I felt nauseated and exhilarated at the same time, and more than that, I felt like my will was not my own. I crossed the street, compelled by some perverse need to see my husband’s family up close, and surreptitiously followed the group into the park. I kept at a fair distance, not wanting to be noticed. I’ve never met Charlie’s wife in person—I’ve only seen her picture on Facebook—and I have no idea if she knows what I look like, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
They went straight to the playground, just inside the park gates, and I kept walking, pretended to be interested in something on my phone, ducking my head as I gazed at the lifeless screen. I found a park bench on the other side of the playground from where the group of mothers had stopped and encamped. I watched them, obscured by the jungle gym, these mothers who had the luxury and blessing of coming to the park on a Friday morning. They all looked very much the same: fit, wearing designer jeans and light sweaters, their hair—various shades but predominantly blonde—perfectly coiffed, their makeup perfectly applied, their countenances carefree. Charlie’s wife was older than the others, but not by much, and she looked like a magazine image of a mother, with her highlighted shoulder-length locks, button nose, and pink lipstick.
The teenager was clearly her nanny, and I held very ungracious thoughts toward both Charlie and his wife. I don’t have children (and never will), but the idea of turning over a great percentage of your child’s care to someone else seems like throwing away a gift.
I sat and watched as Charlie’s new wife released the twin girls from their confines and let them run free. The nanny pulled the infant boy out of his stroller and handed him to his mother. She set him across her lap and laid a small blanket over him as she covertly fed him from her breast.
I watched and watched, and imagined that this could have been my life if I hadn’t been defective, if only my uterus and ovaries had been compliant to my demands. I could have been a part of this group of women. I would have been older by many years, but they would have accepted me and loved me, and we could have shared advice and diapers and stories of wonder of our babies’ firsts and complaints of sleeplessness and our impatience to stop nursing so we could drink again.
I left the park that day in complete emotional turmoil, which I couldn’t share with my sister or anyone else in my life. I tried to reach my therapist, but it was a Friday, and he was unavailable until the following week.
I’ve been coming to the park every Friday since then. I tell myself I won’t, but then I do. It’s almost like an addiction. I know there’s no harm in it, except . . . except a part of me dies every time I see her with her three children. Charlie’s children. The children I couldn’t give him.
It was a blessing when Rachel asked me to babysit. The scene at the park this morning left me feeling sorry for myself and so damn empty and unfulfilled and useless. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Just because you are not physically able to bear children doesn’t mean your biological clock doesn’t tick. The maternal stimulation that Jonah and Eden provide is exactly what I need.
As I pull into the garage of my apartment building, my phone chimes with an incoming text. I park in my assigned slot and pick up the phone. The text is from Rachel.
Sam has to work late. Don’t need you to babysit.
My heart drops, and I feel tears threaten. Then the phone chirps again. Want to come over anyway? We can put the kids down early and have a girls’ night in.
I take a deep breath and blow it out very slowly. Then I type a response. Sounds lovely. Should I still bring the lasagna?
A moment later, she replies. You supply the lasagna, I’ll supply the wine.
I smile through my tears. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle a night by myself in front of the television. Not tonight. It will be good to be with my sister without Sam around. We haven’t had much girl time lately. Maybe I’ll tell her what I’ve been doing these Friday mornings. I haven’t told my therapist. I should, but I can’t. I’m ashamed.
Maybe I can tell Rachel. She’ll probably laugh and make me feel silly, but that might be okay, too, because it is silly. And I need to stop. And telling Rachel might help me stop. Perhaps she and I can make a standing date to have coffee every Friday morning. Except the kids are off next week, so she won’t be able to make a date with me until after they’re back in school. Then you have another week of watching. I’m conflicted by the thought. Angry with myself for having it, and relieved that I don’t have to give this up just yet.
Maybe I won’t tell Rachel tonight. It can wait.
I get out of the car and walk to the elevator. Just as I press the “Call” button, the doors slide open. Judd Stevens, my downstairs neighbor, steps out. He is in his late forties, tall and lanky with an open, honest face. A professor of literature at the local college. A widower. He smiles when he sees me.
“Hello, Ruth,” he says. “Just on my way to school. How are you this morning?”
He holds the elevator door for me, and I step in. “I’m well, Judd. Thank you. How are you?”
“Other than my sciatica, I’m just grand. Say, when are you going to come down and share that bottle of wine with me?”
The first time he asked me down was two months ago. He’d received a wonderful bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild from the dean at the college, and he didn’t want to drink it alone. He said only a woman of my character could truly appreciate a wine such as this. I’d asked for a rain check, but I never assumed he would actually wait for me.
“Hmm. I don’t know.” I feel my pulse rise, but not in a good way, and all I want to do is get up to my apartment where it’s safe.
“Come on, Ruth. We’ve been neighbors for a year and a half. You know my intentions are completely honorable. It’s just a glass or two of wine.”
My eyes meet his, and for a single moment, I wonder what the hell I’m so afraid of. I was never like Rachel, impetuous and gregarious and reckless. But I was also never the simpering, tragic figure I’ve become.
Before I can stop myself, I say, “I’m free tomorrow night.”
His smile grows wider. “Wonderful. Around seven?”
“Shall I bring some cheese?”
“You’ll bring nothing but yourself, if you don’t mind.” He winks at me. “See you then?” he asks, almost as if he suspects I’m going to cancel at the last minute, which I probably will.
But for just these few seconds, I allow myself to imagine that I am a woman who has actual plans tomorrow night.
“See you then,” I say.
When I step into my apartment, I notice that the air smells stale. I take off my jacket and hang it in the closet, then I spend a few minutes opening windows throughout the apartment. The cool April breeze whispers through the cracks, carrying with it the fragrance of sunshine.