Pretty in Ink (27 page)

The meeting moves on, my idea left on the chopping block and me left feeling mortified. Panicky, I excuse myself and make a beeline to the supply closet. I swipe a two-inch binder, then run to the bathroom, where I lock myself inside a stall and methodically clench and unclench the binder’s rings. If I can’t handle a little dissent in a meeting, there’s no way I’m cut out to be a mother. That’s it, I think, my heartbeat churning like an overheated engine: I’ll call the clinic today.

When I eventually calm down, I return to the conference room, resolved to keep my mouth shut. “I’m still not happy with the personal essay options for November,” says Mimi, “and we’re down to the wire—one week until the entire issue is out the door. We need a strong voice with a strong story, and we need it fast. Let’s all think along the lines of grand triumphs over adversity, massive flops, bizarre and incredible occurrences. Come on, people.” For a split second I consider suggesting I write about the weird creature growing in my stomach, but then I remember:
Stay sane, Jane.

“I know of a group of women who were abducted by aliens,” offers Johanna. I eye her to see if somehow she’s read my mind and is mocking me. Apparently not. “They’re from this town in Nevada, and they all disappeared one cool summer night. The authorities searched high and low, but after a few days and no sign of them, everyone assumed they’d been hacked to pieces by some murderous maniac wanker. Then one day, a farmer was up at dawn milking his cows, and he discovered all seven lasses lying in his field, buck naked, looking as if they’d stuck their fingers in sockets, their hair all frizzed up and their eyes all crossed and mad.”

“Bullshit,” says Debbie. “Where did you hear about this, in line at Wendy’s?”

“No, I swear,” Johanna says. “One of the women wrote a rock album about the experience, and I know her publicist. She’d sure fancy a profile in the magazine.”

“That’s an idea.” Mimi sounds suspicious, like perhaps she shouldn’t have invited the entertainment director to a story pitch meeting.

“I know,” says Victoria. “How about we find a mother who was at the tippy-top of her game, just flying high and killing it in her career, raking in the big bucks. But then suddenly it all came crashing down. Everything just fell apart out of the blue, like poof! We’ll have her sketch out the rise and the fall, the whole trajectory.”

“That would really resonate with readers, considering the economy’s still in the shitter,” says Mimi. “Anyone know a writer who’s been through something like that?”

We’re all silent, until Abby coughs. I can see Zoe smirking behind her notebook. I drop my pen. “Oops.” I wonder if everyone can feel it—our former boss’s presence hovering over us, haunting the conference room like a ghost. In order to resist shouting out,
Louisa, for God’s sake! Get Louisa to write the stupid story,
I repeat my mantra under my breath like a madwoman:
Stay sane, Jane. Stay sane, Jane. Stay sane, Jane.

“Well, let’s all think on it,” Mimi says.

“How about we run a roundup of essays about the measures different women take to hide their pregnancies in their first trimesters,” I say, praying no one will dismiss the idea as idiotic. “You know, like bringing their wineglass into the bathroom and swapping out the alcohol for grape juice they smuggled in, or talking up the great new sushi place they supposedly just tried. Or making a big show of taking their birth control, but really only popping the sugar pills.” I brace myself for the response, hoping no one again accuses me of living in la-la-land.

“OMG!” Zoe squeals. “Jane, you’re not knocked up, are you?” Before I can tamp down my panic and pull myself together to respond, she practically pounces. “I knew it! I could’ve sworn you’ve been acting all weird lately. Congratulations, you sneaky little snake!” When I still don’t deny the accusation, I watch as the faces all around me contort into excitement and shock. And then I am being molested, a dozen perfectly manicured hands groping my belly, anxious to feel the imp underneath.

“Oh,” I say, cursing my stupidity. I didn’t realize my pitch would be a default pregnancy announcement. “Yeah, I guess you guys figured it out. Clever you.” I flash a smile at Mimi, thinking,
Please don’t fire me.
Jenny has told me it’s actually trickier to fire a pregnant woman, since she could sue for discrimination. But I don’t trust Schmidt & Delancey to play by those kinds of rules.

“I have plenty of other ideas along the lines of best remedies for morning sickness, savoring your last days of freedom, and how to shop for a bigger bra size every week.” Everyone laughs, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Is it possible I can just let this be my decision, now that the cat’s out of the bag? I can already imagine Jenny’s disappointment in me, her insistence that I think this through in a mature, reasoned way and come to a genuine choice that’s right for me. I have a sudden urge to steal someone’s full-on computer.

 

My coworkers start treating me differently. Mimi insists I take a chair during meetings, and the view is different seated among my superiors. At my desk I’m opening a new pair of scissors—the fifth for my collection—when Zoe says, “Want me to get that for you?”

“What do you think I’m going to do, accidentally slip and stab my stomach?” I ask. Zoe raises her arms defensively.

“Hey, Jane. How’s it going?” It’s Abby popping by to chat, a first. She’s usually not one for casual banter. “So how have you been feeling?”

“I’m good. Starving all the time, but otherwise fine.”

“Is it strange to know you’ll be a mom next year?”

“I guess. I try not to think about it.”

She laughs, like she thinks I’m joking. “And what do you sense it is, a boy or a girl?”

A monster.
“Um, I’m not sure.”

“I’d want a girl, I think.” I can hear Zoe giggling. I’m not sure why she finds it endlessly amusing that Abby is a lesbian.

“So how did you know you were ready to be a mother? And do you think most people will judge you or admire you for doing it on your own? Are you worried you won’t be able to manage it all?” This torrent of personal questions is strange, for sure, but somehow it doesn’t bother me. Abby isn’t a judger, and it doesn’t feel like prying. I suspect she’s just fishing for whether I’ll come back after maternity leave.

“I love my job,” I say, a totally inappropriate response. Apropos of nothing, I add, “My mom’s gonna help out with the baby.” Not true. In fact, I’d prefer to permanently put off telling my parents about this turn of events. But I want Abby to know I care about my career and don’t plan on tossing it aside to change diapers. And I don’t.

But wait, if she thinks I’m leaving for good, then Mimi wouldn’t have to bother firing me (and shelling out for my severance), which means I’d be safe for at least seven more months. “Well, my mom said she
might
be able to help,” I say. “She does have her hands full with my father, who’s on a very strict diet and whose memory has been going. Plus, she’s very devoted to her bridge club.”
Where do I come up with this stuff?
Abby looks puzzled. I should just tape my mouth shut with one of my four rolls of masking tape.

What I want to say is, “I’m terrified and I’m not even sure I’m going to go through with it.” What I actually say is, “I’m excited, but also scared. I’m not sure if I’m ready, but can you ever really be?”

Zoe, meanwhile, has stopped ribbing me about getting fat. When I start polishing off entire calzones at lunch and then visit the vending machine for Kit Kats an hour later, I see her pretending not to notice. Bless her. But as if to make up for Zoe’s discretion, Johanna approaches one afternoon just as I’m tearing open a second candy bar; in her dumb British accent, she offers the following unsolicited advice: “Pardon, but you know you only need three hundred additional calories per day when you’re pregnant. That way, you won’t blow up like a blimp and forever be known as the mum with the giant arse who couldn’t shed her baby weight. Cheerio!” My mouth is full of chocolate as she walks away.

Debbie appears with a tray of cheese and crackers. “Five more hours until Labor Day weekend—three whole days of freedom!” she says, holding out her spread to our cluster of cubicles. But when I reach for a piece of Brie, she snatches my hand away. “No soft cheese, Jane,” she snaps. “Do you want your kid to be born with two heads? Jesus!”

“Not fair,” I say, sulking empty-handed while everyone else samples the offerings.

Victoria is a fountain of syrupy sympathy: “You just relax, take a seat,” she says, loading up a cracker with a wedge of cheddar. “It’s probably going to get harder and harder for you to move around, right? It’s a good thing we don’t have the time to take lunch breaks these days, so you can just stay put at your desk!”

I want to throttle her, but I remind myself of what Debbie just mentioned: only five more hours to endure until my weekend at the beach. “Staying put at my desk sounds great,” I say. I can’t resist adding, “Can I count on you, Victoria, to deliver my meals?” Debbie snickers.

Instead of responding, Victoria hands me a stack of proofs. “These pieces still need some work.”

I sigh and return to my desk, cheeseless. As usual, the stories are marked up to the gills with that curlicued penmanship Victoria should have grown out of by her early teens. I toss the pages aside and decide to Google my name instead. This habit doesn’t deliver the same fix as accruing office supplies, but it’ll do in a pinch. I expect the usual posts about the other Jane Staub-Smith, a successful stockbroker in Cincinnati who’s always doing respectable things like making donations to open a new branch of the local art museum or winning third place in her age group (thirty-five to forty) in her church’s 10K. I’ve learned her husband is a hand surgeon, and from her picture I can tell she’s tall and slim with these impossible boobs that are both large and perky. I rely on the other Jane Staub-Smith to continue racking up accomplishments as my life plods along mundanely.

When the new posts pop up on the screen, my first thought is,
Oh no, what has Cincinnati Jane gotten herself mixed up in?
There’s a message board called “Winners’ Circle,” and the teaser shows our shared name beside a series of expletives. I click through to the site, which displays a long string of messages. It’s not until I see the word
“Hers”
that I realize the posts are in fact about me. One says, “
Hers
sent me a load of crap! I was supposed to win a big beauty basket, but all they mailed me was a bunch of useless JUNK!!! Screw them! Associate editor Jane Staub-Smith handles prizes. Send complaints to [email protected].” I’m shocked and indignant. As if this commenter worked so hard to win her goddamned soap basket instead of just filling out a three-line form! I scroll down to the next one: “I’ve never won anything before, and boy was I disappointed when I opened my package to find three XXL T-shirts all with the slogan ‘This Bitch Votes.’ ” (A fair complaint, actually.) I read another: “So unfair for you guys! Thanks for sharing the e-mail for the evil
Hers
prize lady. I plan on giving her a piece of my mind!”
Evil
Hers
prize lady!
Shit.

I’m trembling as I check my e-mail, and sure enough, a torrent of notes have poured in during the past half hour. They’re all variations on a theme:
Hers
rips people off and I’m a terrible person. It’s not just the prizewinners writing; they’ve got dozens of supporters, too. The messages keep arriving, ping after ping of vitriol delivered directly to my in-box.

I start to sweat. I wonder if the angry e-mailers have dug up
Hers
’ physical address, too; if they’ve organized a protest group; if any minute they’ll burst through the elevator doors and charge at me with burning torches, or at least very sharp pencils. Will they find out where I live and come stalk me at my home?

My palms go clammy and I’m gasping for air. I feel desperate to scavenge. A hole punch would really do the trick. I race to the supply closet. I sneak through the door, and then—smack!—bump into a body. I scream.

“Hey, calm down,” says a deep voice. “It’s just me.” The light flicks on.

“Oh, Ed. Jeez, you scared me.”

“Sorry, honey. I was just grabbing an extra bin.” The mail guy puts a hand on my shoulder, and I take a deep breath, finally able to take in oxygen. “Oh, hey, congratulations on the big news,” he says. I notice his eyes are emerald.

“Oh, thanks.” Apparently even the mail guy knows I’m knocked up. He reaches to place his palm on my stomach, and unlike with the rest of my coworkers, I find I don’t mind the touch. His hand is warm, his fingers long and calloused. My breath slows, and I imagine even the creature inside me is soothed, pausing its persistent campaign to make me panic.

“Isn’t that nice,” Ed says, smiling down at me. I suddenly realize how small the supply closet is. Ed and I are inches apart. He smells like Old Spice.

“I’ll be sure to save you some goodies from the mailroom,” he says. “Someone’s wife is always baking us something or other. I’m sure you’re extra hungry, eating for two now.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling utterly grateful. I don’t think it’s just because Ed is the only straight man in our office that I’m so attracted to him. Unlike most of the wispy, skinny jean–wearing men I encounter in New York (my ex included), Ed has the sexy brawn and ruggedness of someone who hauls things for a living. He could star in a commercial for Home Depot or Budweiser.

“You’re glowing, you know.” He’s looking at me in a way that I remember Jacob used to. Maybe Ed is one of those mythical men you hear about who actually finds pregnant women sexy. A flood of desire surges up inside of me. I step over a pile of legal pads, lean in, and press my lips against Ed’s.

He stumbles backward. “Whoa there, hang on a minute, Jane.”

Oh, shit.
The words from the e-mails start flooding my mind:
You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re an awful person to screw over decent people. What is wrong with you? Evil
Hers
lady.
I will the supply shelf to come crashing down upon us, to shower us in envelopes and binder clips and red pens, to free us from this cramped nightmare.