A Necessary End (16 page)

G
abe and I haven't had sex in two weeks, not since Michael came home. The amazing thing is, I can't seem to care. No, it's more than that. I find it liberating. Not having sexual urges to be satisfied frees up so much time and energy, all of which I can devote to Michael and to getting things done on his behalf (like his laundry; he is a spit-up king, that one!). It feels like I've spent my whole life in service of Gabe and his needs, and I didn't even realize it until now.

I know I didn't actually give birth to Michael (how could I miss that?), but I feel like I'm still living in an oxytocin haze. I suffer with his every cry; I'd do absolutely anything to keep him safe and happy, just like a real mother would.

I need to stop thinking like that. I am his real mother. I am his mother, period. Write it one hundred times on a blackboard, until it sticks.

But having Leah here sometimes throws that into question, which really bugs me. Generally, she ignores Michael. At first, she was in her room all the time with headphones on so she couldn't hear him. I think she spent a lot of time sleeping. Whether her body was just wrecked or she was depressed, I couldn't tell. She wasn't sharing.

She's since undergone a transformation. She used her allowance to buy workout gear and high-tech sneakers, and she goes for long walks around the neighborhood. She's gone for hours.

And now that Leah's mood is lifting, now that she's trying to cook healthy food she picked up at the Whole Foods on her walks, now that she's filling the refrigerator and freezer with the milk she's pumping out prodigiously on her new industrial-strength machine that cost us $400, now that she's hanging out in the living room and lifting dumbbells while she watches TV alongside Michael and me, now that she's
taking over the house
basically, she's started noticing that—surprise!—there's a baby around.

I wouldn't say she seems truly interested in him, or that she looks at him anything like how I do, but she's definitely begun looking right at him. She hasn't made a move to pick him up, and I'm not sure what I'd do if she did. I can't stop her, since she's contractually allotted two hours a day. But I'd have to figure out something. I don't want him getting confused. I don't want
her
getting confused.

Feedings were, briefly, the joy of my life. They aren't as much fun now that it's her milk. Sure, I still love Michael's closeness, but it's different somehow. The milk is a reminder of what she can provide that I can't; it's a reminder of biology, and I'm helpless in the face of that.

I hate being helpless.

This morning, after his diaper change, he was up on the table and I was cooing at him and he was looking like he wanted to smile at me (he's too little to actually smile yet). Leah stuck her head in the room. “Do you need anything from the store?” she said, like the perfect little houseguest. She was in her workout clothes. Less than a week of exercise, and I can practically see the pounds flying off her in tiny sparks.

“No, thank you.” I had my eyes back on Michael. He was belted to the table but you can never be too careful. Accidents can happen in a second.

I thought Leah would just say, “Bye,” and continue on her way
out the door. But instead, she came and stood next to me, over Michael. She smiled down at him. “Hi, little guy,” she said.

Get out! I wanted to yell.
Do not talk to him!

The urge was so strong that it felt nearly biological. Yes, nearly—I can come close, but no cigar.

Leah playfully pulled on Michael's foot, and I could see the pleasure crossing his face. Can he tell that Leah is somehow special? Then she bopped out the door, like she's oblivious to her own power.

It's time to feed him again. Then he'll nap against me for a while, and later, I'll transfer him to his crib so I can get some things done. It's surprisingly easy to never leave the house.

It feels safer this way, with Michael and me cocooned at home. I ordered a stroller but I haven't tried to use it yet. The thought of driving with him terrifies me. I know the car seat has to meet certain standards, but what if I somehow buckle him in wrong? What if someone sideswipes us and he's sleeted with broken glass?

Better not to chance it. He's so tiny, and all he really wants to do is eat and rest and be loved. No reason to leave the house for that trifecta.

He's drowsing against me when there's a knock at the door. Mel. I almost forgot she was coming over today.

I get to my feet slowly and transport him to his room and into his crib. He doesn't stir. Part of me loves that, how undisturbed he is, and another part thinks, It could be SIDS! I reach down and put my hand in front of his mouth and nose for the comforting heat of his breath. The part of me that thinks about SIDS is the same part that feels like I don't deserve him—not his purity or the happiness he engenders. I shouldn't get to love like this.

Mel knocks again. I stare down at Michael and his sweet bald head (it's already becoming more spherical, he's cuter by the hour it seems like), and I don't want to leave him. I want to sit in the glider beside his bed and watch him. I want to feel my bounty. If I don't answer the door, eventually Mel will get the message and go.

No, that would be mean. He'll still be here, I remind myself. He's not going anywhere.

When I answer the door, Mel hugs me tight and long. “I'm so excited for you!” she says, and I know it's the truth. Mel doesn't measure her excitement in tablespoons; in her worldview, there's plenty to go around.

She looks at me, and I see a touch of surprise. It's my outfit. I'm in yoga pants and one of Gabe's long-sleeved T-shirts. I'm dressed like I can't fit into my usual clothes, like I'm the one who gave birth. It's a pleasing fiction, but in her look I'm reminded that it is a fiction. I'm not postbirth; I'm merely slovenly. Then there's my hair. It takes too long to do a full blow-dry when I need to be at Michael's disposal. So I've gone au naturel: glop in a bunch of product, and let it air-dry wavy and wide.

“Come in!” I tell her. She squats down to pick up a large basket wrapped in plastic and tied with a blue ribbon. “That's really sweet of you. You didn't need to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

We go into the living room and sit on the couch. I notice some spit-up that needs cleaning, so I throw a burp cloth on top of it. She beams at me, as if she's a proud mama herself.

“How's school?” I ask. “How are my kids?”

“I'm sure they're doing great. At least, I haven't heard about any problems.” She makes a face that says, Let's talk about
you
! But I'm at a loss for words. I don't know how to begin to explain the changes in my life, and in me. “You're a
mother
! How amazing is that!”

“It's pretty amazing.” It is, yet I find myself forcing a smile. This is all so unbearably awkward. Mel seems to belong to another time and place, or I do.

“So cute,” she says, gesturing toward Michael's vibrating chair, with the small stuffed birds that dance above his head. I miss him already, just looking at it. “Open your present.” She thrusts the basket toward me.

Mel's a whole shower all on her own: Onesies, bibs, hats, washcloths, towels, a quilted changing pad, a stuffed lamb . . . and nearly all of it is monogrammed. Gabe is going to shit. Or it'll act as shock therapy and he'll finally get used to his baby and his brother having the same name. After all, it was his suggestion.

“This is fantastic,” I say to Mel, sincerely. “Thank you so much.”

“I figured the good thing about shopping after he's here is that I can personalize it.”

I run my finger over the onesie. Michael. An angel's name, just like Gabriel.

“Do you call him Mike, or Mikey?” she asks.

“Never.”

“I don't know why people need nicknames anyway, when their names are only two syllables long.” Good old Mel, always loyal. “I can't wait until he wakes up so I can meet him.”

“It'll be a little while. He went down for his nap right before you got here.” I don't know what I'm supposed to do with her for an hour or two. There are no more presents, and I can only fondle cloth for so long. “So who replaced me at school?”

“Yolanda Brewer. Do you know her?” I indicate no. “She seems okay. She's experienced.”

“Do my kids like her? Are they happy?”

“I think so.”

“I bet Jorgenson's glad I'm gone.” A congratulations card came from the school, full of well-wishers, signed by everyone from administration to the custodial staff, and the troll had written her name, nothing else. But she can't hurt me now. Michael's the only one whose approval matters.

“Let's not talk about school,” Mel says.

“Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Just that I got my pink slip. Not a big deal. They'll probably rehire me.” She refolds a towel. “Let's talk about you. You and Michael. And Gabe. Is he totally thrilled? I bet he was hoping for a boy and got his wish.”

I want to talk about Gabe's reaction to Michael about as much as she wants to talk about her pink slip. It's something I try not to think about. He's going to come around. How can he not? Michael's an angel.

But then, I can hear Gabe saying, so was Lucifer, once.

The front door opens, and Leah walks in, a grocery bag in her hand. It seems impossible, but her stomach looks even flatter than when she left. She looks four months pregnant now, and, with her cheeks rosy from exertion, extremely pretty.

Mel seems startled. Leah smiles over. “Hi,” she says, “I'm Leah.”

“Nice to meet you.” Mel's eyes flick over to me questioningly: You've got a nanny who exercises during her workday?

Leah stretches her arms above her head, showcasing her tits. Lactating suits her. “I had a killer run.”

“Leah gave birth to Michael,” I say when the silence is too fraught.

“Oh.” Mel smiles at Leah. “You look great.”

“I'm getting there. The breast-feeding helps.”

“Breast
pumping
,” I say.

“Right.” Leah looks just a little bit smirky. Sometimes I get the feeling that she likes making me uneasy. I don't get why. I've been nothing but kind to her. It's not like she can see inside my head.

Mel looks from Leah to me and back again. It's like she's one of those dogs at the airport sniffing for drugs.

“I need a shower,” Leah says. “See you.”

Once she's gone into the bathroom and shut the door, Mel moves closer to me. “What the fuck?” she whispers. It's maybe the second time I've ever heard Mel swear.

“It's kind of a weird situation.”

“Yeah, you can say that.” Her tone is full of uncharacteristic irony. “That girl is hot!”

“I'm hot, too.” Well, not at the moment, not in Gabe's T-shirt, not with this hair, but typically, I'm hot. Mel makes a good point, though. I'm dressed like a new mom, and Leah—in her form-fitting workout gear—is definitely not.

“What's she doing here?”

“She lives with us.”

There's no mistaking Mel's shock. “In your house? I didn't think it worked like that. I thought she has the baby and then goes back to where she's from.”

“It can work a lot of ways.” I'm trying to sound breezy, but she's making me nervous. Unlike Hal Grayson III, Esquire, I believe that Mel really has my best interests at heart. Also, Leah is almost back to her fighting weight, while I haven't been to the gym in almost three weeks. I might still have some old Tae Bo DVDs around somewhere, and Michael does sleep a lot.

“How long is she staying?”

“Only a year.”

Mel's jaw actually drops at that.

“It's going to be fine,” I say. “It's already fine. She barely looks at Michael. All she cares about is getting her body back. You heard her, that's the reason she pumps her milk.”

“Doesn't that bother you? She's his mother, and she lives in the house with him and barely looks at him?”

“She's not his mother,” I say fiercely.

“Sorry. I meant—”

“And no, it doesn't bother me. In her mind, she's already given him up. They just happen to be sharing a house.”

Mel is visibly struggling for words.

“Thanks for the gifts,” I tell her, “and thanks for being concerned. Maybe you can come back another day when Michael's awake.”

“You know me, Adrienne. I'm a total optimist by nature, and I don't like to judge, but something is wrong with this picture.”

I'm trying my best not to hear her.

“Adrienne,” she starts, but I stop her.

“Another day.”

Once she's gone, I feel distinctly unsettled. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels. It's almost the halfway point in Summer
Jackson. Gabe thinks the show makes the world seem ugly, all the women and children kidnapped and murdered. I told him sometimes it turns out the women just walked off and started new lives, like runaway brides.

But that is the minority. Mostly, awful things have happened to them. Very occasionally, a man disappears, but that's an even smaller minority.

“The minute someone goes missing, Summer's sure it's the husband or the father,” Gabe complains. Ninety-five percent of the time, though, she turns out to be right.

Summer is a former prosecutor and, she says, a crusader for truth. She wants justice for all women and children (and the occasional man). Since she can't be over thirty, it's hard to imagine she actually has much experience in the legal profession. But she couldn't be expected to languish in a DA's office looking like she does, a gorgeous African-American with the proportions of a Barbie doll.

I know Summer's a venal, ambitious ratings grabber. But I've always found her show compulsively watchable. I love a whodunit. Sure, it's mostly just the husband or the father, but sometimes a suspect comes out of left field. Sometimes you get a big surprise. Even if you don't, there's the satisfaction of watching someone pay for their crimes.