Sleepless Nights (20 page)

He must have been watching a movie downstairs, because when I finally fell asleep at four a.m., I dreamed I was making love to Warren Beatty in the kitchen when poor Dave came in, saw us, and started begging me with loud tears and lamentations to marry him.

34

Q

I
t’s funny what a difference a couple of months can make.

Our first few visits to see Dr. Templeton, our lean, homely-faced pediatrician, were exciting adventures, offering exquisite moments that seemed to validate our entry into the mysterious world of parenting. In the waiting room we enjoyed a rather pleasant feeling of entitlement: Tom and I were parents at last, the kind of people who could legitimately pore over leaflets about car seats and vaccines and shake their heads dolefully over the cost of nursery schools. At our nine-week visit we rushed in, sat down, and inspected our watches impatiently until the nurse called Samuel’s name.

“So what’s going on? Samuel sleeping through the night yet?” Dr. Templeton asked cheerfully, when Samuel was naked on her table. She kneaded his skinny hips with long, probing fingers; he looked surprised for a moment or two, then began to whimper. No, he’s not, Tom replied, testily; that’s why we arranged to see you today. He’s not even close to sleeping through the night. And he cries
all the time.

She shrugged her shoulders, all sympathetic understanding, and checked through her sheaf of notes. He’s a breast-fed child I see, she said—hmm. Bottle-fed children often sleep through the night a little bit sooner than those that are breast-fed, formula takes longer to digest, but he’s sure to catch up soon. And it’s a wonderful thing you’re
doing for him, she added, turning to me, a wide smile stretching her face. Breast-feeding is the best start you can give your child. So many wonderful health benefits!

“But I’m a little surprised to hear he’s not settling down,” she went on, a slight frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows. “Getting into more of a routine, that sort of thing. How much of the day does he cry, exactly?”

Samuel, as if on cue, switched from whimpering to wailing, arching his body away from the doctor’s cool hands. She watched him in a detached fashion for a few moments, writhing on the table; within about a minute, he was crying full-force.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I pushed past her, scooped him up, and rocked him gently in my arms. I could feel her watching us.

Samuel continued to scream, a horrible sound—desperate, lost, pained, hopeless. His eyes rolled up in his head, his body became suddenly stiff, his skin flushed purple. “I’ll have to nurse him, it’s the only way,” I muttered, frantically trying to get my son’s resisting lips to my breast. He opened his mouth, bared his gums, and kicked away from me so hard I almost dropped him. Great, I thought to myself, this is looking good. Introducing Quinn Boothroyd, World’s Best Mother.

“Yes, I do see what you mean,” Dr. Templeton said, or rather yelled at us, finally, after a few strategic retreats into another office to “look something up.” “At this stage I’m inclined to diagnose it as colic—he wasn’t crying when he first came in, there’s nothing obviously wrong with him, no tender spots, and some babies do keep this sort of thing up for three months, six months, even beyond. But it can’t hurt to get another opinion; there are some obvious possibilities, and we might as well investigate them properly. Reflux, for instance, is a likely candidate. How often does he vomit?”

We discussed Samuel’s eating and digesting habits as best we could over the din, establishing finally that (a) it might be reflux
and (b) it might not. She decided to send us to someone called Dr. Ezekial Sykes who apparently specialized in infant gastric disorders and who might be able to tell us more. Or might not.

“Have you tried swings?” Dr. Templeton asked us brightly, just before we left, “or swaddling? Maybe both at once? With music?” I managed to avoid pressing my fingers into her eye sockets (barely), although on our way out of the office I did see a leaflet for a “patented colic-soother,” which I stowed in my pocket. Parents across the nation swore by it, apparently, and it had long been a staple in homes in Sweden. “My child used to cry for hours a day. Then we tried the patented colic-soother and everything changed. Now people tell us our daughter is the happiest baby they’ve ever seen,” said Birgitta from Stockholm. It was a special bouncy chair that played soothing sounds of the sea while moving from side to side in a way designed to recall the gentle rocking of the womb. Tom told me I was being suckered in by advertising, and loudly prohibited me from buying it.

“Apart from anything, Q, we’ve got to start thinking more carefully about how we’re spending money,” he said later, when we were home. He opened his wallet up to me with a comical expression. “Empty, see? And now you’ve decided you want us to give up our lucrative careers and become small-town lawyers, we just can’t afford to waste cash on snake oil.”

“It’s not snake oil,” I protested faintly. “And your friend sent us to Kent in the first place! Besides, I haven’t—I mean, I haven’t said that we should
commit,
we’re just going to see how—”

“Q,
I
simply said we should meet the guy.
You’re
the one who’s got swept up in some case. But if I’m wrong, great; let’s just dismiss the whole idea. We’ll call Kent and say, “Sorry, you got the wrong guys. Find someone else to take over your practice.’”

“Tom, it’s not as easy as that. Think about Emmie.”

“I have been thinking about her,” he replied coolly. “And frankly,
she’s not our problem. You barely know her. Plus Kent is obviously sympathetic to her. He’ll take her on whether we come on board with the firm or not.” He sat back on the window seat.

“I don’t think so, Tom.” I came and sat beside him. “You’re right that he’s sympathetic. But he told me he simply hasn’t got the space or energy at this point in his professional life to deal with a woman like her. And I believe him. He needs associates to help out if he’s going to take on her case. After all, it’s going to involve real digging to find something on her ex-husband to shake his testimony in court. Ryan is polished, good-looking, and affluent; he’s cool under pressure, he makes great eye contact, and Kent has heard stories about him buying up half the toy store for Paulie. He’s going to look great in court. While Emmie is rough, down-at-heel, out of a job, and let’s not forget that bunch of explicit photographs that’ll support his claim she worked as a prostitute.”

“Q” (my husband looked exasperated), “you do choose strange people to get exercised about! I have to ask you this: what
is
bugging you about this woman? About this case? Because honestly, at the moment I don’t get it.”

Outside, the blue sky was paling in the late afternoon; the moon, almost transparent, was emerging over the skyscrapers.

“I
know
she’s a good mother to that kid,” I said slowly, rubbing a space in the grit on the inside of the window around the outline of the moon. “Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. And that little boy loves her.”

“Well—” (with a heavy sigh) “I hope you’re right, darling. And I hope—God, I hope—
I’ve
done the right thing.”

Tom met with Luis at Crimpson this morning; the meeting, as Tom explained it to me, was difficult and intense. Luis outlined a deal he’d brokered for Tom to stay on at Crimpson “of counsel”—which meant, effectively, that they would keep him at the firm for his skills as a bankruptcy lawyer, but with no chance of making
partner. The pay cut would be substantial too. Luis clearly thought Tom would jump at the offer (“At least it’ll keep you at the firm, eh? Thank God for that. You know, your being out these last few weeks was actually a pretty sharp move, my friend,” he went on, laughing, “made them realize how much they need you. The recession’s kinda helped you, too—who knew bankruptcy could get so hot?”).

Tom thought the offer through for approximately twenty-five seconds. Then he politely declined. Luis metaphorically fell off his chair.

“Maybe I should have taken up Luis’s offer,” Tom fretted now, and I pulled him close. “We’ve got a child to support, after all. And we still don’t know what’s going to happen with your job. Oh God, maybe I’ve been completely insane…”

Maybe, but at least we had a plan to keep money coming in for the time being. Tom would get a modest severance package from Crimpson, and Paul had offered to help get him set up with consulting work (“Your skills are hot property right now”) to bridge the gap until we decided what to do next. “Of
course
you’ve done the right thing,” I assured him therefore, nuzzling his neck, trying to feel as confident as I sounded. “Crimpson would have worked you to death, Tom. Taken your heart’s blood all over again. Sucked you dry. We don’t need riches, you know.”

35

Jeanie

Y
ou might not want to come to New York now—I mean, Paul will be here tomorrow night, he’s coming to talk to Tom about work things, and I know you don’t think much of him.”

Q sounded as if she was plumb in the intersection between baffled, appalled, and ecstatic when I explained to her that Dave had already left—that rather than coming down with me to New York for the weekend, as we’d originally planned, he’d gone to the airport to talk himself onto an earlier flight. I was still in a mild state of shock about the whole thing. “But why did you—but why did he—but I thought that you—oh, listen, you’ll have to tell me all about it later,” Q went on urgently, “and I want
all
the details. But in the circumstances it seems a bit pointless to come all this way when, as I said, Paul is coming for dinner.”

“Well,” I began uncertainly, but Q cut in again. “On the other hand,” she added thoughtfully, “we could do with you on the car journey back. The trip here was just dreadful. You could help me keep Samuel entertained, so if you don’t
mind
…”

That settled it. “Of course I’ll come, Q,” I said immediately, realizing suddenly that there was nothing in the whole world I wanted as much as a few days in New York. The sights—the cocktail bars—the shopping; Alison asked me to look for a particular belt in Bloomingdale’s, and she’d even offered to buy one for me if it was in stock.
“I’ll get a train down from New Haven and I’ll phone you to let you know what time I arrive,” I explained.

I spent the afternoon working my way through a packet of “English muffins” (i.e., not cakes) dripping butter over the computer keyboard as I searched databases for jobs in social work (having been passed over for the job in Cumbria; not a surprise). There
were
still positions out there, of course; if you fancied spending a hundred-odd hours a week sorting out methamphetamine addicts for £16,000 a year, your options were legion. Of course, with that salary, the only place in London you’d be able to live was a cardboard box under Tower Bridge, and you’d be finding your evening meal in the bins outside Starbucks, but who could be so churlish as to care about that?

But appealing positions that paid a living wage were few and far between. If I wasn’t careful, I knew I’d have to take up my old job at The Firefly Theatre to keep me going when I got back (I’d been working shifts in the front of house there for three years). They would be thrilled, of course; Marge was at her most seductive the day before I left. “None of the new staff know a thing about the theater, darling, we’ll miss you dreadfully,” she said fretfully through her pink Sobranie. “Sergio will have to take over your job, but seriously sweetie, he’s not a patch on you, no organizational skills at all, and he will keep trying to hire his little friends. Half of them don’t even speak English, and I just
can’t
have them jabbering in the boxes, Val would kill me. Sweetheart, say you’ll come back to your old job when you return from America, mnnn? We’ve got a mad schedule starting in September; I’d love to know you were taking up the reins again. Val was talking about you just the other day, you know, in the most
adulatory
terms!”

It’s nice to be wanted, even by Marge, The Firefly’s diminutive, fey, narrow-minded front-of-house director and Val, the stomping, sallow-faced general manager. But I stubbornly resisted their blandishments. I hadn’t spent the last year getting a social work degree
to go back to shift work, particularly not at The Firefly (lots of responsibility, no job security, and no chance of advancing as long as Marge was in bed with Val. I only got the job in the first place because Alison knew Marge at university). So I told her no, consented to be kissed and cried over, and swore blind to myself (when I’d firmly removed Marge’s hand from my left breast) that hell would freeze over before I went back.

So I sent off three applications through cyberspace to who-knows-what bored recipients, crossing my fingers as I did so, although I wasn’t entirely sure if that was to help me
get
the jobs or
not
get them. Then, just as I finished, I received a phone call from Una. I wanted to tell her all about Dave but she kept sighing pointedly and asking if I could
possibly
talk more quietly. Aggrieved, I was in the middle of asking her why she’d rung in the first place if she didn’t want me to talk when she cut me off mid-sentence to ask if I
really
need my room next month, because her sister was coming to stay and she’d promised her my bed. I asked her sarcastically if she’d like me to live in the States permanently, just so her sister could have my room. She actually brightened for a moment and asked if I was serious.

36

Q

M
y conversation with Fay on the Friday of our New York visit went something like this.

Me: Hi lovely to see you again nice to see the offices everything going well Schuster’s clearly still on the up you’ll hardly miss me think I need a few more months Samuel not very well how are you?