... and Baby Makes Two (17 page)

“Janie, Janie. You've changed so much since your old school days.”

“Really? How?”

“Back then, you were all about the footnotes, not about the body of the work. You know what I mean?” Jane didn't, but Barbara continued. “And I remember, you had a thing for lists. I'll tell you right now. I thought it was a little weird.”

The bright red fire in Jane's cheeks gave her away. Barbara talked a little faster.

“And then you met Sam. I think he fell for you on day one. He was always trying to get your attention, but you were always writing
lists. It took you forever to notice that he was completely smitten with you. Once you two got together, I knew you'd be okay”

Jane hated the turn this conversation was taking. If she talked about Sam too much, would she end up crying? And if Sam had redeemed her, then what was to become of her now, in a post-Sam world?

Jane took a breath, looked in Barbara's eyes, and said, “Sam took me dancing.”

Jane described Sam trying to dance. She did a perfect reenactment of his awkward, hardworking dance. It caught her by surprise and made her cry.

“I'm sorry,” Barbara whispered. “I shouldn't have brought him up. I won't do it again.”

But Jane was almost glad to cry for Sam one more time.

“He should be here. We should be doing this together,” Jane said.

“Jane. He is here. And you'll be a perfectly smashing mother. You'll see.”

…

That night, in her dreams, Betty and Sam were playing gin rummy in the baby's room until Jane came in and told them that it was time to get to work.

The Wait. The Weight of the Wait was enormous. Everyone on the listservs knew that the wait to be matched with a baby was a painful process. Even Jane had gotten that warning. Once they completed their dossiers, Jane and her friends could only wait and wait and wait for that moment of supreme joy, also known as the Referral, when China would reveal the new combinations of babies and parents. It could be difficult to predict how long they might have to wait for a referral— six months, nine months, a year? More? Everyone watched the latest Wait Statistics: how long from your Dossier to China date, to your Date of Referral. In the land of adoption acronyms, everyone wondered how long from DTC to DOR. How long, how long, how long? It was important to find a useful and productive way to fill the Waiting Time.

Teresa was renovating her new apartment and building up her portfolio, already preparing for Ivy League tuition. Karen was taking a class on holistic motherhood. The three of them still sent e-mails, if only as pulse checks or to giggle over entries on the listservs. But their intense paper chase was over, so there was less need to lean on one another. That need would re-
vive, soon enough and strong enough. For now, they prepared. Jane threw herself into her work, determined to get one more promotion before motherhood. With her austere new work budget, she was spinning straw into gold. Management had to be impressed. Jane was.

And she threw herself into fitness. Every time she pictured herself climbing all four flights of stairs with a baby a stroller, and a diaper bag she felt a little wobbly. She pictured a speck of dust landing on her shoulder and collapsing in midflight. It scared Jane into the gym five days a week. She wondered if anyone would look at her funny if she put a twenty-pound weight in a Snugli. She didn't do it, but she did wonder.

Peter was always at the gym before Jane got there. And Jane was always wearing cute yoga pants and very bare midriff tops. But she promised herself that it wasn't about Peter. Peter? Peter who? No, that outfit forced her into good posture. She was all about posture.

“Jane, I have a confession to make. I did something terrible.”

You told your wife you were in love with me? Jane kept climbing. Peter took a deep breath and said, “I ate a half a box of Mallomars last night.”

Peter looked so forlorn. Jane giggled.

“Well. I guess you were hungry.”

“No! That's just it. I wasn't hungry. I had just eaten a stromboli the size of a human head. But the Mallomars were there, and I ate the whole box.”

“I thought you said you only ate half.”

“Oops.”

Peter laughed at himself. He needed company to keep him from eating like a twelve-year-old boy. He had a long list of restaurants they should try. Jane felt warm and surrounded.

The good angel on Jane's shoulder made her pick up the heavier weights. The bad devil on her shoulder made her go to dinner with Peter that night. Again. It was her new favorite habit. And dinner was so much fun it easily evolved into a movie. So Jane listened to
the bad devil on her shoulder and shoved an olive in the good angel's mouth. And anyone who saw them together would think that they were a couple.

“Action movies require extra popcorn,” Jane reasoned as they studied the overpriced concessions.

“Oh, yes. And at least one chocolate snack—to balance the salty and the sweet,” he informed her as he waved his giant box of Raisinets.

He popped a handful of them into his mouth, just in time for Jane to ask, “Doesn't it feel like you're eating chocolate-covered bugs?”

He grimaced. The image wouldn't go away.

Jane giggled like a girl. “Sorry. Did I ruin those for you? Guess I'll have to finish the rest of the box, huh? Oh, well!”

But Peter finished his candy and said, “No. Whenever I eat bugs, they crunch. These just go
squish!”

She had shaved her legs, even though it was winter.

…

“One martini and one club so—”

“Two martinis. Extra olives.” Ray corrected Jane. She studied his face. The happy phase was over already. Much too brief.

“Cheers.” He clinked her glass but had no cheer. “Tell me about your love life.”

It was Jane's turn to scowl. She didn't have a love life. Did she? But Ray didn't wait for an answer. He drank, he sighed, he slumped over the bar.

“I have to review this new play at Manhattan Theater World, and it's so awful I can smell it from here. It's going to be three hours of bloodless, pointless talk, talk, talk. I wish I were young again. I wish I could still do drugs.”

“Sweetie, you've endured bad plays before. Is this one going to be extra-terrible? Can you at least have a little fun with it? A
Legs Diamond
kind of thing?”

Ray didn't answer. He knocked back the martini and looked at his hands.

“Ray?”

“So. Any word from China?” This was the wrong question to ask Jane. She had a long wait in front of her. It would be months—an indeterminate number of months—before she would hear from China. Ray knew that. Had he forgotten?

“No. No word from China. Are you okay? Is it the guy from the meditation class? Did you have a fight?”

“No. Burton and I are fine, thank you. No fighting. All blissful. Am I so shallow that my state of being is completely ruled by my boyfriend? What am I, a fourteen-year-old girl? Or are you?”

“Hey. Don't” was all Jane had to say, and Ray swallowed the rest of his catty remarks with his martini.

“Sorry. And as a matter of fact, Burton is more than fine. He's wonderful. Still cute, still peaceful, still everything. Okay?”

“Glad you're so happy” Jane lifted her glass. Ray smiled for the first time all evening. There was something gray about his skin. She wanted to take a washcloth, remove that film, and find Ray again. He looked large, almost hulking, but she knew he was not a large man. There was a padding around him that increased him and deterred her. She didn't like it. She tried again.

“Do I have to beg? Come on, Ray. What's wrong?”

“Ask me one more time.”

“What's wrong?”

“There. Now you've begged, and now I can answer. And the answer is nothing. Nothing really. It's all so petty and stupid.”

Jane was fully prepared to argue with this dismissal, but she didn't have to. Ray kept going. He described the wonderfulness of Burton, the peacefulness of meditation, and the general goodness of his life. Then he told her, “I didn't get to go to London.”

Oh. London. For the last three years, his editor had promised him that he would be the one to review the opening of the theater season in London. Every year, his editor contrived a different excuse
to send a senior reviewer. Ray understood enough about the food chain of the paper of record. He knew that he had to wait his turn. This year was to be his turn. He earned it. Instead, they turned around and gave the assignment to—

“Mannings Porter! He's an idiot, and he makes us all look bad. Remember when he liked that god-awful production of
Medea?
I mean, even the actors knew it sucked. When they were in Hartford, I remember Eric Callendar—he played Jason—he actually called me and told me what a stinkburger the production was. All that wailing, all that ululating. He was living on a diet of ibuprofen. And then Mannings Porter comes along and calls it brilliant, and the damn stupid thing comes to Broadway. When I saw it, I wanted to stand up in the middle of the play and shout, ‘This is horseshit!' but I didn't.
The New York Times
gave its blessing to this piece of crap. I wanted to throw up.”

Jane knew the
Medea
story by heart. She was with him when he wanted to stand up and shout. She had been the one to stop him. She listened to all the details about the bad
Medea.

“Mannings Porter is deficient. I think he was held underwater for a long, long time. But not quite long enough. His writing makes me want to throw myself in front of a train. He splits infinitives every day. He's going to need a translator in London. How can they send that total moron to represent us in London?”

Ray had gotten a bit loud, and his gray face turned pink. Jane had no idea what to do, so she did nothing. Ray presented further evidence of Mannings Porter's essential cluelessness: his clothes, his backpack, and his irrational fear of Indian food.

Jane knew that he had to run out of words eventually. And he did.

“Why are they sending this guy to London, and not you?”

Ray slammed his third drink down a little too hard. Jane had to check that it was still intact. It was, but Ray was large and angry again.

“Well, they offered it to Ana, but she had too much school stuff
going on with her kid and she didn't want to miss that. Okay. Fine. She's been there longer than me. Longer than
I.
But then she suggested—
she
suggested—that they send Mannings Porter! Did I mention that I don't like him? That he's just a wee bit stupid?”

As the story eked out, Ana felt that Ray was much less ambitious than Mannings. Especially lately. Ray let go of plum assignments with a serenity rarely seen at a daily newspaper. But Mannings displayed the ambition of a virus. He wanted. Ray didn't. Mannings got London. Ray got mad.

“If I get any more spiritual, I'll turn into a poltergeist. No. Worse than that—I'll lose my job. My mother was so proud when I got this gig—she almost made me cry. Let's face it, this is the place to be. This is
The New York Fucking Times!
And here I am, in my lotus position, completely blowing it. I can't have that. I have to change it. I have to.”

“Then you will.” Jane sounded almost meek. After a silent goodbye to the Zen Ray she began to worry that Workaholic Ray wouldn't have enough time for little things like food and friends and sleep.

“Ray honey. Try to keep some kind of balance in—”

“Shit! I'm late. I can't be late. I'm
The New York Fucking Times.”

…

Jane went to bed that night wondering what she should have said to Ray. Wondering what she would say to Peter the next day. Wondering when China would call and turn her life upside down. Wondering when she should tell Peter about China. Wondering why she even wondered.

Peter was beside her. He touched her chin and lifted her head gently, as if he were examining her eyes. She studied his. She felt his hand at her chin. Slightly calloused. He smelled good. He felt solid. He kissed her, briefly at first, and then not briefly at all. She promised herself that this was real. This was not a dream. He kissed her again and held her for a long, long time. In the dream, she told herself that this was not a dream. This must be real because she
could feel his shoulders beneath his leather jacket. Wait. Peter didn't own a leather jacket. She woke up.

Jane and Peter both loved dessert as much as they loved dinner. She firmly believed that any dessert that included trace amounts of fruit could be considered healthy. He believed her and thanked her for the delusion. Meanwhile, Peter introduced her to dark chocolate, for which she would never forgive him.

“Milk chocolate is for kids. You're all grown up now. Try it.”

She extended her hand, but he held back. He wanted to feed her. Her heart skipped a beat. He fed her a silky piece of chocolate, and she couldn't hide her pleasure. She blushed. The bad devil laughed with glee, while the good angel choked with fury.