Baby Proof

by Emily Giffin

  “How cozy?” I say.

  “Daphne would call it canoodling,” she says. Maura and I always tease Daphne for her celebrity-magazine jargon.

  “Hmm,” I say. “So what happened next?”

  She tells me that Lorenz followed them onto the elevator at the hotel, taping the following furtive whispers behind him:

  “Can you please stay overnight?”

  (Inaudible)

  “Why?”

  “I can’t, babe (inaudible)…I have a few hours.”

  “That’s not long enough.”

  “Let’s make the best of it.”

  Lorenz then trailed them to their room and listened at the door for a few minutes. The following morning he returned, slipped a maid fifty bucks to let him into the room. He took photos of two empty champagne bottles, a plate of half-eaten strawberries (so trite), and stuffed the sheets from the bed into his duffel bag.

  “Why did he take the sheets?” I say.

  “Semen samples. Classy, huh?”

  I digest the sordid details and then say, “Who was she? Do you know?”

  “I have no idea,” she says. “But when I first saw the tape I thought it was Jane.”

  “Your best friend Jane?” I say, horrified.

  “Yeah. But it turned out, it was just her body and hair double. I mean, this girl could be Jane’s lost, slutty twin. And I’ve always suspected Scott of having a thing for Jane. So when I saw this video my heart literally stopped and I’m thinking to myself, Oh, my God, I am so going to kill Scott, and then Jane, and then myself. And the only thing that pulled me out of the moment was my next thought, one that made me almost smile. I thought to myself, Daphne is going to get three kids out of this deal.”

  “Wait,” I say, as innocently and nonchalantly as possible. “Daphne gets the kids if you and Scott both die?”

  Apparently I’m not subtle enough for Maura, who says ever so defensively, “Well, she’s married, Claudia…And she wants kids.”

  “Oh, yeah. I understand,” I say, but just as I did on the day of Raymond Jr.’s baptism, I have a twinge of envy and small stab of indignation. I hope that at the very least, I am the backup should Daphne die, too. I decide this probably isn’t the right time to delve into guardianship matters. Instead I drop the subject and say, “So it wasn’t Jane?”

  “No. It wasn’t Jane. And I know Jane would never do that. But stranger things have happened…I think the only people I fully trust in this world are you and Daphne. But I guess I’m lucky to have two, huh?”

  A scene from Hannah and Her Sisters flashes into my head, which is one of the most disturbing movies I’ve ever seen for that very reason. I simply can’t fathom Daphne or Maura betraying me in such a way. Or Jess for that matter. But to Maura’s point, the list is short.

  Maura continues, “So I think that whole initial shock of thinking Scott was with Jane worked in my favor. I mean, I was so unbelievably relieved when I saw that girl’s face and realized it wasn’t Jane after all. It was almost like a small battle victory in the middle of a war you’re losing badly…Besides, in a sense, there’s no new information here. We already knew Scott was a disloyal asshole. So I’m just dealing with gradations of that right now. He’s a slightly grander and more consistent asshole than I previously thought.” She laughs.

  I smile, impressed at my sister’s ability to keep her sense of humor.

  “Have you confronted him?” I say. “Does he know you know?”

  “No…And let me tell you, it’s really something watching him act all innocent around the house, like Joe Good Husband.” She imitates him: “‘Say, Maura, want me to whip up some blueberry pancakes?’”

  “Disgusting,” I say, knowing that no matter what happens to my sister’s marriage, I can no longer keep up the pretense of liking Scott.

  “Yeah. It really is. But a small part of me also takes perverse pleasure in having the goods on him. It’s like I got the last laugh, you know? It’s like, ‘Who’s the fool now?’”

  “So, what next?” I say.

  “I haven’t decided on strategy. I don’t want to act impulsively. What do you think of giving him a chance to come clean and confess?”

  “You mean, tell him that you suspect that something is going on and see if he fesses up?” I say.

  “Yeah. Something like that. You know, without telling him I have proof.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I say. “And if he confesses?”

  She exhales into the phone and says, “I don’t know. More counseling, I guess. Maybe we could apply to be on Dr. Phil.”

  I laugh. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

  She says, “No! I can’t fathom why people would expose themselves like that. I mean, the worst part about this is probably the humiliation.”

  I think to myself that if the humiliation is the worst part about this then she really doesn’t love Scott anymore. I ask her if she does.

  “Oh, shit, I don’t know,” she says. “I’m so far beyond that analysis. I mean, I guess I love the man I thought he was. Or the man he used to be. And occasionally, I still have a faint glimmer of love for him when I see him with the kids. He’s a great father, if you can be a great father when you’re doing this to your family…”

  She pauses as I think of our mother. Maura is likely thinking of her, too. I can’t believe my sister has to go through all of this again.

  She continues, “But no, I don’t love him anymore in the way you’re asking about. I don’t love a man who can make my life feel so seedy when I’ve done nothing wrong.” Her voice cracks for the first time, so I try to ward off her tears by speaking crisply, as a mother does to her child who has just fallen down and is considering whether to cry. “Okay. So what if he denies everything?”

  My strategy works because Maura’s voice sounds strong again when she says, “I don’t know. But I’m thinking I’ll just pack up the kids and get the show on the road.”

  “You should tell him to leave. And with that video, you’d totally get the house.”

  “I don’t know if I even want the house,” Maura says. “Our life in that house is a joke.”

  We sit in silence for a long stretch until Maura says, “So Daphne told me about the egg donor stuff. And about Ben.”

  I have a split second of discomfort, wondering if Maura cares that Daphne and I confided in each other first. I wonder how old my sisters and I will be before we no longer compete at all in our circle of three. Then I say, “Yeah. It was hard to tell her no, but I had to.”

  “Because you want Ben back?”

  “Among other reasons…But to be honest, that was the main issue…I think I made a mistake. I really miss him.”

  “Yeah,” Maura says. “I’m not surprised. I thought you might change your mind.”

  Maura’s I told you so is subtle but annoying. It occurs to me that I could do the same to her. I could tell her that I had my suspicions about Scott from the very beginning. That I thought he was way too charming and smooth to be believable. I think of their engagement when Scott hired an airplane to fly with the WILL YOU MARRY ME, MAURA? banner along the coast in East Hampton. I remember telling Jess that I didn’t trust any man who turned a proposal—what should be a private, intimate expression of love—into something so public. I considered telling Maura the same—expressing my worries that she was marrying a shameless show-off, the sort of man who thrives on the chase, the hunt. But I don’t think it would have changed anything. And what would be the point of telling her all of this now? Maura must know in her heart that she made a mistake marrying Scott. Just like I know that I made a mistake leaving Ben. So I say, “Yeah. I guess sometimes you have to find these things out for yourself…”

  “Are you going to tell him how you feel?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “As soon as I can work up the nerve.”

  Maura sighs and says, “Isn’t it strange that a baby was the only thing keeping you and Ben apart? And the kids seem to be the only thing keeping Scott
and me together?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I should have had a baby for the right guy.”

  “And I had babies with the wrong guy,” she says, confirming my theory that women are always, at least subconsciously, aware of their big life mistakes. Sometimes it’s just not worth looking too closely. Unless those mistakes can still be fixed.

  “Well,” I say, wondering if it’s too late for my sister and me. “Aren’t we just the pretty pair?”

  “We sure are,” Maura says with a fragile laugh. “We sure are.”

  Twenty-Six

  Another two weeks pass as I agonize over how to get in touch with Ben. Should I drop in on him unannounced? Should I call his apartment? His cell? Office? Should I send an e-mail? Mail him a haiku?

  Break up with Tucker

  She is not the one for you!

  I’ll have your baby

  Of course the haiku is a joke, but the point is, I’m actually writing them in my head, drafting e-mail messages on the back of takeout menus, and practicing heartfelt monologues in the shower. Yet the more I think about my next move, the more indecisive I become. I also grow increasingly paranoid that, in Jess’s words, Tucker and Ben’s relationship could be “rapidly solidifying.” She should know, I think, as I watch her fall in love with Michael. It’s almost a visible process—like watching a flower unfold its petals on time-lapse photography. I’ve seen Jess smitten many times before, but for the first time, her emotional intensity is not accompanied by drama and angst. There are no text-message battles. No storming out of bars. No cheating. No jealous rages over ex-boyfriends. Instead, everything between them seems normal and healthy and miraculously two-sided, which is confirmed every time Michael stops by my office. He appears even happier than usual—and the conversation always works its way back to Jess. He asks me open-ended, endearing questions about her—things like, “What was she like in college?” He wants all the details and background you hunger for when you’re smitten with someone.

  Of course, I’m delighted with their romance as I get to spend time with two of my best friends at once. It’s efficient and comfortable and satisfying.

  One rainy Sunday in November, the three of us are lounging in the living room in our sweats, reading the paper, when Jess looks up at me and says, “You know, Claudia, you really need to call Ben before Thanksgiving.”

  “Why?” I say.

  She says, “Because. Thanksgiving is one of those crossroads holidays. You don’t want them taking that step together.”

  “What step?” I say.

  “Spending the holidays together…If that’s the direction they’re headed in, you have to get in there and bust things up.”

  Michael lowers the Business Section and winks at me. “Yeah. She’s right, Claudia. Going home with someone for Thanksgiving is a major step. It’s exponentially more significant than merely meeting one’s parents.”

  As I watch them exchange an adoring glance, I realize that a Thanksgiving invitation has not only been issued, but accepted. I look at Jess, surprised. She has not mentioned a single thing to me about her holiday plans. It occurs to me that, for the first time, she isn’t discussing every small aspect of her relationship with me. There are no strategy sessions, no speculation about what Michael is thinking, no analysis about what something he’s done (or hasn’t done) means (or doesn’t mean). Maybe it’s because she’s never dated a friend of mine before, and she doesn’t want to put me in an awkward position. But more likely it’s because she’s finally in the kind of sincere relationship where you follow your own gut about things rather than polling your friends at every turn.

  “Wait,” I say with feigned bewilderment. “Are you guys spending Thanksgiving together? In Birmingham?”

  Jess glows and her voice turns creamy. “Yes. Michael’s coming home with me.”

  I look at Michael and say, “Oh, really? Mighty big step for the likes of you.”

  He says, “Tell me about it. I’m risking my life going down there.”

  Jess rolls her eyes and says, “Would you stop saying that!” She turns to me. “He acts like he’s going back in time to the nineteen fifties when he crosses the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  Michael laughs. “I just don’t want to get lynched when I show up with a blonde.”

  Jess frowns. She is very proud of her Southern roots, even though she has no desire to live in Alabama again. “Are you about through?” she says to him.

  Michael takes her hand. “Sorry, babe…You know I can’t wait to meet your family and see your old stomping grounds.”

  Jess looks fully appeased. Michael leans over and kisses her. Both of their mouths open slightly as if I’m not in the room. I look down at my paper, picturing Ben doing the same thing to Tucker. Jess and Michael are right, I think. I have to get to Ben before the holidays.

  The next morning, I arrive at work determined to contact Ben before the end of the day. I decide that e-mail works best given our last contentious phone conversation. I spend the next half hour at my desk, drafting my salutation. I change Dear Ben to Hello Ben to Hi Ben to just plain Ben. I type a colon, then backspace and replace it with a comma and then opt for my personal favorite—the no-nonsense dash. Incidentally, the semicolon is one of my favorite punctuation marks, too, which Ben once pointed out to me during one of our early e-mail exchanges. He wrote something like, “Think you have enough semicolons in there? You sure love that little guy.” I wrote back, “I do love the semicolon; I love you, too.” It was the first time I had written the words out to him. So perhaps a carefully placed semicolon will soften him, remind him how we once were. As I contemplate sentence two, my phone rings. It is Maura. I answer, grateful for the interruption.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “He denied it,” she says.

  “Did he really?” I say. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Why would a born and accomplished liar suddenly buck up and tell the truth?

  “Yeah,” Maura says wearily. “And he did so strenuously…and with such detail. He was so good that I almost started to believe him. Which is crazy considering that I’ve seen the tape and heard the audio. I mean, he’s scary good.”

  I say, “Did you tell him you have proof?”

  “Not yet,” she says. “But I’m going to confront him this weekend. I’m going to tell him that I want a divorce…That I’m tired of living a lie. I can’t stay with him just for the kids…Besides, I don’t even think it’s good for them to grow up like this. Kids can always sense when something’s wrong. We did.”

  “I know,” I say, remembering how wistful I felt after sleepovers with friends who had parents who seemed to truly love each other. I could usually convince myself that my family was fine until I had evidence of what happy really looked like.

  She continues, “I mean, I really don’t think I have a choice here…I think I have to just put my head down and get through this.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maura. I wish I could change things for you.”

  “I know,” she says. “Thanks.”

  “Do you want the name of my attorney? She’s a shark,” I say. “She’ll get you whatever you want.”

  “I’m hoping that we can avoid that whole scene. I want to use our family attorney as a mediator—as long as Scott is reasonable. I’m going to tell him that I want to sell the house and split everything. And, of course, I want custody of the kids…That could be the biggest sticking point.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” I say, feeling a wave of intense grief as I think of those three kids being shuttled back and forth between two houses. Of Maura saying good-bye to her children on Christmas morning when they leave to open presents at their daddy’s. I wonder if there is even a small possibility that Scott could still change. If Maura could, somehow, give him one more chance. Or perhaps I’m just thinking of my own haste in getting a divorce and how much self-righteous anger played a part in my quick decision. Was I too concerned with being right and punishing Ben for re
neging on our deal? Is Maura doing the same thing now? I clear my throat and gently say, “Do you think this is a little quick? Have you really thought this through?”

  “It’s been a long time coming, Claudia,” Maura says. “Enough is enough.”

  “What are you going to tell the kids?” I say.

  “I don’t know yet,” she says. “The boys are too young. I guess that’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking that they will likely have few, if any, memories of their parents together.

  “So. Daphne’s going to take the boys on Friday night, and I was hoping you could take Zoe for the weekend?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  We are both quiet for a moment. Then she clears her throat and says briskly, “So this is it. T-minus-five days as Mr. and Mrs. Stepford.”

  There is something about Maura’s situation that makes me feel even more desperate to talk to Ben. So as soon as I hang up with my sister, I bang out the rest of the e-mail. I write:

  Ben—

  Hope you’re well. I’m sorry for how our last conversation ended; I hate fighting with you. I was wondering if we could get together sometime soon? I have something I want to talk to you about. Let me know…

  Claudia

  I take a deep breath and hit send before I can change my mind. Then I put my head in my hands and pray Ben puts me out of my misery soon. Ten minutes pass and nothing comes. I go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee, remembering what I always used to tell Jess. “A watched phone doesn’t ring.” I return to an empty in-box. A moment later, my e-mail notifier dings. But the message is not from Ben. Nor is the next or the next. I turn my volume down on my computer and position my chair away from my screen. I allow myself only one check per half hour. Still nothing.