Mommy Tracked (7 page)

Chloe looked relieved. “No, I totally understand. Some other day, okay?”

“You’ve got a deal,” Juliet said.

Good girl
, Grace’s voice said.

Thanks
, Juliet thought dryly.
Now get out of my head. You’re creeping me out.

“Shall we get started with the interview?” Chloe asked. She shuffled her papers. “First tell me a little about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, what do you do for a living? I know you’re an attorney, but what sort of law do you practice?”

“I’m a litigator. I’m an associate with a midsize firm that handles both plaintiff and defense work,” Juliet said.

“How long have you worked there?”

“Seven years. After law school I clerked for a judge on the federal court in Miami for two years. Once I finished my clerkship, I accepted a position with my firm.”

“Is your husband a lawyer too?”

“No, he was a firefighter—”

Chloe interrupted her. “Your husband’s a firefighter? That’s so exciting! Do you get nervous when he’s called in to a big fire?” she exclaimed breathlessly.

Juliet smiled, bemused. Firemen always seemed to have this effect on women.

“He doesn’t work anymore. He stays at home with our girls,” Juliet said.

“Really?” Despite the microphone that was recording the interview, Chloe was furiously scribbling notes on her pad. “That’s interesting. How does that work?”

“How does what work?”

“His staying home. Does he like it? Does he miss work? Is he planning on going back? Does he consider himself a Mr. Mom?” As she rattled off the questions, Chloe seemed to gain some composure and her voice lost its little-girl breathiness. “This is great; it will give a really unique slant to my story.”

Juliet frowned and shook her head. “Honestly, I’m not sure why it’s always such a big deal when the father is the one to stay at home. It just made more sense for us to do it that way. I earn more money than Patrick did, and since I’m hoping to make partner at my law firm, it would have been a setback if I took a long maternity break.” She shrugged. “I’m sure Patrick will go back to work someday. We haven’t really talked about when that will be, though. Maybe once the girls are in school full-time. They go to preschool three mornings a week right now.”

“But is he happy staying at home?”

This was just the sort of touchy-feely question Juliet hated. Was Patrick happy? Was anyone really happy?

“I think he enjoys the time he spends with the girls,” Juliet said carefully.

“And what about you? Do you feel like you’ve missed out by working long hours?”

Juliet paused. Yes, she had missed out on some things, and the guilt over that often kept her company late at night. Then again, she got the fun side of things. Patrick was the one who had to deal with potty training, pediatrician visits, and carpools. She got to have the career, the nice clothes, and the lunches out, and when she came home, dinner was made, the laundry was done, and the girls were always excited to see her, greeting her at the door with screams of pleasure. Well, on the nights when she made it home before their bedtime, anyway. And on the nights when she didn’t, she’d stand in the doorway of their shared bedroom and watch as they slept, each curled up around a favorite stuffed animal, their breath heavy and rhythmic. She knew that whatever it was she’d missed, at least she was giving the girls a positive role model. Her daughters would grow up knowing that there was more to life than getting married and changing diapers.

Her daughters would never watch their mother spend all of her time grooming herself because her bland prettiness was her only currency and she lived in terror that her husband would lose interest in her. Juliet’s daughters would never be told to smile and flirt because “men don’t like serious girls, they like fun girls,” or to wear more eyeliner because “you have pretty eyes, but you just need to make them stand out more.” Her daughters would never find her passed out in bed, fully dressed, after she’d “mistakenly” washed down six Valium with a bottle of California chardonnay as a way of coping with a temporary separation from her husband.

In other words, her daughters would never have to endure what Juliet went through with her mother. Growing up as Lillian Campbell’s daughter hadn’t been easy, but it did teach Juliet a valuable lesson in how not to parent.

So, yes, maybe she did occasionally miss a dance class, or the latest Disney movie, or taking her daughters to the park and pushing them on the swings. But she was giving them more than that. She was giving them a role model. And if they didn’t appreciate it now, they certainly would when they were grown.

“It’s worked out fine,” Juliet said. She smiled coolly at Chloe. “Better than fine. Every working woman should have a housewife.”

four

Chloe

A
fterward, Chloe wasn’t
sure why she’d done it. It had been years since she’d felt the impulse, the compulsion lying dormant for so long that she’d actually been lulled into believing she’d overcome it.

She’d gone to Over the Moon, a posh baby boutique in picturesque downtown Orange Cove to look for a mobile for the baby’s crib. Over the Moon was a beautiful shop, painted in shades of soft green and crammed with sterling-silver rattles, cashmere receiving blankets, Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bags, and tiny outfits that cost more than what Chloe normally spent on her own clothes. Even so, she browsed through the racks of little blue sailor suits and pink linen dresses, wishing—not for the first time—that they’d found out what the baby’s sex was. But James didn’t want to know.

“Let’s do it old school and not find out,” James had coaxed, flashing his most charming, irresistible grin.

Chloe had finally acquiesced, not wanting to ruin the surprise for him. Not knowing the sex of the baby had seemed so important to James, more important than knowing had been to her. Except that she hadn’t known whether to decorate the nursery with pink walls and the gorgeous floral crib set she’d seen in a baby catalog or blue walls and the dinosaur set from Pottery Barn Kids. And it had meant that she couldn’t buy anything but the most gender-neutral clothes ahead of time.

She bent over to admire a fire-engine-red Bugaboo baby carriage—a steal at only $679—and suddenly felt another Braxton Hicks contraction. It pinched like a menstrual cramp, only stronger, and she closed her eyes tightly while she waited for it to pass. They’d been coming more and more frequently all day, each one taking away her breath and making her feel like she’d been punched in the stomach.

The first time she’d had what felt like a serious contraction, she called James at work and then rushed over to her doctor’s office, sure that this was it, she was in labor. She wasn’t. The nurse–midwife—a bossy woman with copper-red hair and Dolly Parton-size breasts—had checked Chloe’s cervix and then sent her home.

“There’s no point coming in every time you have a Braxton Hicks contraction. Most women have them for weeks before they actually go into labor,” the nurse–midwife had said, so patronizingly that Chloe’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She slunk out of the office, feeling like a complete failure.

Her due date had been yesterday. But when she went to see her obstetrician for her weekly appointment, he’d reported that her cervix was still closed as tight as a fist.

“First-time mothers are often late,” Dr. Camp said soothingly. “It could be another week, or maybe even two.”

Great
, Chloe had thought. Just what she wanted to hear—another week with swollen elephant ankles, gut-wrenching contractions, and a belly stretched so large, her skin ached.

Although maybe it wasn’t so bad. At least now they’d be able to attend the Weavers’ cocktail party.

“I have to warn you up front, there are going to be a lot of lawyers in attendance,” Grace had said when she called to invite Chloe and James. Grace had a warm voice that always sounded on the verge of fizzing with laughter. Chloe had instinctively liked her when they met and now felt a preteenish thrill of pleasure at being included.

The party was that night. Chloe glanced at her watch and saw that it was getting late. She should get home. She wanted to take a shower before the party, blow-dry her hair, and take time with her makeup. She was so nervous, it almost felt like she was single again and going on a first date with someone she had a crush on. Actually, making friends with a new group of women was worse than dating.

She looked around for a sales assistant who could hopefully point her toward the mobiles. And that’s when Chloe saw them: a tiny pair of baby shoes. They were made of soft pink leather, and each had a red leather cherry sewn over the top. Chloe picked them up.

I have to have them
, she thought, resting her hand on her swollen stomach as she suddenly pictured a little girl with blonde curls, wearing a starched white pinafore dress and these perfect little shoes.

Even before she’d decided to take the shoes, Chloe felt the familiar flare of exhilaration mixed with cold apprehension. What if she was caught? She had been once before, back when she was a teenager and had attempted to shoplift a fountain pen at an upscale stationery store. But Chloe had cried, and the manager who’d caught her tucking the pen into her LeSportsac had taken pity on her and shooed her out of the store. For a long while after that, Chloe had resisted the urge to slip lipsticks or silk scarves into her purse. But eventually she slid back into her old habits.

In college, she’d gone through a period where she filled her jacket pockets every time she went to the grocery store. It was never anything she needed; it wasn’t like she was going to whip up a light gourmet meal in her dorm room. But even so, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from pocketing jars of Grey Poupon, Swiss chocolate bars, boxes of soda crackers, and, once, a bloody steak that was turning gray at the edges. Each time, as soon as she left the store, Chloe had immediately driven to a homeless shelter and left the items by the front door, like a sacrifice to appease an angry god.

Chloe got control of the impulse again and went a long time without stealing anything. And then, a few years later, when she was in the throes of planning her wedding—an event far more stressful than she’d ever imagined, especially for Chloe, who always wanted to please everyone, which was pretty much impossible when you were gathering together three hundred of your touchiest friends and relatives—Chloe went on a binge. She took a purse from T. J. Maxx, a half dozen men’s silk ties from Stein Mart, a pair of pink topaz earrings from Macy’s, and a leaf-shaped air freshener from the car wash while she was waiting to pick up her recently detailed car.

She promised herself that she’d stop after the wedding, and, other than one tiny relapse on her honeymoon—she pocketed a Bermuda-themed snow globe in the hotel gift shop—Chloe had managed to kick the habit. It had been hard, but she’d finally done it. But now…now she could feel the urge creeping up and grabbing her, until she was overwhelmed with the need to take the cherry-adorned shoes.

Chloe looked around and saw that the salesclerk—who had been studiously ignoring Chloe—was now chatting away on the phone and had her back turned. Quickly, Chloe slid the shoes into her handbag, feeling a rush of excitement and her heart thumping wildly as she did so.

I did it!
she thought, with such a fierce pleasure it took her by surprise.
I’m going to get away with it!

She knew not to run out of the store immediately. A hasty departure might arouse the clerk’s suspicion. Instead, she walked calmly over to the register and waited patiently—hands folded on her round stomach—for the young woman to finish what sounded like a personal call.

“Yeah, I know, he’s, like, such an asshole. I totally don’t know what she sees in him,” the salesclerk was saying into the phone. She glanced back at Chloe and dropped her voice. “I gotta go. I have a customer. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. See ya later.”

“Excuse me,” Chloe said patiently, when the clerk finally hung up. “Could you please tell me where the mobiles are?”

Twenty minutes later, Chloe left the store with the mobile she’d purchased and the shoes she’d stolen. The mobile had stuffed bears, bunnies, and elephants hanging from a white hoop, and it played “Hush, Little Baby” when you wound a white knob on top. It was
perfect
, exactly what she’d wanted for the gender-neutral nursery. And the clerk had wrapped it beautifully, folding it in pink and blue tissue paper before slipping it into a cellophane bag with scalloped edges.

Chloe had waited until she got into her car—which took her a while these days—and locked the doors before she slid the shoes out of her handbag, cradling them in her hands.

But the pleasure at having taken them, that wild rush of victory, abruptly deserted her. It always did. Owning the things she took never brought her any pleasure. Instead, the shoes made her feel dirty and tainted and just a little nauseated, and she was overwhelmed with the urge to get rid of them.

Chloe started her car and quickly drove to the parking lot of a nearby Publix grocery store. She pulled up next to the Goodwill drop box, which was already overflowing with rusted bikes and faded curtains. She lumbered out of her tiny Jetta, pausing to catch her breath after she’d finally managed to push herself upright, and then—glancing around to make sure no one was watching her—she tossed the shoes into the donation box.

Chloe had just eased herself back behind the wheel when another Braxton Hicks contraction hit her. She held on to the steering wheel, squeezing it until the palms of her hands hurt, while the pain of the contraction washed over her.

Breathe
, Chloe told herself, but her breath came in short, strangled gasps.

Even after the contraction ended and her breath stabilized, Chloe sat for a few minutes, feeling too shaky to drive. Finally, her hands still trembling, she turned her key in the ignition and backed her car out of the parking lot. She paused for a moment to push her curls back off her damp forehead, inhaled deeply, and pointed her car toward home.

The party was larger than Chloe had expected, and the laughter and chatter of the guests floated over the back patio. The night was cool—too cold to swim, really, Chloe thought—but even so, there were children bobbing in the heated pool, splashing and shouting at one another.

Grace was circulating, stopping to chat here and there while monitoring the platters of bruschetta, cold sliced tenderloin, pasta salad, steamed asparagus with sesame mayonnaise, and chocolate pound cake, making sure they were well stocked. Her husband, Louis, tended the bar, mixing up gin and tonics and handing out sweating bottles of Amstel beer. The backyard was lit with garlands of twinkle lights, and the scents of chlorine and mingled perfumes wafted toward Chloe.

“Chloe! I’m so glad you could make it,” Grace said, hurrying over and kissing Chloe on the cheek.

“Hi, Grace! This is my husband, James,” Chloe said.

“Hello, Grace. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” James said. He had a rich, deep voice softened by a Texas drawl that always became more pronounced when he was tired or had a few beers. James beamed at Grace, his teeth flashing white against his handsome tanned face, his deep-blue eyes sparkling, his dark-blond hair falling forward over his forehead. Chloe watched as Grace was hit by the full impact of James’s charisma. He never failed to make a powerful first impression.

“Nice to meet you,” Grace said, smiling back up at him and looking a bit like a starstruck teenager who’d just met her favorite boy-band singer. “Would you like a beer?”

“That would be great. Chloe’s the designated driver tonight,” James said, slinging an arm around his wife’s shoulder.

“By necessity, not choice,” Chloe said, smiling shyly, one hand resting on her stomach. She glanced down, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place.

Being with James in this sort of social situation always made Chloe feel even more inhibited than she normally was. It should have been the opposite—James had the sort of appealing, laid-back charm that smoothed the way through any social event. He was relaxed, witty, completely sure of himself. But instead of acting like a safety blanket for Chloe, his outgoing personality made her that much more timid, especially around people she didn’t know very well.

And sometimes, especially when she was feeling insecure, Chloe wondered if maybe that’s what James saw in her—a partner who would never outshine him. Just as her vain, fun-loving mother, who always insisted on being the center of attention, had chosen to marry a quiet man who preferred to spend his free time watching the History Channel, happy to let his wife be the one to spin around in the center of their shared life, twinkling and dazzling everyone around them.

Chloe had first met James at a much different sort of party. They’d both been undergrads at the University of Texas at Austin, and Chloe’s friends had dragged her to an off-campus party. Chloe didn’t know anyone there other than the friends she’d arrived with, and they quickly dispersed, leaving her on her own. The house where the party was being held was a pit. It smelled like stale beer and boy sweat and was filled with sickly-sweet clouds of marijuana smoke puffing out of an enormous plastic bong. Chloe had stood in a loose group of people, waiting patiently for the allure of cheap beer and too-loud music to wear off and for her friends to be ready to go to the movie they’d planned to see that night.

She noticed James before he saw her. He was hard to miss—he was so beautiful, even while lounging on one of the stained, ripped sofas and taking a hit off the bong. One of his friends said something to him—Chloe couldn’t hear what over the din of music and raised voices—and James had burst out laughing, releasing the mouthful of smoke he’d been sucking in. A thin girl with long platinum-blonde hair and a prominent overbite was sitting next to James, looking at him hopefully. Every time James spoke to the blonde, she lit up with pleasure. It was obvious to Chloe that the girl was infatuated with him. And although he was going out of his way to be kind to her, it was equally clear that James had only the most casual interest in her. Chloe, watching from across the room, felt sorry for the girl.