Only Children (18 page)

“Colic lasts three months. And then it goes away. It doesn’t do him any harm. His digestive tract needs time to mature. Comfort him as much as you can, but let him cry if you can’t handle it.”

Let him cry! Who raised these people, these doctors? she wondered. Did they all go to military school?

So she went back to pushing the carriage, harnessing herself into the Snugli, rocking Luke in her arms. The moment, the instant, the split second, sometimes even a fraction before she stopped the various movements, he cried, he raged, his legs pulled up, his face distorted in pain, his rear end expelled gas, his stomach compressed into a tight ball. Why does it only hurt him when I stop moving? She began to suspect Luke. He knows. He knows. If he pretends to hurt, I’ll pamper him. He knows.

Can’t he tell he’s killing me? He’s breaking me; he’s making me a failure.

Tears came from her as she sagged into despair. I can’t even be a mother. The simplest goddamned thing in the world. A peasant, an idiot can do it. While Luke sucked, tears collected at Nina’s jaw and formed a large drop, which then fell on his stretchy. Luke chewed away, unconcerned.

Nina studied him. He was content now. His curly black hair was damp from the humidity; the oppressive weather, the hot gray stifling days, drained her energy.

Luke peered blankly at her while he sucked her dry. There was no apology in his eyes. No sheepishness in his chewing. No fear of reprisal. Only suspicion, a wary surveillance of her. Don’t you make a move, his expressionless blue eyes seemed to say. You stay right here for me.

She hated him; from her soul a loathing for Luke’s selfish little body arose. Her disgust shot through her like a current. She could feel the rage in the metal taste of her mouth; she could spit her fury at him. She wanted to bash sense into him. “You have to go to sleep,” she said, leaning into his face.

Luke blinked and pushed into her breast for protection from her looming head.

Luke’s neck, creased by rings of baby fat, attracted her attention. Maybe he was damaged. Maybe the traumatic birth had done something. The doctors might even know that was the explanation of Luke’s behavior but not want to tell her yet.

Maybe there’s something wrong with him.

Luke pulled off her breast, yelping. His legs retracted to his stomach, his face went red, and he shrieked.

“Okay, baby,” she said, and put him to her shoulder, patting his back (so small, and his bony spine was spineless), patting hard to force out a burp. Luke squawked, squealed, complained. No burp. He never burped. Almost never. Sometimes she thought that was his problem: three weeks of gas trapped inside. He’s got a Jewish stomach (Eric burped as often as he breathed) with a Wasp throat (Nina’s mother had made her feel burping was as bad as murder).

Luke’s stomach convulsed and she felt gooey liquid on her shoulder. “Oh, God!” she moaned, and glanced to see what she already knew was there—white and sticky spitup.

Vomited on, she thought—this is my life. Her mind spun through the days and nights. Up at 4:00 A.M., unable to send Eric in with a bottle since formula might make the colic worse, her head nodding into sleep while Luke chewed, then punching Eric (sometimes quite hard) to rouse him so he could walk Luke around, lying in the dark desperate for sleep but constantly wakened by the noise of the carriage in the hall or Luke’s squeals whenever Eric would try to stop or had to change Luke’s diaper. And finally out of bed at 8:00, again to be gnawed on, then showering unhappily with an ear listening to the moans and squeals that soon would be her problem, showering with hot water even in this heat, to soothe the sore breasts, burning eyes, dented back, and puffy, swollen feet. To have the luxury of a quiet bath, not a bath with distant sounds of screeching and complaint, but a restful stay in a warm pool and a silent apartment, seemed like a distant memory of youth. So she showered hopelessly, with eight hours ahead, eight hours of fighting the urge to kill herself or Luke or both, eight hours of facing her inadequacy, her son’s misery, the apartment’s mess, and a world filled with smiling faces that assumed she was an ecstatic mother blessed with a glorious child, and not being able to tell, to say: this is hell, this is prison, and I may die from it. Or kill to escape.

She had tried to maintain a semblance of competence for the first few days. She made the bed, pushing the carriage until he quieted, tucking in one side (by then Luke was screaming), and then pushing the carriage to gain more calm, only to lose it while tucking in the other side. She learned to load the dishwasher with him in the Snugli, one hand covering his head, the other rinsing plates and stacking them. She closed cabinets and doors with her feet and elbows; she got used to reading while jolting back and forth in the rocker, willing to accept the nausea that caused for the relief of information, distraction—anything that wasn’t about babies. Goddamn babies. Today, however, she had left the bed unmade, the food gelling on the plates, clothes impaled on chairs, and the
Times
sprawled on the kitchen table.

Whenever she took Luke out, he fell asleep while they moved, so that the neighbors, the doormen, the storekeepers, other mothers, all believed Luke was wonderful. Asleep, his fair skin (like hers), his tall brow (like Eric’s), his perfect little nose (like hers), his thick, arching eyebrows (like Eric’s), his jutting strong chin (like hers), all spoke of beauty, calm, assurance, lovableness. And the moment she got home, once the motion stopped, Luke was back to yelping and whining.

The joys of motherhood. Are they all one great lie?

Are the other mothers that much stronger than I am?

Are they all so much more giving?

Is there so little love in me and so much in them?

By the time Nina had cleaned her shoulder of the spitup and switched Luke to the other breast, her tears had stopped, but her eyes hurt, as usual, from the aftermath of her sorrow. They would swell up until the morning and she’d look ugly. The dark circles were bad enough; now, with her eyes puffy, she’d truly seem to have gone fifteen rounds and lost.

And she was losing this fight.

She put Luke in his crib after he was fed. He had fallen asleep and stayed that way, his beautiful face composed and saintly. Luke stirred when she laid him down, then sighed and relaxed again.

Maybe it was over. The doctor had said, contradicting the books which warned colic lasted for three months, that it could end any day.

She left Luke’s room. She sat outside in the hall, rigid with tension, and lit a cigarette.

Luke cried. A little cry at first. Then he cried big. And he cried loud.

Wait it out. She looked at her watch. He wailed. His voice went hoarse with desperation. He wailed. He choked.

“Goddammit!” She got to her feet. She stormed into the room, yelling. “Goddammit! What is the matter with you!”

Luke’s cries echoed hers, soaring with her rage, waning with her despair. “I can’t stand it! You have to stop!” She put on the Snugli, grabbed Luke roughly, and pushed him in, yanking his legs through. His head bobbed against her, his open mouth wet, his feet kicking as she fought to zip him up.

She wanted to smash his hard tiny head. She wanted quiet.

She carried him outside in the Snugli, frightened to remain alone with him. She went to the nearby church, not to find God but to find the peace and order of her childhood.

Grace Church was beautiful, quiet, the dark wood benches empty, but alive with the wear of generations, the marble cold and white, but soothing, the ceiling high and vast, but protective, the glass bright with color, but dark with age. Balance. Peace.

Against her chest, Luke was awake but still, chewing on the pacifier. He craned his neck to peer up at her, his perfect blue marbles querying her. Going someplace? he seemed to ask. Even there, in the house of God, he was shameless, concerned only with himself and her submission to his wants.

“You have to calm down,” she whispered to him. A prayer to Luke. “I love you, but you have to relax,” her voice hissed in the cool dark of the church. “Please,” she begged to Luke’s little face, his brow wrinkled by the effort to look up at her. “Calm down,” she prayed to the new demanding god of her life.

D
IANE STOOD
at her apartment door after finishing work, key in hand, ready to enter. She had arrived home in the same condition for years: her back ached; her neck was stiff; her legs were bloated; her head was dull, ready to throb with a headache. She was bloody but unbowed from the struggle of work, from the pressure of producing for the partners, a pressure made more intense by the recent absence of her maternity leave, ready to enter her home, her haven, to rest, to recollect herself, to catch up on unfinished paper work—but now she came home instead to more work, to a husband who expected food, to a four-month-old baby who had to be fed, changed, bathed, played with, and put to sleep. At the end of her ten hours at the office she had four more hours of labor at home.

She understood now why there were so many magazine covers about working mothers.

But she would not be beaten. Not by sexism, circumstance, or tradition. She held the key to her apartment and gave herself, her body, a moment to feel the fatigue completely, surrendering to it. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back. She let her leather briefcase drop. She listened for sounds from her apartment. It was quiet.

Diane had had a bad day. Stoppard hadn’t liked her draft of the brief. He had put his criticisms gently, acknowledging her currently difficult conditions, but it was the gentleness that worried her. Stoppard was usually brutal with those he treasured, unself-conscious in his attacks, as though the victim were a part of himself. When he treated an associate in a sympathetic and kindly way, you could be sure his trust and approval were at a low ebb. Stoppard liked the intimacy of the team where there was no ego but the group’s; if he had to think about you, he didn’t want you around.

“Maybe this is too much for you right now,” Stoppard had said at one point. “I can bring Didi in.” If he had meant that as a threat, Diane wouldn’t worry. But Stoppard had been serious, was concerned. He thought about Diane as a “special situation,” a new mother who had to be pampered, which meant, of course, that she couldn’t be relied on. Disaster. She had to stay up tonight and revise the brief, knock Stoppard out with a rewritten draft first thing in the morning.

The decision to take on more work, to give up sleep entirely, energized her. She couldn’t stand the effort of her life as a lawyer and a mother if she were merely going to be good at it. She had to be the best to attempt the task at all.

Diane entered her apartment. She heard Francine (despite some misgivings, Diane had hired Francine because of Pearl’s recommendation) laughing at Byron. Byron was on his back, a fine down on his head (like a boot camp marine), kicking his short, chubby, powerful legs.

“You ticklish?” Francine was saying. Byron answered her with a throaty chuckle. He kicked at Francine, excited. His mouth opened wide. He hooted at her. His chubby cheeks widened. His lips spread farther and farther apart. Francine signaled to Diane to look. “Yes, you’re smiling!” My God, he was. Smiling his head off, his stomach convulsed with laughter. His eyes, which had dulled from blue to gray in the early weeks, were now rich with brown; they still stared at objects with intense concentration, but people were greeted with sparkles of interest. They glittered at Francine, speaking to her. Byron’s entire body yearned to communicate: his legs thrust forward; his mouth opened with the ache of pleasure; his small fat hands, like pats of butter, slapped at the air; his stomach, ballooned with milk, rippled at Francine’s playful fingers.

“Abba, abba, dabba, dabba,” Byron cheered, thumping his heels on the floor.

“Your mama’s home,” Francine said, and pointed to Diane, who moved into his vision and knelt in her gray skirt beside his head.

He blinked at her appearance with momentary confusion. Then he recognized Diane. He very clearly saw who she was.

At the realization that it was Diane, Byron stopped his animated delight. His legs stiffened, his open, welcoming, joyful mouth closed, his hands rested at his sides, his eyes were dulled by hostility, his melodic voice shut off, and he turned away.

Diane couldn’t believe it. She looked at Francine for confirmation, as though they had both witnessed a supernatural event. How could a four-month-old baby reject a mother? How could Byron even know enough (recognize Diane, be aware that her absence had been long, realize what a turned head meant) to hurt her?

Francine was embarrassed. “He’s getting tired,” she said, but that was an obvious lie.

Diane reached for Byron and lifted him. His face was solemn. Byron glanced at Diane when she put the tip of her nose against his and pursed her lips to kiss him. At the offer, Byron turned his head and gave her his cheek. Then he looked at Francine and once more the miracle happened.

His eyes glittered, his legs kicked, and his hands, the fingers spread wide, groped for Francine’s face; his mouth, gaped, the nude gums exposed, the soft pillows of his cheeks puffing out into an enormous smile: a welcome from his entire being, from the tips of his toes to the rippling veins of his almost bald head.

“Hi!” Francine couldn’t help responding.

Byron’s stomach trembled and the musical laughter echoed from the deepest part of his soul. Laughter of delight and love. All for Francine.

Diane turned him sideways so his beaming face would confront hers. Byron arched his back in protest. “Hi, Byron,” Diane said in a high, pleasant tone. “Mommy’s home!” Again Byron averted his head, his mouth closed tight, and a dull glaze, like translucent lids, covered his shining brown eyes. He was rejecting her.

She stood up. Byron tried to escape from her arms. He leaned his head back, arching away from her, his hands out to reach for Francine. “Where’s Peter?” Diane asked Francine.

“He called to say he would be late. Said he tried to reach you at the office.” Francine was sweating. She was dressed in a dingy white T-shirt and in washed-out blue jeans that were pulled tight across her big ass and bloated stomach. The middle of her body was much wider than her legs or upper torso. She looked as if she were walking around with a flotation doughnut. Nevertheless, Diane had been glad to get her instead of Pearl. Francine shared her friend Pearl’s cheerful voice; but Francine’s accent was New York, not southern, and her tone was casual, without a trace of Pearl’s deferential modesty. She made Diane feel less like a plantation owner and allowed her to be demanding, since she knew Francine would complain if the requests were unreasonable.