In the early days, when doing IVF was still a theoretical, they read an article that said there were more than a million frozen embryos around the country that would likely go unused. Couples who had produced children in this way and didn’t want to have more found themselves in limbo—unable to discard what could potentially become their child, but unwilling to bring that child to fruition.
Andrew said it wasn’t fair to create those potential lives and then just leave them there. He made her swear they would never do such a thing.
She thought to tell Sam all this now, but resisted.
“It’s time for Gil to eat. I’ll get him a bottle,” Elisabeth said, rising to her feet. “I do breastfeed, but I supplement with formula.”
She went into the usual monologue. “I’ve always had a low supply. I was taking forty herbs a day for the first three months, and tying myself in knots. Three different lactation consultants. This disgusting tea that made my sweat smell like maple syrup. Pumping after every feed, every two hours, even in the middle of the night. Then I decided to throw some formula into the mix and be done with it.”
The intensity of her shame had surprised her at the time. Even now, she’d be loath to say it to another mother.
“I once read that Charles Manson was breastfed,” Sam said brightly. “Ever since, I’ve figured that it can’t possibly matter one way or the other.”
Elisabeth smiled.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink?” she said. “I made coffee.”
“Coffee would be great if it’s no trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
3
AS SOON AS ANDREW GOT HOME, Elisabeth thrust the baby toward him and said, “Can you hold him for a sec? I have to pee.”
When she called him at work earlier to say she had hired a sitter, Andrew said, “I can’t wait to hear more about her tonight.”
Translation: I’m busy. Stop talking.
From the start, theirs had been an egalitarian marriage. He cooked; she washed the dishes. He vacuumed and did laundry and mopped the kitchen floor. She cleaned the bathroom, which most people thought was the worst chore of all, when really it was the easiest. If either of them did more than their share, it was Andrew, no question.
But it sometimes seemed like the baby was only hers. At first, it was a biological thing. But Gil was four months old, could take a bottle, and still she did all the night feedings, all the mental calculations of knowing when he needed more diapers and lotion and clothes.
“His pants are getting tight. I think he’s ready for the next size up,” she said a week ago, and Andrew made the mistake of asking, “What size does he wear now?”
In part, she knew, this was a function of Andrew’s new job and the fact that she was more often physically present at home. She was technically still on maternity leave, though that was a murky concept when you worked for yourself. But Elisabeth couldn’t help fearing it was more than that; that parenthood had redefined the terms in a way she hadn’t expected.
By the end of the day, she felt exhausted and resentful and spent. Hiding in the bathroom was a greater solace than any spa she had ever been to, as relaxing as a vacation in Saint Barts.
Twenty minutes passed, and she was still on the toilet, scrolling through pictures of the baby on her phone. This was what happened—the urge to escape Gil fulfilled, Elisabeth pined for him. The first day home from the hospital, she got teary at the thought of his moving away to college.
“You’re going to live at home and commute,” she told him.
She had never before missed something as it was happening.
Elisabeth texted Nomi.
I hired a sitter.
Great! What’s she like?
College senior. Wants to be a painter. Adorable. We talked for two hours.
Why?
She was interesting. (And it’s possible I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone besides Andrew in weeks.)
A moment later, her phone lit up with what she assumed was Nomi’s response, but instead her sister’s name appeared.
E…I HATE to ask, but is there any way you can spot me $200? I’ll pay you back ASAP—the deal’s going through next week!
A familiar knot in her stomach.
Sure, Elisabeth wrote back. No prob.
She hated the feeling this thing with her sister always aroused in her.
She toggled over to the BK Mamas as a palate cleanser. It was an instinct beyond her control, like a stutter or a twitch. Someone had posted the saddest story, about a child abused in foster care. There was a related online petition. She signed without reading the particulars. Her eyes filled with tears. Why had she logged on to this page? Elisabeth was certain she had come looking for something, but she couldn’t remember what.
She sensed Andrew’s presence outside the door.
“Hon. You okay in there?”
His polite yet passive-aggressive way of asking why the hell she had been in the bathroom so long.
She stood and flushed the toilet.
“People are monsters,” she said when she emerged.
“Hmm?”
“Something I read online. You don’t want to know.”
“Okay. We should get going, huh?”
“One time years ago, your belt was on the bed, so I hit myself with it to see how it felt, and Jesus Christ, it’s barbaric. How could anyone do that to a child? I didn’t even hit myself very hard and it hurt so much.”
“Well, you have a low pain threshold,” he said.
“I do? How do you know?”
“You think a cricket landing on you feels like getting punched in the arm.”
* * *
—
On the way to his parents’ house, he told her they didn’t have to stay for long. His mother had said it would do his father good to see the baby. She was worried about him again.
“He’s been holed up with those files for the past three nights,” Andrew said. “She says he needs a distraction.”
“Or she does,” Elisabeth said.
For some time now, her father-in-law, George, had been consumed by an idea. Months ago, he told Elisabeth how it came to him when he overheard a stranger yelling into a cell phone about how America was no longer a global superpower.