by Emily Giffin
“So it’s a done deal?” my father asks.
Daphne nods and says that she and Tony have already sorted out most of the paperwork and paid their fees. Then she says, “It’s crazy…and all happening so fast…We have so much to do in the next few weeks!”
My mother looks worried as she asks what I am thinking but would never have said aloud, “How do you know Amber won’t change her mind and try to get the baby back?”
Daphne’s answer is patient but persuasive, as if she herself once had the same concerns but has now come to see the light. She says, “Actually, Mother, birth parents in open adoptions are less likely to change their minds. They are at greater peace with their decision because they can see for themselves that the baby is happy…And one can argue that in some ways, open adoptions are better for the child, too, because he won’t have to spend a lifetime wondering about his birth mother.”
My mother looks unconvinced. “Will there be any…boundaries?”
Tony says, “This agency is really great, Vera. They help you set up an individualized plan and guidelines for visits, letters, and phone calls. We’re working on those details…But it’s clear that we want the same thing as Amber. She wants to see him a few times a year—not be over here every day or anything like that. She wants to go on and have her own life.”
“Yes, but what will you tell your son?” my mother asks. “Won’t this whole thing…confuse him?”
I am struck by the irony of such an unorthodox mother being so thrown off kilter by an untraditional arrangement. I can tell by Maura’s expression that she is thinking the same thing. But Daphne remains patient. She says, “Think about it, Mother. If an aunt or uncle or grandmother is a part of a child’s life, is he confused?”
“No—” my mother says.
Tony cuts her off. “Well, those people are blood related, too…But there’s no confusion, you know?”
My mother nods.
“Your parents are your parents. Kids know who their parents are…And the whole point of an open adoption is that the birth mother supports that. She chose us. Amber wouldn’t want to ruin her own plan by interfering in our son’s life.”
Daphne finishes by saying, “A child’s birth family is a part of who he is…Whether we knew Amber or not, that would be the case. And we want our son to know her. We think this will be best for everyone…I know it might sound weird in theory, but once you meet Amber, you’ll see that this is right for everyone involved.”
I know what Daphne means about this statement. About how something can feel one way in theory and a very different way when you apply it to your own life and the people who comprise your life. I think of several examples of this phenomenon right here at the table…Maybe in theory my sisters and I—and even my father—should hate my mother, but we don’t. We tolerate, even love her, in spite of herself…Maybe in theory, a woman should leave a man who cheats on her. But in Maura’s case, this might not be the right answer…Maybe in theory I didn’t want children. Maybe I still don’t. But as I watch my sister and Tony gaze at each other, I think of what it would feel like to be back with Ben and expecting a baby. Our baby. And for the very first time in my entire life, I actually almost want one.
Thirty-One
Daphne tries to convince me to spend Thanksgiving night at her house, but I tell her I have too much work to do. The truth is I just want to be alone to continue my pity-fest in solitude. So over the next three days I do just that. I wallow in what if and what could have been and what will never be.
At some point every day, I shower and brush my teeth but that is the extent of my grooming. I order food in—the greasier the better. I drown in wine, opening bottles before dark. I listen to sad songs, or happy ones that remind me of Ben and, therefore, might as well be sad songs. I read old journals. I comb through all of our photo albums and boxes stuffed full of playbills and ticket stubs and casual notes we left on the kitchen counter for each other. Things as simple as: Be back in an hour. Love, Ben. I relive all of our memories, dwelling the longest and hardest on small, intimate, seemingly inconsequential moments. The sort of moments I thought Ben and I would never run out of.
I don’t answer the phone and don’t leave the apartment at all until Sunday afternoon. The local news and the view outside my window let me know that it’s chilly and damp, but I still forgo gloves or a scarf or a hat, wearing only a sherpa-lined jean jacket. As the heavy, prewar apartment door swings behind me, I inhale the cold. It hurts and feels good at once. I have no destination in mind so I just wander the virtually empty city streets until I find myself on a bench in Washington Square Park. At a nearby table, two old men play chess. They look like brothers, but perhaps I just think all old men look alike. In any event, they are the mirror image of each other, both with the same thick, mottled hands, drab-brown messenger caps, and black orthopedic shoes pointing out and away from their folding chairs. I know only the basics of chess—how each piece is allowed to move—but I pretend to contemplate their strategy. I frown and nod as if to say, “Ahh. Nice one. You’ve got him now!” They ignore their audience of one, which makes me feel as invisible as air and even more desolate. An hour seems to pass before one man finally chalks up a silent victory, not even uttering the word checkmate.
I stand and walk home in the windy dark, and all I can think of is Ben and Tucker, laughing together somewhere warm and bright, basking in their engagement.
That night I pick up the phone to call Ben and cancel our lunch. I have prepared my “something came up at work” excuse. Maybe I will even use one of Jess’s banker expressions: gotta put out a fire. I remember Ben once teasing Jess, saying, “That’s insulting to the good men and women of fire departments everywhere.” And then, “Don’t be dissin’ Charlie like that,” referring to my high school boyfriend.
In mid-dial, though, I hang up, deciding to wait until the morning to make my final call. I can’t risk that he is with Tucker tonight. The thought of her hovering in the background—sitting close enough to Ben to hear my voice on the line—is just too much to bear. It would add insult to injury—if you can call what I am experiencing a mere injury.
A few aimless hours later, I am in bed, trying to sleep. Just as I am drifting off, I hear Jess and Michael return from their trip, laughing the hearty laugh of new lovers. They are still in the blissful early stage of a relationship when clever, inside jokes abound. I put a pillow over my head and tell myself that Tucker can’t possibly be funny on top of everything else. Life’s not equitable, but I have found that God does his best to divvy up humor and good hair. This must be my final conscious thought because I wake up remembering a dream about Tucker. In it, I re-Google her and discover that she is doing a Saturday night stand-up gig in the Village. According to the online four-star reviews, her shtick includes uproarious one-liners about motherhood and good-natured barbs directed at her doting husband.
It is still completely dark outside so I expect it to be two or three, but I look at the clock and see that it is five on the nose. If it were four-something, I’d stay in bed, but five is late enough to surrender to the day.
I get up and take a long, hot shower. Then I get dressed as if I weren’t going to cancel my lunch with Ben. I liken it to shaving your legs before a first date even though you know that pants removal is not on the agenda. After all, what if I can’t reach Ben on the phone? I can’t very well stand him up. Or what if the very small part of me that wants to see Ben, no matter what the circumstances, wins out over all reason?
So I put on my nicest suit and highest heels. I give myself an impeccable blowout, and apply my makeup with great care. I put on red lipstick because red lipstick always makes you feel more confident. As a finishing touch, I slide Richard’s ring on my left hand. I know I look pretty—which Michael and Jess’s expressions confirm when I step out of my room.
“Damn, girl,” Michael says as he glances up from his bowl of Raisin Bran. “Lookin’ good.”
Jess hugs me and says, �
�Yeah. At least you’re going out strong.”
Her comment is not lost on me. Despite her big talk of trying to bust up Ben’s engagement, even she seems to be throwing in the towel. I wonder what changed over Thanksgiving. Maybe it was spending that time together with Michael and imagining Ben doing the same thing with Tucker’s family.
“Thanks, Jess,” I say.
She gives me a wistful look and says, “Be strong.”
Michael nods and echoes her instruction. They are in accord on every front. I wonder if, over time, they will even start to look alike. It would be quite a feat for a biracial couple, but I’m not putting anything past these two.
I head into work and tell myself that I will call Ben around ten. But as it turns out, my morning is crazy, and I really am putting out fires. So by eleven, I’ve yet to call him. I recognize that calling to cancel inside an hour is bad form—and that I need to be a big girl and a good sport. I need to show up on time and look him in the eye and congratulate him on his engagement. It is the right thing to do.
So forty-five minutes later, I am cabbing it to Pete’s Tavern on Irving and Eighteenth, practicing what I will say: Congratulations on your engagement, Ben. I am happy for you and Tucker and wish you the best. But when I walk in the pub, already decorated for the holidays with white branches, red lights, and Santas galore, I see Ben reading a newspaper, and all of those rehearsed lines fly from my mind.
We are early enough to beat the worst of the lunch crowd, so Ben was able to secure the most famous booth in New York, the one where O. Henry supposedly wrote “The Gift of the Magi.” As I walk the few steps over to my ex-husband, I am reminded of the line from O. Henry’s story about life consisting of “sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.” He sure was right about that.
Ben looks up from his paper and we make eye contact, both of us nodding politely. He folds his paper and pushes it aside as I take off my jacket and will myself to sit and say hello. My hands are shaky, and my voice does not sound like my own.
“Hello,” Ben says, in a tone I can’t pinpoint. He sounds happy and sad at once. He looks changed—yet utterly the same. His hair is a bit longer than I’ve ever seen it—but purposely longer—not in-need-of-a-haircut longer. I don’t want to like his new look, but I do. He is wearing his hunter-green hooded sweatshirt, one that predated even me. I can conjure the feel of the soft-brushed cotton and have the strongest urge to reach out and touch his sleeve. It suddenly occurs to me that he didn’t come from work—Ben’s wardrobe is casual, but not this casual. He is drinking coffee, and his cup is already half empty. So I say, “How long have you been here?”
“Awhile,” Ben says.
“We did say noon, right?” I say.
“We did. Yes.”
“Did you come from work?”
“No,” Ben says. “No work today.”
I start to say that we could have met somewhere else, so that he didn’t have to travel all the way from the Upper West Side, but I stop myself when I realize that Tucker might live in this Gramercy neighborhood. Instead I nod and say, “Just taking the day off?”
“Yeah,” he says as he unzips his sweatshirt a few inches, low enough to reveal an ancient REM concert T-shirt. I know that he bought it the night he almost caught Michael Stipe’s harmonica. I also know that there is a hole in the left sleeve, one that I used to poke my finger through.
Our waitress arrives a moment later and asks if we’re ready to order. We tell her we are—although I haven’t begun to think of food. Ben orders the smoked turkey breast sandwich.
“I’ll have the same,” I say because it requires less effort than anything else.
“Something to drink?” she asks.
“A Coke, please,” I say, although the last thing I should have right now is caffeine.
She nods, takes our menus, and briskly walks away as I think, Now what?
Ben fills the silence and says, “Look. I know why you wanted to see me today, Claudia.”
“You do?” I say, thinking that I’m not even sure why I wanted to see him today. To congratulate him on his engagement? Or to talk him out of his engagement? I look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll just say it for me.
“Yeah,” he says, running his hand through his hair as he looks down at the table. “And I think it’s really big of you.”
“You do?” I say, realizing that it’s the former. That he thinks I came here today to give him my blessing in person. That he thinks his ex-wife is mature and gracious. I tell myself that I must live up to the billing.
Ben nods. Then he unzips his sweatshirt the whole way and takes it off. My eyes dart to the familiar hole. I manage a small smile and say, “Well…thanks.”
I know I need to say more—say the actual words he is expecting from me—but I can’t get them out. I simply can’t make myself give him my blessing and my final good-bye.
Instead I muster up a weak, “I want you to be happy.”
He can take it or leave it. It’s the best I can do.
A long silence follows, one in which Ben fiddles with a packet of Equal, and I refold my jacket on the seat next to me. We look up at each other at the same second, and I’m shocked to see grief on Ben’s face.
“I want you to be happy, too, Claudia. I do…But I just can’t let you do this.”
I try to process his words, but they make no sense. “Do what?” I say.
“Marry Richard,” he says, pointing to the ring on my left hand.
“What?” I say, totally confused now.
His voice is low and his words come rapidly. “I know you came here to tell me you’re engaged to Richard. And I know you think you found in him something we didn’t have. A promise of the kind of life you want…the kind of life you deserve…I also know that I’m too late. Way too late. That vows have been broken and bridges have been burned. But I just want to tell you, Claudia…I must tell you that I love you with my whole heart and I’d do anything to get you back. I don’t need a baby. I don’t even want one if it’s not with you…I don’t want anyone or anything but you.”
I am stunned and speechless. I simply cannot believe what I’m hearing. It is my speech—the words I thought about saying to Ben, so many times, at least until I saw Tucker’s ring. It is too much to process at once so I start out with a simple question. I look at him and say, “What about Tucker?”
“What about her?” Ben says, looking as dumbfounded as I feel.
“Aren’t you marrying her?” I say.
He laughs and says no.
“But I saw her ring,” I say.
“Claudia. She’s engaged to some guy named Steve,” he says. “A doctor at her hospital…Why in the world did you think the ring was from me?”
“But you…ran the marathon together,” I say, feeling foolish with my flimsy Internet evidence.
“Well. That’s what you do with running partners,” Ben says. “You run marathons together.”
I feel a surge of relief so great that it is more like joy. It is as if I’ve been living with a terminal illness and have just discovered that the diagnosis was all wrong. That I’m going to live a long life after all. Something escapes my throat, but I’m not sure whether I’m laughing or crying. I think it is both.
I say, “Well. I’m not marrying Richard, Ben. I’m not even dating Richard anymore.”
“You’re not?” he says. “But Annie told me he gave you a ring.”
“He did,” I say, twisting it off my finger and dropping it into my purse. Then I swipe at my tears and say, “But it wasn’t an engagement ring…It was…nothing.”
Ben breaks into a smile as he says, “So wait…you’re single?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Are you?”
He nods, still smiling. Then his expression becomes grave as he reaches out for my hands. I give them to him. A feeling of warmth and well-being fills me up and renders me speechless. I desperately want to tell him that I have come to the same conclusion about us. That I would do
anything to get him back, even if that means having a baby. That I nearly might even want a baby with him. That all I want to do is share my life with him, in whatever form that takes.
And I will tell him all of that. Soon. But right now I just squeeze his hands and look into the eyes of the only man I’ve ever truly loved.
We are quiet for a long time until I finally say, “I can’t believe you’re single.”
“Yeah,” Ben says. “But I’m thinking of asking someone out.”
“Oh, really?” I say, smiling. “Who might that be?”
“My ex-wife,” Ben says. “Do you think she’ll say yes?”
“I think she might,” I say. “I think she might do anything for you.”
Thirty-Two
It is Christmas Eve and nearly dark, possibly my favorite hour of the year.
Ben and I are in the car, crossing the Triborough Bridge on our way to Daphne and Tony’s house. We are about to meet their son, Lucas, who arrived three days ago, right on schedule, the most divine Christmas present imaginable.
The radio is on low and Nat King Cole is singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Ben’s hands are gripping the steering wheel, at ten and two o’clock, perfect driver’s ed form. He is usually a more laidback driver, even in heavy traffic, and it occurs to me that he could be nervous about seeing my family again. I ask him the question, admitting that I am a bit anxious about our visit with his family tomorrow afternoon.
As if busted, Ben shifts to the single hand at six o’clock position and says, “Maybe a little nervous…but I’m mostly just excited to see everyone.”
I smile and say, “Even my crazy mother?”
“Even crazy ol’ Vera,” he says, shaking his head. “I love everything that is part of you.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek. We have only been back together for a month, and the little things still thrill me. Things such as the feel of his rough whiskers a mere few hours after he shaved. Being in a car with him. Listening to Christmas music. Everything with Ben feels new and sacred and exalted. I suspect that it will for a very long time. Maybe forever.
