... and Baby Makes Two (4 page)

They never even discussed their plans for life after Jane's graduation. It was assumed that she would move in with Sam. For the most part, he seemed happy about this. They fought about stupid things. He was a little controlling, a little superior, a little highhanded when he explained things to her that didn't need explaining, and what did he think she was, an idiot?

Jane had whole weekends where these flaws were the tragic center of her life. “My boyfriend thinks he's the boss! Oh! Whatever shall I do?”

And then they'd make up. Sam would apologize and resolve to be more of a partner. She'd resolve to be more of a boss. He knew that it was too late to change their dynamic. He'd read enough French literature to know that his positive electrons and her negative ones would be drawn together like this forever. And it wasn't so bad. In fact, the more they did this dance, the gentler, more loving their steps became. They were together. Deserving. Lucky. Happy.

Sam had always been a bit of a geek. A little clumsy, a little bookish. This was Jane's insurance policy against other women. They never made plays for the guy who dropped his fork. Dropped it twice. And hit his head when he tried to retrieve it. So many beautiful women didn't look past that to find the man who had so much patience. Who cooked. Who folded laundry with so much love. Who said things like, “Jane, you look so gorgeous first thing in the morning,” and meant it. Who held her hand on their first date and never wanted to let go. It was easy to be loyal to Sam. Bossy Sam. Sweet Sam. Geeky Sam. Sam.

Then Sam got sick, and her loyalty became a measure of her character. He was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as ALS, but more popularly referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease.

The day they got the diagnosis, Jane went after information. Knowledge is power, she told herself. Get some power. She searched and researched. But Sam retreated. Like a dog, he circled the floor and looked for a place to die. He would never finish his doctoral thesis. He would never marry Jane—not in a wheelchair. He would never have children. Instead, he would drool, shit in his pants, and die. That was how he put it.

Sam never changed his mind about it. He didn't want to fight. He had no response when Jane brought him papers that studied elevated protein levels in ALS patients.

“But I think they're really on to something here.”

He had no faith in thrombopoietin.

“I know it's still new, but look at these first studies. I mean, if they start clinical trials here in New York, you should definitely be part of it. You should.”

She purchased a T-shirt that said
COVERING ALL BASES WITH THE ALS ASSOCIATION.
His motor skills were declining badly, but he still managed to give her the finger.

Jane met her neighbor, Ray several times at the mailboxes. They had a very good nod-and-smile relationship. Years later, he would reveal that he referred to her as Tired Girl. One day, Ray knocked on the door and offered Jane a large piece of fudge, shaped like a heart. It had been part of the press packet for a show entitled
Love Is Bullshit.
It was a musical revue, and Ray hated it. He was also avoiding chocolate, in an effort to regain his lost boyish figure. And he supposed that Tired Girl could use some chocolate. She ate it and cried, despite her best efforts to do neither.

“Are you tired, honey?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh, God. So tired. So, so tired.”

Ray suggested that Jane get some real help. He was right. And soon, Sam's mother moved in with them. She provided the real help Jane needed—she cooked, cleaned, shopped for groceries, and monitored medications. Jane worked in a word processing center from midnight to
7 A.M.,
the graveyard shift, and spent her days with Sam.

His mother, Kaye, was stoic and a bit bossy. So he came by it honestly. Kaye didn't complain, at least not openly. She didn't like New York, though. That was clear.

Jane would finish her seven hours of typing numbers onto a computer screen and squint at the rising sun as she rode home. But she stopped at the deli to pick up more juice before she came home. Wait. Maybe she needed bagels too. Maybe she should try that nice breakfast sandwich that Ray liked. She was stalling. She didn't want to go back to Sam and the sickroom. And that was a horribly disloyal thought, which prompted her to rush back to her apartment.

“Do you want more juice, hon?” she asked. “I picked up some of that white grape juice at the deli. You like that stuff, don't you?”

He spelled out “No” on his magnetic letter board.

Jane didn't want to hate him. She didn't like feeling angry at him—it was so disloyal. So she just plain put it away. Her resentment went into storage. She modeled Kaye's stoicism and even tried to do her one better.

It took Sam a long time to die, which surprised everyone because he wanted it so. Jane cried and Kaye cried, and the funeral was as sad and beautiful as they both hoped it would be. That was all due to Ray. He knew that funerals were theater, and he knew theater. He put together a catharsis, in quiet good taste. And then Kaye went back to her husband in Indiana.

Jane switched to the day shift in the word processing department. She liked the technology. It was logical and fair. She took classes to move up and on and out to a job at a law firm. She even went to a party at Ray's. A Breakup Party. This was Ray's festive way of sailing through heartbreak and fear. He cackled about his ex, “He put my copy of
Breakfast of Champions
away with the cookbooks!” Ray reenacted his ex's Perfected Precision Shaving to the delight of the party guests.

Jane stayed for a while, but it was too loud and bright. She
slipped out the door. Ray followed her upstairs and told her to come back downstairs immediately.

“You've
got
to meet my friend Gerald. He's a director, and he's doing really well.” How could such a kind and sensitive man try to fix her up so quickly after Sam? She reached for her flannel pajamas.

“Jane! It's not a fix up. It's a fixer-upper. An apartment. Downtown. He's leaving the city to go work in regional theater. The place needs tons of repairs and gallons of paint, but you're a visionary. And if you don't grab this place, I'll never forgive you.”

Jane dropped the flannel. A month later, she moved in to a total fixer-upper apartment, closer to Wall Street, where she learned how to fix up. As she sanded and spackled, she thought about Sam. She turned him back into the geeky, sweet, but occasionally bossy Sam that she loved. He deserved it. She needed it. It was only fair.

It took more than a year, but she started dating again. She met a new lawyer at the firm where she worked. He was handsome and polished, and Jane just had to experience a date with him. She also had to experience sex again, and men who were verbal and self-sufficient. She fell for Dean. He took her to trendy nightspots, Martha's Vineyard, and bought her a bracelet at Tiffany's.

Jane thought that she had outgrown her youthful belief that life was fair. Didn't Sam's death teach her that and so much more? And yet, Dean felt like her reward for endurance and loyalty. He tried to write her a love poem. After four months of steady dates, he told her that she was his soul mate, and she rejoiced for days. Until he phoned her at
2 A.M.
on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning and told her that she was rushing him, she was crowding him, she needed to back off.

She said she would, although she didn't know how. What had she done wrong? She racked her brain. Dean stopped calling. Jane was lost and afraid. Was she no longer his soul mate? He actively avoided her at the firm's elevator banks. It was like bad high school.

Finally, he e-mailed her:

Dean

The message was so wrong, so excruciatingly wrong, so obviously wrong Jane wanted to slide out of her skin. She quit her job. She drank. She rehearsed pithy replies to Dean, none of which were pithy enough, all of which were too long.

Jane remained underground until she ran out of money. She emerged from the dark and found a job at Argenti, where she worked at the Helpless Desk and resolved “user issues.” She kept taking classes, and she worked conscientiously to keep up with the Wonderland changes in technology. She moved up. Promoted to associate, then senior associate, and then vice president, managing her own team.

Jane still dated a little, after she recovered from Dean. In her spare time, she took photography classes at the New School. She met some perfectly nice men there. She suspected that some of them took the class specifically to meet women, and what was wrong with that? So she dated them. But nothing stuck. Nothing worth e-mailing home about. After all, she was busy. She didn't meet anyone interesting or attractive. She was getting to be thirty-
seven. She couldn't bring herself to bars, singles events, or dating services. She didn't really care enough. She didn't feel attractive enough to compete in today's market. She didn't have the energy. She had enough love in her life already. She didn't want to shave her legs in winter. She wasn't not dating; she was just in a dry spell.

And That's Why Jane Wasn't Dating.

She was pretty much the definition of Fine, except for that ache that told her something was missing. And don't count how she always cried on Sam's birthday. That was different. Jane's philosophy was: No one gets everything, at least not all at once. Jane had had a great love, and now it was over. Now she had exhilarating work, witty friends, reliable health, no money worries, and an apartment that caused more than a little envy. And isn't that a lot to have all at once?

…

The week had a roller-coaster-climbing-the-big-scary-hill feeling. Something's coming, something big. Saturday morning, Jane located the Choosing Single Motherhood meeting place in a school basement in SoHo. The meeting was scheduled for ten, and Jane was early. She didn't like looking so eager, but too late for that. She was eager. She was curious. She was not afraid, and that made no sense at all.

Jane signed in and took some (thank you!) reference material. By the time she looked up from the table of books, resources, and lists of Web sites to investigate, dozens of women had formed a large circle of folding chairs. There were at least three babies and a gaggle of toddlers. A honey-voiced woman with two children stepped up and called the meeting to order. Jane found a chair and felt all momentous.

“Hi. And welcome to all of you new ladies. This is
Choosing Single Motherhood.
This is
not
the
Narc-Anon meeting.
We switched
places
with them because we needed more
room.
So, if you're looking for
Narc-Anon,
you need to go to the
third
floor,
room H.
Okay?”

A handful of women exited quietly, along with one very baffled-looking man.

“Okay and in case you didn't know, this afternoon we'll be having a
Thinker's Workshop.
It's completely full. But if you're a
Thinker,
and you want to go to a
Thinker's Workshop,
just let me know. I'll give you the
schedule
of the
next
ones.”

Following her announcements, the circle performed introductions that consisted of name and status: Mom, Pregnant, Trying (to get pregnant), Adopting, or Thinking. Jane soon learned that if you're not sure about anything, that means you're Thinking.

The host of the meeting had the large group break into smaller groups, based on their status as Mom/Pregnant/Trying/Adopting. The women rose obediently and shifted their metal chairs into smaller circles. Jane felt stuck to her chair, since there was no group for the Thinkers. So she made the most logical choice: She joined the Trying group, already in progress.

“So this guy walks in and he's gorgeous, and I do mean perfect! He says, ‘Is this the allergy clinic?'And the nurse giggles a little bit because he's so damn gorgeous, and she says, ‘Sir, this is a sperm bank.'And he blushes like a virgin, I'm telling you! And he has trouble leaving. I mean he starts to go through a door
where the guys go to do it,
and he blushes even more, if you can believe it. And he finally finds his way out, and all I want to do is say, ‘Hey you! You wanna be a daddy? No strings attached! And we don't need a sperm bank—we can do it the old-fashioned way!' ”

The women giggled. Jane was the youngest woman in the room. She couldn't help but notice it.

“Seriously, though. My cousin still has leftovers from a fabulous donor, if anyone wants any. I can get you the details.”

A red-faced woman said, “I can't take these hormone shots much longer. They're making me crazy. Do we really understand what we're shooting into our thighs? Am I going to get cancer from this?”

There was a chorus of Nos and Don't Even Say Thats.

“I'm so frustrated. I'm losing hope. I want a baby so much. And every month, I go to Dr. Laskin and I say, ‘Get me pregnant, Doc,' and every month I get my period again. What am I doing wrong?”

The red-faced woman had been trying to get pregnant by artificial insemination for seven months. She was about to give up, and was considering IVF—in vitro fertilization. The woman had been doing her research, so Jane paid close attention.

“Meanwhile, my mother keeps saying, ‘Isn't it funny? I got pregnant if your father just looked at me funny. If you're having trouble, you didn't get it from me.' And my sister's due in a month, and I swear to God I'm happy for her. It's just … Anyway. My insurance will only cover three tries on IVF. I've already spent, oh, let's see, about twenty-five or twenty-six thousand dollars trying to get pregnant. The IVF is gonna be another twelve thousand, easy. This kid ll never get to college. If the kid ever gets born, that is.”