Driving Lessons: A Novel (15 page)

“Isn’t it though? Hold this.” She handed me her jacket and purse and slipped into the cardigan equivalent of a cloud. “Your age is a nonnegotiable, you know.”

“I know.” I watched her watch herself in the mirror. She tilted her head and squinted. “That’s really pretty on you, Mo.”

“It is, right? I feel like this is what a convalescing actress would wear in a movie. Penélope Cruz, maybe.”

“Totally. You look sort of like her, you know,” I said, knowing full well that she did.

“Do I?” Her eyes danced. “Okay, I don’t care what this costs, I’m buying it.”

“I’m only thirty-six, by the way. I don’t know why everyone has to dangle the stopwatch every time the word ‘kid’ comes up,” I said. I took the cardigan from her and handed her back her things.

“Because, Sarah, it could take some time. You could feasibly be thirty-eight or older by the time your delivery date rolled around.” She made her way toward the register. “And now my uterus is getting depressed, talking about your uterus on her day.”

“No problem. I’m happy to not talk about it anymore.”

“Oh no, now we have to talk about it! What does Josh think?” She handed the sweater and her credit card to the impossibly put-together salesperson and looked at me closely.

“I haven’t told him.”

“What!” She retrieved her card without missing a beat and slipped it back into her wallet. “Why not?”

“You know me, I don’t like a big fuss before I’ve got a handle on things.”

“But, Sarah, this is more than just a thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, but still. I just want to be sure first. If I’m not, I’ll tell him after the fact when I’m home.”

“And if you are?”

“Then I guess shit will hit the fan.”

“So when are you going to take a test already?”

“I have one in my purse,” I confessed.

“You’re just carrying it around with you like a lip gloss or something?”

“Yeah.”

“For God’s sake, let’s take it already! What are you waiting for?”

“But maybe it’s too early?”

“Who cares? And it’s not too early, anyway. Let’s go.” She marched toward the elevators.

“Here?”

“There’s a bathroom in the basement that nobody uses.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, following her.

“Sometimes I get a nervous stomach here after I spend too much money on something. Move it or lose it.”

D
o I just leave it here? On the back of the commode?” I asked from inside the stall. “The directions say that you’re supposed to leave it alone while it works.”

“Yes. Leave it there. We’ll wait in the lounge,” Mona replied through the door.

“But what if someone comes in this one?”

“We’ll tell them not to. They can’t actually enter the bathroom without going past us first.”

“Right.” I flushed and left, refusing to look at the test until the maximum seven minutes were up.

“God, I’m so nervous,” I said through chattering teeth as I washed my hands. “This reminds me of my first driving lesson. My t-t-t-teeth. They ch-ch-chattered like this. So weird.”

“Of course you’re nervous.” Mona took my arm and led me toward the couches in the lounge.

“Wait, do you mind if we sit right here?” I asked. “I know it’s not the most sanitary thing, but I’m nervous to leave the test.”

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head.

“Fine. How dirty could it be? It’s Barneys.” We sat down and pressed our backs against the wall. “I hope no one I know comes in here,” said Mona. “This would be a hard one to explain.”

“Mona, you’re amazing. I can’t believe you’re being so supportive with all that you’re going through.”

“I’m glad you told me. What were you going to do, wait until the baby came and be like, ‘Oh, by the way, I had a baby’?” She shook her head. “I’m scared about tomorrow, Sarah,” she added.

“I know.” I snuggled closer to her.

“What if I come out and I don’t feel like me anymore? What if all of this”—she glanced down at her abdomen—“is responsible for all of my Mona-isms?”

“I don’t think that’s biologically possible, Mo, but I certainly understand the worry.”

“Why? Why isn’t it possible? Hormones and estrogen are all I am on most days.”

“Fair enough, but you’ll still have your ovaries, right? Those regulate all of that stuff as far as I know.”

“Yes, that’s true. But still. Who knows?”

“Right.”

“What’s it called when someone loses a limb, but they can still feel it as though it’s there?”

“Phantom limb?”

“Phantom uterus syndrome. PUS for short. What if I develop that? How apropos.”

“But a limb is more obviously utilized, you know? When do you think about your uterus? Are you saying that you’ll have phantom periods?” I asked.

“God, I hope not.” She smiled slightly.

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you, Mona. There’s nothing you can’t ask me for.”

“Okay.”

“Is it strange to not have Nate know about any of this? Wouldn’t it be nice to have his arms to fall into afterward?”

“Not really. Well, maybe. It’s too complicated, though. If we were farther along in our relationship, sure. But we’re not, so . . . Anyway, look at you, Little Miss Hypocrite! Your husband doesn’t even know that you might be pregnant.”

“Fair enough.” I looked at my watch. “Mona, it’s time.”

Just then, a woman walked into the restroom, doing a double take as she noticed us camped out on the floor like tweens in line for Justin Bieber tickets. I stood up quickly and pulled Mona to her feet.

“Okay, I’m g-g-going in,” I announced.

“Okay,” Mona said. “Go on. Now or never.”

I nodded and pushed the door open, my heart beating wildly. I closed and locked it before turning around to face the most powerful piece of plastic ever created.

I couldn’t figure out exactly what I wanted it to tell me. “Not pregnant” would be both a relief and a letdown somehow, as though all of this worry and stress was for naught. “Pregnant” was an entirely different scenario altogether—the emotional dimensions of which I couldn’t really imagine. Classical music wafted through the bathroom’s speakers as I willed my feet to move.

Pregnant
. I put my hand over my mouth, too shocked by the verdict to even pick it up. Without warning, tears streamed from my eyes. I was beyond overwhelmed with joy and fright, disbelief and wonder.

“Sarah?” whispered Mona on the other side of the parallel universe that this stall had become. A universe in which I was grown-up enough to be pregnant and excited about it. How could it be that I was delivering this news to someone who was about to lose her chance at ever seeing this word staring up at her? The scenario seemed so cruel, and yet, there was nothing that could be done. I opened the door slowly and Mona peered in, her face a mask of concern.

“What is it, Sar?” I held out the test, and she looked down, grabbing my forearm as she did so. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her own tears beginning to fall. “Congratulations.” We embraced fiercely, both sobbing.

“I’m so happy for you,” Mona said through her tears.

“Mo, you don’t have to be, it’s okay,” I sobbed back. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“Okay, okay. I’m not so happy.” She pulled back and we regarded each other, her eyes puffy and mascara smudged. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” I replied. “I hate that this is happening now.”

“I know.” She sniffled loudly. “Me too. But you’ll be a good mom, Sar.”

“I hope so. And so will you, Mo. I know you hate hearing the word ‘adoption’ right now, but I want you to pursue it when the time is right.” She nodded halfheartedly. As we embraced again, the woman emerged from her stall apologetically and washed her hands at lightning speed, opting to dry her hands on her pants in an attempt to exit as quickly as possible.

“I forgot about her.” I laughed.

“Man, does she have a story to tell at lunch.” She wiped her eyes. “Speaking of, let’s celebrate with a decadent lunch. My uterus is a little crestfallen about having to share her day, but some French fries should help.”

“You got it.” I held the test up. “What do I do with this?”

“Put it back in your purse.”

“But it’s covered in pee.” I made a face.

“Sarah, God willing, in nine months’ time, everything you own will be covered in pee. And poop, for that matter. Think of it as a head start on the inevitable.”

I placed it in my bag’s inside zipper compartment gingerly and washed my hands as Mona attempted to refresh her rumpled face.

“Life is crazy,” she mumbled, wiping under her eyes with a Kleenex.

“No shit,” I agreed.

F
ree at last, free at last!” sang Kate as we exited her building. She skipped a few steps in front of me. “This elation will last approximately two and a half minutes, and then I will plunge into a deep well of guilt and loneliness,” she then informed me.

“About Franklin?”

“Yes, little man Franklin. The love of my life. That said, it does feel good to be out on my own again, without worrying about feeding or soothing anyone but myself.”

I listened to her Mommy woes with considerably elevated interest. I hadn’t told a soul but Mona about my newest development, although I had left a message for Josh to call me back. Not a “Call me back, I have news” message, but just a regular one.

“Do you even feel like you anymore? Or is it this new version of you?”

“You mean Mom me?” She stopped in her tracks. “Mom Me. M-O-M capital-M-E. I need to write that down. Hold on a sec.” She tapped it into her phone. “Okay, genius moment captured. Anyway, where were we?”

“Do you feel like you anymore?”

“I have these very small moments, you know? Like when I’m putting on makeup—which happens never, by the way, but I did tonight—my mind drifts and it’s just me again, thinking about the benefits of mascara or whether or not I’ve shaved recently. You know?” I nodded. “And in those moments I suppose it feels like the old me. But so much of my brain is consumed by Franklin now, it’s just—well, I guess there is a distinct divide between old me and mom me. Not that I mind. I mean, mascara and shaving are topics I am happy to shelve. My work though, that’s something I still have to figure out. Hey, you want to eat here? I love this place.”

She stopped in front of Ralph’s, which specialized in small plates of appetizer fare, carafes of fairly priced wine and excellent lighting. How I was going to opt out of wine consumption inconspicuously was a mystery to me, but I would give it my best shot.

“Sounds good to me.” We walked in, gave our name to the Winona Ryder–lookalike hostess, and settled ourselves at the bar.

“
Salut,
” I said, and lifted my glass to toast Kate. “I say that when I want to feel cool.”

“Do you feel cool tonight?” She clinked my glass and took a sip. I pretended to as well.

“I think I do, actually.” I surveyed the room and found myself feeling not at all homesick for the scene that was Brooklyn. That was the second time today. “So, Kate, what did you mean about figuring out your work?”

“Oh, with Franklin, you mean?” I nodded. “Every time I try to sit down and focus on it, my mind drifts. It’s almost like I am physically incapable of it. It’s worrying, to say the least.”

“Yes, but you’re what, not even two months into motherhood? Come on. Time will make it easier.”

“I hope so, Sarah. Because from around month four of pregnancy until now I have been coasting on God knows what in the business department. It’s a miracle my company is still afloat. I think my partner has just about had it with me.”

This did not bode well for me. At least Kate had a career at the moment of Franklin’s conception. If I wanted to make this marketing-consultant thing work, I had to get started immediately, before I had even less energy to care.

“Does she have any kids?”

“Yes, but they’re older. Eight and twelve. Different ball game.”

“Well, at least she’s sympathetic.”

“You would think, but it’s almost as though she’s forgotten what the reality of having an infant entails. I’ve heard that all women function that way. We all forget, apparently. It’s the only way to maybe want to do it again.”

“Have you forgotten your labor yet?”

“Not one millisecond.” She emptied the remains of the carafe into her glass. “Not one.”

“And would you do it again?”

“Yeah, as crazy as that sounds. Did I tell you about my labor?”

“You hinted at some stuff, but you didn’t really go into detail.”

“I didn’t?” She looked surprised. “That is very unlike me.”

I laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“Do you want to know?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, not really. I feel like it’s my duty to share this knowledge, because not one woman could even come close to describing the experience to me when I was curious, and it really pissed me off. Seriously, not one woman!”

“Maybe they all blocked it out.”

“Bullshit. It’s more like this secret-society crap. But I am not an elitist, and I think everyone should know what it feels like.” She lowered her voice, grabbed both of my hands and stared me directly in the eyes. “You ready?”

“Jesus, Kate, should I check the telephone poles outside for a flock of perched black crows? This feels very ominous.”

“Labor feels like a Mack truck pushing a piano out of your asshole,” she said, careful to enunciate each word. I recrossed my legs under the bar. “And not just in one fell swoop, either. The truck, like, backs up and charges forward again, over and over.” She nodded and drained the rest of her glass.

“Your asshole?” I whispered.

“Yes. Your asshole. And you know what else no one told me about?” Winona approached and let us know our table was ready.

“I think I may be okay not knowing,” I answered as we gathered our things. We followed the hostess through a maze of tables. Kate hung her purse on the back of her chair and sat down unsteadily, rocking the chair dangerously to the left as she did so.

“Okay, I’m drunk.”

“You don’t say.” I poured her some water.

“But I need to tell you something about the postpartum sexual experience and then I’m done.”