With Friends Like These: A Novel (33 page)

“I have to ask—where does Arthur fit into this picture? Have you told him?” She seemed eager.

“In a moment of insanity I said something,” I admitted. “But this is my decision.” I was fairly sure Talia’s look spoke disapproval—that I made Arthur’s opinion matter because he couldn’t unknow what I’d told him. But I needed to steer away from the shipwreck that was my life. “Tell me more about the job thing and the business with Tom.”

“You want to talk about that?”

I nodded.

“It’s at a boutique agency, Bespoke Communications. Know it?”

“Don’t think so. It’s Latte Man I want to hear about.”

“His name is Winters Jonas.”

“Really? He and Arthur may have worked together once.” Who could forget a name like that? I was also fairly certain that not long ago Arthur had mentioned some job in this guy’s office that he thought would be ideal for Chloe.

“Arthur knows him? Really?” Talia said as she found another ringlet to twirl and looked at her watch. “Eleven?” she said, as if she’d just mastered telling time. “I’m going to need to get back. Sorry I’m in a rush, but …” She grabbed my hand, which I wanted to toss off. Too much soul baring before noon; I wished I hadn’t heard her confession. “I’m here for you, no matter what,” she added earnestly. I despise earnestness. “I hope you know that. We all are.”

I snorted. Not Quincy!

“If you go through with this, I’m with you a hundred percent. I’ll go along with you if you …”

Even women who believe passionately in the right to choose will waltz around the actual word
abortion
, especially when they have given birth to a child they love.

“Thanks,” I said as I stared out the window at my tidy lawn, every
fallen leaf bagged and carted away. “Promise you won’t disappear over the next few days, okay? And good luck in getting this job, if that’s what you want.”

The phone rang. I was grateful for a reason to stop posturing. “Arthur,” I mouthed as I answered. “Fine, thanks,” I said politely. I didn’t care to be observed in battle-ax mode. “Really?” I said. This was interesting. This was new. “I’ll call you back—Talia stopped by and can’t stay.”

We bid our goodbyes, Arthur and I, Talia and I. More hugging, more sniffles. I finished my blueberry-apricot muffin and half of Talia’s, hung up my new bed jacket, plucked dead leaves off my houseplants, and stared out the window. I called a few clients, then finally dialed Sheila’s number.

I cleared my throat and explained what I had in mind. The receptionist switched me to a nurse who explained the drill. An ultrasound I’d expected. But counseling? What had I ever done to deserve that?

“When’s her earliest opening?” I asked. “Tomorrow at four? I’ll take it. Great.” But there was nothing great about it.

  
Quincy

“Quincy and Jake,” Dr. Frumkes said as we sat in her office, “I have good news and less-good news.”
Which first?
her face asked. I squeezed Jake’s hand. “I’m sorry, but two of the embryos did not survive.”

“How do you know?” Jake asked.

“We can no longer find them on the sonogram.” There were other words as well, sounds that got sucked into a vortex of medical gibberish that meant nothing beyond
dead
.

My heart revolted. These were not embryos. They were Speck and Peanut, or maybe Jubilee and Speck, imagined, loved, gone. In the time it took to draw a breath, my red sweater turned black, my soul shriveled. Dr. Frumkes’ mouth kept moving, but I couldn’t listen. I needed to insulate, to stuff cotton batting into my ears, to crawl inside myself. Jake’s grip became fierce, trying to ensure that I didn’t drift away. He cupped my chin in his other hand and turned my face toward his. “Quincy, did you hear what the doctor said?”

I stared at him.
Pick on someone else, God
. “Doctor, can you please repeat what you told us?” It was Jake, struggling for normal.

Dr. Frumkes leaned forward and took my hands. “Quincy, we’ve had some unfortunate luck here, and I’m profoundly sorry, but—please hear me—one of the embryos is absolutely fine. Healthy. Viable. We’ve got a fighter.” She stopped for a moment. “This happens.”

I would rather have had all my news bad than false hope. I was able to say nothing. Breathing became coal miner hard.

“Are you hearing me?” the doctor asked.

“Define reasonable,” I said finally, inflectionless.

“There’s no medical reason to believe this embryo won’t develop,” she said, precisely and a bit too loud, as if she were afraid we would lawyer up and sue for malpractice. “This is still good news.”

I nodded to indicate that I had heard. She advised modified bed rest—I would be allowed to walk a block if necessary—mentioned the term
grief counselor
, and gave me a name and number. We were instructed to be in close touch, to return in one week without fail. We were dismissed.

Your family dies in a plane crash but you survive. Are you happy or sad? You win the lottery the day your parents split up. Happy or sad? Everyone gets laid off but you. Happy or sad? Life is a bully, trying to make philosophers of us, seeing how much we can take.

Not that much, not that day. I was inept, a dishrag of an expectant mother, a failure. How could I protect my remaining baby?

Like used-up prizefighters, Jake and I shuffled out of the doctor’s office. “We should eat,” he said. I mutely followed him around the corner to Madison Avenue, where we fell into a diner buzzing with customers, since there is no hour of the day when New Yorkers don’t scarf down eggs, home fries, and toast. The hostess showed us to a booth and we slid in. Without checking the menu, Jake ordered lunch; I, tea. We stared at each other, too fearful to be happy for what remains, too overcome to say a thing.

The food arrived and ten minutes passed. Jake picked at his cheese omelet, refused a coffee refill. My tea grew cold. “I’ve got to get out of here,” I said.

He paid the bill and held me tight. “I’ll ride with you,” he said as we waited by the curb and he tried to flag a cab. “I’ll take the day off.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” I prefer to mope solo. “I’m going to go home and sleep.” Perhaps for a week.

“You sure, Q, honey?” As if I was made of papier-mâché, he helped me into the taxi.

“I’m sure. I just want to get in bed.” We kissed before he shut the door.

Once I arrived home I immediately threw a quilt over the three cribs in the living room.

  
Chloe

With some couple, opposites attract. Not Xander and me. Some people say we look alike, but it’s more than that. Both of us crave organization, and one of our rituals is a quarterly meeting where we order in pizza and look at our life as if it were the Federal Reserve. Thanks to these summits, we have an up-to-date will (which I need to amend so that Talia doesn’t inherit the aquamarine earrings she has nearly bitten off my earlobes), a safe-deposit box inventory, and files of folders subdivided by genus and species—mortgage, stock and bond portfolio, charitable donations, tax returns, paint colors, captioned personal photographs, and DVD and book lists, as well as appliance warranties with their manuals. Xander is Keaton Inc.’s president, I its secretary-treasurer.

When people behold our bountiful possessions, they must think we take them for granted, like a tall man does his height. But I believe one reason we’ve been blessed is that we’re willing to pay attention to the small stuff. We dot the
i
’s.

The previous day had been the first of the month, when I looked over my calendar to sign and address cards from the dozens I bought at the
beginning of the year and intended to mail four days before each occasion. That was when I realized five months had elapsed since our most recent economic caucus. Xander had had me cancel the last huddle because he was working late—he’d been doing that even more than usual—and I’d neglected to reschedule. At dinner, I reminded him that we were due for a powwow.

“I don’t have the time for that right now, hon,” he said, not even looking up from his black cod, orzo, and roasted asparagus with Asiago cheese, a cooking class menu I’d reproduced with A-minus results, though Xander had made no comment. “Maybe next month.”

“But it’s been a while.”

“I’ve got a lot going on,” he said with what felt like a rebuke. I must have pouted, because he frowned and added, “Could you back off? I need a little space right now.”

Since when did my husband, so fussy about language that he looked wounded if I blurted out “irregardless,” use “space” that way? His sentences were always heavy with op-ed words. Cohort! Context! Cogent! Cognizant! Coalesce! Cohabitant!

“Space for whom?”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“I feel as if you’ve checked out around here.” I didn’t even know why this flew out of my mouth. It wasn’t as if we’d been overlooking, say, sex. We had a date every Tuesday and Thursday at ten-thirty and Saturdays at eleven-thirty, and at our last quarterly meeting we’d decided to wait at least nine more months before trying to conceive a second child.

“Checked out?” he said, his face reddening. Then, in slow motion, he cocked his head, as if to survey our dining room. For that evening, I’d found pink tulips for the table, lit candles, tried hard. I’d dimmed the chandelier, and on the sideboard was a glistening bowl of blackberries I planned to serve with biscotti I’d baked myself while Jamyang was feeding Dash his dinner. “Who do you think makes all this possible?”

I threw down my napkin, ran up to the bedroom, slammed the door, and threw myself on the bed. I didn’t even fold back our white velvet
duvet, as smooth as a skating rink, though I tossed away the pillows so my makeup wouldn’t streak the shams. They landed on the thick carpeting with a soft thud, scattering a pile of fabric samples across the floor. I glanced at them with annoyance; I’d asked my decorator for pale pink toile, not the historically accurate rose Marie Antoinette might have used to upholster a minor château!

I waited to see if Xander had followed me upstairs, but I didn’t hear his footsteps. I forced myself to take deep breaths and tried to recall Autumn Rutherford’s tape from that morning, which was rattling in my brain.
You can do no wrong at this juncture
, she’d sung into my ear as I walked the treadmill.
Take risks. Even what turns out wrong will right itself. Adopt a what-will-be-will-be attitude and what will be will be very good indeed. The potential for your life has no limits. Look at every opportunity
.