The History of Great Things (15 page)

N
ew York is harder than you thought it would be. You're not sorry you decided to come, not one bit, but you hadn't given much thought to the single mom thing, to the single thing. The single thing is not your thing, and it never was your thing, and so you head into dating as full-on as you do everything else. You meet several more men through Carolina, a few more through other friends. Not one man who meets you isn't interested. That is never the problem. All men who meet you are interested. But you need only one, ideally one who is everything Fred isn't. So after a number of uninspiring dates you settle on Stan, a nice Jewish man, an attorney at an entertainment law firm, works in the city, lives in a big stone house in Westchester. He's got two sons, my age and younger, thankfully they have a mother already, one they live with. You and Stan spend a great deal of time together; he's not the first person you sleep with after the split, but he is the first to sleep over, and you're not quite sure how to handle this. You're not ready for is-this-my-new-daddy-type questions. So you have him leave before I get up in the morning; this goes on for a good while. Stan is gaga for you. He doesn't spill the L word too soon, doesn't want to scare you off, but this forty-two-year-old man
with gray in his eyebrows can barely hold it in, says he's sure now that light didn't exist before you, tells you to pick out any star in the sky you fancy and he'll make it yours, that you are the most captivating creature he's ever laid eyes on and that he can't imagine what he did right to get to be with you, but that he is grateful. Fred never said thing one like that; he was kind, but his compliments were mild, like the fluff from a dandelion;
Dinner was delicious!
about a pork chop you laid in a pan and salted,
Mommy's such a good seamstress!
about the woolen coat you made for me. Without a doubt, he found you exceptionally beautiful, he just wasn't inclined to say it out loud very often. But Stan's boyish admiration isn't quite on the mark either; it's harder to hear about your
immeasurable beauty
than you imagined; turns out it's nearly unbearable because you know it isn't true. Or worse, even if it is true now, you know that one day you'll be old and wrinkled and measurably less beautiful, and you care, and you're going to hell for it. Around the five-month mark, you're stripping the bed to do laundry and discover, written in red Magic Marker on your pillow,
STAN LOVES LOIS
inside a big red heart. It's meant to be a romantic surprise, of course, but what it really is, is the sign you needed to be sure that Lois does not love Stan. Making matters worse, you are in no financial position to throw out a perfectly good pillow, which is exactly what you'd do if you could. Some nerve he has, not thinking of that. You turn it over and put a new pillowcase right on it and that's the end of that. You will break it off tonight, and Stan will be crushed, but soon enough he'll find another woman to put on a pedestal and then divorce again, though he doesn't know this now. And it's no concern of yours.

So now you're a single gal again, but you have a new girlfriend, Peggy, the mother of my friend Liz from school, and
you and Peggy make a little connection when you pick me up from a playdate at her house, and Peggy suggests that next time Betsy comes over you should stay and hang out with her. Peggy sees something in you, buried under your buttoned-to-the-top blouse and full skirt, and wants to help you uncover it. The following week, Peggy brings you into her bedroom and closes the door, tells us kids to knock if we want to come in. She asks if you've ever
done grass
. You hesitate—mowing the lawn is the first thing that comes into your mind—and when you do clue in and say no, you feel like she may as well have asked if you've ever had sex with a woman, and you're a tiny bit afraid that might be next. But it isn't. So you share a joint with Peggy, she shows you how to do it, and soon you're relaxed and floppy and giggly, you'd do this 24/7 if you could accomplish anything this way, but you imagine having to take a voice lesson on marijuana and picture yourself rolling on the floor, peeing your underwear. You admire Peggy's flowy Mexican blouse; she looks comfortable in it and in what's under it. She takes it right off and tells you to put it on; you do so. You giggle; she tells you to keep it, throws on a paint-splattered, stretched-out T-shirt that was on the floor by her bed. Peggy is an artist. She tells you stories of some of the men she's been with since her own divorce—
Nothing special
, she says,
but quite a few amazing lovers in there
. Peggy sees the curiosity on your face, gets that you haven't fully worked out the sleeping-with-people-you-aren't-married-to thing, in spite of having a go at it when you actually were married.
It's 1968!
she says, smiling. You know what year it is, but you don't know what her point is, and she sees that.
You're a modern single woman. You're in New York City. It's your time. You can do what you want now and not feel shitty about it! I had a three-way once on peyote!
You don't know what peyote is, you
think it might be a type of bedsheet, but you do know you're barely ready for another two-way.
I mean, it wasn't all that great, honestly. You can skip that, in my opinion. But there are lots of men out there. Why limit yourself?

Your mind is effectively blown. This is not what you were taught. You set your hair with rollers, and you will do this forever and always. Women wear slips under their dresses; they go on proper dates until proposals are made; they maybe, maybe work part-time until they become with child. What could you have been thinking, leaving all that behind? This way has not been quite what you imagined, though that didn't go far beyond Grande Dame. You hoped to be so celebrated that you're given a name, like Sutherland's “La Stupenda,” or Callas's “La Divina,” or even just be referred to by your last name, like Caballé. Not yet. And this blouse is
so
comfortable. Stupid slips.
Right on!
you say. Okay, too much. You and Peggy fall on top of each other laughing.

O
kay, I think I have it this time, Betsy. Scenario four—or is it five?

You're not a kid anymore. You've stopped drinking, but that's about it. You go to the AA meetings. You're still single. You're broke. I die, you grieve, now you're in your mid-thirties. You've given it a go as a writer, but it wasn't what you wanted after all. You decide it's now time to pursue your life's dream of becoming a Broadway star. As you see it, now that your mother the singer is dead, you no longer have to use that dimmer switch anymore; that's not really true, but you hope. You still have stage fright, which is the reason you say you never pursued it—it was hard enough for you to sing for the singing coach—so you contact a woman who specializes in stuff like that, and she works with you for a year, breathing exercises and guided meditations and the like. Some of it is flat-out silly. She tells you to picture yourself on a stage that faces an ocean; the ocean is your audience, the ocean doesn't judge you, the ocean only wants you to succeed. You have always loved the ocean, but right now you're picturing tsunamis instead of gentle, encouraging waves; this can't possibly help, and you tell the coach so. She says just keep doing it, it's not magic, and so you do, you
don't have much to lose, and one day an audition comes up that you don't say no to, for a supporting part in a new musical. You were already on the old side to make a start in this field when you went to the coach in the first place, but this part is tailor-made for you, exactly your age, a spinster character, the kind with glasses and a bun that comes down at some point when she meets a nice man. You get the part. I could give you a year's worth of auditions like this, so you know what it's really like for most people—how it stinks when you get feedback like
You're not ready
or
Do you have anything else
or
Have you ever
or
Would you be willing to dye your hair/get a nose job/do a nude scene
or sometimes even just
Thank you
, which may as well be them saying
You may now go jump off the Chrysler Building
.

Their primary concern is that you're too old, but your talent is undeniable, and they decide unanimously to hire you, and you're flattered, although you're not at all sure you should have taken this on. You are, now that you're here, decidedly
not
sure. It should be said that it was never that you didn't know you could sing, and sing well. That has nothing to do with the fear, which returns in the form of that swelling ocean, on this actual stage, as you're receiving actual praise from actual people, and you see in front of you an enormous Hokusai wave coming down over the house seats, over the casting people, over the orchestra pit, hanging right down over your head.

—But Mom, a bunch of scenes back I quit my singing career to jump on a boat and make babies. Why do I keep trying to audition for things?

—Weren't you the one who said this story was nonlinear?

— . . .

—Is that storyline resolved for you, in real life?

— . . .

T
he Pill is increasingly popular, but after weighing your options, you land on the diaphragm and decide to stick. It's a messy pain in the ass that makes you certain a man invented it, but the phrase “weight gain” was enough to cross the Pill off the list of choices. It's not like you're out sleeping around anyway, you've always been a one-man woman, but by now there's been a series of ones, you dumped the last one just a few days ago, and having another child right now is not under consideration. The child you already have is only in second grade, but you've spent the last year wondering why elementary school couldn't go nine to five. Nine to seven. Thirty. That would leave time for bath, book, and bed. Quality time. Perfect.

Your monthly time has never been anything other than an alert, something to set a clock by. You've been marking a special calendar (kept in your nightstand drawer, a tiny one picked up for free at the pharmacy) since just before you got married; you never had a sex talk with Grandma, exactly, no more than the beginning of a talk about
relations
when you were eighteen and yes, still a virgin, though you were aware of how the parts went together, enough to tell her she didn't need to say more, to her great relief. And of course it wasn't long after this that Dad came
into the picture, and the day after your engagement, Grandma suggested that you start marking your calendar, thinking less of prevention than of planning.

Double-checking the calendar, this year's with the unfortunate image of a top-hatted Baby New Year on it, you see that your monthly time was due yesterday. Surely everyone is late once in a while, yet signs indicate otherwise this time. You haven't felt so much as one cramp thus far, and you've never had a period yet without at least one day beforehand when murder seemed comprehensible.

Three days go by. Still no cramps or twinges of any kind, nor so much as a drop of blood. On the fourth day, you make an appointment with a gynecologist, but they can't get you in until the seventh day, at which time you are given a test and told that they'll call with the results in a week to ten days. You refrain from noting that you're now already a week late, and that in a week or ten days you expect to be sure one way or another, extremely clear on what the results will say. But denial can be an intoxicating lover. There could be some good medical reason you haven't gotten your period. Maybe you just need to eat better. Maybe you have some minor medical condition. Could be a million explanations, really.

The eight days that follow have extra hours in them. There is no possible way that these eight days have not gotten progressively longer, twenty-five hours at first, you could have slept through that and not noticed, but it feels like thirty hours on the second and forty on the third and so on, until, on the last day, looking at the clock, you see that the second hand is clearly moving in increments of a minute at a time. Finally a nurse from the doctor's office calls and makes an appointment for you to come in for your results.

The doctor says
Congratulations
; you burst into tears. You get up to leave. He asks if you don't want to go ahead and schedule a series of appointments. All you can do is shake your head and go.

You're pregnant and single and you earned about four thousand dollars last year. You couldn't afford another child even if you did think you wanted one; nor is it an option to announce your single motherhood to the world. The world still hasn't forgiven Ingrid Bergman for getting pregnant out of wedlock, you don't imagine they'll be easier on you—not that you could ever tell your mother, or father, or best friend, and definitely not Stan, who effing did this to you. That guy would freaking beg you to marry him. Putting the baby up for adoption is the only option, and that's going to fuck up your next six months pretty royally. Maybe, for the first few months, you can say you've gained a little weight if anyone asks. Your career has hardly even begun. You've failed.

Another few days of crying go by before you remember a conversation with that woman Evelyn, the aspiring model you'd met at the Barbizon. She'd couched it in language you hadn't really understood at the time, or at least, hadn't wanted to. Evelyn had spoken frankly about not wanting kids, said that she took care to make sure that didn't happen because she knew what her options were if she were to find herself pregnant. That was more or less the extent of it, but you recall being struck at the time by the tone of what she was saying, that there was a vague implication that there might be options you weren't aware of, even if they weren't terribly desirable.

You call Evelyn immediately, leave a message with her answering service to call at her earliest convenience. When she calls back later that evening, you catch up briefly before tell
ing her the real reason for the call. She gives you an address in Queens. You've never been to Queens. You ask for a phone number. Evelyn says
There is no phone number
.
What kind of doctor's office doesn't have a phone?
you ask.
It's not exactly a doctor's office. There's a doctor.
Every lick of good sense in you says this can't be right.
This is how it is
, Evelyn says.

You study your subway map, tell me you'll be out for a few hours, that the babysitter will take me to the park; you take the IRT to almost the end of the 7 line, which takes nearly two hours. You've got a paperback book, a romance, but it's hard to focus. You might have considered that romance wouldn't take your mind off things today. Everyone on the subway looks like they need things taken off their minds. You get out of the subway in an unfamiliar land, notice a deli outside the subway stop called Flushing Foods. Flushing? Honestly? That seems like a cruel joke. You find your way to the address Evelyn gave you. It's a nondescript two-story residential building on a side street. You enter into a waiting area that was once a living room, walls lined with wooden folding chairs, not so much as a tattered magazine or a sad clown painting to look at. One of the women waiting points to a clipboard on the wall, tells you to put your first name at the bottom of the list. You sit down on one of the chairs, feel a splinter pulling at your skirt. The mood in the room is a level of somber that's new to you. Almost every woman here is alone, silent. A couple of them are crying, a couple of them look terrified. One looks to be about sixteen, the rest around your age, women of every imaginable kind. One by one they are escorted into another room; the waiting room fills with still more young women. Two hours in, an unshaven man in a lab coat comes out and calls your name. Why didn't he shave? This strikes you as the worst impression a doctor could make—until
you are taken into the back room, which looks like someplace a kidnapping victim would be held. One wheeled stool for the doctor with a rip in the vinyl, one table for the patient, one small sink, one metal tray with one long, sharp-looking metal instrument. The unshaven guy—is he even a doctor?—asks you a few questions.
Are you married. How many sexual partners have you had.
How often do you have sex. Have you ever been pregnant before. Is this your first
procedure
.
No, but this is your first time hearing the word “procedure” used in such an ominous way. You spy blood in the sink. There will be no proceeding here. You leave. You'll sooner have another baby.

You call Evelyn back, describe what you've just been through, she says she's
real sorry
you had to go through that,
can only imagine
, says she may know one more person who has a contact, she'll call back later with a number.
Tell them you're calling about their special services
, Evelyn says when she calls back. Nothing about this seems special to you.

You do as instructed and receive an address for a clinic in the West Village. The clinic is not marked as such; it's on the ground floor of a brownstone that looks like any other residential brownstone. Four other women are waiting, looking as nervous as you do. One of them is visibly pregnant. A receptionist hands you a card to fill out with relevant medical information, again asking for only your first name. Previous pregnancies—2, Miscarriages—1, Major illnesses—0. Emergency contact—none. You hand this back to the receptionist; she glances at it, hands it right back.
You have to put an emergency contact.
You look at her—doesn't she know why you haven't filled that out? She does.
You have to put someone on there or you can't get the services.
The services. Now they're not even special anymore. You put down Audrey's number and pray to god it's never needed. In
your heart you know Audrey would be nothing but discreet and gentle about it, but this is a secret that will go down with you.

The receptionist escorts you to the back; this time, thank heavens, the doctor's office looks like a doctor's office.
You're in good hands
, she says. The doctor is female, introduces herself as Joan. You've never met a female doctor before, though it's not news to you that they exist. Your eyes start filling up as soon as she extends her hand. Maybe
she's
not really a doctor. Why didn't you ask anyone before you came here? You are the queen of asking questions. Dr. Joan hands you a tissue, puts an arm on your shoulder, gestures to the table with the stirrups, explains the procedure step by step, asks if you have any questions before she begins. You shake your head,
I guess not
. Dr. Joan senses that you're still not sure about any of this.
If this were legal, Lois
, she says,
it would be the same procedure. I'm a licensed obstetrician, even though I am listed as not currently practicing. Some women aren't so lucky.

Lucky.