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“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she says, and I feel a sudden spike of irritation, almost rage. As far as I can tell, I’m asking for very little, no matter what I’ve just told her. One conversation. To advocate for a little girl who needs all the help and support she can get. It won’t cost her too much, surely? James might be a bit annoyed with her for being overly involved, but surely he’ll blame me for that, not her?
“I’m sorry,” I say, doing my best to sound humble, even though for a second I feel like going over to her sprawled on the sofa with her big glass of wine and designer suit, the skirt hiked up mid-thigh, and giving her a good shake.
Do you even know what my life has been like?
Eva shakes her head. She’s going to say no. I know it, I feel it, and part of me doesn’t even blame her, because this isn’t her life. Her child. It was a desperate long shot, to ask her to speak to James. If my husband would just man up and have a conversation with me… but so far he won’t. And I was hoping that hearing it from someone else, someone like Eva, might give him a new perspective, change his mind.
But it’s not her responsibility; it’s mine. I accept that, even as I rail against the rejection I sense is coming.
Eva turns to face me, her expression set, her lips pursed. There is a distant look in her eyes, almost as if she isn’t seeing me. She swings her legs off the sofa and deposits her empty wine glass on the coffee table with a clatter. I wait, holding my breath.
“I’ll do my best,” she says.
*
Dear Bean,
Let me tell you the story of your birth. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning, wedging pillows my big, wonderful bump—that’s you, Bean! —trying to get comfortable, but nothing worked. So I got up to make some tea, although I knew I’d be having to use the bathroom all night as a result. My bladder had become the size of a pea, Bean, but I didn’t begrudge you any of it. I never would.
So there I was in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to whistle, one hand resting on top of my bump, when I felt something pop. It was such a strange sensation, like a balloon popping inside me. And then there was a rush of water as I was wetting my pants, but I wasn’t. I stood there, feeling completely befuddled, and then your daddy stumbled into the kitchen and said, ‘I think your waters just broke!’ I should have realized that, right, Bean?
The next few minutes felt like a Keystone Cops routine as we ran in and out of rooms. We were chickens with our heads cut off, Bean, because of you. We were excited and scared and overwhelmed and excited. So excited, because you were finally coming. You were almost here.
Somehow we made it to the hospital and into the labor ward, all as if there wasn’t a moment to spare, as if you were going to plop right onto the floor. Like most first-time parents, I guess, because let me tell you, the nurse wasn’t particularly moved by our frantic urgency. ‘First baby?’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’
When we finally got seen half an hour later, I found out I was only two centimeters dilated! Two, Bean! Just in case you don’t realize, you have to get all the way to ten before you can push. We had a long way to go.
Dawn broke while I was walking back and forth in the room they’d given us, trying to get things moving along, but you weren’t ready to come out. Was it just too comfy in there? I don’t blame you for wanting to stay.
After several hours of nothing happening, and thinking nothing it would, it suddenly all started to speed up. I was four centimeters, and then I was six, and then I was eight, and then you were almost here! I won’t talk about the pain because it was worth it and I didn’t care about how much it hurt. I refused an epidural because I wanted to feel everything; your daddy thought I was crazy.
And then it was time to push. The doctor said, ‘you might feel a certain amount of pressure’ and I remember bursting into laughter and answering, ‘You think?!’ He smiled at that, and I laughed again, because I was so very excited to meet you.
And then you were here. Your daddy let out a cry of joy as you slipped out without any fuss at all, and the doctor held you up, all red and screaming. You were angry, Bean. You were furious! But then he laid you on my chest and I put my arms around you and you tilted your head and blinked up at me and you stopped crying. We stared at each other and it felt as if there was nothing else in the world but us. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since. And I smiled, and I kissed your wrinkly little forehead, and I whispered, ‘Welcome to the world, my little bean.’
Love,
Mama
8
Eva
The wine bar where my friend Naomi asks me to meet is one of those understated places that is trying not to seem cool, and so feels as if it is trying all the harder because of it. Scattered sofas, low lighting, mood music, and glasses the size of fishbowls. It’s the last bit I like, although I told myself I wasn’t going to drink anything tonight. I mean, what sort of woman trying for a baby has a glass or three of wine nearly every night?
Well, the answer to that one is easy. Me. Not that I’m actually trying to conceive, since my fertile period passed without so much as a goodnight kiss. I feel as if my marriage is ebbing away like the tide, and I’m not even sure how or why it’s happening, or if it’s all in my mind, because I’m so scared this isn’t going to happen for me. That James and I are doomed to drift apart.
Rachel’s visit a week ago certainly didn’t help. I haven’t yet told James that she came to see me, never mind what she was asking me to do. When he returned home that night, I felt like some sort of adulteress; I’d actually sprayed air freshener in the living room, to hide the subtle, lemony scent of her perfume. I thought he might sense she’d been there, see one of her long, dark hairs on the back of a chair, but no. In the end, he barely saw me.
He said hello, got a drink from the fridge, and disappeared behind his laptop, citing work. Before all this—and I’m not even sure when all this began—I wouldn’t have minded. We didn’t live in each other’s pockets, and I’d always liked my space, as did James. I might have sat opposite him with a drink of my own, and my laptop in front of me, making the occasional comment to one another, a sudden smile or met gaze. We used to have that, and I want it back.
Now I weave through the scattered sofas to Naomi, my friend from an earlier life, when we were both young, ambitious interns for a large consulting company in New York. She stayed in finance but moved to Boston a couple years ago, and I took a job at a consulting firm in Boston fresh off my internship, before moving to Maemae.
“Hey, girl.” She grins up at me as she hoists her large glass. “I decided on a cocktail. Some kind of cosmopolitan.”
I eye the Maraschino cherry and spoonful of syrup hanging suspended in the alcohol like a drop of blood. “Looks fancy.”
“You want one?”
