A Little Help from Above (11 page)

“Believe it or not I know what you’re going through.” Shelby stood up to stretch. “A few years ago I did this big series on DES daughters, and I couldn’t believe what the pharmaceutical companies got away with. They dispensed DES like it was coming out of freakin’ Pez dispensers, even after all the evidence proved it would permanently mess up women’s reproductive tracts! But they were making millions off it, so what the hell? Finally, this group of DES daughters shamed Congress into appropriating funds for research and education, but by then it was blood money. Basically they left thousands of women to fend for themselves, and their stories are total travesties. Although a lot of them have sued and walked away with big settlements.”

“I don’t want to sue.” Lauren wiped her eyes. “I just want to have a family.”

“Don’t be naive. You’re a perfect candidate for litigation. We’ll get yours and Mommy’s medical records, then I’ll help you find a lawyer who specializes in class action suits…”

“No. Suing is not the answer for me. I want to focus all my energy on having a baby.”

“Fine. Do what you think is best. I just can’t be of any help to you in that department.”

Lauren looked over at Shelby, her face filled with despair. And
there was that twitching eye thing going on again, too. Which set off a bell in Shelby’s head. As a master of analyzing facial expressions, she could tell what people were saying when they weren’t saying anything at all. This time, however, she prayed she’d gotten her signals crossed. “I saw that look.”

“What are you talking about?” Lauren turned away.

“That blinking thing that happens to your eye whenever you’re about to ask me a favor. How will I ever be able to tell if you’re having a stroke?”

“I can’t help it. It’s involuntary, like a sneeze. But now that you mentioned it…”

“Oh my God,” Shelby fell into her chair. “I was right. There is something you want.”

“The odds of my having a normal pregnancy are very slim.”

“Oh my God.”

“I mean I could probably get pregnant again, but basically my cervix is retarded, and it’s not likely I’d be able to sustain a pregnancy long enough to deliver a healthy baby. Plus, there’s a good chance I would pass on the DES problems, so they don’t think I should use my eggs. That’s why a lot of women in my case are using…”

“Surrogates?” Shelby barely had enough oxygen to say the word.

Lauren nodded yes, her eyes pleading.

“Me?” Shelby pointed to herself. “Have you gone completely mad?”

“You wouldn’t have to give me an answer right away. All I’m asking is for you to consider the possibility.”

“No.” Shelby pounded the table. “There is no possibility. How could you even come up with the self-serving, ill-conceived idea of using me?”

“On-line.”

“You mean a chat room?”

“Sort of. I found this support group for DES daughters, and they were all talking about their sisters, and cousins, and friends and aunts volunteering to be their surrogates. So I showed Avi some of the things they said, and he immediately thought of you.”

“Well sure. He probably thought it meant we’d have hot sex every month.”

Lauren lowered her head and began to cry.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”

“Yes you did. But forget the whole thing. You’re right. It’s a ridiculous idea.”

“Yes it is.” Shelby shook in disbelief. On the other hand, at least she’d confirmed her impeccable instincts were still operating on all cylinders. She knew Lauren was up to something, although had she realized her sister was shopping for a uterus instead of a kidney, she would have been out the door in a heartbeat.

“But don’t you think it’s interesting that there’s like this whole society of surrogates?” Lauren, the prizefighter, would not stay down. “Every year thousands of women bear children for others, totally out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“Right. And the quick twenty grand they get plays no part in their decision.”

“Fine. So a select few do it for the money. But my point is…”

“I know what your point is. But I’m not like those women, Lauren. I’m selfish, I’m vain, and believe me, the only doctor who’s ever gotten that close to my vagina bought me dinner first.”

“I know it’s a big decision.” Lauren reached into her pocketbook for a pamphlet. “But here’s some information on surrogacy that could answer a lot of your questions. Will you at least read it?”

“Absolutely not.” Shelby walked over to the window. “I wouldn’t be a surrogate if you got Mel Gibson to fuck me. Sorry, Lauren. I’m not your girl.”

“Avi’s feelings are going to be hurt you know. He’s going to think you don’t like him.”

“I don’t like him.” Shelby turned to her. “But wait a second. I might have an idea.”

“Really?” Lauren pressed her hand against her heart.

“Yes. If all you need is a Rent-a-Uterus type arrangement, get Kaneesha or one of the other five cleaning sisters to do it. They probably pop out babies like toaster cakes.”

“Shelby,” Lauren gasped. “You are positively shameful. Haven’t you ever had a dream?”

“No, but I’ve had my share of nightmares. And this one is at the top of the list.”

“Fine. If that’s how you feel, then this is the end of the discussion.”

“I’d be eternally grateful.”

“No wait.” Lauren clenched her fist. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot?”

Finally! I think I got a handle on this power of suggestion thing. All I did was come to Lauren in a dream, plant a tiny seed of an idea in her head, and boom, she ran with it like a quarterback on fire. I wonder if Shelby would be that receptive if I came to her in a dream? Nah, she’d probably think it was a nightmare and blame it on too much red wine.

Given the surreal circumstances under which she’d returned home, Shelby was amazed at how quickly she’d transitioned from a pressure-cooker job into the gentle rhythm of unstructured days. A week ago she was worried her story reservoir had gone dry, as she was down to one measly lead about a South Side cop allegedly selling stolen cars on the Internet. Now her only newspaper-related concern was solving the Times crossword puzzle in less time than it took the day before.

A week ago she’d been romantically involved with David. Now she had a new love interest, a real bastard. His name was Pucci. Like David, Pucci raced over the minute he heard Shelby’s voice, and he was a master at begging. Unlike David, the only way he could be with her was if he squeezed his tiny Yorkie body under the next-door neighbor’s fence.

Trouble was, Shelby wasn’t much of a dog lover. Sooner or later she’d need to seek the company of a two-legged friend. Would that mean returning to David? She did enjoy his razor-sharp humor and the way he turned Saturday night dates into all-out events. Frankly, no one else had ever flown her to St. Louis for a restaurant opening, or snuck her into a private party on Michigan Avenue, claiming she was Sarah Jessica Parker’s sister.

But in all the time they went out, Shelby never thought of him, yearned for him, or gave herself to him. David may have been camp-director fun, but he had the sexual prowess of a neutered house pet. He may have been legally divorced, but his true love was still his ex-wife, Rhonda. And for the sake of unsuspecting single women every
where, Shelby hoped the couple reconciled so he never came back on the market again.

But aside from losing her job and her lover, the biggest change in Shelby’s life was that instead of chasing people, now she made every effort to avoid them. Particularly Lauren and Avi, who were pressuring her to warehouse their baby for nine months.

Fortunately, it was not difficult avoiding Avi, as it was only a rumor he was in residence. With so much pressing business at the airport, he was doing late-night runs, then getting back on the road by dawn. The only telltale sign he’d slept in the house was if the early edition of the New York Informer was left lying on the kitchen counter.

Shelby prayed Lauren never found out she was not only stealing the paper, but Maria’s fresh-baked pastries. It came as a shock, but Shelby discovered she liked lounging in bed, reading the paper from front to back, and stuffing her mouth. It was a nasty habit, but only temporary, of course.

What surprised her even more than how much she liked Danish was how much she liked the Informer. It was brazen, entertaining, and totally irreverent. This morning’s edition was a prime example. While serious folk were concerned with economic recovery and combating terrorism, Informer readers were lapping up a story entitled, “Whereist thou Shelby Lazarus?”

The gossip writer speculated the feisty, veteran journalist’s fallout with Trib management came so unexpectedly there was no time to decide the fate of the thousands of leftover
WE LOVE SHELBY
bumper stickers. Rumor also had it staffers seemed particularly gleeful when opening their office windows to dump them into the Chicago River below.

Inquiring minds apparently wanted to know. Was Shelby Lazarus mulling offers at her Lake Shore Drive condo, or playing snookems in Tortola with the recently divorced publisher of the Los Angeles Times?

“Where the hell did they get this?” Shelby laughed, secretly delighted she’d been deemed newsworthy enough to be at the center of a whisper campaign. Yet deeply hurt her own sources never informed her the rich and handsome Jack Bennett was back in the single circuit.

In the meantime, it occurred to her Ian McNierney was baiting
her, knowing if she saw the story she’d have to call him on it. But what would she say? That she was whiling away the day sipping iced tea by the family pool? That her only offer thus far was from the Des Moines Register, inquiring of her interest in editing their Sunday style section? Honestly. How much style could there be in a place where the women and the cows wore approximately the same size?

Perhaps she would call Ian to say she was back in New York, and thanks for the mention. But when would she find the time? Between answering the endless queries of concerned family and friends, attacking the Times crossword puzzle, working out, researching DES, and running errands for Maria, she was booked solid. Speaking of which, Maria had given her yet another grocery list and would inevitably carry on until Shelby delivered the needed household items.

“Who’s working for whom here?” Shelby grumbled, as she pushed a mega–store cart through the produce section of Waldbaum’s. It had been an amusing, little chore the first time she returned to the supermarket of her youth. Even though, just as with her house and the hospital, it bore no resemblance to the place she remembered. For sure the Waldbaum’s of her past did not have a sushi bar, a photo-processing lab, or ten thousand items that would guarantee a serious relationship with a cardiologist. A whole aisle for chips, and another for cookies? Was it any wonder America was now the land of the obese?

“Excuse me?” Exhibit A waved from across the watermelon bin. “Don’t I know you?”

Oh no, Shelby sighed. Not another day of “Shelby Lazarus, This is Your Life.”

“I’m sorry.” The big mama blushed. “I thought you were someone I grew up with.”

“It’s okay.” She coughed. “I’m recognized all the time. I’m Shelby Lazarus.”

“Oh my God. I thought so,” she said, clapping. “I’m Stacy Rothstein. Well, now it’s Alter.” She flashed a wedding ring with so many karats, the other veggies were surely jealous.

Her maiden name sounded middle-class-Jewish familiar to Shelby, but there was no way they were the same age. This woman was old enough to have four whiny kids and gray hair.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She blushed, fully aware her
late-model, extralarge body could have something to do with it. “From Shelter Rock Elementary?”

“I think so. You were in my…”

“…Same class all the way from kindergarten to sixth. Then there was junior and senior high.”

“Right. Sure. Stacy Rothstein. I remember you,” Shelby lied.

“It’s okay. I was really shy back then. I’m just glad my guys aren’t like that.”

“They’re all yours?” Shelby gulped at the sea of sticky-faced critters.

“All mine.” She beamed, wiping four little noses before Shelby could have even found a tissue. “Lee is my big guy, Zack and Alex are my twins, and this little cutie is Taryn.”

“They’re adorable,” Shelby lied again, shuddering at the idea of caring for a whole litter.

“How about you?” Stacy smiled. “How many children do you have?”

“Me?” Shelby examined a green banana. This was why intelligent people stayed away from class reunions. They were so damn inhospitable. “None. I’m single.” There. She said it.

“Really?” Stacy seemed taken aback. “You always talked about having a big family.”

“No way!” Shelby grimaced. “You must be confusing me with what’s her name. That girl who used to practically announce it over the PA system every time she missed her period.”

“You mean Sherry Melnick?”

“Yeah. Sherry Melnick. Whatever happened to her?”

“I’m not sure. She showed up to our tenth reunion all cozy with some black guy she introduced as her boss. Then I heard she moved to India and changed her name to Swami Maharji.”

“Never was the sharpest tool in the shed. But where did you get the idea I wanted kids?”

“I may not have said a whole lot when we were younger.” Stacy laughed. “But I never missed a thing that went on. Don’t you remember Miss Oberlin’s monthly essay contests?”

“Vaguely.” Shelby shrugged, wondering how banal an existence this woman must have if she still kept memories of third-grade writing assignments in her head.

“I’ll never forget yours,” Stacy kissed her daughter’s head. “Be
cause you always wrote about the same thing. How you wanted to be a famous writer and a mommy. In fact, once you said you wanted one child for every day of the week.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Shelby snorted. “That wasn’t me. I mean I definitely remember wanting to be a writer, but I assure you the last thing on my mind was wiping dirty noses.” Oops, she thought when Stacy blinked. Perhaps there were times when smugness had its limitations.

“No, it was definitely you.” The nose wiper fortunately didn’t appear to take offense. “I remember because the contest always came down to you and Marc Silverman, and you never won.”

“Yeah, but that was only because it was more a personality contest than a writing contest.” Shelby stuck out her chin. “Everybody voted for Marc because his dad was part owner of the Knicks, and he could invite whoever he wanted to the games.”

“Yes, but then for the last contest of the year, you got up there and read this beautiful piece about the true meaning of Mother’s Day, and about how girls were so much luckier than boys because we got to have the babies, and all the girls were crying, and Miss Oberlin’s mascara was running down her face…don’t you remember that?”

“Not really.” Shelby cleared her throat. “Did I…win?”

“Yes you won!” Stacy laughed. “That’s why I remember it so well. After you got your little trophy, you went over to Marc and kissed him on the lips, and Miss Oberlin nearly fainted. I can’t believe you don’t remember…”

“It does sort of ring a bell…” A baffled Shelby stared at the watermelons. But it was before my mother died. Before my life was turned upside down, and I never saw anything the same again.

“To me it seems like yesterday.” Stacy picked up the candy wrapper her son dropped. “I still remember who was in our classes, who liked who…”

Suddenly Shelby got excited. “Do you by any chance remember Matty Lieberman?”

“I remember his name,” she replied. “But didn’t he move away?”

“Yes. At the end of fifth grade…”

“Wait a minute. Wasn’t he the kid who used to freak out Mrs. Dwyer by pulling the little wires out of his notebooks, then sticking them in his ear?”

“No.” Shelby sighed. He was the one who kissed me in the snow and promised he’d love me forever. He was the one who wrote me love poems and pushed my bangs out of my eyes.

“You know who might know?” Stacy whipped pretzels out of her bag to feed the farm animals in the basket who were getting fidgety. “Do you remember Abby Cohen?”

“Sure. Dear Abby,” Shelby nodded. Who could forget the school yenta?

“Well, she and her husband moved back here a few years ago, and now she works over at the Manhasset Press. Anyway, she started this thing called, ‘Where Are They Now?’ and every month she runs a picture of someone who grew up here. Then readers write in whatever they know. You wouldn’t believe what some of the kids are doing. Remember Ross Greenblatt?”

“Yeah.” Shelby puffed out her cheeks. “The only fourth grader who needed two chairs.”

“Not anymore! He’s in Hollywood now. He lost like a hundred pounds and changed his name to Darin something. He was on The Young and the Restless for a while. Or one of those.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Okay, good. I’ll give Abby a call. What’s her last name now?”

“Rosenthal.”

“Oh God. You’re kidding,” Shelby cried. “Is she married to Scott Rosenthal?”

“Yes, but he was a year behind us so I wasn’t sure if you’d remember him.”

“Oh, I remember him,” Shelby rolled her eyes. “In fact, believe it or not, he’s one of the doctors on my father and stepmother’s surgical team.”

“Really? I heard about the accident of course,” Stacy said sadly. “How are they doing?”

“It’s touch-and-go,” Shelby said matter-of-factly. “We’re taking it day to day…Oh no.”

“What?” Stacy jumped.

“Nothing. Just my pager again. Our housekeeper thinks I’m her personal messenger.” She shook her head as she reached under her T-shirt to read the critical message. Then she cried out.

“What is it?” Stacy reached over the watermelons for Shelby’s hand.

“Oh my God.” Shelby used her other hand to cover her mouth.

“Is everything okay?” Stacy panicked.

“Daddy’s out of the coma,” Shelby slowly repeated the message that blipped across the tiny screen, a ticker tape of vital information. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s a miracle.” Stacy came around to hug Shelby, tears streaming down her eyes. “Maybe that means he’s going to be fine. I’m so happy for you.”

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Alex looked up.

“Because my friend Shelby just got some wonderful news.”

This is so bizarre; Shelby looked at Stacy’s wet face. A woman I haven’t seen in over twenty years is crying for joy about a man she never met, while I’m feeling…nothing?

“I really have to get going, but good luck with everything.” Stacy waved good-bye. “And, I hope you find Matty Lieberman.”

“Me too,” Shelby whispered. Me too.

It’s so funny. Here I am trying to use what limited powers I have to straighten out my daughter’s errant, misguided life, and then without any tinkering on my part, she runs into a former classmate at Waldbaum’s who just happened to remember Shelby once spoke lovingly of motherhood. Sometimes I get the feeling there’s a grander plan than I’m privy to.

But if that’s true, what’s the holdup getting Shelby and Matty back together? I suppose it’s that whole karma, timing thing. We choose rebirth in order to learn tough lessons. And sometimes the hardest lesson of all is learning to trust the wisdom of the universe. Not questioning what comes our way.

It’s quite an eye-opener coming to terms with the fact the universe works on its own blessed timetable, and no amount of hoping and wanting will speed up the process. It’s very frustrating, of course, but it probably seems whenever there’s something you desperately want, something you’re completely obsessed with, you can pretty much guarantee it’s not going to happen at that time.

Later, when you’ve calmed down, opened your mind to other possibilities, lo and behold, the head banging ends, and doors magically open. Not necessarily the way you originally envisioned, and maybe not quite exactly as you hoped, yet somehow the circumstances seem right. Then you hear yourself saying, “It’s amazing how everything worked out for the best.”