by Ariella Papa
But who am I to judge? I don’t know these women at all. In fact, I can’t really imagine a situation in my life when I would have chosen to hang out with them. They are lovely in their own ways, I guess, but they aren’t women that I would have gravitated toward. I miss Liz and all the nights we spent partying into the morning. We went out almost every night of the week, drinking drinks and meeting boys. We had fun. But I can’t imagine going out with her right now. I can’t imagine what we would have to talk about. I’m still dodging her messages, and they have gotten less frequent since I no-showed her birthday party.
Not that I have much to talk about with these two either. Claudia is grilling Kirsten about preschool. Her questions are so pointed that I want to turn around and see if someone is projecting them on a screen behind me. After each answer Kirsten gives Claudia pauses as if trying to send a message back to the mother ship. And each time she asks the follow-up question, she looks around as if trying to convince us that she is truly pulling these questions out of thin air.
I’m simply sitting here, and sitting here is not what I do well. I am a television producer. I’m funny. I’m used to holding court. But how? I really can’t remember the things I said that people found entertaining. But I know they did. I distinctly remember people laughing at things I said. They guffawed. I was a regular Don fucking Rickles and now I’m sitting on a barstool trying to think of something funny to add to the conversation. Where is the place for me? It’s not with Liz and not with these two moms who can’t really think of anything else to talk about but preschool eating habits.
“So what do they do about snack?”
“Well, we alternate with all the other families.”
“Yes, but are there standards? Are there certain acceptable snacks?”
“I think it depends on the class. You never know what allergies will be and they definitely take that into consideration, but they give you a list to refer to, so you aren’t flying blind.”
I don’t think Claudia is ever flying blind. As she pauses to telegraph back to the home planet, I order another drink.
“I’ll get one, too,” Kirsten says, gesturing to her beer.
“Oh, we are getting another, not getting a table,” Claudia says.
“We can,” Kirsten says.
“No, that’s fine,” Claudia says, unconvincingly. She picks the drinks menu up again. “I’ll have one of those mojitos.”
“Fancy,” Kirsten says approvingly. “I’ll try one too.”
I stick with my margarita. Only amateurs change their drink. Claudia keeps at it with the questions and at one point I mutter that they probably have a guidebook, expecting Kirsten to turn around and smile, but she doesn’t. I like a little acknowledgement from time to time. She is totally focused on what Claudia is asking her. I am beginning to think this night out was only so they could talk about preschool. Even my attempts at humor are lame. I suck down the rest of my drink and then I wave the bartender over for another drink. Those two are still nursing their drinks.
At last Claudia runs out of questions. Or maybe she is giving Kirsten a break before the next onslaught. I decide to try to get involved again. What the hell, right? I am two and a half drinks in with a babysitter and a head of blow-dried hair.
“So how is Sage?”
But Kirsten ignores me. She doesn’t turn around. It’s surprisingly rude and Claudia looks at her and then back to me. Kirsten starts telling Claudia about the other time she was at this restaurant, but then she notices Claudia’s expression. She turns around, cocking her head in that way she does, that makes her look at once coy and guileless.
“I’m sorry, Ruth did you say something? I didn’t hear you.”
“I just asked about Sage,” I say.
“Have you said anything else that I didn’t hear?”
“Sort of,” I say.
“Well, I’m sorry. I should have told you. I am deaf in one ear so sometimes. I can’t hear everything.”
“You are,” Claudia says. Then she nods like she suspected something and now it all makes sense.
“I usually try to adjust for my surroundings, but sometimes”—she gestures to the drink in front of her—“I forget.”
“You’re completely deaf?” I ask. “That’s got to be tough.”
“It honestly was never that a big a deal. You do a lot of things to compensate. You get good at reading people’s body language and anticipating what they are going to say. It also teaches you to be a little more patient and not respond so quickly. I have to take a minute and make sure I don’t respond to things in anger, because I might have misheard.”
“Is that what happened with your husband tonight?” Claudia asks. It’s a personal question. The drinks are making Claudia bold. Her shoulders have sunk lower and her back is not so rigid.
“No, that wasn’t it. He was supposed to be home by five so that I could, you know, have some help while I got dinner together and maybe showered. So I called the bakery where he works at five thirty and they said that he was gone since four thirty. It should take him about twelve minutes to get home and he didn’t get home until six thirty. Of course, I called his cell phone, but it was mysteriously off.”
“That sounds as though you need to have a conversation,” Claudia says.
“Well, needless to say, I didn’t take a shower.”
“Wow, you still smell good,” I say.
“Body splash,” Kirsten says and giggles. She looks down at her drink and twirls the straw between her fingers. “We just can’t seem to get it together lately.”
Claudia and I don’t say anything for a minute. But then I’m grateful for Claudia’s directness because she comes right out and asks the question I have wanted to ask since Kirsten was last at my house.
“What do you think the problem is?”
Kirsten looks up and I think that she might cry.
“I’m not sure. It seems like he’s turning away from me. He doesn’t see me anymore. He’s pulling away. He’s not where he should be, where he says he’s going to be. And even when he is there . . . he’s not.”
I know what it sounds like. I look over at Claudia. I think she is thinking the same thing, but we aren’t going to say it.
“Maybe, it’s nothing. I could be being sensitive. It’s something strange I feel. You know how animals always seem to know when a disaster is coming. That’s how I feel. I spent the day listening to chick music wondering what I can do.”
“Well, that’s all well and good,” Claudia says. “But maybe instead of listening to songs, you should ask him straight out what the problem is.”
“I know, I should,” Kirsten says. “I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.”
She reminds me of all the girls that used to hang out in lounges at college pining away from some stupid guy; the ones who would enjoy succumbing to the drama and all the trappings of it, the tears, the drinks, the everybody-look-at me. We had all been there, but usually people grew out of it. Maybe because Kirsten struck me as such an artistic almost bohemian type, I think there is a part of her that might almost get off on the drama, maybe thrive on it.
None of us said anything for a few minutes. Usually, I can’t stand silences. I have to fill them with a joke or something. But Claudia pushed her half full drink away.
“This mojito is way too strong for me. I think I’m gonna go back to wine. I also think I need to get a table. I mean, I’m not sure what the etiquette here is, but I really need to eat.”
“No etiquette,” Kirsten says. “Let’s go. We should settle up.”
She asks the bartender for the check. When it comes, Claudia whips out her Blackberry to start some intense calculations that refer back to the prices on the menu.
“You know, I’m going to throw in thirty-five bucks. I think that should cover me,” I say. I am not about to think about math right now.
“Me too,” Kirsten says.
“But that’s way too much,” Claudia says. She is slightly alarme
d. She really might be from another planet.
“It’ll all come out in the wash,” I say. “You can put in whatever you want, but this way the bartender gets a good tip.”
Claudia opens and closes her mouth. I get up to get a table. I am feeling a little wobbly. After only three drinks? What is going on with my tolerance? I barely make it to the table. I am relieved when my ass hits the chair without incident. I pull off my sweatshirt. It really is too hot.
I want the catfish tacos. I saw them on the sandwich board out front and they sounded good, but Kirsten and Claudia are studying the menu. Kirsten is announcing all of the things that she had or people that were with her the last time she was here had. Claudia is nodding and deliberating the merits of each selection.
I know this feeling. I recognize it, even though I don’t usually feel it so early. I need food to absorb the alcohol or I’m going to be in trouble. I wish these women would make up their minds.
When the waitress comes over, I say that we’re ready, even though maybe only I am ready. And I think this pushes the other two to action and thankfully gets us a bowl of chips and salsa.
I dig right in. We all do, happily chomping and dipping. Then I realize that Claudia has stopped eating. When she catches me looking at her, she takes a sip of her drink. I look away, feeling uneasy. She spoons some of her dip out the salsa bowl and onto her plate. And I know it was because we have been double dipping. Kirsten is oblivious. But suddenly I feel exposed and naked. I put my sweatshirt back on.
“So what do you two do for day care,” I ask. It’s been on my mind. I don’t want to, but suddenly I feel I have to really work this child-care thing out. Everything in my head feels divided. I want to go back to work and I don’t. I want someone to tell me what to do and I want to figure out the right thing on my own.
“Well, I try to figure out my schedule so that I don’t have to work that often, and my mother-in-law helps take care of them when I have a photo shoot and one of David’s nieces is our babysitter when we go out—went out. You know, she helps when need her. I try not to work too much and be away from them. It is really a priority for me to be with them as much as possible”
“Do they ever drive you crazy?” I ask. Claudia smirks. I don’t mean for it to seem as though I am making fun of Kirsten. I am really curious. I think it’s safe to assume that everything I say from here on in will be influenced by the fact that I have lost my tolerance. “I mean, sometimes I can’t imagine leaving him in a couple of months and some days I think I am going to pull my hair out.”
“Well, it’s still early yet. You are still figuring it out,” Kirsten says. “You’ll hit your stride.”
“But you have to work, right?” Claudia asks. “I mean you can’t feel bad about that. I can’t believe in the twenty-first century we’re still supposed to feel bad about that.”
“I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad about it,” Kirsten says to me.
“I’m not saying you were,” Claudia says, her voice rising a bit. “I think it’s tough now, with this return to staying at home. The idea that no matter how educated you get and how hard you work you need to give it up once the baby comes. That is supposed to be what fulfills you.”
“But it is fulfilling,” Kirsten insists.
“Sure it is, but I worked really hard to get where I am and I don’t know why I am expected to forget all that when the kids come and expect everyone to pause until I am ready to return.”
“Well, who is expecting you to do this? I mean who cares what you do?” I ask. Claudia looks at me. Kirsten looks at Claudia.
“You’ll see, it’s quite easy for people to judge mothers and they do,” Claudia says.
“I don’t know about that,” Kirsten says, glancing at me as if trying to protect me. “I think, sure, maybe people judge, but who cares? You hope that most people have better things to do, and if they don’t they’re the ones with the problem.”
Our food comes. Kirsten digs right in shouting “bon appétit,” but Claudia takes a moment, unfolding her paper napkin and laying it across her lap. My first bite of my catfish taco is a messy one. A glob of jalapeño mayo falls smack-dab in the center of my shirt. Claudia pretends not to notice and Kirsten doesn’t; she is eating her enchiladas suizas with gusto. Once again, I feel like a slob. I need to slow down. I take a giant sip of water.
“So what are you going to do for child care?” Claudia asks.
“I don’t know. I called a couple of nannies. There was a definite language barrier with some of them. On the phone at least they seem really loving and it would be awesome for Abe to learn Spanish, but I would also like to know what’s going on. I guess I have to interview them next. I so don’t want to deal.”
“I hear the Tibetan ones are great,” Claudia says. Kirsten’s eyes almost burst out of the sockets, and I can’t tell if Claudia’s serious. She looks at both of us and smiles the smile I have come to associate with her awkward attempts at humor. “Sorry, bad joke. I think it’s ridiculous, but people do characterize. I read it on one of those mom websites and everyone was flipping out. If you ever think people don’t judge, you should go on some of those mothering websites.”
“Well, those sites have good info sometimes. You know, when I have a question about the strange white bump on my boob—” God, I haven’t slowed down enough, the damage has been done-- “those sites can really help.”
“What’s the strange white bump on your boob?” Claudia asks.
“A milk blister,” Kirsten asks, nodding.
“Yeah,” I say, laughing almost hysterically. “Who knew that could even happen?”
“Another wonderful miracle of breast-feeding,” Claudia says.
“Oh, come on now, Claudia, you aren’t going to argue the merits of breast-feeding are you,” Kirsten asks.
“How do you begin to breast-feed twins?” I ask. I’ve been curious about this for a while.
“Exactly,” Claudia says, nodding her head. “It isn’t easy, but I did it for all of four months and then it got too hard to keep up with work and everything.”
“Well, anything you can do helps,” Kirsten says. Claudia looks at her and shrugs. “What?”
“Never mind,” Claudia says. “It’s not going to go over well. And I don’t want this to get around to the Brookese admissions committee. Admissions committee. Did you ever notice how funny those words sound together? Admissions commissions, would be funnier, I guess. My nose feels funny too.”
She touches her nose, marveling. She picks up her wineglass and twists it from side to side. If Kirsten wants to know what she was going to say, she doesn’t push it after this drunken display.
“So some people get really into wine, huh. What do they call it, the nectar of the gods?” Kirsten and I giggle, looking at each other, letting her go, enjoying it. “I guess some people can be blindfolded and tell the different grapes. You might be able to do that, Kirsten, because of your heightened senses. I never really got into wine, but this stuff isn’t bad.”
“I need to use the potty,” Kirsten says getting up. She smiles at both of us. I wish I looked like her. When she is gone I lean in. I really wanted to know what Claudia was going to say, but before I get a chance she is telling me.
“It’s great to breast-feed for as long as you can, just don’t drive yourself crazy. Pumping can be so difficult at work, and you start to have this insane race to get enough milk. I guess sometimes I feel as if this whole thing where you must breast-feed is some weird conspiracy to make women tied to their kids, to keep them from working. Maybe it’s me.”
She was hung up on people being anti-working moms. I wasn’t sure if they really were or if she was just feeling guilty. Maybe she had set the bar too high. But she was right about one thing, I did worry that I was never going to be able to pump enough—mainly because I hated it—to leave enough milk for Abe. I was pretty sure I was going to have to supplement. I guess I needed someone to say that was ok. Maybe I was concerned about j
udgments more than I realized. Maybe I had more in common with Claudia than I thought, especially when she was several drinks in.
Kirsten came back and Claudia said it was her turn, but not before she requested the check. The waiter brought it and Kirsten and I tried to figure out how much we owed, but decided to wait for Claudia and her fancy calculations.
“This was fun,” Kirsten says. She fans her face with her hands and pulls her mass of curls back up and off her neck. “But do you feel a little loopy?”
“I feel a lot loopy,” I say, laughing. “I would do it again.”
“I would, too,” Claudia says, coming back at the exact right time. She fell into her chair. “What do I owe?”
“We were hoping you would tell us,” I say.
“Don’t you have that calculator thing,” Kirsten asks.
“We all have it on our cells,” Claudia says to Kirsten.
“But you know how to use it,” I say. Claudia rummages around in her briefcase and digs out her Blackberry. She holds it out, squinting and then pulls it close, her glassy eyes widening. She digs back into her bag and pulls out her glasses and goes through the same motions again. Kirsten stares at her, cocking her head. Finally she takes off her glasses and flings them into her bag with the Blackberry.
“I have drunk too much to do math. I think if we all put in forty we should be set. I need to put this on my credit card, so you guys can pay me or I can tell him to put forty on the card.”
“Whatever,” Kirsten says. It doesn’t seem like something we need to strategize.
I laugh as I grab the money, but then I realize that I am having trouble making out the bills. I am going to take a cab home. I need my bed and soon.
But it takes forever for the waiter to come back with Claudia’s card and receipt. And suddenly I find myself announcing to the table that I still haven’t had sex.
Kirsten grabs my hand and pats it. Claudia mentions that it gets harder and harder to find the time so she likes to schedule it for a certain night of the week. It doesn’t surprise me.
