A Little Help from Above (20 page)

“Preferably alive.” Shelby clutched the door handle as Lauren floored the gas pedal.

“You see, Avi comes from this very traditional, Israeli, male-macho background. He may look hip, but he’s really old-fashioned. So, it’s not that he doesn’t want to be faithful to me, he has this need to prove his virility. I mean, even though none of the fertility problems are his, inside I know he feels shame. Like there’s something he should be able to do to make things right.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes. Otherwise, I’d have to kill him and leave his body in the trunk of his car. Now tell me what you thought about what Mrs. More or Less said.”

“See what I mean? You’re already goofing on her name.” Shelby jabbed Lauren’s shoulder. “Anyway, there’s nothing to think about. It’s all pretty straightforward. I’m considered the biological and legal mother of the baby until the baby is born. Immediately afterward we do the stepparent adoption, then you get all the parental rights, and Daddy gets all the bills.”

“What about the…control issues?” Lauren hesitated. “During the pregnancy.”

“What control issues?”

“You know. Like how you take care of yourself.”

“What’s wrong with the way I take care of myself? I’m the most vain person I know.”

“I don’t mean that.” Lauren hesitated. “I mean, what about my legal rights if, let’s say, you don’t take your prenatal vitamins? Or, you decide to drink with dinner? Or, the thing I’m really worried about is you starving yourself like you always do.”

“So let me get this straight. You want it in a contract I have to take iron pills, lay off wine, and eat three meals a day?”

“It’s not just that. It’s a lot of things. Who gets to choose the doctor? Or, who decides how much anesthesia you get during labor? Or, what if you don’t cooperate when it’s time to do certain tests? There are ultrasounds and an amnio to rule out birth defects, a blood test for spina bifida…”

“Didn’t I hear you say I was the most cooperative person in the world?”

“Yes.” Lauren shrugged. “But I was just trying to show Dr. Grasso we’re a good team.”

“Yeah, like the Three Stooges…Look. Believe me. I’ve thought long and hard about this decision by now, and I know what I’m in for. A year of hell. But when I said I’d do it, it was with the implicit understanding I was buying in to the whole program.”

“You mean that?” Lauren cried. “You’ll even take the blood tests?”

“I don’t know how.” Shelby shivered. “But yes.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe because you got me to the train on time. I’ll call you from the office to let you know what time to pick me up.”

“Okay. And, Shel? Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She patted her chest.

“No problem…Oh, yeah. If my pimp calls? Tell him I’m taking a short leave of absence to have a baby, but not to cut off my cocaine supply because I still need my fix.”

“Oh, go screw yourself.” Lauren gently clinked Shelby with a water bottle.

“I believe that’s precisely what surrogates do.” Shelby shut the car door.

When Shelby asked Ian to arrange for her to have an office at the Informer, he said he would personally tend to the matter himself. He even promised to secure one with a great view. So imagine her shock when she arrived her first day on the job and was escorted to her new home. May it ever be so humble.

“This is where you expect me to work?” she grabbed Ian by his tie. “It’s a cubicle.”

“The better to see you with, my dear.”

“But you promised me a nice view.” Shelby threw down her box of important possessions.

“This is a nice view.” Ian flung open his arms. “Of the greatest newsroom in the world. And as an added bonus, you get to be situated right next to Warner Lamm.”

“Who?”

“Why, Shelby. Have you been dwelling in a cave? He’s the world famous astrologer who writes our daily horoscope column. Surely you’re a big fan.”

“Only if he tells me it’s a good day to kill an editor.”

A week later, the famous astrological jack-in-the-box popped his head up over their shared cubicle wall. “Hi, Shelby,” he sang. “How are you today?”

“I don’t know, Warner. Why don’t you tell me?” Shelby kept on working. “You’re the resident psycho.” Why had she agreed to let Ian help her find a place to set up shop? She should have known he’d pull an immature prank like putting her next to a gay voodoo doll.

“Actually, I do know how you are.” He winked. “Because I did your chart like you asked.”

“I didn’t ask.” Shelby finally looked up. “You begged, remember?”

“Yes, but you were most cooperative when I said I needed your date and time of birth.”

Cooperative. There was that word again. She hadn’t heard it this much since kindergarten. “That’s because I figured it would be a hell of a lot easier to fork over the information than have you hound me every time I walked in here. Have you seen Ian?”

“How do you mean, seen?” Warner winked.

“Jeez! How much fruit did you eat today? I mean do you know if he’s back from lunch?”

“I’m not my brother’s keeper.” Warner pouted. “Ask Ann. She always knows where he is.”

Shelby stood up, peered over the sea of cubicles, and watched the throngs of reporters and editors scurrying through the maze. How she loved the electricity of a newsroom, with all its ringing phones, urgent chatter, and speedy fingers pounding computer keyboards. Yes, every newsroom was the same shit, different zip code. But that’s why it felt like home.

“See her? She’s over at Ziggy’s desk.” Warner stood on his chair and used his two middle fingers to whistle. “Annie Bananie! Where’s Ian?”

“Not back from lunch yet,” she yelled back.

“Thank you.” Warner blew her a kiss, then stepped down. “He’s not back yet.”

“Proving once again, news travels fast. Thanks.”

Shelby sat down and sighed. She never learned. Every time she rushed to arrive somewhere promptly, it was always a wasted effort. Why did people spend thousands of dollars on fancy watches if they never bothered to look at them? But at least now she’d have time to go over her notes for the meeting and check her voice mail. Which, to her disappointment, took a total of five seconds, as none of the wedding couples she’d located had returned her calls.

At least the DES piece was going well. She’d completed three solid interviews, and each story was so compelling and tragic, it made Lauren’s experience look like a cakewalk.

Her most extensive notes came from a young woman in upstate New York who had been through five years of infertility workups,
abnormal Pap smears, painful tests to check her fallopian tubes, four unsuccessful inseminations, one laparoscopy to remove recurring endometriosis, and two miscarriages. The last one was at sixteen weeks, in spite of her double cerclage stitch to keep her cervix closed. She and her husband were in the process of looking for a surrogate when she discovered her husband was seeing someone. DES had taken its toll in more ways than one.

In the other two cases, the women had miraculously managed to cross the motherhood finish line, albeit through extreme measures. But at least they were fortunate enough to be discussing their situations while bouncing babies on their knees. On the other hand, their DES troubles were hardly over. One had a breast cancer scare, the other a test to rule out cervical cancer. And, too, they were plagued with worry and guilt, not knowing if they’d passed on the DES curse to their children. Evidence was mounting that the next generation would not be spared.

Shelby reviewed her notes and sighed. This story had certainly been more of an eye-opener than she’d expected. Over the years she’d known plenty of couples with infertility issues, and of course Lauren’s medical problems were deeply embedded in her personal landscape. But until now, she’d never understood the mental anguish women felt when denied the privilege of motherhood.

The trouble with the story, however, was that in comparison, it made the Times wedding piece seem so trite and shallow. Rich debutantes didn’t have real problems. Their biggest source of angst was worrying if their trust fund could cover summers in the south of France, with enough cash left over to shop at the couture shows in Paris.

Not that Shelby felt every story had to be gripping to be good. As a former assignment editor, she understood the importance of having filler in the can for the inescapable slow news day. Question was, did she want to contribute to the soft side anymore? The answer was Ian wouldn’t give a damn about her conflict. The only way he’d run her piece was if it was turned in with his.

Unfortunately, the research for the revenge story wasn’t going well. She’d tracked down two of the couples whose wedding announcements appeared in the Times the weekend of May 25, 1988, only to discover they’d already split up. Alexandra Simonson Wellbourge IV, not surprisingly, hung up the minute Shelby identified
herself as an Informer reporter. The next three couples she’d located had yet to return her calls. And the remaining eight couples she had yet to locate at all.

Maybe she could convince Ian to change the focus of the story. Instead of examining the staying power of debutante marriages, it might be interesting to explore the evolution of the New York Times wedding announcements.

For decades, this was considered the penultimate sports page for women. The only game in town when the mink and manure set had a betrothal to announce. To flip through the hallowed Sunday section, an outsider might never suspect there were people of color living in the New York area. Or that there were any other religious affiliations than Episcopalian or Roman Catholic. The New York Times weddings weren’t just restricted, they were vaulted shut, lest some pedestrian, middle-class couple might presume to be worthy of a column inch.

Over the years, however, under the guise of political correctness, the Times had relaxed their tough stance on intruders, much to the chagrin of the Cotillion debs. At Shelby’s count, yesterday’s wedding section included two African-American couples, one Asian couple, several Jewish couples, and even, get the smelling salts, a racially mixed couple.

No doubt this explained the undercurrent of dissatisfaction among the ladies who lunched. Clearly the Times had lost its luster and cachet if, good God, an Italian bride from Staten Island could be featured. What was next? Homosexual couples? Thank heavens for Town and Country magazine. At least their editors still understood the important role of wealth and prominence, and would never be caught dead slumming for wedding coverage.

“Yoo-hoo.” Warner wheeled himself over on his task chair. “So, how’s it going today?”

Shelby jumped. “Why do you keep asking me that? You already know.”

“True.” He clasped his hands. “I was just looking for confirmation.”

“Maybe you should get a real job, Warner. This one doesn’t take up enough of your time.”

“Oh, contraire, my dear. I start my day at five, so by midafternoon, I’m completely ferklempt. You know what I mean?”

Shelby laughed. “Yes, I do. But tell me. Is there a reason for your visit?”

“Yes!” Warner clapped. “I want to tell you all about yourself. The stars know all.”

“Oh God,” Shelby groaned. “Look, I know your column has a huge following, and I’m all for anything that sells papers. I’m just never going to be one of your readers who gets snookered into believing any of that voodoo bullshit you write.”

“Snookered? Voodoo? Oh I love it. It’s so…deliciously fifties. But let me ask you this. Have you ever had a professional astrologer do your natal chart?”

“No, but at a state fair I once had my palm read, and learned my true calling was to be a minister. Then I went and washed my hands and the same guy told me I should be a pilot.”

“A minister or a pilot.” Warner slapped his knee. “That’s hilarious. I hope you didn’t pay.”

“Of course I paid. He was my date.”

Warner laughed. “You are a true Capricorn, my dear.”

“Which means what?’”

“Well, you’ve got this marvelously, dry sense of humor, and you’re so witty and outspoken. But that has more to do with your third house cusp being a six Sagittarius.”

“You see? That’s the problem with all of you guys. You need interpreters.”

“If I promise to explain everything, do you promise to pay close attention?”

“If I promise to pay close attention, do you promise to go away?”

“Shelby, dear, is that any way to speak to someone who is going to illuminate your life with profound insights?”

“To hell with insights. Just tell me if my parents will be all right, if I’ll actually get pregnant, and if I’ll ever be nominated for a Pulitzer?”

“Yes, yes, and yes!” Warner applauded wildly.

“Really?” Shelby leaned in. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’m the great and masterful Warner, and when I did your natal chart I was just bursting with excitement. I could see you had a really crappy childhood. Full of lies and deception, loneliness and loss, nobody cared about you, nobody understood you…uch, you poor thing, I don’t know how you survived. But according to your planetary aspects and transits, over the next twelve months, we’re talking major turnaround time, baby. Finally, your Venus will be in
Scorpio, your Jupiter in Sagittarius, and your Moon in Aquarius. I’m telling you the alignments of the planets will be so fantastico”—Warner patted her hand—“you can kiss those blue days good-bye.”

“Yeah, but how do you know specifically the three things I asked you about will actually happen?”

“Because the planets never lie, and Warner knows what he’s talking about.”

“Okay, that’s it. Spill the beans, or I tape your dancing feet to the floor.”

“My, my. Aren’t we testy? Tell you what. Come to my place in the Village, and I’ll tell you the whole damn story. But here’s a sneak preview. Healing and recovery will surround you, career rewards are in the air, and you are most definitely going to end up in a family way!”

“Anything else?”

“Why, Shelby. I thought you couldn’t be snookered?”

“Anything else?” her voice quivered.

“There was one other little aspect I found quite interesting. It had to do with reuniting with loved ones.”

“Really? That is interesting. I recently reconciled with my father and stepmother. Oh, and when I first got to New York, I saw my dead mother’s face in the rearview mirror of a car.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m seeing an event that’s still on the horizon.”

“Hmm…I can’t think of anyone else…Unless…Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“I’ve been searching for a childhood friend for a really long time. Do you think…”

“It’s possible. What I do know is the timing is around a Venus retrograde, which means when it happens, it’s going to be under very strange circumstances. There will be lots of confusion and misunderstandings. And then boom, major fireworks and love is in the air!”

“What’s your address?” Shelby whipped out her Palm Pilot. “I can be at your place anytime. Name the day.”

I know exactly why that Ian fellow put Shelby next to the little fageleh who does the paper’s horoscopes. He’s hoping to finally arouse her curiosity, and help her understand that all the energy of the universe, the planets, the oceans, and the beings is truly interconnected. That those who work with the
natural ebb and flow of life forces are at peace, and the rest are left to fight the mighty tide of adversity and misfortune.

That’s the basis of astrology you know. That the planetary cycles are directly related to the events on earth. And the reason why for centuries, people who paid close attention to the rhythmic signs of the time were so accomplished. I’m not kidding. You think the three wise men (aptly named), Pythagoras, Nostradamus, and Isaac Newton just got lucky? No. They studied the stars. Even the world’s first shrink, Carl Jung, understood the link between the man and the moon, so to speak. He said, and I quote, “We are born at a given moment, in a given place, and like vintage years of wine, we have the qualities of the year and of the season in which we are born.”

Do I think Shelby will ever understand any of this? No. But then I also never expected to look down and see her eating Krispy Kreme donuts, either.

The familiar route to the Family Reproductive Institute in Garden City was quickly becoming the all-too-familiar route. In spite of the fact Shelby diligently took a daily regimen of prenatal vitamins to build up her folic acids, carefully monitored her cycles with her handy home ovulation detection kit, and took the prescribed amount of Clomid, the first two months of inseminations were a bust. And the natives were growing restless.

Avi was not happy having to drop everything in the middle of his busy day to run over to the Center and masturbate on demand when Shelby phoned, and said, “It’s me. Get over there.” Nor was he pleased Lauren was unsympathetic to his plight. She should try reaching orgasm in a small room with no one around to help out, he thought.

A very understanding technician at the Institute suggested he bring in a few issues of Penthouse and some silk undies from his wife’s drawer. But Avi had a better solution.

“Maybe Shelby ken be naked in the room with me?” he suggested to Lauren.