Baby Proof

by Emily Giffin

  Ben furrows his brow and says, “How about you stop taking those things? Can’t we just see what happens? See if it’s meant to be?”

  I tell him that this plan of his sounds akin to the Christian Scientist approach to modern medicine.

  He gives me a blank stare.

  “I have a better idea,” I say. “Let’s hold hands and jump out the window and see if we’re meant to die.”

  Then I take my pill.

  The most egregious of Ben’s remarks comes one Sunday when we are having brunch in Rye with Ben’s mother, Lucinda, his two sisters, Rebecca and Megan, and their husbands and children. As we finish eating and move into the family room of the home Ben grew up in, I am thinking what I always think when we get together with his family: could our families—and specifically our mothers—be more different? My family is volatile; Ben’s family is placid. My mother is unmaternal and quirky; Ben’s mother is nurturing and vanilla. I watch Lucinda now, sipping her tea from a china cup, and think to myself that she is a complete throwback to the fifties, the kind of mother who had homemade cookies waiting when the kids came home from school. She lived for her children—so much so that Ben once pointed to that as a possible cause for his parents’ divorce. It was a classic case of empty nesters realizing that they had nothing holding them together but the kids.

  So, as it often happens, Ben’s father found a new life with a much younger woman while Lucinda continues to live for her children—and now grandchildren (Ben’s sisters each have two daughters). Ben is her clear favorite, though, perhaps because he’s the only boy. As such, she is desperate for us to change our minds about having a baby, but way too polite to come right out and criticize our choices. Instead, she is full of seemingly breezy comments on the matter. Like the time when we bought our car, and she slid into the backseat, remarking, “Plenty of room for a car seat back here!”

  I always have the feeling that she is directing her comments at me and that she blames me for our decision. Ben used to say I was paranoid, but now, of course, I’m actually right.

  Rebecca and Megan are both stay-at-home mothers and don’t help matters for me. They show genuine interest in my publishing world, and frequently select my novels for their book clubs, but I know they wish that I would put my career on hold and give their baby brother a baby of his own.

  So although Ben’s family is perfectly pleasant and utterly easy to get along with, I dread spending time with them because they inevitably make me feel defensive. Of course, I feel even more defensive now that Ben and I are no longer a united front. And I have a gnawing feeling that they will sniff the situation out and seek to divide and conquer.

  Sure enough, as the adults talk and watch Ben’s nieces play with their Barbies, Rebecca says something about how nice a boy cousin would be to break things up a little. I make a quick preemptive strike by looking at Megan and saying, “Well, Meg, you’d better get busy!”

  Megan’s husband, Rob, shakes his head and says, “Heck, no! We’re done!” and Megan chimes in with, “Two children is enough. Two is perfect. Besides…I wouldn’t know what to do with a boy!”

  Lucinda smooths her skirt and shoots Ben and me a demure, hopeful look. “So I guess it’s up to you two to have a boy,” she chirps innocently. “Besides, that’s the only way to carry on the family name!”

  I can feel myself tense up as I marvel at how she can care so much about a name that belongs to her ex-husband. But I just say, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a boy, either…Or a girl for that matter!” Then I laugh as if I’ve just made a very clever joke.

  Everyone joins in with a polite chuckle.

  Except Ben, who squeezes my knee and says, “You’d figure it out, Claudia. We would figure it out.”

  The joy in the room is palpable. His family practically applauds, they are made so giddy by this comment from their only brother and son.

  Lucinda leans forward and says, “Do you have something to tell us?”

  Ben smiles and says, “Not yet.”

  I restrain myself until we’re in the car alone, driving home. “Not yet?” I shout. Then I tell him that I’ve never felt so betrayed.

  Ben tells me not to be so dramatic, that it was just a turn of phrase.

  “A turn of phrase?” I say indignantly.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Jeez, Claudia. Chill out, would you?”

  I decide right then that it’s time to talk to one of my loyal triumvirate—either my two older sisters, Daphne and Maura, or my best friend, Jess. After some consideration, I rule out my sisters, at least preliminarily. Although they always have my best interest at heart, I am pretty sure they won’t stand by me on this one.

  Maura’s motivation will have more to do with not wanting me to lose Ben than thinking I should have a baby. She respects my decision not to have a baby. She has three children whom she loves dearly—and whom I love dearly—but I think in some very quiet, introspective moments, she might nearly regret her decision to have them. Or at least have them with Scott. I have often heard her say that the biggest decision a woman can make in life is not who to marry but who should be the father of her children. “You can’t undo it,” she says. “It bonds you for life.” Although the truth is, I think Maura made a bad decision on both fronts. She is a good example of someone caring too much about passion and excitement and surface appeal rather than being with a solid, good, honest man. I call it the “high school girl phenomenon.” Most girls in high school discount the nice, quiet, slightly nerdish boy and instead seek out the flashy, popular jock. If they somehow land the latter, they truly believe themselves to be the luckiest creatures on the planet. They got the big prize. Yet when they return to their twenty-year reunion, they see the error of their ways. The nice, quiet, slightly nerdish boy has bloomed into the perfect husband, wholesome father, and loyal caretaker while the flashy, popular jock is off in the corner playing grabass with Misty, the slutty ex-cheerleader.

  This is, more or less, the Cliff’s Notes version of Maura’s misguided relationship history. She dated a guy named Niles throughout her late twenties, and came very close to marrying him. But when Niles started asking her about rings, she freaked out and decided that he was “too boring and predictable.” She said she couldn’t marry someone who didn’t give her heart palpitations on a daily basis. At the time I was very supportive of her decision. I was all about finding true love and not settling—which is something I still believe in wholeheartedly. But with hindsight, I really think Maura was confusing love with lust—and nice with boring. Niles treated her well and was eager to make a lasting commitment. Thus, she assumed he was somehow unworthy—or at least wholly uninteresting. Frankly, I also think Niles’s looks factored into her decision, although she would never admit it. Maura was attracted to Niles, but he wasn’t the sort of guy who other women took note of in a bar. And Maura wanted hot. Maura wanted to impress. So it wasn’t surprising when her first boyfriend after Niles was tall, gorgeous, life-of-the-party Scott. And although I’m sure there are plenty of tall, gorgeous, life-of-the-party guys who are also true to their wives, I happen to believe that a disproportionate number of them are cheaters.

  In any event, Scott is a cheater, and I think Maura’s views on my relationship will be colored by the fact that she picked wrong. That, in Daphne’s words, she went with “Suave Scott” over “Nice Niles.” To this point, Maura has spent years being envious of my relationship with Ben, a relationship that is pretty ideal on the inside, and thus looks even more perfect from the outside. She is never begrudging of my happiness, but Ben is still a constant reminder of what she could have had—and what she desperately wants me to appreciate and protect. So I am certain that she will tell me that I should have a baby in order to keep Ben. That I should do anything to keep him. And that is something I really don’t want to hear.

  Daphne’s reasons for telling me to stay with Ben will have less to do with my relationship and everything to do with her baby obsession. It is the filter through w
hich she observes the world around her. She and her husband, Tony, have been trying to get pregnant for nearly two years. They tried for a year the old-fashioned way: drink a bottle of wine, hop in the sack, pray for a missed period. After that, they progressed to buying fertility monitors, making ovulation charts, and bickering about peak times in the month. She is now taking Clomid and researching fertility clinics.

  It pains me to watch my sister’s monthly heartbreak, to see the way the struggle has changed her, how she has become increasingly bitter as her friends, one by one, all have babies. She is particularly resentful when other people have an easy time of it, and she went so far as to write off her girlfriend Kelly altogether when Kelly got knocked up on her honeymoon with boy-girl twins. When Maura told Daphne she should be happy for Kelly (which might be true but was certainly an unnecessary comment), my sisters got in a huge argument. Daphne hung up on Maura and promptly phoned me, trying to enlist me to her side. Then as Maura beeped in on my other line, eager to share her version of the spat, Daphne yelled, “Don’t you dare answer call-waiting!” and then frantically argued her point. She insisted that the fallout with Kelly had nothing to do with her blessing of twins, and everything to do with Kelly’s proclamation that she was naming her daughter Stella. “That’s my name,” Daphne must have said ten times. I resisted the urge to crack myself up with a, “No, your name is actually Daphne,” and instead assured my sister that I wasn’t a big fan of alliteration in naming anyway (Daphne’s last name is Sacco). I told her Stella Sacco sounded like a stripper—and that if I received a “Stella Sacco” résumé at work, I would instantly toss it aside and never even see that she was a Fulbright scholar. A long conversation about baby naming ensued, a topic I find to be ridiculous and tiresome unless you have a nine-month deadline in the works. Discussing baby names when you’re not even pregnant is almost as ridiculous as laying claim to a name. Of course, I shared these observations with Maura when I finally called her back, but told her that we should nonetheless try to support Daphne. I am very accustomed to brokering a delicate peace between my sisters, although they might say the same. Perhaps that’s just the natural dynamic of three sisters. We are all very close, but we are frequently two against one and the alliances constantly form and re-form.

  So, anyway, the mere thought that my sisters might side with Ben, and try to talk me into having a baby, is just too much to bear. I need an unconditional, unwavering supporter. Someone who will put aside her own bias. That’s where my best friend, Jess, always comes in.

  Jess and I met our freshman year at Princeton when we bonded in our distaste for our respective roommates, both strident theater majors named Tracy. One night right before Thanksgiving break, Jess plied the Tracys with vodka and cranberry juice and talked them into a roommate swap. She was so effective that she made the Tracys think it was their idea. My Tracy even wrote me a note of apology—in calligraphy. The next day Jess schlepped her clothing, books, and comforter across the hall in plastic crates and garbage bags, and we ended up living together for the next fourteen years (nearly as long as we lived at home), throughout college and then into our first crummy Manhattan apartment on Ninety-second and York.

  We upgraded several times over the years, until we nabbed our spacious, sunny loft on Park Avenue South that, due to Jess’s kitschy style, drew many comparisons to the apartment on Friends. We each had a few boyfriends along the way, but none that we considered ditching the other for.

  Until Ben came along.

  Jess and I were both teary the day I moved in with Ben, and then joked that our separation felt like a divorce. We continued to talk every day, sometimes several times a day, but there was a definite change in our friendship. In part, it was just that we saw each other less. We no longer had those late-night and early-morning chats that can’t really be duplicated over the phone. In part, it was an inevitable shift of loyalty. Ben became the person I talked to the most, the one I turned to first in crisis or celebration. I’ve seen married women put their girlfriends over their husbands, and although I admire this brand of female fidelity, I also believe that it can be a dangerous dynamic. Certain things should stay sacred in a marriage. Jess and I never discussed the changes in our relationship, but I could tell she understood. I think she also pulled back a little herself, out of respect for my relationship and perhaps as a point of pride. She cultivated a new circle of friends—all single women in their thirties, all searching for love.

  There are times when I have a nostalgic pang when Jess is meeting the girls out for sangria in the Village—or doing all the things we used to do together. But for the most part, I do not envy her position. We turn thirty-five this year, and I can tell the benchmark birthday stresses her out. She’s not desperate to marry, but she does want children someday. And she’s all too aware that her eggs have a sell-by date (her words, not mine).

  Which makes it all the more frustrating when I watch my best friend repeatedly star in what would make the perfect Jackie Collins novel. She consistently gravitates to unavailable types—shameless players, married men, or West Coasters who refuse to even consider living in Manhattan. In fact, she is currently embroiled in a two-year relationship with a guy named Trey, who is all of the above. I know, it’s tough to be a shameless married player, but Trey accomplishes the feat with great flourish. In Jess’s defense, Trey didn’t tell her he was married until after she developed feelings for him, but she’s had at least a year to digest the news and move on.

  Bottom line, Jess has abhorrent taste in men and always has. Even in college she’d go for the frat boy with attitude, the kind of guy you can totally see being brought before honor council on date rape charges. It’s odd, because in all other facets of her life, Jess is completely in control. She is confident, funny, and the smartest woman I know. She graduated summa cum laude from Princeton without studying much at all and then got her M.B.A. at Columbia. Now she’s an investment banker with Lehman Brothers, kicking ass in a male-dominated world and making money I thought only professional athletes and movie stars could make. On top of this, she looks like a model. With short, blond hair and a tall, willowy build, she is more runway model than underwear model, which my sister Maura highlights as Jess’s problem. “Men don’t like the runway look,” she says. “Women do.” (Maura has a whole collection of superficial relationship theories. Some of her gems: the more attractive one in a couple always has the power; women should marry men at least seven years older than they to close the aging gap; short, bald men had better be well endowed.)

  In any event, I decide it’s time to confide in Jess.

  So the next day we meet for lunch at a deli halfway between our respective offices. We order sandwiches at the counter, then pick up bags of Baked Lay’s and bottles of Evian and sit at an open table by a window. There are five construction workers sitting behind us, and after one gets up to go, Jess remarks that he has “the perfect ass.” She reminds me of a guy in her unabashed commentary on body parts of the opposite sex. I check out his Levi’s-clad backside, agree with her that it is a mighty nice one, and then tentatively launch into my dilemma.

  Jess listens intently, her expression sympathetic. It has been a long time since I have needed any real relationship counseling from her. I can tell she welcomes the distraction from Trey’s latest angst-causing stunt as she says in her Alabama accent she has not shed despite years in the Northeast, “You and Ben will work this out. Do not panic.”

  “I’m not panicking yet,” I say. “Well…maybe I am just a little bit…After all, having kids isn’t really something you can compromise on, you know?”

  Jess nods and recrosses her long legs. “Good point.”

  “So I’m hoping it’s just a phase,” I say.

  Jess lifts the bun of her chicken salad sandwich and tucks a few chips inside. “I’m sure it’s just a phase,” she says. “A little something he’s going through.”

  “Yeah,” I say, staring at my turkey sandwich. I haven’t had much of an app
etite since our return from the Caribbean.

  “Remember his guitar?” she asks, rolling her eyes. Jess loves to make fun of Ben, and he does the same to her, which I only take as a sign of their fondness for each other. She laughs and says, “Ol’ Benny Van Halen was hot to trot for a few months, wasn’t he?”

  I laugh, recalling the day that Ben and I wandered past a little shop in the Village called the Guitar Salon. It was tucked inside a charming brownstone, all lit up and inviting on a rainy day. So we went inside and looked around, and after a few minutes, Ben decided that he just had to own a vintage guitar. It was literally the first time he had shown the slightest interest in any musical instrument, but by this time, I was used to Ben’s sudden interest in a wide range of topics. Ben is one of those people who manages to be an enthusiast for many, many things—astronomy, films, collecting old watches, you name it. So I watched him fondly and waited patiently as he asked the owner a slew of questions. Then he took his time sampling guitars, running his fingers over the strings and even attempting to play. An hour later, he was spending a small fortune on a 1956 Spanish guitar made of spruce rosewood, along with a package of lessons taught by someone of moderate fame in the New York classical guitar world.

  For months, Ben practiced with an endearing fervor, quickly mastering the basics and acquiring impressive calluses. On my birthday he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You”—a song that, I sheepishly confess, makes me melt, especially because I’ve always maintained that Ben looks a little bit like a young, sandy-haired version of Elvis.

  But a short time later, Ben lost interest in his new hobby and retired his guitar to a dusty corner under our bed. Recently, he posted it for sale on eBay. Jess reassures me now that his current fixation on fatherhood will be just as short-lived.

  “Only problem is,” I say, “Ben actually owned a guitar before abandoning the idea of becoming an accomplished musician.”