Pretty in Ink (11 page)

8

B
aby Matilda has just awoken, and she’s sleepy-calm after her late-morning nap. Only her big eyes stir. Watching them dart around to follow the sunlight dappling through the blinds, I find it doesn’t matter that I haven’t put on makeup in weeks or that my hair is a greasy mop or that I’m still stalling on the diet I said I’d start two months ago, a few weeks after I gave birth. I greet Matilda’s return to the waking world like a miracle, and each of her coos and gurgles seems like a sacred message meant just for me. At this hour, my sleeplessness is like a wispy dream (as opposed to later in the day, when the crush of exhaustion threatens to bury me and makes me lust after sleep like I used to crave sex). As the sun reaches toward its crest in the sky, casting its warm spotlight upon my baby and me through the bay window, I’m open to any possibility. This is my favorite time of day.

I strap Matilda snuggly-close onto my chest and we drift from coffee shop to farmer’s market to grocery store. We wander into boutiques where I dangle pretty trinkets in front of my baby’s button nose, we observe the dog run and I whisper “woof, woof” in her tiny ear, and we sit in the community garden where I recite Mary Oliver poems to her.

Jake and I have lived in our Cobble Hill brownstone for more than two years, yet only within the past three months have I learned the names of the guys who man the deli and forged friendships with my neighbors. Mrs. Golden is a particular delight; she must be eighty-five, her face so shriveled that even her wrinkles have wrinkles. Trading conversation on our side-by-side stoops has made me understand how age isn’t just something to be fended off with the right potions and powders, how the physical signs of growing older can actually indicate wisdom and even beauty. (When I shared this revelation with my husband, he responded that most seven-year-olds have figured this out; well, it’s not my fault that neither of my grandmothers was particularly nice or that millions of Americans are desperate to buy the promise of youth that I just happen to be very good at selling.)

Occasionally I hear a faint echo in my head, the old me begging the questions:
What is happening to you, Elizabeth Walker? Whom have you become?

When Jake reunites with baby and me at the end of each weekday, I set out a simple meal and we drink wine as Tilly lolls in her cradle at our feet. Though she rarely sleeps, she rarely cries, either. She is a happy, curious baby, and I am a happy mother, incurious about my bliss. The bottles of herbs and potions I preemptively bought to ward off postpartum depression remain sealed in the back of the kitchen cabinet. Next to motherhood, maternity leave is quite possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I didn’t imagine it this way—not at all. Throughout my pregnancy I was terrified, collapsing into tears as Leah gave me tutorials on how to work a breast pump, as I shopped endlessly for baby “essentials” that seemed to fill every nook of my formerly minimalist apartment, as my stomach ballooned along with the rest of me and my breasts and feet swelled up into pale, veiny monsters. Jake joked that I’d still be at the office turning in copy when my water broke, and that I’d have to be torn from my desk in order to give birth. He wanted to bet me that I’d return to
Hers
early from maternity leave, but I wouldn’t shake on it, secretly fearing he might be right. I felt petrified by the idea of three months at home alone with a baby—no brainstorm meetings, no deskside makeovers, no product launch events.

What I never could have pictured was how pretty the light would look filtering through the nursery in the late morning; I’d never before been home for it. I didn’t know the sublime joy of a quiet house, a soft lullaby, a baby just stirring awake. I didn’t understand that late nights at the office reworking a story couldn’t hold a candle to the sense of accomplishment and sweet relief of getting a baby to finally go down after a long day. I had no idea.

The phone rings. “Hi, cutie, just checking in.” It’s Jake. Although he’s just ten miles north at his law firm in midtown, pleading cases and writing depositions, he may as well be a continent away. “What are my ladies up to?”

“Tilly’s feeding,” I say, “and I am planting a kiss on the top of her perfect fuzzball of a head.”

“Send a hello to my sweet girl.”

“Hello from Matilda. What’s up with Daddy?”

“Oh, nothing. Did you hear Mark got canned from
Hers
?”

“I didn’t hear that,” I say. “How awful for him.” But I don’t really feel awful; I feel pleasantly numb. Whenever someone tells me about the upheaval happening back at the office, the usurping of power and the reign of terror that has begun in my absence, I have an urge to open Matilda’s jewelry box and lose myself in to the tinkling tune of “Someday My Prince Will Come,” to watch the ballerina spin and spin and spin. It’s as if there’s a blockage in my brain, something that stops all absorption of
Hers-
related news.

“I’m taking him out for drinks tonight,” Jake says, “so I’ll probably be home late.”

“OK, I understand,” I say, because I know it’s what I ought to. I glance at the chicken I’d been looking forward to roasting for dinner and serving with sweet potatoes and salad; its raw sliminess now turns my stomach. “Pass along a hug from me to Mark.”

I do feel sympathy for Mark. He’s a quiet, sweet soul, and he and Louisa enjoyed a nice pas de deux. He doesn’t seem cut out for the kind of battle I hear is now being waged at
Hers
. I actually owe my marriage to Mark: He first introduced me to Jake, his college roommate, at a happy hour event three years ago this fall. I remember feeling relieved to learn that our sensitive creative director had this guy Jake to look out for him, Jake who appeared to be so much sturdier and better equipped to navigate the world. Jake and I began dating immediately, we were married a year later, and ever since he looks out for me, and now Tilly, too. The thought brings me back to my lovely baby-makes-three reverie, and I lift Matilda into my arms and dance us around the kitchen, humming, “Someday your prince will come.”

The call from Leah is inevitable. In one breath she blurts out, “Mark took the fall, and Mimi replaced him with this total nut from East Nowhere who was settling into his office within about seven minutes of him leaving.” I hear the thud of the phone dropping, then Leah reprimanding a daughter, who apparently knocked something over. It must be one of her at-home days. Every time I talk to Leah I thank the universe that I have one baby, not three. Leah retrieves the phone and continues: “And now that I’ve ceded my office to that C-U-next-Tuesday—excuse my language—I’m seeing the new guy, Jonathan, eye your beauty closet, too. I’ll bet he weasels his way in, supposedly just for the rest of your time off, but then gets to stay after you’re back, too.”

“Oh, Leah, I’m sure this Jonathan and I will get along fine. Drew sent me the stills from that jungle makeup shoot, and I thought it looked fun! He seems very talented.”

“Liz, you have no flipping idea. Every day it’s something new: Mimi’s assistant, Laura, claimed the office Web cam was acting up so they didn’t include me in today’s planning meeting. Mimi tells me she’s redistributing some of my pages to other people, with the justification that I have so much going on at home—”

“But that’s true, isn’t it? You do have a ton happening at home.” Just then I hear something crash to the ground over the line.

“
Shoot!
Sorry. But that’s not the point, Liz! It isn’t Mimi’s right, and it’s certainly not Victoria’s right, to call out what’s going on in my personal life as a rationalization for shrinking my professional duties.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure if I’m grasping the nuances of the drama. I’ve never met any of these people.

“How much longer until you’re back, anyway?”

“Um.” I consult a calendar; my return date of “Monday, July 2” is circled in red. “A week. Wow, that flew by.”

“You better get into fighting shape. It’s a war zone out here.”

“Thanks for the warning.” We hang up, and Leah’s words spark me to queue up the mommy yoga DVD she gifted me at my baby shower; she swore the workout made her feel like Superwoman after the births of her triplets. But as I bend and twist into the poses with names like Warrior and Eagle and Cobra, I feel the opposite: weak and vulnerable. Standing unsteadily on one foot, I imagine this Mimi character flicking me in the ribs and sending me toppling over. I retreat into child’s pose, where I remain for the rest of the routine.

Exercise calls for a treat, so I strap Matilda into her harness and set out into the neighborhood, intent on a chai tea. When I used to pop into the corner coffee shop before boarding the subway for work, it was all rushing commuters, their bodies cloaked in professional attire and their faces a dead giveaway for the particular day of the week—downcast signaled Monday, fatigued meant Wednesday, impatient and hopeful was Friday. But late afternoon, the coffee shop resembles a postapocalyptic world where only women and babies have survived, not a baritone or bass voice within earshot. I season my drink with shakes of vanilla powder, and then navigate the stroller maze to find a free seat.

“Excuse me, is that chair taken?” I ask, spotting the lone woman without a baby in tow at her table. She turns to face me, and I gasp. “Louisa!” My old boss’s hair is pulled back in a ponytail to reveal a bare, drawn face. Her cheeks have hollowed out. “What are you doing here?” I blurt it out before I realize what I’ve said. I stop myself from adding, “Is today a holiday?”

“Hi, Liz. I live in the neighborhood, remember?”

“Oh, right.” I do remember. When Louisa bought her brownstone in Carroll Gardens a couple of years back, I ogled the online listing like porn—nine rooms, a giant backyard, all for a cool $2.6 million. I wonder how long her severance will cover the mortgage payments.

“I’m mortified to run into you while wearing flip-flops,” she says, reaching to close her laptop; I glance a résumé on the screen before it darkens. “And who’s this little one?”

“Louisa, meet Matilda. She’s eleven weeks old today. Say hello, Tilly.” I wave my baby’s hand, and Louisa smoothes down the patch of peach fuzz on her head.

“She’s beautiful. And how are you?”

“I’m great.”

“Well, that’s great.” She eyes me warily. “You know, when I had my kids, I remember thinking I’d have a grand old time during maternity leave.”

“I’m sure.”

“But boy, was I miserable. I was so unsure of myself and crazy with cabin fever, covered in formula and rash ointment and all manner of bodily fluid. I think I held a countdown to when I could get back to work and civilization. You probably know exactly what I mean.” I force a nod, recalling my dwindling time left at home with Tilly: just seven precious days.

“Last time I saw you, you were out to here,” Louisa says, extending her arms.

“I know I haven’t exactly shed all the weight yet.” I’m suddenly self-conscious of the lingering belly fat that has hardly bothered me until now.

“Nonsense,” Louisa says, although I imagine she was back to a flat stomach eight weeks postpartum. “All I meant was, a lot can change in a short time.”

My former boss looks so pale, and I’m stricken with shame: to have thought Louisa would be tuned in to the progress of my post-pregnancy weight loss! “Shoot, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I mean, about what happened, I would’ve sent a note or a card, but—”

“Oh, stop. It’s all right, seriously. Listen, if you’re an editor in chief, here are your options: you stick around till you croak, you move on up to the corporate suite, or you get fired. That’s the nature of the business.”

“Well, everyone misses you desperately, from what I hear,” I say. “I confess I’m not looking forward to the return to the office. Do you want to just meet here every day instead and we can start our own writer-mom coffee klatch?” Louisa smiles, humoring me; I’m not serious, but this is her reality now. “So, I’ve got to get the little one home for naptime,” I say. “If there’s ever anything I can do . . .” I trail off, knowing how lame the offer sounds.

“Thank you, Liz. Congrats again on motherhood, and good luck on the return. Do me a favor and spit in Mimi’s coffee once in a while.” She has a glint in her eye. “I’m not going to say, ‘Just kidding. ’ ”

We exchange kisses on the cheek; hers is thin and cool like a Band-Aid. “Bye, dear,” she says.

I bounce Matilda out the door, singsonging, “Good girl for not crying in front of the boss lady. Good, good girl.”

 

Seven more good nights, seven more morning cuddles, seven more midafternoon jaunts to the coffee shop to masquerade among the stay-at-home moms, and then it’s back to the grind. I buy a DVF wraparound for the occasion, since they’re supposed to be slimming, and anyway I can’t yet fit into the rest of my office wardrobe.

Everyone lies and tells me how skinny I look, even the mysterious new ones—Laura and Victoria and Jonathan and what seems like a college sorority’s worth of freelancers—none of whom saw me pre-baby.

“Knock, knock.” I enter Mimi’s office to meet her.

“And she exists in the flesh! Hello, Elizabeth.” Mimi reaches across her desk and lays her hand across my stomach before I even have the chance to suck in. “I always wanted to know what happens to that area after you have a baby,” she says, as if that’s an appropriate explanation for groping my midsection ten seconds after meeting me for the first time. “Not so bad, really. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed your extended vacation, and welcome back. Time to get to work!” We shake hands, and before I can respond, her assistant is ushering me out.

Midday, Jonathan appears in my office and hands me a business card. “I know motherhood can take a real toll on you physically.”
He does?
“So I made you an appointment.” I examine the card—a dermatologist. “Botox,” he whispers. I’m thirty-one years old. Has it come to this?