... and Baby Makes Two Read online

  “I'll put this away” Jane said to the wipes warmer. She tried to walk like a normal human being. She could hear her own heartbeat. She wondered if Peter heard it too.

  Alone in the baby's room, Jane felt the echo of that kiss. Just a brush of his five o'clock shadow against her cheek. She resolved to march right back out there and kiss him again. She found him in the living room, ordering dinner over the phone. His voice sounded a bit choked.

  “Brown rice, right?” he asked. She nodded. Opportunity lost. Damn.

  They were already pretending that there had been no kiss, although it seemed to Jane that the entire apartment had turned red on the second Mississippi. They ate dinner and watched Yankee Doodle Dandy. Jane sat next to him, but then decided that she was sitting too far away for another kiss to happen. But how could she shift closer without being obvious? Could she find an excuse to get up, then sit back down in a more kiss-friendly location? She shook her head at her own foolishness, sat back, and said, “Bianca left for California?”

  “Oh. Yes. She did. Sorry we had a little fight. I didn't know about the job out here.”

  “Oh.”

  When was he going to kiss Jane again? Now? Tonight? Soon?

  “The thing is—she's older than me, and maybe she sort of pulls rank on me. She makes every decision. She wins every fight. I gave up a lot to be married to her. When is she going to give up something for me? And that's why I need to ask you—”

  For another kiss?

  “—to forgive me. It was kind of awkward to have Bianca visit you, wasn't it?”

  “No. It was fine. It was really fine and …” He looked at her sideways, and she knew she had to drop the Fine act. “Okay it was a little odd.”

  “For me too. Somehow I couldn't talk her out of visiting. And I tried. Anyway, I'm starting to feel like … like …”

  Like kissing Jane again?

  “… like I miss her so much,” he continued. “It gets me into trouble sometimes. Like just now. That kiss. Sorry about that.”

  Sorry he kissed her. Sorry. So. She let it drop. He missed his wife. Let him go. Let him go. They were quiet for a long time. James Cagney was dancing down the steps of the White House. A very athletic buck and wing. Jane smiled and closed her eyes. Let him go. Let him go. If he's sitting here missing his wife, then just let him go. She was belly breathing. She was calm. She was asleep.

  And so was Peter. He fell asleep first, and she followed soon after. She eased into sleep, her head drifting to his shoulder. Their breathing synchronized. She surfaced in the predawn hours when his chin brushed her forehead. She raised her head and looked at him, peaceful and vulnerable. He opened his eyes and quietly pulled her toward him. They lay down on her couch and slept until the sun woke them for the day.

  In the morning, he held her for a while.

  “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “This is getting confusing.” It was, but Jane didn't want it to be. Everything she wanted was in her grasp. This lovely, warm, good-smelling man, who could be a father to the daughter whose face would be revealed one day soon. It was all so close.

  After a lingering hug and a forehead kiss, Peter said, “I really should go.” But he didn't go. Jane said nothing. It was all so close. She held on to him. He was holding her closer. She forgot to think. She kissed him.

  “Jane.”

  “Don't say anything. Not now. Not if you're going to say no.”

  “No. I mean, no—I'm not going to say no. Jane. You have to know how I feel.”

  “I don't. I only know that you're married.” Jane squeezed her toes under. Why did she say that?

  He answered, “But here I am. Falling for you. This is impossible.”

  “Falling for me? That's impossible?”

  “Falling for you was easy” This time, he kissed her. And Jane's helium heart floated out of her body and into the morning sky.

  …

  Somehow Jane managed to concentrate on work that day. A little. And when the clock said that she could leave, Jane decided that she could not commute like a normal person, on the subway. She wanted to walk through the icy streets of the city. She wanted to move her long legs and own the city she walked on. The Irish would call it a good stretch of the legs.

  You need to factor in the wind when you're getting your good stretch of the legs. Parts of Manhattan are genuine wind tunnels. Once or twice, she thought the wind might swoop her into the middle of the street. She picked up her pace.

  She had lists in her head. Work lists, project lists, e-mail lists. And the Über-List, a list of all of the lists that she needed to roll around in her head. Maybe her lists would anchor her to the ground until she could see Peter again and—

  Jane took a giant step, but her foot slid forward and up into the sky. She had a sharp intake of breath, and a slice of pain in her leg. She saw the gray sky and then saw bright white. She opened her eyes to find strangers hovering around her, shouting to one another. Soon, she was rumbling along the street, on a stretcher, inside an ambulance, paramedics shouting numbers to each other, moving equipment and cracking gum. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, hoping for a better picture.

  “Lady, you with us? You okay? She's back. She's here. Okay what's your name? Can you tell us your name?”

  Her leg was giving her a lot of pain. Her left leg, down near the foot, it hurt more and More and more. Oh, my God, the leg!

  She pulled herself up on her elbows and assessed the damage. She relaxed when she saw that her leg was, in fact, still there. It felt shattered, but it appeared to be intact. The paramedic read her mind and laughed a little.

  “You slid on the ice. You blacked out for a minute when you hit your head, and I think you sprained your ankle. It looks pretty bad, but we won't amputate. I promise.”

  Great. Now she was an idiot in pain.

  “Now, what's your name?”

  Jane was referred to as Head Trauma & Sprain. She stayed overnight in the hospital because of the concussion. Noisy people in soft cotton clothes woke her up on a regular basis. She wasn't sure if they intended to or not. They entered the double room Jane shared with Colitis and simply continued loud conversations that had begun outside. Jane had an ugly lump on the back of her head. It kept time with her pulse.

  Peter came to the hospital the next day. Peter taking time off from work was no small gesture, and Jane knew it. Removing himself from work was one of the most selfless gestures in his vocabulary. He wheeled her to a waiting car and drove her home.

  Home. Four long flights of stairs up and up and up and up. And Peter carried her. She tried not to think of Scarlett O’Hara, and he never grunted, though he did refrain from speaking until after they were inside her apartment and he finished a glass of water. Jane had been trying to think light thoughts the whole way up.

  “Do you want to be on the couch or the bed?”

  “I'll take it from here.”

  “Sure.” He put her on the couch. He made her a pot of tea, angled the television, brought the phone, the laptop, the paper, the sugar for the tea, the PDA, the remote, a box of tissues, the crutches, the milk for the tea, the other remote, some crackers, a spoon for the tea, some juice, her medication (just ibuprofen, no real street value there), and a sweater. She couldn't bear it anymore. She wanted him to sit and be romantic, but that wasn't happening. He had fallen for her. He said so. Right over there, by the door. Was he experiencing kisser's remorse? Jane didn't realize that she was scowling.

  “Sorry. Am I in the way?” he asked.

  “No.” Yes, he was. And if he was going to continue in this servant mode, then please, let him have a break and go back to his office. He finished his tasks and he left.

  She spent most of the first day combing through real estate ads. She needed an elevator building. It would solve all her problems and make motherhood a breeze. By the end of the day, she was running out of ads. There was nothing she could afford. And why
was Peter so unromantic?

  “Janie? Your voice mail at work says that you're home? You're laid up? What happened?” It was Howard.

  “It's nothing, Dad. A twisted ankle. I slipped on the ice.”

  “How are you managing?”

  “I'm great. I'm fine.”

  “You can't get outside, can you? Is someone there for you? Oh, Janie.”

  “Peter lives right nearby, remember? I'm fine. It's nothing, Dad. It's absolutely no big deal.” She left it at that. Nothing about falling in love with Peter. After all, Howard was not a young man, and Peter was still a married man. One shock at a time.

  Howard wasted no time. “How would you take care of a baby like this? Are you even able to walk? What would you do?”

  And that was why Jane kept combing the real estate ads. If she had an elevator, she could get outside. She could feel competent. But she needed to find something affordable. Something that allowed room for child care, taxis, tuition, and emergencies. So far, it didn't exist. And that was why Jane was surly with her dad.

  “Look, Dad. I am still going through with this adoption.” She thought she heard him wince. “You can help out or you can just not call. Was this conversation supposed to make me feel better?”

  It was supposed to make her change her mind. That little tumor got bigger.

  …

  Peter returned the next day. He brought movies, chocolate, and glossy magazines. He did everything that needed doing, which left Jane morose. Why was Peter so unromantic and utterly incapable of eye contact? Was he going to apologize again? If he did, could Jane find a way to hurt him back?

  “Let me paint your toenails,” he offered, and he meant nothing kinky, unfortunately. He retrieved a gaudy, glittery nail polish and proceeded to paint her toes. His hands were warm. He cared about doing it right. Jane regretted that she was still wearing yesterday's sweatpants and flannel. Her toes caught the light, and Peter seemed pleased that he had finally gotten her to smile.

  Before he left, her kissed the top of her head. The last time he kissed her, there had been a good deal more passion and more declaring of feelings. Maybe her sweatpants killed romance. Maybe this was how people made the switch from friends-who-flirt to lovers-who-love. Maybe he was about to say something great.

  Peter smiled and said, “I'll take out the trash. It's starting to stink.”

  “Peter? Is something wrong?”

  “Well, yes. Your ankle. It looks like an alien is going to come out of it.”

  She didn't have to say much. She just had to force him to look her in the eye. She had to keep from blinking. He got it. He got her.

  “Jane. I'm still married. And I'm Catholic. And I'm in way over my head. You have to give me some room here. And some time. Please.”

  She blinked.

  …

  Ray brought Burton to Jane's place to check on her. Burton was at least six feet four, but, oh, so gentle. He had a thick swatch of salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. He brought Jane a homeopathic balm for her sore ankle. It smelled like cloves, and so did he.

  “You know, Jane. There are no accidents,” said Burton. “This was the universe telling you to slow down.”

  “Please,” said Ray. “This was the city not clearing the streets properly. Where's Peter?”

  “It's the middle of the afternoon, so I'm thinking he's at work,” said Jane. “In fact, maybe he's sitting at his desk right now, and he's on the phone with his parents, and maybe he's telling his parents that he's going to leave his wife for a nice girl who's adopting a baby. And maybe they'll be happy for him because they want grandchildren and they want him to be happy. And hey, we even have my mother's blessing, from beyond the grave.”

  Ray looked tired and serious.

  “It's nice how you're so grounded in reality”

  Jane pulled herself up on the couch. She relived the Bianca/ Peter spat for them. For an encore, she detailed her own love scene with Peter. And she repeated that Peter said he was falling for her. For emphasis. Falling for her. And then she revealed, “So after all this dreamy romance, what does he mean when he says he needs room? What? You're a guy. Translate, please!”

  Ray translated, “It usually means, ‘let me find a graceful way to get out of this.’At least, that's what it means in my world.” Jane wasn't prepared for so much honesty.

  Well, there it was. Ray was easing her into the Inevitable End. She couldn't speak, so Burton did.

  “Wait and see. Maybe he'll have a great follow-up.”

  Jane looked at her glittering toes. Her voice changed.

  “That's just it: There won't be any follow-up. He changed his mind. I … I don't know what I should do.”

  “You're heartsick. You should eat!” cried Burton. He overwhelmed Jane's tiny kitchen. “Where's your rice maker?” he called out. But Jane didn't have one.

  She whispered to Ray “Burton's so nice. So? Things are good with you two?”

  Ray smiled for the first time all day. “Yes. Still. Can you believe it? Of course he hates my new work schedule. I never thought a yoga teacher would be so full of complaints.”

  Burton entered with tea and miso soup.

  “For our patient,” he said. Ray continued as if he had been talking about work all along.

  “And I'm going to write an Op-Ed piece about the NEA and religion in the arts.”

  Ray was working, earning, expanding, climbing. Jane felt like Tiny Tim next to prolific Charles Dickens himself.

  “But have you booked the flights for Texas yet?” asked Burton. Jane was in the dark. What flights? Where?

  “No. And there are no accidents, are there, Burton? My parents want us to come visit them. In Texas.”

  Jane perked up. “You guys are up to the ‘meet my parents’ stage? That's so good. Why aren't you smiling? I'm smiling, and I'm not even you.”

  “Ray doesn't think that there'll still be an ‘us’ to go to Texas. And he doesn't want to do anything that isn't work, that isn't furthering his earthly career. Why bother visiting your family of origin with your life partner? After all, there's a bad play you have to say nasty things about. There's a reason why you're never home. You don't want to be home.” Burton's shrill voice didn't match his grizzly appearance. Jane shrank back while the two men had their fight.

  “Why can't I have a career and a boyfriend at the same time?” Ray asked.

  Burton smiled. “Women have been asking that since the dawn of careers and boyfriends. So, meanwhile, why don't you use your power more wisely? You could get involved in the gay community”

  Ray's face went red. Jane wished she could leave the room and give them privacy. But she couldn't.

  “Don't talk to me about the damn gay community. I'm sick of that line. And where is their community center, anyway?”

  “I cannot talk to you when you're like this. Jane. I hope you feel better. Ray. I hope you grow up soon.” He made a quiet but dramatic exit. Ray seemed more sad than embarrassed.

  “So. Did we make you feel better? We'll do another show at eleven.”

  “Poor you. Are you guys going to be okay?”

  Ray thought a long time before he answered that one. It was as if he could create the answer he wanted, but he had to work so hard for it.

  “Yes. We are. We just are. I'm tired of being just me. I want a partner. A family. You understand that. You're adopting a baby. I want to be part of something bigger. And don't start on the gay community, please. I want my own little world, my own little family. Am I asking for too much?”

  Jane wanted to get off the couch and hug him a lot. Just then, her door buzzer buzzed. Karen and Teresa were downstairs, and Ray let them in. Karen was shaking from a street drama in which she had just starred. She had encountered not one, but two ex-boyfriends on the way here. Two! And both of them awful. Meanwhile, Teresa was so traumatized by the climb up the stairs, she didn't speak for several minutes.

  Finally she said, “Karen. I see my ex every day. Every single
day” She sounded like a superhero.

  “How can you stand it?”

  Ray agreed. “I can barely stand to see my current boyfriend every day. But an ex? Never. I had an old boyfriend who was the house manager at Roundabout. Half the time, our encounters were more dramatic than the plays.”

  And that was how they launched Bad Boyfriend Rehab. They opened a bottle of wine, realizing that they were in for a long haul. Teresa told them about how and why she and Victor had split up. She had talked about him before, but this time she included lots of dramatic details. She knew that he cheated on her, and that made it easier to part with him. But twelve years was too much time to dismiss. She kept a photo album of their trip to Greece, one of their first trips together. It was important to remember how happy they had once been.

  Ray once dated an NFL football player, who still called him.

  Karen had a boyfriend, or rather an ex-boyfriend, for every situation, every problem, every city block.

  “For a long time, I thought it was so important to be open to the experiences that life offered me. But then, I don't know. I got tired. Bad boyfriends can really drain your energy.”

  The purge of bad boyfriends required another bottle of wine and very little encouragement. Ray had evil nicknames for all his boyfriends. Mr. Toenails. Mr. Plaid. Mr. Rogaine.

  “He thought he wasn't being unfaithful if he never knew the other guy's name.”

  The women joined in:

  “He used to steal my underwear, and he thought I didn't notice.”

  “He wrote me all these dirty limericks. I still have them.”

  “He left me. The son of a bitch left me.”

  “I left him so fast. So fast!”

  “I miss him.”

  “I don't miss him.”

  Yes, some of the talk was venomous. But you'd be surprised how much of it was venom-free. There were girlish giggles and a few fond sighs. Bad Boyfriend Rehab did not require bashing. Not all the time.

  “Will you ladies date again, after your babies come home?” asked Ray. This stopped them all cold.