lot bigger.”

  “Confidence is—”

  I couldn’t take one more word of wisdom from this asshole. “Astrid, I’m not bulimic—or overweight for that matter, not that it’s any of your business. I’m pregnant.”

  She froze for a second. “Pregnant! Well, congratulations, Sarah. You and your husband must be quite thrilled.”

  “I’m single, Astrid. Don’t you remember adding that to the mix of why I’m under so much pressure?”

  She blushed for a second. “That’s right. It’s Danielle who’s married. Well, well, both of you pregnant. Isn’t that something. Must be something in the water!”

  “Speaking o
f Danielle and both of us being pregnant,” I said. “We’ve been working on an article—on our own time—about how pregnant women are treated and mistreated in the workplace. And since you’ve stated over and over that Wow Woman readers wouldn’t find information about pregnancy relevant, we’re planning on submitting it to Glamour and Elle and Smart Woman. I just wanted to be on the up-and-up about it.”

  She colored for just a second and adjusted her jacket. “Well, of course I think Wow readers would be interested in any subject that deals with women’s rights. I’d love to read it and be granted first consideration.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll leave a copy in your in-box.”

  She smiled her fake smile and left the bathroom, but her sickening perfume overpowered me, and I had to clutch the sink for support. I heard the door whoosh open and I thought it was Astrid again, but it was Carol, the copy editor.

  “Sarah, Danielle’s water just broke!” she said. “Help!”

  I ran back to Danielle’s cubicle, and there she was, sitting on the floor with her legs spread. There was no puddle of water, at least that I could see.

  “Okay, Danielle, I’ve called Mark,” Carol assured her. “He’s heading to the hospital now.”

  “Sar-ah, can…you go…ahhhhh…ahhhhh…with me,” Danielle asked in between pants. “Pleeeeeeease. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhha!”

  “Carol, tell Astrid I’m taking Danielle to the hospital, and if she’s curious, no, we’re not coming back today.”

  Someone was holding the elevator for us. In moments, I had a moaning Danielle in a speeding taxi.

  “Don’t leave meeee…ahhh!…ahhhhhh, Sar-ahhhhh, please!” Danielle scream-panted. “Our families are both so far away, and no one expected me to go into labor a month early,” she rushed on. “Ahhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!”

  “Is she going to have the baby in the cab?” the taxi driver asked nervously, his eyes darting to me and the road.

  “Just drive, buddy,” I said. “Fast. But be careful!”