Baby Proof

by Emily Giffin

  And now, as I watch Ben slip away from me, I have the nagging feeling that I will someday look back at this fork in the road and point to it as the biggest mistake of my life.

  So given my fragile state, I am very nervous about being around my outspoken family. I tell them nothing and put off seeing them for several weeks, until the day of my niece Zoe’s sixth-birthday party when I can put it off no longer.

  That morning, I take the train to Maura’s house in Bronxville, staring out the window at scenery I have come to know by heart. I only let myself listen to the upbeat songs on my iPod, skipping over any faintly melancholy ones on my playlist as a precautionary measure. The worst thing I could do is show up at Maura’s with any trace of sadness on my face. I have to be tough, I think, as I ponder my strategy for breaking the bad news.

  By the time I pull into the station, I have decided that I will tell my family of my pending divorce after the guests have departed, and Zoe has gone to play with her new toys. It would probably be less dramatic to give everyone the news individually over the phone, but this way, I’ll only have to say it one time. I’ll hold one press conference and field one set of questions. When I can stand it no more, I’ll thank my family and make my exit. Just like an athlete after a painful loss. Yes, I’m disappointed. I feel bad for letting my team down and missing that easy layup in the second OT. But I did the best I could. And I gotta move on…

  My dad, who still lives in Huntington in the house we grew up in, drove to my sister’s earlier this morning and picks me up at the train station now. Before I close the car door, he starts in on my mother. “That woman is so impossible,” he announces. My father is usually very positive, but my mother brings out the worst in him. And apparently, he never got the divorced-parent memo that explains that it’s not healthy for a child (even an adult child) to hear one parent tear the other down.

  “So what did Vera do this time?” I ask.

  “She made one of her trademark snide remarks about my trousers,” he says.

  I smile at my dad’s old-fashioned term. “What’s wrong with your pants?”

  “Ex-actly! There’s nothing wrong with them, is there?”

  “Not at all,” I say, but upon closer inspection I can see that he has paired cuffed suit pants with a collared golf shirt. It is the sort of offense my mother can’t tolerate. Still, I have to wonder why she still takes his fashion faux pas so personally. What’s it to her? I always think.

  “Is Dwight with her?” I ask.

  “No. He had an early golf game,” my dad says, flicking on his turn signal. “I’m sure he’ll make a grand entrance later, though.”

  “They have that in common,” I say.

  “Yeah. She’s been prancing around all morning,” he says. I picture my mother, head thrown back, perky nose in the air, just like a proud circus pony.

  “Yeah. Everything is about her,” I say.

  My mother aims to be conspicuous at all times. She is sure to be overdressed, will likely give Zoe the largest and most expensive present, and will have a crowd of admirers around her at all times. That is one thing that has not changed since my sisters and I were young—our friends adore our mother. They call her things like “zany” and “a hoot” and “one of the girls.” But deep down, I think they are all glad that she’s somebody else’s mother.

  “Don’t let her get to you, Dad,” I say.

  My dad smiles as if mentally shifting gears. Then he says, “So where’s Ben?”

  I knew the question was coming, but I still feel a sharp pain in my side hearing his name. I take a deep breath and muster a breezy tone. “He had to work.”

  “Not like Ben to miss a family party.”

  “Yeah. He’s quite the family man,” I say. I am being sarcastic, but it occurs to me that this much is actually true—he is quite the family man.

  A minute later we pull into my sister’s horseshoe-shaped driveway as I survey her four-million-dollar mansion (Maura insists that her house is not a mansion, but I consider any home with more than six bedrooms a mansion, and her house has seven) with my usual mix of admiration and disdain. I’m disapproving not because of the sheer magnitude of their riches—because that is all relative. Rather, I dislike how Scott earned his money—not from hard work or brains, but by being at the right place at the right time. He was working as the CFO of a small software start-up that was purchased for a ridiculous amount of money during the technology bubble. He has so much money, in fact, that I’ve heard him refer to guys with smaller fortunes as “nickel millionaires.”

  If he were good to my sister, all of this would be great, and I would applaud his good luck. But Scott is a cad (to use one of my father’s expressions) and their home is a constant reminder to me of the daily trade-off Maura makes: nice things, philandering husband. I often wonder whether my sister would leave if she didn’t have children with Scott. She says she would. I’m not so sure she shouldn’t anyway.

  My dad parks behind a large white van marked ENDIVE CATERING. Maura spares no expense for her parties; even the ones for her children are extravagant affairs, so I’m not surprised as I walk through the front door and witness the sort of bustling last-minute preparations that would suggest a wedding reception, rather than a child’s birthday party.

  “Hello! Hello!” Maura says, giving me a quick, distracted hug before returning her attention to a gigantic vase of exotic flowers surrounded by elaborate party-favor bags. I can tell she is nervous, the way she always gets before any social function. A typical firstborn, Maura is a perfectionist in all that she does, and I always find myself thinking how exhausting it must be to be her. I can be anal, too—when it comes to my work—but Maura is that way about everything. Her house, her yard, her kids, her appearance. It is actually a good thing she quit her high-powered HR job when she had kids, because I can’t imagine how burdened she’d be if she had to include a career in her quest for perfection.

  She frowns, tilts her head to the side, and says, “Do these flowers look okay here? Is the scale…off?”

  I tell her they are beautiful. Maura’s home is beautiful, although there is nothing relaxed or comfortable about it. Instead it is a bit contrived in its eclectic perfection, bearing the heavy mark of an upscale designer who has painstakingly achieved a predictably sophisticated blend of old and new, modern and traditional. Maura’s predominant color scheme is warm—yellow walls, cherry upholstery, tangerine abstract art—and yet something about her house still reminds me of a showroom. You would never guess that three children, six and under, reside there, despite the oil paintings in their likeness and photographs covering her baby grand piano. My sister is proud of her home’s sophisticated, sleek feel. In fact, she points it out often, as if to say to me, You don’t have to be swallowed up by clutter and crumbs just because you have children.

  She has a valid point, but as Ben used to say, one can accomplish pretty much anything with her fleet of employees, including a nanny, a gardener, a pool guy, a personal assistant, and a live-in housekeeper. I’ve watched her delegating tasks to her staff, in her designer sarongs and Juicy Couture sweats, Venti Starbucks in hand, and thought to myself that although she quit her job, she is still running a small corporation of sorts—and she does a seamless job of it.

  But despite the fact that Maura’s life might seem shallow and indulgent upon first blush, she has a lot of underlying substance. She is an excellent mother. She subscribes to the Jackie O school of mothering, often quoting her idol: “If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do matters very much.” As a result, Maura’s children are sweet, well mannered, and against all odds, relatively unspoiled.

  “Where are the kids?” I ask Maura now, just as Zoe, William, and Patrick come tearing around the corner, hyper and wide-eyed, as if they’ve already consumed too much sugar. With light hair and fair skin, Zoe looks more like me than her own olive-skinned, brown-eyed parents, which I find to be a fascinating case study in genetics. Maura p
honed one day recently to tell me that Zoe took a snapshot of me to the hair salon and told the stylist that she wanted her hair in a wavy bob so that she’d look like her aunt Claudia. I can’t help feeling gratified by the fact that my niece resembles me, and recognize it as the narcissistic urge that compels many to have children in the first place.

  “Happy birthday, Zoe!” I say, bending down to give her a big hug. She is dressed in full ballet regalia as “blushing ballerinas” is the theme of her party. Her pale pink leotard and lime-green tutu and ballet slippers coordinate, hue for hue, with the pink and green balloons tied to the banister and the three-tiered cake surrounded by yards of tulle. “I can’t believe you’re six!”

  I think about the fact that Ben and I went on our first date the week after Zoe turned two. I wonder how long I will measure time in terms of Ben.

  “Thank you, Aunt Claudia!” Zoe says in her low, throaty voice that seems so funny on a little girl. She slides her feet from second position into third. “The gift table is in the family room! In case you remembered to bring one?”

  “I just might have,” I say, opening my tote bag and giving her a glimpse of her wrapped present.

  William and Patrick, ages three and two, both thrust matching gadgets into the air. “Look what we got!”

  “Cool!” I say, although I haven’t a clue what they’ve just shown me.

  Zoe informs me that her dad bought them the new robots so they wouldn’t be jealous of all her presents. Scott is a good father, although he’s a little too much about bribery and threats. My favorite of his threats was “No Christmas if you don’t stop the whining.” When Ben heard that one, he laughed and asked how exactly Scott planned on going from December twenty-fourth to the twenty-sixth.

  Zoe grins and leads me by the hand into the family room where Daphne and my mother sit knee to knee on the couch, sipping Kir Royales.

  “Where’s Benny?” my mother demands before even saying hello to me. It has always set my teeth on edge when she calls him Benny. I hate it even more now that we’re not together.

  I can feel myself stiffen as I sit on an armchair across from them and say, “He can’t make it today.”

  “Why not?” my mother asks.

  “He had to work.” I smile brightly. “Business is booming.”

  This statement should be a dead giveaway. I don’t use expressions like business is booming.

  “But Benny never works on Saturdays,” my mother says, as if she knows him better than I do. “Is there trouble in paradise?”

  I marvel at my mother’s ability to sniff out any controversy. Her favorite expression is “Where there’s smoke there’s fire” (which, incidentally, is her stated rationale for believing the tabloid press, no matter how outrageous the story).

  “We’re fine,” I say, feeling relieved that I made the decision to wear my wedding ring one final time.

  She looks around fervently, then leans in and whispers, “Don’t even tell me he’s pulled a Scott on you.”

  I shake my head, wondering how she, of all people, would dare cast stones at Scott. Then again, my mother is one of the finest revisionist historians in the world, giving O.J. Simpson a run for his money. O.J. seems to have convinced himself that he didn’t kill anyone, and in my mother’s mind, she never did a thing wrong. At the very least, she has rationalized that my father drove her to cheat—which is absolute nonsense. My father was a better husband than she ever deserved.

  “No, Mother,” I say, thinking how much easier and clear-cut an affair would be. I could never stay with a man who cheated on me. No matter what the circumstances. I am more like most men in this regard. No second chances. It’s not so much about morality, but about my inability to forgive. I’m a champion grudge holder, and I don’t think I could change this about myself even if I wanted to.

  “Don’t you lie to me, Claudia,” she says, enunciating each word for maximum impact. Then she nudges Daphne and asks in a loud voice if she knows something. Daphne shakes her head and takes a sip from her champagne glass.

  “Mother. It’s Zoe’s day,” I say. “Please stop.”

  “Oh, dear God! There is trouble!” she practically shouts. “I know when there’s trouble.”

  My dad mutters something about how fitting that is, on account of her being the cause of most of it.

  My mother narrows her eyes, spins in her chair to face him. “What did you just say, Larry?”

  “Mother,” Maura calls from the powder room where she is doing her last-minute preening. “Please stop whatever it is you’re doing in there!”

  “Unreal. How is it that I’m being blamed for concern for a child?” she says to Daphne, her only potential ally in such situations. Daphne feels the same way about our mother as Maura and I do, but she can’t help sucking up to her. She is vulnerable and sensitive and needs my mother’s love in a way that both angers me and fills me with profound pity. Maura and I long ago walled ourselves off from caring about what my mother does or does not do. For some reason, Daphne can’t do the same.

  “Unreal,” my mother says again, looking wounded.

  “You’re the one who is unreal, Vera,” my dad says from across the room.

  The unfolding scene is so predictable that I have another sharp pang of missing Ben. We often scripted the day ahead of time, placing wagers on who would say what and how long it would take for the words to be uttered.

  My brothers-in-law, Scott and Tony, look up from their task of submerging beers in a large bucket of ice on the back porch and make their way into the living room where they exchange a “we’re in the same boat, pal” glance. They have little in common—Tony is a plaid-shirt-wearing, sports-page-reading guy’s guy and Scott is a cologne-wearing, Wall Street Journal–subscribing slickster—but they have bonded over the years in that in-law way that is common in many families. Always the perfect host, Scott pours an Amstel Light into a chilled glass and hands it to me with a cocktail napkin.

  “Here you go, Claudia,” he says.

  I thank him and take a long swallow.

  “What’s all the commotion about?” Tony asks. He and Daphne have been together since high school. Their long history coupled with his unwavering fidelity has earned him the right to chime in—a right that Scott lacks even in his own house.

  “Ben’s not coming,” my mother informs them. “What do you make of that? Am I the only one who thinks this is suspicious?” She looks around, hand pressed to her cleavage.

  “Mother. I mean it. Not another word,” I say. It is hardly a denial, but any normal person would take the cue and shut up. My mother proves she is anything but normal by glancing up at the ceiling, moving her lips in silent prayer, and rising slowly. “I need a cigarette,” she announces. “Daphne, dear, won’t you join me in the backyard?”

  My sister gives my mother an obsequious nod. Only after she stands and follows my mother does she turn back and give me a slight eye roll. Daphne wants to please everyone. It is her best—and worst—trait.

  The doorbell rings a few seconds later. I glance at my watch and realize that the party is officially under way. I am safe for a few hours. I hear Maura squealing at the door, and the sound of her best friend, Jane, squealing back. Maura and Jane were roommates and sorority sisters at Cornell, and like Jess and I, the two have been inseparable ever since. In fact, Bronxville was their joint decision. After living in Manhattan for years, they researched the New York and Connecticut suburbs exhaustively until they came up with two houses in the same neighborhood. Maura is wealthier than Jane, but Jane is prettier—which makes the friendship fair and balanced. Evidence of this is the conversation I overhear now:

  “Your house looks amazing!” Jane says. “That floral arrangement is to die for!”

  “Your highlights are to die for! Did Kazu do them?”

  “Of course! Who else would I let touch my hair?”

  As the rest of Maura’s friends file in, I think what I always think when I’m in Bronxville. Everyone is ex
actly the same: smug, polished, and if not downright beautiful, they have, at the very least, maximized their genetic lot. And most of them have had at least two forays into the magical and seemingly addictive world of plastic surgery. Having a little work done, they whisper. My sister had her nose tweaked and her boobs lifted after William was born. She is not outright beautiful, but with loads of money and sheer force of will, she comes much closer to the mark than Daphne or I do. Her whole crowd, in fact, is tweezed, tanned, and toned to perfection. Their clothing is magazine-layout perfect, and their style so similar that their collective garments and accessories could easily belong in the same closet or photo shoot. I need not consult a fashion magazine this month—because one look around the room, and I know the latest trends include billowy skirts, bejeweled ballet flats, and chunky turquoise necklaces.

  Their husbands are all dashingly handsome, at least upon first glance. Some have receding hairlines, others have weak jaws or over-bites, but such shortcomings are overshadowed by a patina that comes with having money. A lot of money. They are confident, smooth talkers with full-bodied laughs. They wear Gucci loafers with no socks, pressed khakis, calfskin belts. Their hair is gelled in place, their skin smells of spicy aftershave, and their custom linen shirts are rolled in neat cuffs just high enough to reveal their fancy yet still sporty watches.

  Their conversation is self-congratulatory and ever-predictable. The women talk about their children’s private schools and their upcoming vacations to the Caribbean and Europe. The men discuss their careers, golf games, and investments. There is occasional gossip about neighbors not in attendance—the women are biting; the men disguise it as banter.

  What strikes me the most on this day is that Zoe and her friends seem to be on display as the ultimate accessories, coordinated with their siblings and, in one painful case, their same-gender parent. The girls wear oversized grosgrain bows in their hair and expensive, smocked dresses and have already learned how to flirt outrageously. Their brothers wear monogrammed john-johns and knee socks, and they have already learned to swagger and brag.