... and Baby Makes Two Page 17

  “No.” Teresa sounded certain.

  “Maybe,” said Jane. She wondered if she could tell them that she was now semi-officially dating Peter. Ray read her mind and gave her a look that told her “Not yet.”

  “Yes,” Karen countered.

  “If you wanted to date as a single mother, your life would have to be so very together. You'd have to have every duck, every dotted i, every crossed t, every-everything,” Teresa insisted.

  “So, what does it take to have your life together as a single mother in New York City?” Ray asked. As they shouted out their ideas, Jane saw a beloved list in the making. You need:

  A two-bedroom apartment. (Even Karen endorsed this.)

  With an elevator.

  In a cool neighborhood with restaurants very close by, and all public transportation nearby too.

  And zoned for good schools. (Clearly, the apartment list would be appended, so they moved on.)

  A good nanny who can work late sometimes.

  Enough money to take taxis whenever you need to.

  An expansive wardrobe so that you can easily change into another fabulous outfit after the baby pukes on your blouse.

  The ability to remove stains from anything. (They remembered Greta's shit-stain speech with a shudder.)

  Two single-mom friends: In case one of them is busy, there is always someone who understands your life's dilemmas.

  A male person/father figure to take the pressure off you and your daughter.

  Good luck. Lots of it.

  This was only a starter list, Jane realized. She would revisit this list a lot in the months to come. Ah, lists.

  Chapter Ten

  Sheila sounded awful.

  “The thing about kids is they're all about germs. They're little walking petri dishes. I should send the boys to school in matching Haz-Mat suits. Would the other kids make fun?”

  “I would.”

  “And they know I'm sick, so they really walk all over me. They told me that Raoul wants me to give them lots of chocolate and free money. Little con men. They're not good at it yet, but they just need practice. Oh, God, I feel like crap.”

  “Oh, Sheila. You're sick. I'm wounded. We match.”

  “Sisters, sisters,” Sheila sang as best she could. “There were never such devoted sisters …”

  Jane was not talking about Peter. She had stopped telling Sheila, after her sister declared, “This is going to end badly. It's like one of Mom's old movies. Remember? The girlfriends who go to the city to find fame, fortune, and husbands? The one who hooks up with a married man is the one who ends up with a concussion.” Jane looked at her sore ankle and changed the subject. Permanently. After she hung up, Jane complained to the mirror.

  “What's up with Peter? Why is he being so standoffish? Has he been replaced by an evil twin or a pod person? He's acting like he's providing a service to a friend with a sprain, not starting a new relationship and changing his whole life. Why? Where is he? Isn't this going to happen?”

  The mirror offered no answer, but Jane saw how pathetic her sad face was. She contorted it into an Elvis twitch and a growl.

  “Oh, grow up,” she said to herself and limped away.

  …

  Ray was out of town, missing the second act of Jane's drama on crutches. This justified Jane's dependence on Peter. Didn't it? Sure, it did. Jane e-mailed Ray at his parents’ home in Texas and tried to describe what life was like for her now.

  To: raylite97@thenet.com

  From: jane.howe@argenti.com

  Subject: Tiny Tim

  Oh Ray,

  I'm still hobbling about in the snow on crutches, and am considering selling matchsticks for extra income. By the time you return, Ill be all better. Peter still brings me soup and even watched three episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on one of the rerun channels. If that's not love, what is? And yes, I know he's still married, so don't start with me. Don't even. He's been noble and good through this whole mess, and how else was I going to get up the stairs? Riddle me that one, Rayman.

  Sort of seriously, I want to know how I would ever get up all those stairs with a baby and a stroller and a diaper bag plus any kind of physical injury at all. Forget the “sort of” part, Ray tell me, seriously, what would I do?

  J

  He wrote back in a matter of minutes:

  To: jane.howe@argenti.com

  From: raylite97@thenet.com

  Subject: Re: Tiny Tim

  How would you get up the stairs? Silly girl, you would call me, and I would get a plane or a boat or a taxi or whatever I needed, and I'd be there to swoop you up the stairs.

  Re: physical injuries and diaper bags. Please. You cant solve problems you don't have yet, so JANE, STOP THIS CRAZY THING!

  I, on the other hand, have a real problem. My Dad has bought a used car, fixed it up and given it to me as a belated Christmas gift. And I really am grateful. It was generous and thoughtful and he practically rebuilt the thing. (It was Moms idea so she could get him out of the living room. She hates his retirement, so far.)

  Mom and Burton are in the kitchen—bonding and cooking all the livelong day. He gave her an aromatherapy facial. Should I be grossed out?

  Anyway, as an extra-added bit of special, were going to drive it back to the city Together. Me, Burton, Mom, Dad and thousands of miles where we can re-e-e-e-ally get to know each other.

  God Bless Us, Everyone

  R

  PS: Promise me you'll never do this to your kid.

  Jane quoted Ray's e-mail at the next Melting Pot dinner. Karen and Teresa decided that Ray was Jane's husband-substitute. A good man, minus sex and laundry. Arlene let that simmer a bit, then corrected them.

  “He's her hubstitute. And now her in-laws are coming to visit.”

  That was absolutely right.

  “So, you guys,” said Charm. “I saw Dr. Laskin again.”

  Oh, no. Another mutiny? Another Greta speech? Jane braced herself.

  “Who's Dr. Laskin? Your boyfriend?”

  “He's a fertility doctor,” said Charm. “And he thinks he can get me pregnant. I mean, I don't know how menopausal you guys are—”

  How menopausal did they need to be?

  “But I'm not. And I can't give up trying. And my dad said that he'd pay for two IVFs. I can probably talk him into more.”

  If she got pregnant, she would stop the China adoption. Another casualty. Jane couldn't decide what to hope for. She couldn't justify why this news upset her, but it did.

  Karen smiled gently. “If you're asking for our permission to conceive, then I think you should ask yourself why”

  Charm looked very confused and a little bit hurt, and none of this was Karen's intention. So Karen tried again.

  “You don't need our permission, Charm. Do what's right for you.”

  “Who here is in menopause?” Charm asked this quite loudly and several other tables paid attention.

  “I was hoping to save this for a press release, but I'm perimenopausal. For more than a year now. Do you need details?” said Teresa.

  Charm declared that menopause created a significant divide between Teresa and herself. How could anyone justify adopting when there was still a possibility of conceiving?

  “I can't give up.” Resolute Charm.

  Teresa signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. Charm continued.

  “Jane, you're still a little bit young, aren't you? Don't you want to know what it's like to have a child grow inside your body? Don't you want to experience the miracle of life?”

  Jane had wanted those things, once upon a time. Where had that desire gone? It looked like an insane thing to want now. Insane like choosing single motherhood?

  “I had a hysterectomy” said Karen. This was what it was like to make friends with people who already had a history. Massive explosions at the dinner table got a mini-synopsis.

  “Cancer. A long time ago. I'm feeling much better now.”

  Charm steamrolled right past
this. She wanted an answer from Jane.

  “You don't want to get pregnant, but you want to be a mother? I think that's so weird. I don't understand it. Why don't you want to get pregnant, Jane?”

  “Because—and this might sound odd, but maybe Dan Quayle was a little bit right.”

  Karen gasped. Teresa put down her wine. Arlene stared. Dan Quayle was Satan Incarnate at this table. He was the Anti–Single Mother. Arlene shook her head, full of pity for poor Crazy Jane.

  “Hear me out,” Jane said, suddenly aware of the hostility that was waiting to silence her. “I'm just saying that maybe he was a little bit right. I mean, aren't you guys as scared as I am about doing this alone? And Charm, you want to add labor and delivery to all that, and I say, Wow.’This is big, this motherhood thing.”

  “How was Quayle right?” Teresa really wanted to know. She may have voted Republican in the last election.

  “He said that two parents are better than one. And he's right. They are. They just are. Someone to stay home with the child, or two incomes—that all sounds good to me. Two people to counter each other. Two people to pay twice as much attention and give twice as much love. Two is better than one.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” Teresa lost a bit of vocal control, sounding a tad screechy.

  “Follow the math. If two parents are better than one, then one parent is better than none. There is a baby in China who has zero parents. And maybe, like the Chinese say, maybe there is some kind of red thread connecting me to her. And I'll be her one.”

  Teresa eased up. Charm looked perplexed.

  “Oh, that sounded so great. Okay maybe I'll cancel Dr. Laskin.”

  Jane pictured Charm, seventy years old and well past even high-tech child-bearing, cursing that damn Jane Howe who talked her out of conceiving and she never got to experience childbirth. That bitch.

  “Oh, my God. Charm. Sleep on it? Please.”

  That night, Jane slept well. She had more real estate dreams. This time, she dreamed that Teresa sold her amazing new apartment to Jane, and the apartment transformed into a house. It had hidden rooms and corridors. And Teresa was selling it for a tiny fraction of its worth. Jane found a storage room filled with old furniture. She found a door that opened to the street. She was facing Peter's high-rise building. The sun was in her eyes. She woke up.

  …

  Jane was fully mobile. The stairs took her a long while, and the subway was still intimidating. New York is not a city for anyone who can't walk fast. Peter managed to watch over her without looking at her very much. He looked at food, movies, and every book on her shelf. Jane watched and waited for him to be Peter again.

  “Tonight, let me cook for you,” Jane offered. “I'm not a great cook, but at least I can stand up in my own kitchen. And I have plates. I'll make pizza. What do you think?”

  Peter shook his head. “You're a nut. That's the single easiest thing to have delivered. Why would anyone ever make pizza? You order it. You don't make it.”

  He drank wine while she made the dough. He drank more wine while she made the sauce. Instead of looking at Jane, he was studying

  the Village outside her window. She refilled his wineglass after every few sips. She wondered if she was trying to get him drunk, and why.

  He thanked her properly, ate his food slowly. Part of her thought that she should let this quiet polite man eat his dinner in peace. But that part lost out to the part fantasizing about slugging him. She pictured herself shaking him hard for a long, long time. Then she remembered: You want him. You can't have him. Let him go.

  She gulped her wine like she was in a Mountain Dew commercial. She reached out and touched his face. He looked young.

  “So, Peter. All this time, I've been thinking that you and I were starting some kind of a romance. A relationship. Something.”

  He stopped eating.

  “Why? Why did you think that?”

  And just like that, she had her Irish up.

  “I've seen Gaslight about fifteen times, so don't, just don't don't do this. I have a bunch of good reasons. Including the fact that I can feel it. I know it. I don't walk around the city thinking that everybody loves me. But you do. I can feel it.”

  He looked like he was searching for notes. He was unprepared. Too bad. Jane kept going.

  “I'm going to be a mother in a few months, so I have to know: Are you staying or going?”

  He couldn't find his notes, if they ever existed. He stood up and said, “I better go. I have to go.” He sounded definite.

  “Fine. Go.” She couldn't hide the crack in her voice. She tried to get mad about that too.

  “I can't do this to my marriage. I can't be someone who does this.” He was putting on his coat. “Why can't things go back to the way they were before. Okay? Please?”

  “It's too late. My time-travel machine is broken.” The crack in her voice grew wider.

  “Jane.”

  “Get out. Now.”

  His exit was awkward and fumbling. She couldn't say any more because her voice had become an open crevice. She stared at the door in disbelief. It was all so close. How could it have slipped away? She needed to call Sheila. She needed to call Ray. She needed someone to slap her for falling in love with a married man. In love. She whispered it. She couldn't take it back. She loved him. She was wrecked.

  Jane stopped staring at the door and started to assemble that list of shoulders on which she could cry. And then she heard the knock on her door.

  “It's me, Peter. Open the door? Please?”

  She hesitated. She didn't need a long speech to go with the rejection. She didn't want to hate him. Then again, a little hostility might heal her vocal chords. She opened the door, already working on her fury.

  “Did you forget something?” she snapped. “A jacket? Umbrella? Your wedding ring?”

  He stepped inside and framed her face with both hands. He kissed her with no hesitation, no doubt, and no restraint. Jane needed a second to catch up, but then she matched him. Her skin flushed against his. He was open to her. It was all right here. She saw the word “finally” in her head. The second kiss lasted longer. She had a feel for him now. He was a good kisser. She missed kissing. They kept kissing. Her body awoke. Was this a first? Had it always been asleep? He was holding her with a hand on the small of her back. She didn't need oxygen—she needed another kiss.

  Jane didn't know how they made their way into the bedroom. She thought she heard fabric tear as they uncovered each other. This was all too fast. At the same moment, they both slowed down to savor all the new skin. Peter finally spoke.

  “This changes everything.”

  Jane knew he was right. She had been biding her time, wondering

  when they would ever turn this corner. Now that they were turning, she wanted to wait.

  “What's going to happen to us?” She took a gamble that her words wouldn't ruin this, wouldn't stop the momentum, wouldn't take him away from her.

  “I care about you, Janie. I really kind of love you.”

  Her muscles twitched. She sat up. Was she supposed to like that kind of declaration? She didn't. And she was ready to turn hostile at a moment's notice.

  “Peter, make a choice. Either be married to your wife or be with me. I can't do this for you. I can't help you here. What do you want?” She didn't wait for an answer, and maybe she should have, but she kept talking. “I know what I want. I want a family of my own. I want to be a mother. I want to raise my daughter and be good to her and be happy and grow old and get into that really good nursing home. Tell me you don't want to be part of that.”

  “I do. But I can't just leave Bianca.” Eek! He said her name! “We've been together for twelve years, off and on. We have a life and a history—”

  “And three thousand miles between you. Teenagers who are going steady see more of each other than you do.” Jane opted for hostility.

  She found her shirt and tried to make noise as she pulled it on. She locked her te
eth. Peter looked a wretched mess, his head in his hands. Jane had never noticed the little scar on his earlobe. Did Peter once have an earring disaster? How long ago? Half-dressed, half-empty she was free enough to touch the small shadow near the tip of his ear.

  “Peter. Should I just walk away? If you were my friend, what would you tell me to do?”

  “I want you.”

  “How much? Look, I can't play junior high anymore. Staying or going. Make a choice.” Jane was still looking at his ear.

  Peter stood up, forcing her to let go of his dimpled ear.

  “Staying. I told you: I want you. I want this. I want to be there in China when that baby is put in your arms, and I want to be there when she learns to read and learns to drive. I want this whole life right here.”

  She saw the word “finally” in her head once again. He was choosing her. Finally.

  “But look at where I am. I need to work this out with Bianca before I say anything more. And before I do anything more. I have to be fair to her, you know.”

  She hated that he was right.

  “I'll talk to her soon,” he continued. “She doesn't know anything. This is going to blindside her. And my parents. They can't know about this yet. Oh, God. Look. We can't be us until I take care of that. I need to go to L.A. and talk to her. Can you wait? Because this is big. This is huge.”

  He was so right.

  …

  Ray's parents. Jerry and Rita. Try to remember that they meant well and had never been in a situation like this before, and that they really really meant well.

  Ray set them up with a full agenda. Tickets to big splashy musicals, to serious, edgy dramas, and a handful of cabarets. He insisted that they ride a double-decker tour bus and spend the day hopping on and hopping off. Ray kept them busy while Burton doubled his usual quota of meditation.

  Ray, their only child, beloved son, would be accompanying Jane to China to adopt a baby. That little girl was the closest they would come to grandchildren. They wanted to meet Jane, and they really did mean well, as you know.