Baby Proof (29 page)

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 sleep-overs 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 reneging 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.

As the day wears on, I go from being nervous to downright ornery. I feel irrationally annoyed at every friend who chooses today, of all days, to say hello or pass along a joke. And when Jess forwards me a playful exchange between Michael and her with the subject line Isn’t he cute ?, I feel my first stab of envy over their relationship. I’m not at all bitter, but definitely a bit begrudging. It’s not fair , I think, and then instantly dislike myself for having one of the single most maladjusted and counterproductive thoughts a woman in a crisis can have. Life’s not fair , I tell myself. Everyone over the age of ten knows that. Then, I feel my heart twist as I have an even sadder, more sobering thought: You have no one to blame but yourself .

twenty-seven

Four excruciating days pass with no word from Ben. I picture an array of depressing scenarios: Ben so gloriously indifferent that he lets my e-mail get buried in his in-box, forgetting to write me back altogether; Ben scoffing at the screen and deleting my e-mail in disgust; Ben forwarding my e-mail to Tucker and the two of them sharing a good chuckle about how desperate I sound. I consider calling Annie and asking her if she’s talked to him, if she knows anything about his life. After all, she was certainly pretty free with the details of my relationship with Richard. But I just don’t want to go down that road. I don’t want anything to get lost in translation. Plus, I don’t entirely trust that Annie has my best interest at heart. I know I’m her friend, but she’s Ben’s friend, tooand by now she could even be close to Tucker.

Jess agrees. “Just deal with him directly,” she says.

“What if I never hear back from him?” I say.

“You will He’s probably out of the office, working on an off-site project or something. Either that or he wants to make you sweat. And if he’s making you sweat, he still cares.”

“You’re right,” I say, but in my head, I’m steeling myself for the possibility that my window of opportunity has closed for good. That I might never talk to Ben again.

On Friday afternoon, after a long lunch with one of my favorite agents, I hunker down to read a few unsolicited manuscripts, otherwise known as slush because most are sloppy, uninspired muck. They are so dreadful, in fact, that most houses and editors won’t even accept them. It’s just not worth the time or limited editorial resources. To this point, in thirteen years of reading slush, I’ve only brought one manuscript to editorial meeting, and it was shot down in about six minutes flat.

Ben once asked me why I bothered with those kinds of odds. “You don’t buy lottery tickets or gamble,” he said, “so why do you read slush?”

I explained to him that it wasn’t entirely rational. I told him that part of it stemmed from my deeply rooted neurosis that developed in my junior days, a sense of wanting to be thorough, cover all my bases. You never knew where the next great novel could be lurking. But beyond that, I told him that I just liked the idea of slush.