... and Baby Makes Two (22 page)

“So, what does it take to have your life together as a single mother in New York City?” Ray asked. As they shouted out their ideas, Jane saw a beloved list in the making. You need:

1. A two-bedroom apartment. (Even Karen endorsed this.)
   

2. With an elevator.
   

3. In a cool neighborhood with restaurants very close by, and all public transportation nearby too.
   

4. And zoned for good schools. (Clearly, the apartment list would be appended, so they moved on.)
   

5. A good nanny who can work late sometimes.
   

6. Enough money to take taxis whenever you need to.
   

7. An expansive wardrobe so that you can easily change into another fabulous outfit after the baby pukes on your blouse.
   

8. The ability to remove stains from anything. (They remembered Greta's shit-stain speech with a shudder.)
   

9. Two single-mom friends: In case one of them is busy, there is always someone who understands your life's dilemmas.
   

10. A male person/father figure to take the pressure off you and your daughter.
    

11. Good luck. Lots of it.
    

This was only a starter list, Jane realized. She would revisit this list a lot in the months to come. Ah, lists.

Sheila sounded awful.

“The thing about kids is they're all about germs. They're little walking petri dishes. I should send the boys to school in matching Haz-Mat suits. Would the other kids make fun?”

“I would.”

“And they know I'm sick, so they really walk all over me. They told me that Raoul wants me to give them lots of chocolate and free money. Little con men. They're not good at it yet, but they just need practice. Oh, God, I feel like crap.”

“Oh, Sheila. You're sick. I'm wounded. We match.”

“Sisters, sisters,” Sheila sang as best she could. “There were never such devoted sisters …”

Jane was not talking about Peter. She had stopped telling Sheila, after her sister declared, “This is going to end badly. It's like one of Mom's old movies. Remember? The girlfriends who go to the city to find fame, fortune, and husbands? The one who hooks up with a married man is the one who ends up with a concussion.” Jane looked at her sore ankle and changed the subject. Permanently. After she hung up, Jane complained to the mirror.

“What's up with Peter? Why is he being so standoffish? Has he been replaced by an evil twin or a pod person? He's acting like he's providing a service to a friend with a sprain, not starting a new relationship and changing his whole life. Why? Where is he? Isn't this going to happen?”

The mirror offered no answer, but Jane saw how pathetic her sad face was. She contorted it into an Elvis twitch and a growl.

“Oh, grow up,” she said to herself and limped away.

…

Ray was out of town, missing the second act of Jane's drama on crutches. This justified Jane's dependence on Peter. Didn't it? Sure, it did. Jane e-mailed Ray at his parents' home in Texas and tried to describe what life was like for her now.

Jane quoted Ray's e-mail at the next Melting Pot dinner. Karen and Teresa decided that Ray was Jane's husband-substitute. A good man, minus sex and laundry. Arlene let that simmer a bit, then corrected them.

“He's her hubstitute. And now her in-laws are coming to visit.”

That was absolutely right.

“So, you guys,” said Charm. “I saw Dr. Laskin again.”

Oh, no. Another mutiny? Another Greta speech? Jane braced herself.

“Who's Dr. Laskin? Your boyfriend?”

“He's a fertility doctor,” said Charm. “And he thinks he can get me pregnant. I mean, I don't know how menopausal you guys are—”

How menopausal did they need to be?

“But I'm not. And I can't give up trying. And my dad said that he'd pay for two IVFs. I can probably talk him into more.”

If she got pregnant, she would stop the China adoption. Another casualty. Jane couldn't decide what to hope for. She couldn't justify why this news upset her, but it did.

Karen smiled gently. “If you're asking for our permission to conceive, then I think you should ask yourself why”

Charm looked very confused and a little bit hurt, and none of this was Karen's intention. So Karen tried again.

“You don't need our permission, Charm. Do what's right for you.”

“Who here is in menopause?” Charm asked this quite loudly and several other tables paid attention.

“I was hoping to save this for a press release, but I'm perimenopausal. For more than a year now. Do you need details?” said Teresa.

Charm declared that menopause created a significant divide between Teresa and herself. How could anyone justify adopting when there was still a possibility of conceiving?

“I can't give up.” Resolute Charm.

Teresa signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. Charm continued.

“Jane, you're still a little bit young, aren't you? Don't you want to
know what it's like to have a child grow inside your body? Don't you want to experience the miracle of life?”

Jane had wanted those things, once upon a time. Where had that desire gone? It looked like an insane thing to want now. Insane like choosing single motherhood?

“I had a hysterectomy” said Karen. This was what it was like to make friends with people who already had a history. Massive explosions at the dinner table got a mini-synopsis.

“Cancer. A long time ago. I'm feeling much better now.”

Charm steamrolled right past this. She wanted an answer from Jane.

“You don't want to get pregnant, but you want to be a mother? I think that's so weird. I don't understand it. Why don't you want to get pregnant, Jane?”

“Because—and this might sound odd, but maybe Dan Quayle was a little bit right.”

Karen gasped. Teresa put down her wine. Arlene stared. Dan Quayle was Satan Incarnate at this table. He was the Anti–Single Mother. Arlene shook her head, full of pity for poor Crazy Jane.

“Hear me out,” Jane said, suddenly aware of the hostility that was waiting to silence her. “I'm just saying that maybe he was a
little
bit right. I mean, aren't you guys as scared as I am about doing this alone? And Charm, you want to add labor and delivery to all that, and I say, Wow.'This is big, this motherhood thing.”

“How was Quayle right?” Teresa really wanted to know. She may have voted Republican in the last election.

“He said that two parents are better than one. And he's right. They are. They just are. Someone to stay home with the child, or two incomes—that all sounds good to me. Two people to counter each other. Two people to pay twice as much attention and give twice as much love. Two is better than one.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Teresa lost a bit of vocal control, sounding a tad screechy.

“Follow the math. If two parents are better than one, then one parent is better than none. There is a baby in China who has zero parents. And maybe, like the Chinese say, maybe there is some kind of red thread connecting me to her. And I'll be her one.”

Teresa eased up. Charm looked perplexed.

“Oh, that sounded so great. Okay maybe I'll cancel Dr. Laskin.”

Jane pictured Charm, seventy years old and well past even high-tech child-bearing, cursing that damn Jane Howe who talked her out of conceiving and she never got to experience childbirth. That bitch.

“Oh, my God. Charm. Sleep on it? Please.”

That night, Jane slept well. She had more real estate dreams. This time, she dreamed that Teresa sold her amazing new apartment to Jane, and the apartment transformed into a house. It had hidden rooms and corridors. And Teresa was selling it for a tiny fraction of its worth. Jane found a storage room filled with old furniture. She found a door that opened to the street. She was facing Peter's high-rise building. The sun was in her eyes. She woke up.

…

Jane was fully mobile. The stairs took her a long while, and the subway was still intimidating. New York is not a city for anyone who can't walk fast. Peter managed to watch over her without looking at her very much. He looked at food, movies, and every book on her shelf. Jane watched and waited for him to be Peter again.

“Tonight, let me cook for you,” Jane offered. “I'm not a great cook, but at least I can stand up in my own kitchen. And I have plates. I'll make pizza. What do you think?”

Peter shook his head. “You're a nut. That's the single easiest thing to have delivered. Why would anyone ever make pizza? You
order
it. You don't make it.”

He drank wine while she made the dough. He drank more wine while she made the sauce. Instead of looking at Jane, he was studying

the Village outside her window. She refilled his wineglass after every few sips. She wondered if she was trying to get him drunk, and why.

He thanked her properly, ate his food slowly. Part of her thought that she should let this quiet polite man eat his dinner in peace. But that part lost out to the part fantasizing about slugging him. She pictured herself shaking him hard for a long, long time. Then she remembered: You want him. You can't have him. Let him go.

She gulped her wine like she was in a Mountain Dew commercial. She reached out and touched his face. He looked young.

“So, Peter. All this time, I've been thinking that you and I were starting some kind of a romance. A relationship. Something.”

He stopped eating.

“Why? Why did you think that?”

And just like that, she had her Irish up.

“I've seen
Gaslight
about fifteen times, so don't, just don't
don't
do this. I have a bunch of good reasons. Including the fact that I can feel it. I know it. I don't walk around the city thinking that everybody loves me. But
you
do. I can feel it.”

He looked like he was searching for notes. He was unprepared. Too bad. Jane kept going.

“I'm going to be a mother in a few months, so I have to know: Are you staying or going?”

He couldn't find his notes, if they ever existed. He stood up and said, “I better go. I have to go.” He sounded definite.

“Fine. Go.” She couldn't hide the crack in her voice. She tried to get mad about that too.

“I can't do this to my marriage. I can't be someone who does this.” He was putting on his coat. “Why can't things go back to the way they were before. Okay? Please?”

“It's too late. My time-travel machine is broken.” The crack in her voice grew wider.

“Jane.”

“Get out. Now.”

His exit was awkward and fumbling. She couldn't say any more because her voice had become an open crevice. She stared at the door in disbelief. It was all so close. How could it have slipped away? She needed to call Sheila. She needed to call Ray. She needed someone to slap her for falling in love with a married man. In love. She whispered it. She couldn't take it back. She loved him. She was wrecked.

Jane stopped staring at the door and started to assemble that list of shoulders on which she could cry. And then she heard the knock on her door.

“It's me, Peter. Open the door? Please?”

She hesitated. She didn't need a long speech to go with the rejection. She didn't want to hate him. Then again, a little hostility might heal her vocal chords. She opened the door, already working on her fury.

“Did you forget something?” she snapped. “A jacket? Umbrella? Your wedding ring?”

He stepped inside and framed her face with both hands. He kissed her with no hesitation, no doubt, and no restraint. Jane needed a second to catch up, but then she matched him. Her skin flushed against his. He was open to her. It was all right here. She saw the word
“finally”
in her head. The second kiss lasted longer. She had a feel for him now. He was a good kisser. She missed kissing. They kept kissing. Her body awoke. Was this a first? Had it always been asleep? He was holding her with a hand on the small of her back. She didn't need oxygen—she needed another kiss.