In case Ben falls into this category, I make a point to work a little less and see to it that our life together is as full and fun as possible. I see to it that we do all the things we have always done together, but with greater intensity and frequency. I make reservations at new restaurants and take us to hear great music and see fabulous art. I plan weekend getaways to the Berkshires and the Hamptons.
Most important, I follow Jess’s advice and keep our sex life strong. Jess is a huge believer in sex as a panacea to any problem—which is why she is so convinced that Trey is going to leave his wife any day now (she claims to be that good).
One night in particular, I wear my best lingerie and initiate the sort of lovemaking that is worthy of a lifetime highlight reel. All the while, I am feeling our crazy chemical connection, the part of our relationship that has felt lacking since our trip to St. John. I am sure that this effort will turn the tide back in my favor.
Afterward, my mind is blissfully blank. Then it drifts back to babies. I resist the urge to point out the obvious that a child might jeopardize our love life. That we’d have little time or energy for sex. That we wouldn’t be able to put each other first anymore. Surely Ben must be thinking the same thing when he kisses the top of my head and mumbles, “I love you, Claudia Sweet dreams.”
“You, too,” I say, feeling myself drift off.
That’s when Ben rolls toward me and says, “Claudia, if we have this baby, I promise you will be the first woman in the history of the world not to lose a wink of sleep.”
It is very unlike Ben to talk at all after we make love, so I’m especially irritated that he is breaking his typical male pattern with this gem. I can feel all my muscles tense as I say, “For heaven’s sake, Ben. This isn’t a puppy we’re talking about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says.
“You act as if you’re offering to walk a damn beagle in the middle of the night! We’re talking about a baby here!”
“I know that,” Ben says.
“A baby that will completely change my life. Our life.”
“I know that,” Ben says again. “But our life will change for the better. I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise something like that,” I say. “It’s a ludicrous, impossible promise to make. You have no idea what having a child will do to us. Besides, there are many, many other reasons I don’t want kids aside from my love of sleep.”
“Okay. Like what?” Ben says.
“We’ve been over them before,” I say, not wanting to rehash my reasons or hold them up to scrutiny. “Many times.”
But he presses me so I start out with an easy, albeit shallow one. I tell him that I don’t want to be pregnant.
“Pregnant women are beautiful,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“Besides, you’ll only be pregnant for nine months. A blip on the radar of life.”
“Easy for you to say. I don’t want to be invaded like that, no matter how short the time frame And I like working out,” I say. I know this reason is a bit on the lame side, especially considering the fact that I haven’t even been to the gym in weeks.
“You can work out when you’re pregnant, ya know,” he says.
“Yeah, right. I’ve seen those women, laboring at a fast walk on the treadmill. They look miserable And you know I’m thinking of running the New York marathon. Maybe next year. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I say, which is true in theory. Running a marathon is one of my lifetime goals. But to date, I’ve never made it past four miles. I’m not very naturally athletic, unlike Ben, who runs and swims effortlessly. Still, when I see elderly and disabled people crossing the finish line every year, I figure I can do it, too. Someday.
“Well, we could always adopt a baby,” he says.
“That’s not the point, and you know it. The pregnancy is the least of it.”
“Okay,” he says. “So we don’t have to have a baby immediately. I mean, we can wait a few years to do this. I don’t need to have one now . I just want you to tell me that you’re open to the idea of it.”
I see a loophole and am tempted to buy myself some time. I could “think about it” for years and then just say that I’m off the pill. I could get us to forty and hope for infertility to kick in. Solve the problem naturally. But I refuse to be dishonest. We have no relationship without honesty. So I tell him the truth—that I’m not going to change my mind.
Ben seems to ignore this statement altogether and instead asks me for another reason.
I humor him and say, “Okay. I like living in the city.”
He sits up in bed and says, “We can have a baby in the city.”
I admire the silhouette of his shoulders as I say, “Not very easily. We’d need to get a bigger place, and we can’t really afford to do that.”
“Well, don’t you ever feel like you’re sort of over living in Manhattan? We both grew up in the suburbs, after all. Wouldn’t it be nice to return to our roots? Have a yard again? Trees and squirrels and some peace and quiet?”
“Okay, now you’re talking crazy,” I say. “We love living in the city.”
“I know, but”
“I don’t want to move,” I say, feeling panicked just thinking about it. I have visions of Volvos and PTA meetings and camcorders at soccer games and family dinners at the Olive Garden. Now I am sitting up, too. “I’m not going to move to the suburbs .”
“Fine,” Ben says, nodding. “We could have a baby in Manhattan. People do it all the time. We would just find a bigger apartment and make it work financially. So that’s not a valid reason. Name another.”
I exhale loudly and say, “Okay. My career.”
I have saved the big guns for last. I have worked way, way too hard to jeopardize everything for children. I’ve seen it happen many times, even to the editors who are determined to stay on the fast track. They have to leave work early, they can’t sacrifice their weekends, and they inevitably seem to lose their edge, their hunger. It just happens that way. I don’t know why that is—whether they’ve reprioritized or simply don’t have the energy to do better. But I don’t want to find out and I certainly don’t want to join the ranks of seemingly miserable working mothers who strive to have it all and end up frustrated, exhausted, and guilt-ridden.
“What about your career?” he says, all innocence.
“A baby would impact it,” I say.
“I told you I can stay at home for a while. Or we can hire a nanny. You don’t have to quit your job. You don’t even have to go part-time. There are lots of working moms out there. You can have both .”
“But I don’t want both. See? That’s the thing you don’t seem to get. Having both means doing nothing very well.”
“But you’d be an awesome mother, Claude,” he says.
“I don’t want to be a mother,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “I’m sorry if that makes me selfish. But what I think is way worse way more selfish is having a child when you’re not fully committed to the idea of it. And I’m just not on board with this plan of yours, Ben.”
“Not now?” he says, reclining again.
“Not now,” I say. “And not ever.”
Ben shoots me a frosty look. Then he shakes his head, rolls away from me, and says into his pillow, “Fine, Claudia. I think I’m all clear now.”
The following morning we get ready for work in silence. Ben departs first, without kissing me good-bye. Then he refuses to return any of my messages during the day. I’m so distraught that I cancel an important lunch with a high-profile agent, and then I’m short with one of my sweetest, most diligent authors on the phone for being late delivering a manuscript.
“You do realize that if you don’t get this to us soon, there will be absolutely no way we’ll be able to get bound galleys out to reviewers, right?” I say, hating the strident tone in my voice.
One of the things I pride myself on at work is that I never take things out on people not my assistant, nor authors. I hate people who let their personal life bleed into their profession, and I think to myself that if even the mere conversation about children impacts my job, I can’t imagine the carryover if I actually had one.
That night, I reread a manuscript and realize I don’t adore it as much as I did when I first bought it. It is a quirky love story—and I can’t help but wonder if my change of heart has to do with what’s happening in my marriage. I panic to think that this is the case. I desperately don’t want to change. I don’t want my life to change. I fall asleep on the couch, worrying and waiting for Ben to come home. At some point, I hear him stumble into our apartment and can feel him standing over the couch. I open my eyes and look at him. His hair is mussed, and he smells of bourbon and cigarettes, but he still looks hot. I have a sudden, crazy urge to just pull him down on top of me and make out with him. Cigarette breath and all.
“Hi,” he says, somehow managing to slur a two-letter word.
“Where have you been?” I say softly. Out.
“What time is it?”
“Two-somethin’.”
Then he makes some crack. Something about wanting to reap the benefits of a childless life. I notice that he used the word childless and not our old term childfree . I am suddenly angry again.
“Real mature, Ben,” I say as I get up and walk toward the bathroom. “Get wasted when the chips are down. Solid move for someone who thinks he’d make a swell dad.”
It is a harsh, unfair thing to say. Ben is anything but irresponsible. But I don’t take anything back. I just let the words hang in the air between us.
Ben’s eyes narrow. Then he clears his throat and says, “Fuck you, Claudia.”
“No, fuck you , Ben,” I say, moving past him and slamming the bathroom door behind me. My hands shake as I unscrew the toothpaste cap.
As I brush my teeth, I replay our exchange. It is a first. We never say things like that to each other. Although we’ve had heated arguments, we never resort to name-calling or swearing. We’ve always felt superior to couples who engage in that sort of battle. So our fuck yous become an instant symbol of our impasse and of our impending split. It may sound melodramatic to hinge a breakup on a couple of harsh words, but I can’t help feeling that this is our point of no return.
I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, wondering what I should do next. It must be something significant, something more significant than sleeping on the couch. I have to mention the word divorce or leave our home altogether. I round the corner to our bedroom, fumbling in the closet for my largest suitcase. I can feel Ben watching me as I haphazardly shove clothing into it. T-shirts, underwear, jeans, and a couple of work outfits. As I frantically pack, I feel as if I am watching myself in the role of angry wife.
At some point, I change my mind. I don’t want to leave my apartment in the middle of the night. But I have too much pride to reverse direction. It feels utterly foolish to pack up a bag and then stay. It’s like hanging up on someone in a self-righteous huff and then being the one to instantly call back. You just can’t do that. So I calmly walk to the door, suitcase in hand, hoping Ben will try to stop me. I bend down, holding my breath as I put on my sneakers, double-knotting my laces, stalling to give him a few more seconds, time to formulate an apology. I want him to kneel before me, take everything back, tell me how much he loves me. Just as I am.
Instead, he says, cold as ice, “Good-bye, Claudia.” I look into his eyes and know that the end has come. So I have no real choice but to stand up, open the door, and leave.
four
The sole benefit of leaving your husband in the small hours of the morning is that it only takes a nanosecond to get a cab. In fact, I have my choice of two, both converging upon me at the corner of Seventy-third and Columbus. The cabbies undoubtedly spot my suitcase and think that they’re getting a good airport fare, so as I climb into one, I say, “Hi, there. Sorry. I’m only going to lower Fifth.” Then I blurt out, “I just had a big fight with my husband. I think we’re getting a divorce.”
It has always amused Ben how much I chat with cab drivers. He says it is a very touristy thing to do, and that it is unlike me to be so candid with strangers. He’s right on both counts, but for some reason, I can’t help myself in a taxi.
My driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. I can only see his eyes, which is unfortunate, because I have always thought a person’s mouth reveals more of what he’s thinking. The driver either doesn’t have a firm grasp of English or he is colossally deficient in the empathy department, because he says nothing except, “Where on Fifth?”
“Twelfth. East side,” I say, as my eyes drift down to read his name on the seatback. It is Mohammed Muhammed. I have to fight back tears as I think of how Ben once told me, on about our fourth date, that getting a cabbie named Mohammed or Muhammed, whether as a first or last name, is akin to a coin toss, a fifty-fifty proposition. Obviously it was a gross exaggeration, but ever since that night, we always check the medallion, and smile when we get a hit. It seems to happen at least once a week, but this is my first-ever double. I suddenly have the strongest urge to turn around and go home. Touch Ben’s face, kiss his cheekbones and eyelids, and tell him that surely this man’s medallion is a sign that we must fix things, somehow move forward together.
Instead, I rifle through my purse for my phone so that I can let Jess know that I’m on my way over. I remember that I left it in its charger in the kitchen. I whisper shit , realizing that she might not hear her doorman buzzing her. This could be a problem because Jess is a very sound sleeper. I fleetingly consider heading straight for a midtown hotel, but I’m afraid I’ll completely fall apart if I’m alone. So I stay on course.
Fortunately, Jess hears her buzzer, and within minutes of being dropped off, I am curled up on her couch, rehashing my fight with Ben while she makes us cinnamon toast and a big pot of coffee the extent of her expertise (and mine) in the kitchen. She brings us each a cup, mine black, hers loaded with sugar, and says that it is time for a serious talk.
Then she hesitates before adding, “And the topic of this conversation is ‘Why Claudia doesn’t want kids’?” She shoots me a sheepish look.
“Aw, c’mon. Not you, too ,” I say.
She nods like a stern schoolteacher and says, “I just want to review your reasons.”