She, Myself & I (17 page)

I was annoyed and yet chastened at the same time.

“No, I guess it’s fine,” I said, and the nurse bustled out of the room.

I lifted Ben up to look at the mobile hanging in the corner of the room. Blue squares, red triangles, green circles, and yellow moons dangled from lengths of string. Ben reached his hands toward it and cooed.

“Look at that, Ben baby,” I said.

There was a short rap on the door, and I spun around to see a tall man of Indian descent entering the room.

“Hello, I’m Vinay Prasad. And you must be Mrs. O’Neill,” he said, smiling, holding out his hand to me. He spoke with a British accent. “And who is this young man?”

I froze. Good God, he was gorgeous. He had almond-shaped tortoiseshell eyes, a long aquiline nose, and the kind of high cheekbones and Cupid’s-bow lips that a silent-screen starlet would lay down and die for. I reached for his hand, and as we touched, a warm rush flooded through me.

It was just how I’d felt the first time I met Aidan.

“Sophie. Please, call me Sophie,” I stuttered, desperately—stupidly—wanting to distract him from the “Mrs.,” although the one-and-a-half-carat diamond engagement ring twinkling rebelliously from its position on my left hand treacherously threatened to give me away. “And, um, this is Ben.”

“And hello to you, Ben. You’re a handsome little fellow, aren’t you?”

Ben beamed at the doctor and stuffed his chubby hand into his mouth. Dr. Prasad smiled back, and I quickly sat down and held Ben in front of me, hoping that my son would camouflage the jiggling baby flab still parked on my ass, hips, and stomach.

“Are you having any problems? Is he sleeping well?” Dr. Prasad asked me.

“Well. He sleeps, but he’s still getting up a few times a night,” I said.

“He’s getting old enough that he should be able to sleep for longer periods of time. Oftentimes with babies this age, they’re not getting up because they’re wet or hungry, they just want to socialize with their mum,” the doctor said. “Are you still breastfeeding?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, flushing red and hoping he wouldn’t notice. It was, after all, a normal topic for a pediatrician and parent to have. But I’d never before had a conversation about the fluid leaking out of my breasts with a man I found attractive. Other than Aidan, of course.

“How is that going?”

“Fine, fine. It’s going fine. Normal,” I said, and decided I’d just save all of my blocked-milk-duct questions for my ob-gyn.

“Good. We normally advise you to hold off on solids until about six months, although it’s up to you. If you want to start him on some rice cereal or mashed banana in a few weeks, that would be fine. Just take it slow, and let him guide you. All right now, let’s see. His height and weight are excellent, he’s in the ninetieth percentile for each. And his head circumference is in the fiftieth percentile,” Dr. Prasad said, consulting the charts attached to Ben’s file.

“What? But his head was in the seventy-fifth percentile at our last visit. Is that normal for it to shrink?” I asked. I peered worriedly down at my son. Did he have a freakishly small head, and I’d just never noticed?

“No, it didn’t shrink,” the doctor said, laughing gently. “See here, this is where we chart his growth. See how it went up from his two-month visit?”

“So he isn’t abnormal?”

“No, he’s absolutely perfect,” he said, resting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I was startled by the sudden contact and flinched nervously. Surprise registered on his face.

Oh no,
I thought. He’s going to think that I’m repulsed by him. Maybe he’ll even think that I’m bigoted against Indian people. What can I say to make this less mortifying?
The reason I jumped is that I know we just met and all, but I think I already have a massive crush on you.

Hardly. Gah.

“Thank you, I think he’s pretty special,” I simpered, hating myself for how stupid I sounded.

“Is it all right if I look him over now?” Dr. Prasad asked.

I held Ben out, and the doctor took him from my arms, laid him down on the padded waist-high bench covered with thin paper, and checked him over from head to toe.

“He has a bit of a skin irritation here, underneath his armpit,” the doctor said, showing me the bright red spot, the size of a penny, under his left arm.

“He does? I hadn’t . . . noticed,” I said.

I was the worst mother in the history of bad mothers. How could I not have noticed my son had a rash? Oh my God, would the authorities take Ben away from me? And then I remembered . . . I hadn’t been the one to give Ben his bath. If anyone was neglectful, it was Aidan, not me.

“I didn’t bathe him last night, my, er, husband did,” I said. “I’m sure that if I had, I would have noticed that he had a sore spot.”

“Don’t worry, it’s very minor, easy to miss,” Dr. Prasad said. His voice was cool and deep, and very reassuring. It was a good tool for a doctor to possess. If I weren’t so attracted to him, I’d probably find him a very calming person to be around.

Suddenly I imagined what life would be like if I were married to him instead of Aidan. I bet Dr. Prasad didn’t return home at the end of the day in a bad mood, squirreling himself away in his office to surf the Internet or zone out in front of the television. He was probably the kind of man who liked to savor a glass of wine with his partner while they—although to be honest, I was thinking “we”—talked about work, and then enjoyed a simple, gourmet meal involving fresh pasta and cilantro. He would probably even offer to do the dishes afterwards, so that I could take a bubble bath.

I wondered if he was married. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but not all husbands do.

“Are you married?” I asked abruptly, and then died inside as I heard just how inappropriate this sounded. “I’m sorry, I don’t meant to be intrusive. . . .”

“No, no, not one bit. And no, I’m not married,” he said, and smile his wonderful smile at me. His teeth were straight and white.

Dr. Prasad handed Ben back to me, and then turned to the sink to wash his hands before writing out a prescription of hydrocortisone cream for Ben’s rash.

“Just apply this to the irritated area twice a day, and it should take care of the rash. The nurse will come back to give Ben his vaccinations. There are three shots this time, and I like to be long gone when she comes in wielding her needles. Sophie, it was so nice to meet you and your charming son,” Dr. Prasad said, and he extended his hand.

I took it, clasping my fingers against his, this time managing not to flinch.

“Nice to meet you,” I said faintly.

“And unless that rash gets worse, which I don’t expect it shall, come and see us again at six months. Any questions before I go?”

Mutely, I shook my head. He smiled again and inclined his head.

“Good-bye,” he said.

“Bye,” I squeaked as the door shut behind him.

“I think we’ve found you a new doctor, kiddo,” I whispered to Ben.

Chapter Nineteen

“So help me God, if your sisters start in on me about my weight, I’m going to tell them to—” I couldn’t complete the sentence with the words I wanted, because Ben was strapped into his car seat in the backseat of my Tahoe, “—go to hell.”

“Don’t curse in front of the baby,” Aidan said severely.

“What? I didn’t.”

“You said h-e-l-l.”

“Is that a bad word?”

“When you use it pejoratively, yes.”

Great. One more bad-mother strike against me. The way I was going, Ben was going to end up as one of those foulmouthed, ecstasy-dropping, skateboarding youths who go around with their pants hanging off their asses.

We were en route to Carmello’s, an Italian restaurant on West Sixth Street, to meet Aidan’s parents, two sisters, and brother-in-law for dinner. These excruciating family get-togethers always seemed interminably long, and I couldn’t even amuse myself by downing too much red wine, because I was breastfeeding.

There was no end to the sacrifices mothers have to make.

“I mean it. Every time I see Allison, she asks me if I’ve lost weight. The next time she does it, I’m going to stick a fork in her hand. What? I didn’t use any naughty words,” I said, exasperated at the martyred expression on Aidan’s face.

“Just try to get along,” he said.

“I always do! They’re the ones who pick at me, I’m always nice to them. God, you always take their side,” I said, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. And there were the tears again, pricking hotly behind my lids, threatening to spill out and ruin my makeup.

“No I don’t. I’m on your side. Come on, Soph, I don’t want to fight,” Aidan said, and we spent the rest of the drive in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the ring of Aidan’s cell phone when his father called, wanting to know where we were. The rest of his family was already at the restaurant. They’re always ten minutes early, we’re always five minutes late, and they always call to make sure we’re coming. This is just one of the many things about his family that drive me crazy.

“I’m pulling into the parking lot now,” Aidan assured him.

We unloaded Ben out of the car. He’d fallen asleep on the way over, but I jostled him as I unbuckled him from his car seat, and woke him up. Ben’s face crumpled, and he started to cry. I lifted him into my arms, savoring the warm heft of his solid little body as he cuddled into me. Ben relaxed for a minute and then began mooching around near my boobs.

“I think he’s hungry,” I said.

“Now? But we’re already late,” Aidan said, looking at his watch.

“I can’t control these things. Do you want to tell your four-month-old son that it isn’t a convenient time for him to be hungry?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Just go ahead. I’ll sit in the car and nurse him, and we’ll be in when he’s done,” I suggested.

I was losing my timidity about nursing in public, especially since Cora had popped out a boob in the middle of Starbucks without blinking an eye. I didn’t even have to be that brazen, I could simply camouflage the latch-on with a strategically placed receiving blanket. And it might be fun to shock my prudish mother-in-law, whose babies were all formula fed and who viewed breastfeeding as unnatural and borderline obscene. But by pleading modesty, I could eke out a final few moments of solitude, away from the sharp, critical eyes of my in-laws.

I lifted up my shirt and unsnapped my milk-stained cotton Bravado nursing bra, and Ben eagerly lifted his head, his mouth greedily seeking out the nipple. After months of this routine, my nipples had finally started to go numb, which was a relief. Although he was still toothless, Ben’s gums were extremely sharp.

“My little boob shark,” I said. I caressed the back of his head, noticing that the last of the dark hair he’d been born with had fallen out. He was now nearly bald, although fine downy hair was just starting to sprout. It looked light, almost white. Excellent. This would help me perpetuate the lie that I myself was a natural blonde.

Once Ben had his fill and was starting to sag against me, heavy with sleep, I sighed and buttoned back up. I flipped down the mirror on the back of the car visor to assess what my makeup looked like. Staring back was a too round face, pale from a winter spent indoors, and eyes darkly ringed from lack of sleep. My eyebrows were growing out of control—I hadn’t gotten to the salon to have them waxed since before Ben’s birth—and even the addition of eyeliner, cream blush, and rose-hued lip gloss didn’t do much to spruce things up. I was ugly.

Sometimes it seemed like the rosier Ben’s skin glowed and more brightly his eyes shone, the more my skin and hair dulled and diminished. It was like I passed on a little more of my life force to him every time he suckled.

I climbed out of the car, Ben in one arm, my diaper bag in the other, and lugged them both into the restaurant. He was dozing again, but as soon as my mother-in-law, Eileen, clapped her rolling blue eyes on us, she shrieked and he startled awake.

“Where’s my grandson? I haven’t seen him in ages—oh, look, he’s awake. Hello, precious boy, come see your Momo,” she crooned, wrenching Ben from my arms. He scowled up at her. “Sophie, you look tired.”

I tensed. And so it began.
You look tired
was Eileen-speak for
You look like shit
.

“Hi, honey,” Ron O’Neill, my father-in-law, said, kissing me on the cheek.

“Hi,” I said. “Hi, Allison, Melanie. Where’s Alex?”

Allison and Melanie were my sisters-in-law, and they were locked in a fierce battle to see which one could waste away to nothing first. Put them together, and they still didn’t make one normal-sized woman.

“He went out with his friends tonight,” Melanie said, and I could tell that Aidan was purposefully avoiding my glare. Alex was Melanie’s husband, and so the only other outsider at these O’Neill affairs, and if he was allowed to skip it, then why the hell did I have to show up?

“May we have a highchair please?” Eileen asked the waitress.

“That’s okay,” I said, shaking my head at the waitress. “Ben is too little for restaurant highchairs. He can’t sit up well enough yet. I’ll just hold him on my lap.”

“We’ll just try it and see,” Eileen overruled me.

“No. Really. He’s too small,” I said. I shook my head at the waitress, who despite my protestation had started to pull over exactly the kind of small wooden highchair that Ben would certainly topple out of if she put him in it.