First Comes Love (14 page)

“Absolutely. But I guess my father and your sister just don't see it that way. And it's hard—really hard—when those we love most don't handle things in the same way we do. I bet that's why so many marriages break up after the death of a child. I bet couples are more likely to stay together if they handle grief the same way….”

I nodded, then divulged details of my parents' divorce. I told her how certain I was that Daniel's death had caused their split. My mom blamed my dad's drinking—but the drinking was a reaction to his grief. In other words, it all came back to Daniel.

On our way home that night, I told Nolan that I was certain Ellen would become a close friend. Sure enough, we bonded more and more over the next few months, hanging out frequently, emailing constantly, and talking on the phone almost daily, which was something I had never really done with other friends. Josie referred to Ellen as my “girl crush,” which annoyed me for several reasons, but mostly because it trivialized our connection. I didn't bother to tell Josie all the things I liked and admired about Ellen. She was passionate about her work—and brilliant at it, too. I could spend hours looking at her photographs of people, marveling at how she made ordinary people look famous and famous people seem ordinary. She was original, yet didn't go out of her way to be different, either—which resulted in unusual combinations that seemed like contradictions only if you didn't know her. Like owning a rescue dog as well as the most beautiful, regal purebred golden retriever I'd ever seen. Like being a hippie at heart, yet marrying a fourth-generation Atlantan blue-blooder. Like driving a beat-up Toyota covered with artsy bumper stickers, yet filling her house with exquisite art and antiques. I loved her raw honesty—that she was quick to acknowledge flaws in herself and her marriage when so many others couldn't even admit they were having a bad day.

As it turned out, Ellen and I got pregnant at virtually the same time, and Isla and Harper were born only five weeks apart. The intense early motherhood experience brought us even closer, both individually and as couples, so much so that we chose each other to be godparents to our firstborns. Josie, of course, was angered by our decision.

“So if you and Nolan die, you're giving Harper to
them
?” she said, cradling our two-month-old daughter with a slightly crazed look. “Someone you've only known a few years? Instead of your own flesh and blood?”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes, Josie, everyone knows that godparents don't necessarily mean guardianship,” I said, doing my best not to think about the grisly circumstances that could claim both my life
and
Nolan's. “It's just…an
honorary
position.”

“So you don't want to
honor
your own sister?”

“You're already Harper's
aunt.
The aunt role trumps that of godmother. Ellen picked me instead of her sister. Or Andy's sister. And they aren't
mad
about it,” I said, although this wasn't entirely true. Ellen's sister was fine with her decision, but
Andy's
sister was a little miffed and territorial, too.

“So I
do
get Harper if you die?” Josie morbidly pressed on.

“Josie,” I said, aghast, discreetly gesturing toward Mom.

“What? It's important to cover this stuff
now,
” Josie said, willing to talk about life and death when it suited her purposes.

“Nolan and I haven't done our will yet,” I said, thinking that although we would have much to decide, one thing was for sure: Josie would
not
be Harper's guardian.

“Well, I
want
her,” Josie said, as if the decision were just that simple. Sort of like her mindset now.
You want a baby, you get a baby
.

A
FTER THE TEA
party is under way, I fill Ellen in on Josie's latest antics.

“Interesting,” she says, looking intrigued. Although she is always diplomatic and fair-minded when it comes to my sister, this response still surprises me.

“
Interesting?
You don't think it's a horrible idea?”

“It's not the
worst
idea I've ever heard.”

“Josie as a
single
mother?”

“She's good with Harper.”

“Yeah. For five-hour stints,” I say. “We both know that's not how motherhood works.”

“Right. But she wouldn't be completely solo. She'd have you and Nolan to help,” Ellen says. “And grandparents. And Gabe.”

“Friends don't really help when it comes to children,” I say. “Not more than a token playdate here and there.”

“Maybe not,” she says. “But family certainly does.”

I look at Ellen, once again reminded of the key difference between the two of us and our respective sister relationships, namely that she both loves
and
likes her sister, Suzanne.

“The baby would have you,” Ellen finishes, in case I missed her point.

“But I don't want another baby,” I say, just as Nolan passes by us on his way to the cooler. He shoots me a wounded look, grabs another beer, then heads back in the house.

“Shit,” I say under my breath. “Nolan heard that.”

“He doesn't know that?” Ellen says, looking surprised. She and I have discussed it several times before.

“Not
that
directly,” I say, thinking it is another difference in our worlds. Ellen and Andy communicate exhaustively, and even do ongoing couples therapy—not because they have any big problems (although they had gone through a rough period before having Isla), but to
prevent
problems. Their marriage isn't perfect, but it is strong, as enviable as her sister relationship, maybe more so.

“You're really sure you don't want a second? Teddy's been such a breeze,” Ellen says, referring to her two-year-old son, whom Stella has just taken inside for his nap.

“I'm sure,” I say, eyeing Nolan through the glass door. “Besides, what if I had another girl?”

Ellen knows what I'm getting at. “Most sisters get along.”

I shake my head and say, “No. Most do not. At least not like you and yours.”

“You could have a boy,” she says, wrapping her dark hair in a bun on top of her head. “Boys love their mothers. And what if you and Josie
both
had boys? They'd be like cousins
and
brothers. And the brother relationship seems
completely
uncomplicated.”

“But I
really
don't want another baby,” I say, careful to keep my voice down. “And besides.
Nothing
is uncomplicated when it comes to Josie and me.”

“
S
HE'S OUT COLD,”
Nolan says to me that night in the family room while I'm straightening up the inevitable end-of-the-day disaster area. He's just returned from carrying Harper up to her bed after she fell asleep on her beanbag watching
Frozen
.

“All that playing in the sun wore her out,” I say, tossing her toys into their proper wire baskets. Legos in one, stuffed animals in another, books in the third, dolls and their accessories in the fourth, miscellaneous bits in the fifth.

“All that drinking beer in the sun wore
me
out,” Nolan says, yawning as he picks up a pink elephant puppet and jams his hand inside, both of them staring at me. Ever since he took a workshop with Harper at the Center for Puppetry Arts, he's turned into a regular Jim Henson.

“You missed your calling,” I say with a halfhearted laugh.

Nolan's face remains blank, his lips motionless, as he somehow manages to make a felt puppet look alert. “It's never too late,” the elephant tells me.

“You're a very wise elephant,” I say, thinking of all the ways his statement could apply to my life. I sink into the sofa, putting my bare feet up on the coffee table.

Nolan looks at me for a beat, then pulls the puppet off his arm and tosses it into the book basket. I resist the urge to correct him, but he catches me frowning and says, “I know, I know. Wrong basket. I'll get it in a sec.”

“It's fine,” I say, thinking that the Zoloft might actually be working. Six months ago I would have been unable to resist the urge to move the puppet—and I would probably be sitting over there cross-legged, meticulously organizing the miscellaneous items by size and color. Maybe even ordering more bins from the Container Store.

Nolan sits beside me, his hands on his lap. Remembering his recent offhanded comment that I “never initiate physical contact,” I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers with his. His knuckles are a bit gnarled and his middle finger is crooked from various sports injuries, but I've always liked his hands. They are large and strong, and remind me how competent he can be. Handy in a manly way. I put it on a mental list that I'm constantly keeping—
Things I love about my husband.

“So?” he says, shifting to look at me. “Did you mean what you said today?”

I give him a quizzical look even though I know exactly what he's asking me. “About not wanting another baby?” he says. “I heard you talking to Ellen.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I say. I feel myself tense, but keep my voice light, a tried-and-true strategy to avoid a serious conversation about family planning or our marriage or sex life—questions that often come after Nolan's had a few beers. I'm not sure whether they make him more philosophical or simply more talkative, but heart-to-hearts are almost inevitable on the heels of his drinking.

“You sounded very…definitive,” he says, frowning before offering me an out. “Was it just the mood you were in?”

“Yeah. Just the mood I was in,” I echo with a little shrug.

“Well, can we talk about it? Another baby?” he asks, his voice tentative.

“Sure,” I say, glancing over at him. “You start.”

“Okay,” Nolan says. He takes a deep breath, stretching his neck to the left, then the right, making a crackling sound.

I wince. “Don't do that. It can't be good for you,” I say, although my main reason is simply that the sound grosses me out.

Nolan sighs loudly, then says, “So. I've been thinking…about where we are….I mean, we have Harper, and she's awesome….And if that's all we could have, I would accept it….But I just don't feel like our family is complete. I want another baby. I'd actually love two or three more—”

“
Three
more?” I say, cutting him off. “You'd be happy with
four
kids?”

“Yeah. I would,” he says, kicking off his leather flip-flops. His big toe angles toward mine, and I meet him halfway, our feet now touching.

“I think big families are awesome,” he says. “I always hated being an only child. Still do. It's a lot of responsibility to shoulder—you know, with the family business…and now my parents getting older….Besides, it's just kind of lonely. Sad.”

“Harper doesn't seem to mind,” I say. “She's never asked for a baby brother or sister. I think she likes getting all the attention.”

“Yeah, but that's a problem, too,” he says. “You say yourself we spoil her too much. Another baby would fix that….Only children have issues.”

“You don't,” I retort. “You're very
normal
.”

I catch my tone of voice just as he does. “Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?” he asks.

“I didn't,” I say, even though I know I did—and that sometimes I equate normal with boring. Why do I consider my husband boring when he is frequently the life of the party? Other people always laugh at his jokes, especially women.

“Well, putting aside the pros and cons…I just
want
another one. I mean…God forbid…what if…” His voice trails off and I give him a horrified look.

“
Don't
say it.”

“Okay,” he says, confirming that he was actually going to suggest a second child as an insurance policy against losing Harper. “But you know what I mean….”

“No,” I say, appalled. “I don't. That's not a reason to have another baby.”

“All right, what
is
a reason, then?” he asks, taking a tactful turn.

“Because you actually
want
one,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “And as I said…I
do
.”

I nod as he has made this quite clear for two years now, maybe closer to three. I know the first time he made the suggestion I was still nursing Harper, and had to resist the strong urge to throw a bottle of freshly pumped breast milk at his head. “Got it,” I say.

“So, tell me. Where do you stand, exactly? Did you mean what you said to Ellen today? Or not?”

I swallow, tip my head back to look at the ceiling, then close my eyes. “I don't know, Nolan….Right now, I guess I don't want another….”

“But Harper's four—”

“I know how old she is,” I snap. “But I'm just not ready.”

“Okay. But do you think you'll
ever
be ready?”

“I don't know. Maybe not.” I open my eyes, look at him, and make myself tell him the truth. “Probably not. No.”

He looks stricken, maybe even devastated, and I suddenly hate myself, not for what I've just admitted to my loving husband and the amazing father to our child, but for what I'm
not
telling him. My full answer.

“Well,” Nolan says, releasing my hand and slapping his thighs before he abruptly stands. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I say softly, looking up at him.

“For letting me be the
second
person to know. Just after Ellen,” he says, then walks over to my neatly organized baskets, picks up the pink elephant, and drops it into its proper container.

T
he following Tuesday night, I drive back over to school for our annual Open House, the night when parents meet their child's teacher, visit the classroom, and hear an overview of the curriculum. Afterward, everyone convenes in the auditorium, where the headmaster and a few other administrators give a spiel about how amazing our school is in order to inspire parents, already paying thousands in tuition, to open their checkbooks and donate a few dollars more.

I always dread the parental interaction the night entails—without a doubt, it is my least favorite part of teaching. This year is worse than usual, for obvious reasons, and as I pull into the faculty parking lot, I have the distinct feeling that I might actually pass out from nervousness over seeing Will again. It doesn't help that it's god-awful hot and humid out—or that I've been juicing for forty-eight hours straight in an attempt to fit into an ambitious size-six dress purchased specifically with this evening in mind.

I park my car, unfasten my seatbelt, and blast myself with AC before calling Gabe for a final dose of moral support. When he doesn't answer, I fight the temptation to call Meredith. We haven't communicated at all since she left my house in a huff, and for once I'm determined not to cave first.

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I carefully apply a fresh layer of lip gloss and mascara as Sydney Swanson, my fellow first-grade teacher and closest colleague, pulls into the spot beside me, making a fish face through her window. Sydney is one of the sunniest, most upbeat women I know, which is especially impressive given that she's thirty-nine and in my dismal relationship boat. She also happens to be six feet in flats, further narrowing her dating pool thanks to her nonnegotiable he-must-be-taller-than-I-am-even-in-heels criterion.

We both step out of our matching Jettas (purchased at the same dealership on the same day for a better deal) as she surveys my outfit, then whistles.

“Whoa! Eat your heart out, Will!” she says a little too loudly, exaggerating her Texas twang for effect. Everything about Sydney is big—her eyes and lips, her hot-rolled hair, her saline-filled breasts, her brash personality—and although I normally embrace her larger-than-life attributes, there are times, like now, that I wish she could be a little more discreet.

I shush her, nervously glancing around the parking lot.

“Re-
lax,
sister,” she says. “You got this.”

I tell her I think I might faint.

“You do look a little…ill.”

“Ill?”
I say, feeling queasier by the second. “Oh,
great
.”

Sydney grabs my hand, stops in her tracks, and forces me to look at her as the new choral director, whom we haven't quite determined whether we like, passes us with a terse hello.

“Okay. Listen to me,” she says, her voice finally lowered. “You look absolutely fantastic. And skinny.”

I thank her, even though I know she doesn't mean skinny—just skinny for
me.
I'll still take it.

She continues, “How many pounds have you dropped since Friday?”

“Six. But they'll all be back tomorrow,” I say, putting on my Ray-Bans even though we're steps away from the entrance and already in the shade of the building. “Plus one or two, knowing me.”

“Well, we'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,” she says, summing up her philosophy of life as we enter the building and wave hello to a half dozen colleagues. “And seriously, Josie, that dress is
killer
.”

Promptly worrying that “killer” isn't really the look you want on Open House Night, I furtively ask if it's too short.

“Maybe too short to play hopscotch in,” Sydney says with a laugh. “But it will certainly make Will's wife jealous.”

“Um. That's actually
not
my goal here, Sydney,” I say, knowing that such a thing is impossible anyway. Not only does Andrea have Will
and
his
two
children, but she also happens to be prettier, younger, and thinner. The damn trifecta. I tell myself there's a decent chance that I'm funnier or smarter or nicer.

“And remind me?” Sydney says. “What
is
your goal, again?”

“I don't know….I guess I'd like to make him a little…
wistful
. Maybe give him a small, nostalgic pang,” I whisper as we round the corner, then glance down the corridor at a sea of smartly dressed parents, some making effusive small talk while others diligently fill out their name tags at the check-in table.

“Do you see him?” she asks, scanning the crowd along with me.

I shake my head.

“Maybe he got fat and bald,” Sydney says. “Look for a fat, bald version of him.”

“No. I've seen a recent photo in
The Atlantan
. He's definitely not fat or bald.”

“Damn. Too bad.”

“God, Sydney. I really don't know if I can do this,” I say, my voice as weak as my knees.

She looks at me with genuine worry, which only heightens my fear. “C'mon, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Follow me and try not to make eye contact with anyone.”

I nod, letting her whisk me past the parents, then down a flight of stairs to the first-grade wing. When we reach the safety of my classroom, which is diagonally across the hall from hers, she closes the door, then bolts it shut for added protection. “Sit down,” she says, striding over to me. “Right there. On the floor.”

I follow her orders, plopping down onto the braided rug, then lowering my forehead to touch my knees.

“I see London, I see France,” she's unable to resist.

I reply with a faint groan.

“What have you eaten today?” she asks, sitting beside me and reaching over to rub my back in small, soothing circles.

“Just kale juice and a little black coffee,” I confess.

“That's
it
?” Sydney says, aghast. She pulls a PowerBar out of her bottomless bag. “Here. Eat this. At least take a few bites.”

“I can't,” I say, refusing it. “I'd rather pass out than puke.”

“Good point. Puking would be mortifying.” She lets out a laugh. “Can you imagine?”

“Sydney! That's not helping,” I say, feeling kale rise in my throat.

“Sorry, sorry. You're right….” she says. “Just breathe, honey….In through your nose…Out through your mouth.”

She demonstrates, and I follow her lead, the oxygen expanding my lungs and lowering my heart rate. “What time is it?” I ask, after a few minutes of silence.

“Almost six-thirty. They'll be coming down soon.” She's referring to all the parents, but I only picture Will and Andrea—who right now might as well be the royal Will and
Kate.
“You gonna be okay?”

I peer up at her and nod. “I think so.”

“Just remember,” Sydney says, “she doesn't know you're single. And neither does he.”

I nod again, thinking of how often I'm told that men
can,
in fact, sense when you're desperate. But maybe that doesn't apply to the married ones who have already dumped you. Besides, I'm no longer desperate, I remind myself. I have a game plan, finally, which I've already confided in Sydney, too.

“And remember—you only have to get through the next hour or so,” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to get through the next
nine
months.”

Sydney's eyes widen, her thick fake lashes at attention. “What? Wait! Are you already
pregnant
? Is that why you're sick?”

“No, dummy. I meant I have to get through the school year,” I say.

“Oh. You will. No problem,” she says. “Just stand up straight and smile. And wipe the lipstick off your front tooth.”

I rub my teeth with my finger and thank her, wishing she were my sister. Hell, if that were the case, I'd actually be the responsible one in the family.

On her way to the door, she glances over her shoulder, gives me a thumbs-up, and says, “No matter what happens, that dress was a great fucking call.”

O
VER THE NEXT
ten minutes, my classroom quickly fills with parents, filing in two by two. Meanwhile, I focus on breathing and smiling, scanning name tags and shaking hands. Once I have that down, I graduate to autopilot small talk, working the room like it's a cocktail party minus the flattering lighting, music, and cocktails.
Hello! Welcome! It's so nice to meet you! You're Lucy's mother? My goodness, I see the resemblance! The summer sure did fly by! I'm so excited for the school year!

As the last few stragglers enter, and the slightly slow wall clock over the dry-erase board clicks to six-forty-five, Will and Andrea have yet to arrive, and I start to become hopeful that they won't be coming at all. It
could
happen. Maybe they had a previous engagement. Maybe one or both had a non-life-threatening but contagious and unsightly illness like, say, hand, foot, and mouth disease or pinkeye. Maybe, just
maybe,
they got into a huge fight over
me
. One could hope, I thought, as I tried to imagine the accusatory eruption on their way out the door.
You still have feelings for her, don't you?!
…
No, I swear I don't!
…
Then why are you wearing cologne?

Whatever the explanation, though, it is time to get started. Tugging nervously at the hem of my dress, I clear my throat and say hello, my smile feeling frozen. The room instantly quiets, everyone on their best behavior, the Pavlovian response to being back in a classroom, no matter what your age.

“Welcome! Welcome, everyone!” My voice sounds unnaturally high, like that of a sorority rush chair who has just downed a Red Bull. I swallow, making a concerted effort to lower my voice an octave, along with my eyebrows, which feel maniacally raised.

“Thank you so much for being here tonight,” I continue, sounding a bit more normal. I glance at the door, praying that it doesn't open, and move on with my script.
It's only been a couple of weeks, and already I can tell what a wonderful group this is. It's been such a pleasure getting to know your children—and I'm thrilled to meet you all. This evening, I'm going to briefly go through the curriculum for the school year—some of the fun things we're going to cover in reading and math, as well as our specials, which include science and social studies. Please take this opportunity to explore the classroom, visit your child's cubby, perhaps leave him or her a little note for tomorrow. And of course, feel free to ask any questions you may have. Remember, as I tell your children, there are no stupid questions—and my door is always, always open!

Then, as my Charlie Brown teacher voice drones on, it happens. The door swings open, and in walk Andrea and Will. As everyone turns to look at the latecomers, I make the shocking observation that the perfect couple is not only late but also flustered and slightly out of breath. At least she is—I won't let myself look directly at him. Andrea still qualifies as beautiful, but to my relief, she isn't quite as perfect as I remember from my Whole Foods sighting. She has gained a few pounds and her hair is overdue for color, a dull brown stripe streaked with gray at the crown of her otherwise golden head. More satisfying are the sweat-soaked armholes of her marigold-yellow silk blouse.
Rookie move wearing silk on a day as hot as this one,
I think, as she makes furtive eye contact with me and whispers, “Sorry we're late.”

I wave off her apology with the same magnanimous smile I'd give to a child who has just wet his pants (which still occasionally happens in the first grade). “You're totally fine,” I say, my heart fluttering in my chest, my role as scorned ex-girlfriend suddenly supplanted by my position as poised, punctual, and most forgiving educator.