The Seven Year Bitch Page 14

  Bethany Ames

  Spokane, WA

  Unfortunately I have to work as a secretary for an accountant so I bring my daughter to her daycare at eight so I can be at my desk by nine. Then I pick her up at seven and give her a bath and her bottle, and play with her in the living room. I have post partum depression so I cry but she doesn’t know it. She is a very good baby so my job is easy.

  It was hard to read them in the car with Hum on my lap.

  “How was Shasthi today?” Russell asked.

  “I really think Heiffowitz can get her pregnant,” I said.

  “Maybe so, but I’m telling you we shouldn’t get involved. I think I should have a vasectomy,” Russell said. “I’m really thinking about it.”

  “We might have another baby,” I informed him as if I were telling him to expect a delivery from Fresh Direct. According to Dr. Lichter’s Seven Stages of Motherhood, I was almost twothirds to acceptance.

  “Well, definitely after the next one,” he said. The way he talked about his vasectomy was the way I had talked, as a young teenager, about losing my virginity and getting my ears pierced, like it was a rite of passage he would undergo that all men before him had undergone. Like his Bar Mitzvah. The way he said it, he was like a soldier going off to war, but in this case it was the war of marriage. The war of sex. And in that way, as negative a statement as it was about fatherhood, it was a romantic one too about marriage. A vasectomy implied having sex with abandon. Lots of it, anytime, anywhere. But even more than that, it meant to me security for Duncan that he was enough, and even after we divorced and Russell married a much younger woman, he would not have children with her. It was a kind of vow of fidelity stronger than the bonds of marriage or the cut of divorce. Still, there had been the fatty-liver incident, so I didn’t think he would ever do it.

  “I want to help Shasthi get pregnant,” I said.

  “You have to stop with this,” he said. “You’re always trying to help everyone. You’re not a social worker.”

  “I don’t help anyone,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s fair that we have so much and she has so little.”

  “She doesn’t have so little,” he said. “Between Shasthi and these inane essays you’re really losing your mind.”

  “They’re not inane.”

  “Yes, they are, I’ve read some of them. We can’t afford to help her. And it’s not our job to help her. And she might not even want our help. Maybe she doesn’t even want a baby. Maybe she thinks she does, but deep down she’s relieved she doesn’t. Maybe she likes her life the way it is. This is really a lose-lose. If you get her started with this and she doesn’t get pregnant, she’ll be miserable. And if she does get pregnant, she won’t make a very good nanny, now will she? You’re going to find yourself helping your way right out of a nanny. If she really wanted one she would adopt.”

  “She can’t adopt. She’s not here legally. She’d have to go back to her country to adopt.”

  “Well there you go. If she really wanted a baby she would move back to Guyana and adopt. Believe it or not, not having a child is not the worst thing that could happen to someone.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said, finally sure of something in this argument. “For a woman who wants one, it is the very worst thing that could happen.”

  We pulled up at our house and unloaded everything, and then Charlie and Gra came over with an enormous container of noodles too spicy to eat. In just a few short weeks, Charlie had gotten Gra a Shih Tzu named Curry Puff and had also gotten her pregnant.

  “You’re pregnant?” I said. The last time we’d seen her she hadn’t been able to speak one word of English. Now she told us perfectly clearly that she had gotten Charlie to agree to bring her mother over to live with them and be the nanny.

  “I can’t believe how much English you’ve learned,” I said. I remembered that my mother’s shrink always said I said “I can’t believe” too much.

  Duncan was toddling after a butterfly, which always made the money we spent on the country house worth it.

  We watched Duncan walk up the steps onto the deck, take a drink of milk from a glass, and wave to us. It didn’t seem like something a baby would do. “I’m be-carefulling,” he said. I said the words “be careful” so much, he had turned it into a verb.

  “I’m be-carefulling,” Gra repeated, memorizing a new vocabulary word.

  19

  Finally the day for Shasthi’s appointment with Dr. Heiffowitz came. As we drove in the cab up the FDR Drive, with Duncan on my lap, she looked out the window at the East River and the red and white–striped smokestacks of Queens, and I looked out at the apartment buildings that overlooked the river, marveling at their balconies and chandeliers.

  “How’s Rachel?” I asked about the woman I shared her with.

  “Oh, I am no longer working there for the longest time.”

  “Oh?” I couldn’t believe she hadn’t bothered to tell me this. I had been thinking about asking her to work full-time, and now there would be no problem with it at all. “Why? What happened?”

  “When you increased my hours, I asked if I could do all my cleaning in one day instead of coming there two days and she said no, so I just gave her back her keys and I left.”

  “But you’ve been with them for years and years!” I said, completely shocked by her indifference. I could almost feel the pain Rachel must have felt when she walked out the door.

  “Well, that is the job,” she said.

  I wanted to ask her if that’s how it would be when she left us. If she would ever think of me again, or Duncan. If she would miss seeing his beautiful cheeks and lips and feeling his arms wrapped around her neck. It was almost unimaginable, and yet in a strange way, it might even be a relief if she left and I had to take care of Duncan by myself.

  “Look how high that building is,” she said, pointing out her window. “You know when I first came to you, I used to go right into the bathroom and throw up from the elevator ride. I’m so scared of elevators.” I thought of her going straight to the bathroom each time she’d arrived and flushing the toilet twice. “But now I am more used to it.”

  The cab drove around the hospital’s large circular driveway.

  She checked in with Scottie at the front desk and we took seats in the massive waiting room.

  Shasthi was resplendent in a long peach skirt strung with sequins, a pale purple peasant blouse, and beaded pointy Moroccan slippers. She always looked rested and sparkling.

  I looked at every woman in the waiting room, considering her chances. I hoped each and every one of them was infertile, as if that would somehow improve Shasthi’s odds. Two were speaking a foreign language to each other from one of those icy blond countries. The doctor’s patients traveled to him from all over the world; there was a block of rooms permanently reserved at the Helmsley.

  I felt bad that I had brought Duncan. No one wanted to see a beautiful baby when she was sitting in a place like that. My heart pounded. In just a few minutes I would see Dr. Heiffowitz again.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked Shasthi.

  “Yes, I am nervous.”

  Her name was called and we stood up.

  Russell was sure what I was doing was wrong. He had basically forbidden it, as if we were in some kind of I Love Lucy episode and it was all up to him.

  “I’m sorry, the doctor will only see the patient alone,” Scottie said.

  “Right, of course,” I said, laughing at myself.

  I remembered our interview, her three questions written on the Post-it in her pocket. I was sure she could take care of herself in there.

  “Call me when it’s over,” I said.

  “Follow me,” Scottie said.

  “Izzy . . .”

  “Don’t be nervous,” I said.

  “I want to thank you. Nobody ever talked about this with me before you.”

  I watched her walk through the doors to the other side, to the capable brilliant hands and mind of Dr. Heiffowitz.


  When Scottie returned I approached her desk. “I’m going to pay for my . . . friend,” I said.

  It was $1,100 for the first visit and series of blood work.

  “I’m actually going to pay cash,” I said, feeling like Lucille Ball again. If my own Ricky Ricardo found out how much this cost I’d have a lot of splaining to do.

  When I got home I was relieved to see a dozen boxes in the hall outside my door. I had finished judging the Informilk contest—pouring over my “yes” folder and reading the essays over and over again until I’d picked my winner—and I hadn’t known what to do with myself for the last few days, although I had scrubbed the hell out of my toilet. I was thrilled to get started with this new one.

  I put Duncan into the Excersaucer and I dove into the first box. I lifted out the instruction sheet.

  YOURS Cigarettes: In 100 Words or Less Tell Us Why YOU and YOURS Deserve to be Daring in Diamonds.

  Grand Prize: .5-karat diamond necklace.

  First Prize: $500 and a case of YOURS CIGARETTES.

  Leeann Daly

  Schenectady, NY

  Me and Mine’s deserve to be daring in diamonds because my mother and my grandfather both died of lung cancer from smoking Yours but I am still your most loyal customer and I only smoke Yours even if I have to drive all the way to the Stewarts and that costs more money in gas. Also my birth stone is diamonds and so is my twins (but they are both boys unfortunately for me).

  Velma Mason

  Scranton, OH

  I deserve this because I am the most daring one I wear fierce animal print pants and my boots are h.o.t. and every man look at me irregardless of any 5 carate dimonds and my life been hard. Not able to graduate from college. I had a baby girl when I was seventeen. I should of named her “Dimond” but I named her “Vanessa” because all the girls in my family are V’s. Vanessa would like to see her very tired mother be daring in diamonds. And so would the women in my church. TO.

  BE. SURE.

  The next three essays were from women who also hadn’t noticed the decimal point before the five.

  Sarah Washington

  Youngstown, OH

  I have diamond stud earrings that I saved up to buy myself for my fortieth birthday because diamonds are my birthstone. But let me tell you they are lonely! Sure they have each other, but they would really love to have a diamond pendent to keep them company and so would I. LOL. Please help me be fabulous at forty!

  Carla Kurtz

  Seattle, WA

  Why do I deserve to be daring in diamonds? I am a loyal smoker for forty years. Like the song says, I am beautiful. Yours are beautiful. I take care of my husband who has diabetes and my mother who had a stroke in ’02. The stroke took my mother away from me because she is no longer her self. If I win the diamond I will give it to her because she is like a diamond.

  Jill Evers

  Egg Harbor, NJ

  If I win the diamond I will tell my husband that another man gave it to me, maybe a customer at the restaurant, let’s say his name will be “Dave.” I’ll tell my husband he just came in and gave it to me and said, “You are too stunning not to have a diamond around that lovely neck,” and that will make my husband so jealous he’ll make passionate daring love to me and try to make sure I am still “all his.” I’ll never tell him the truth of course, it will just be my secret. Mine and YOURS.

  Susan Karger

  San Francisco, CA

  I am a dental hygienist. I love my patients and they love me. The trouble is I can never get them to look into my eyes, if you know what I mean, they are allways looking at me below the neck. I would love to have something shining and brilliant and multi-faceted dangling there so there’s a reason for them not to be looking me in the eye. Here’s to all us working girls getting the diamonds we deserve!

  Lorainne Castle

  Bodega Bay, CA

  My last name is Castle but I live in far from it. But inside I raise my drawbridge so no one can cross my mote and I take off my heavy crown and eat my royal feast. A simple home meal I make for myself. My jewel chest is empty. But my heart soars on a dragon’s back. I know one day I will have something to nestle in black velvet and wear on a chain close to my thorny heart.

  Pearl Ogulnick

  Paducah, KY

  Well I am a school crossing guard keeping the kids safe and I run the firehouse pancake breakfasts and bring information packets to all the schools about fire safety. My husband of forty years is retired but he works with a program to check that child carseats (rear and front facing) are installed properly and he received a commendation and a certificate from the Mayor. I try to stay fit but that’s not always easy and I work out at Curves but a little glitz and glamour would certainly keep my motivational level at High! Thank you for listening!

  Patricia Cooley

  Brimfield, MA

  I don’t know if anyone DESERVES diamonds. For this assignment I looked up the word deserve in the Dictionary and it said merits. So do I merit diamonds? I certainly think so but I’m sure there is more deserving people out there. In this country you have to work for what you get. I certainly think my life is hard and I merit a break! So in conclusion, I say gimme a break and gimme a diamond and I will do you proud! Love and thanks, Patricia

  Dorie Ross

  Lubec, ME

  Emphysema, heart attack, adult onset diabetes, high blood pressure, breast cancer, glaucoma, stroke, chemotherapy and radiation = what my family has had to put up with. We can survive it all with love and faith! Also, my birthstone is diamonds but I’ve never had any. Just a simple band of gold when I got married to my wonderful husband. Your health is the most important thing. Praise Jesus!

  I couldn’t stop reading them. I stared at each name and U.S. town with curiosity. Each essay told a whole life’s story. I was starting to feel like a gigantic map of America with thumbtacks pricking me in a different place with each essay I read. Bloomington, IN, pricked me just above my lip. Eugene, OR, pricked my right wrist. I felt like a maypole with thousands of ribbons reaching out to these women.

  I saw their bedrooms in their houses, or trailers, or mansions. I saw their jobs, their commute to work, their diseases. I saw the name tags pinned near their cleavage on their waitress uniforms, their time cards, their mortgages. I saw their personal financial statements. I stood next to them as they fished around in their purse or glove compartment or kitchen cabinet and found their packs of cigarettes, anxious to light up and inhale.

  Shasthi was in a doctor’s examining room. She was there and I was here and all these women were somewhere out there living each day and trying to get something—a happy marriage, a baby, a tiny, minuscule speck of diamond. In one hundred words or less, I saw the plight of women. In one hundred words or less, I felt the pain of this country. In one hundred words or less, I thought I could find an answer I had been looking for, for a long time.

  The phone rang and, thinking it might be Shasthi, I ran to answer it, but it was just Deirdre-Agnes calling about my crib.

  Then Shasthi called.

  “What did the doctor say?” I said, practically falling off the bed in my excitement to pick up the phone. I was afraid to call her in case Dr. Heiffowitz had given her bad news. The worst there was.

  “He said I had fibroids but they are not so big as all that.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” I said.

  “But he said they could be interfering with the sperm getting to the right place.”

  “Oh,” I said. She was so uncomfortable saying the word sperm it came out pinched like spoorm.

  “Well that’s great news,” I said. “Because you can have them out.” But as soon as I said it I thought surgery like that would be elective and cost ten thousand or two hundred thousand or a million dollars for all I knew.

  “But he doesn’t think I should have them out as yet.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “He thinks I should have . . . wait, I wrote it down. Ar-ti-ficial inseminat
ion.”

  “Did he explain to you what that was?” I asked, feeling my heart thumping.

  “Yes, I think so. But Izzy,” she said, whining slightly, “he said it cost eight thousand dollars and then you know there is no guarantee and I might not even become pregnant. So how can I do that?”

  I was going to make eight thousand dollars by judging this contest. “I think we’re going to find a way,” I said.

  When she came in the morning, we sat together on the floor of Duncan’s room and folded the tiny clothes he had grown out of into storage boxes I had bought at the Container Store. It was a fortune of clothes and a fortune of boxes. Size 0–3, size 3–6, size 6–12, size 12–18 were all history.

  Summer was coming, which meant I’d have to go to the Kidini sample sale and buy Duncan all new things—little shorts and tank tops and water shoes.

  We would go up to the country every weekend and wade in the stream or go to the lake in Pine Hill or to the disgusting water hole that smelled of sulfur near Marlon’s house. I would show Duncan his first caterpillar and mushroom and sand castle and pinecone.

  Thanks to Russell’s aunt, we had been accepted to a preschool where Duncan would be starting this September, just a couple of months before his second birthday.

  I zipped the storage boxes closed, wondering who I would unzip them for again one day.

  That summer, divorce hung in the air like the dead bird trapped in the eaves outside Marlon’s house, still hanging seemingly by its neck. I’d developed a theory about the bird. It had gotten trapped there as a tiny baby and its mother had continued to feed it to keep it alive. It had gotten bigger and bigger, but now the mother was dead and so it had starved to death.