Heads or Tails (3 page)

When I think of that fortieth birthday trip, the most recurrent image in my mind’s eye is of Margot covering her mouth with her hand as she laughed — her signature gesture — and clasping her belly with her other hand as if it hurt to experience something so hilarious. It was a trip for the ages and I’d spent the whole plane ride home smiling, grateful for such close friends who knew me so well and with whom I could be wholly myself. Being seen for who you are — and loved anyway — creates a dutiful bond, an inexorable allegiance. Normally, those kinds of ties were what bound family together. But in my case, that devotion was aimed solely and completely at my Egan friends.

I finally reached the front of the taxi line and a uniformed airport worker swooped his arm out like I was Cinderella and my carriage awaited. The cab driver popped out of the car and darted around to the back, preparing to open the trunk.

“No need,” I said, lifting my carry-on. “Just this. I’ll keep it in the back with me.”

As we drove, the landscape’s color shifted rapidly from grey and yellow to browns and oranges as the sun rose over the dingy Queens sky. Soon, we turned onto FDR Drive and I experienced that singular feeling I always felt whenever I entered Manhattan: an unusual mixture of thrill and dread, of jitters and exhaustion, a determination to explore every world-class art museum and hole-in-the-wall deli, while at the same time counting the hours until I could return home to California.

We hit traffic on the 85th Street Transverse and I pulled out my phone to check the time. It was still too early to call Jesse back in San Francisco. I considered phoning Jean or Margot to inform them of my imminent arrival but decided against it. Better to see for myself the gravity — or not — of the situation in its organic state. Better to spring myself on them, the way Sarah, my best friend in San Francisco, once did with a babysitter about whom she had a mounting, uneasy feeling. Sure enough, when Sarah returned to her house twenty-five minutes after departing for an alleged doctor’s appointment, she found the sitter watching lesbian porn while Sarah’s sixteen-month-old daughter sat inert in a bouncy seat watching the screen alongside her. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Sarah had said.

In Margot’s case, I wondered how bad the postpartum depression could really be. A few years ago, my mom had reported that my cousin was suffering from “baby blues.” She’d been weepy and lethargic and a bit detached. But apparently that had quickly dissipated once the baby began sleeping through the night. Plus, unlike my cousin, who’d gotten pregnant by accident, Margot went to great physical and financial lengths to conceive the baby, to become a mother without a partner. In fact, her quest for parenthood was one of the few times in the decades that we’d known each other that Margot and I were not thoroughly aligned in our feelings.

I, for one, could not imagine wanting to be a parent so badly.

Margot’s prewar Upper West Side apartment was the envy of all our friends, even those of us who had no interest in Manhattan living or any design sense. I could remodel an Edwardian with spot-on period details, but I couldn’t pick my own coordinating sofa pillows to save my life. Located on West End Avenue where its west-facing windows looked out onto Riverside Drive, the marble stairs and uniformed doorman of Margot’s place exuded a glamour and understated elegance that harkened from another era. It contrasted markedly from the charming coziness of the mid-century flat that Jesse and I shared on Frederick Street in Cole Valley.

The doorman welcomed me into the building just as a lawyerly-looking man I recognized as Margot’s stuffy downstairs neighbor brushed past me in the doorway and darted into a waiting black Town Car, cell phone clamped to his left ear. The building’s lobby was at least ten degrees warmer than it was outside.

“Haven’t seen much of her lately,” the doorman responded when I announced that I’d arrived to visit Margot. “She doing okay?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

He nodded in apparent approval and picked up the building phone to request Margot’s permission to allow me upstairs.

“Wait,” I said, raising my palm. “I, um. It’s early.” I turned my wrist, gesturing towards a watch, though I wasn’t wearing one. “Can I just go on up? If she’s sleeping or something, I don’t want to disturb her — or the baby — with the buzzer. Her mom can let me in. Jean? She’s expecting me.”

The doorman held the phone suspended mid-way toward his ear as he considered my request. He regarded me for an extra moment, taking in my luggage, my harmless forty-something vibe, and then nodded. He replaced the receiver and guided me to the elevator bank around the corner, hitting the Up button for me.

Once on the fourth floor, I tapped lightly at Margot’s door, hoping that indeed I would not wake the baby with my arrival. But a moment later, I heard shuffling behind the door and the unmistakable hiccups of an infant.

“Shhhh, shhhh, don’t wake mommy,” Jean’s voice carried through the door.

When she opened it, not one thing was as I expected. Jean, who’d always had an elegant, Blythe Danner kind of beauty, was shockingly overrun by age and Parkinson’s. The skin of her cheeks was criss-crossed with deep wrinkles and hung almost below her jaw. Her hair was straw-like in color and texture and bordered by a two-inch swath of charcoal grey at her part. Barefoot with overgrown toenails, she wore a terrycloth bathrobe that bizarrely appeared to have outgrown her — it was untied, exposing her spindly arms and legs. Underneath, her nightgown was dotted with dime-sized stains. Her body shook from tremors, especially her jaw, which bobbed up and down before she even gathered any words.

Jean took me in and then nodded — either voluntarily or involuntarily, it was hard to tell — and brought her free hand up to cup my chin.

“Thank you, Hilly. Thank you.”

Squirming in her other arm was the baby, whose appearance was as surprising to me as Jean’s drastic physical decline. She had a thick shock of ink black hair and, if it was possible, even darker black eyes. Chubby and long, the baby looked nothing like Margot, a petite natural blonde with cornflower blue eyes. I’d expected a tiny bald baby or maybe a tow-head. I realized in that moment that I’d seen a grand total of one photo of the baby, snapped and e-mailed a few hours after she’d been born, all wrapped up in a blanket with a hospital-issued cap.

“This little pumpkin is Gretchen,” Jean introduced with a mixture of pride and profound weariness. “And, this, baby girl, is your Auntie Hilly.”

Jean readjusted the baby from the shelf of her hip to clasp her under the armpits and, to my horror, began to hand her to me.

“Uh, wait!” I said, with more alarm than I’d meant to reveal. I was so inexperienced with baby handling that my friend Sarah teased that her newborns had been safer resting directly on her parquet floors. I backed away and held up my palms for Jean. “Airport grime. Lemme wash up.”

I wheeled my suitcase into the entryway and led myself into the kitchen around the corner. Already, I could tell that Jean had not been exaggerating about Margot’s condition. Her stylish condo was normally impeccably tidy. Whenever I’d stayed with her in the past, she’d follow me around, replacing every item I moved or touched or accidentally left out of place. We’d been roommates at Egan so I was used to her persnicketiness. Sometimes, just to rile her, I’d send her “before” photos of the houses I worked on with their garages and closets overflowing with the crap of certifiable hoarders. That morning, though, it looked like Babies ‘R Us had exploded in Margot’s own kitchen. Onesies and burp cloths were strewn all over. The countertops were covered with open canisters of infant formula. The sink overflowed with plastic bottles. My shoes stuck to the floor as I walked to the sink.

“Paper towels?” I called to Jean. I couldn’t find them on the counter amidst several corded contraptions that, I suspected, had to do with infant feeding, and several white-capped orange prescription bottles that were obviously Parkinson’s medications for Jean.

“Oh, I know,” Jean said in her wobbly voice. “Such a mess. I told you, Margot’s not herself. And I can barely keep up with Gretchen’s feeding schedule — as you can see, she’s a big girl — let alone get around to cleaning up.” With one hand, she dug into the cupboard under the sink and handed me a roll of paper towels, the top of which was damp. “Margot’s twice-a-month housecleaner has been on vacation for two months! We’re both in over our heads.”

I knew she was referring to herself and Margot, but she could have just as easily been referring to me as well. I circled around her before finally pausing and awkwardly offering my arms out for the baby. Our bodies butted up against each other as we made the transfer. That close, Jean smelled of baby powder and stale perspiration. I took extra care to cup the baby’s head as Sarah had always insisted in those rare instances when she’d had no choice but to hand me one of her children.

“Oh, she can hold her head up,” Jean said. “She’s not a newborn.”

“Right.” I had no idea what qualified as a newborn or an infant. I continued cupping her head just in case. I noticed a dot of snot beginning to drip from her nose and hoped it wouldn’t land on me. “Where’s Margot?”

Jean tilted her head towards the back of the apartment where Margot’s bedroom was. “Let’s go in the living room.”

I carried the baby to the large white couch, which, to my surprise, now featured several conspicuous stains, as did the chevron pink and orange pillows. Normally, visiting Margot’s chic apartment inspired me to try to add some pizzazz and sophistication to my flat whenever I returned home. But that morning, it looked strangely tired and overwrought, not unlike the way Jean looked. I had the distinct urge to re-wash my hands and to open a window. Shards of morning sun tried to beam in through small cracks around the closed shades, which shot irregular, spotty light throughout the apartment.

“So what’s going on here?” I asked while nervously bouncing the baby with my knee.

“She sleeps all the time. She cries all the time. She was supposed to go back to work last month. She extended her leave, but she never even holds the baby.”

Jean started to cry. I wanted to get up and put my arm around her, but I was saddled with the baby.

“Oh, Jean. It’s okay.” With my one free hand, I pressed on the muscles on the right side of my neck, which felt like long oval rocks.

She nodded, but her tremors noticeably escalated. “I don’t know what would happen if I wasn’t here,” she continued. “The baby’s not being cared for by her mother. And as much as I love her,” she looked directly at the baby and her eyes grew wet again, “I just can’t do it anymore. I’m sick, Hilly. Someone should be taking care of
me
.”

I nodded. I continued pumping my leg up and down even though it had caused the baby to spit up a beige goo on my thigh. I wiped it with the back side of my hand. Then, disgusted by its warm, chunky texture, I rubbed my hand across my shirt.

Where
was
I
? I asked myself. Normally Margot’s apartment was as familiar and comforting as my own. But right then, it felt like I’d been dumped into a freakish, alternate universe.

“She’s long past regular post-delivery checkups and she won’t make a doctors appointment,” Jean continued. “I made one appointment for her but she never even got out of bed that day. She can’t even get to the grocery store, let alone back to work. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. You’re her best friend, Hilly.”

My heart involuntarily leapt at hearing what was perhaps my favorite compliment in the world. At the same time, the obligations that accompanied being crowned Margot’s best friend began to descend like a gloomy afternoon rain cloud. It was not all glory. My head began to throb and I realized that I needed to change my tampon.

The afternoon before, when I agreed to go to New York, it never occurred to me to stay anywhere but at Margot’s. Yet taking in the chaotic state of her one-bedroom condo, already overrun by baby paraphernalia and already housing two more people than normal, I realized I had to find a hotel room on the double.

Still holding the baby, I stood slowly and handed her back to Jean, whose whole body sank under the familiar burden.

“I came right from the airport,” I explained. “Let me, uh, get settled at my hotel and I’ll come back later. Hopefully Margot will be awake by then and we can all talk.”

Truthfully, though, I had no idea or plan for what I’d even say to her. I didn’t know a newborn from an infant. I was awkward and ill at ease with a baby in my arms. I had no sense, no instinct for what Margot needed or whom to call to help solve this problem. But, as Jean said, I was Margot’s best friend. I had to figure it out.

“I’ll watch Gretchen for today,” she said wearily. “You strategize.”

I crouched on the front steps of Margot’s building with my carry-on luggage as my companion. I’d asked the doorman about the closest chain hotels and I used my phone to book a two-night stay at a nearby Hyatt. Between the last-minute plane tickets and a Manhattan hotel stay, this was turning out to be one expensive favor. Yet that was the least of my worries. The bigger problem was that I still had no idea what I could do for Margot. But after witnessing the unruly state of her apartment, not to mention Jean’s deteriorating health, I knew I had to figure something out.

It was still barely eight in the morning but luckily the hotel receptionist said they had room for an early check-in. I wheeled my luggage fifteen blocks toward Central Park West. In addition to wanting to avoid unnecessary cab fares, I needed the fresh air.

Around me, the Upper West Side buzzed to life. Large metal doors clanked musically as they rolled up to reveal shallow newsstands and fancy muffin vendors. Shopkeepers of every ethnic background hosed and swept in front of storefronts. Pantsuit-clad new millennials clicked down Lexington towards subway stations. I fantasized about spending a leisurely day at the Met or perusing sidewalk art vendors in Central Park. Since I’d be able to do neither with my usual New York companion — Margot — I instead forked out twelve bucks for a kale-mango smoothie and checked into the Hyatt.