A Mother's Goodbye

I can have a baby.

For a second I let myself picture it – sitting on the sand at Cape Cod, where my dad and I always went for two wonderful weeks in summer, a chubby toddler with a bucket and shovel by my side. Strolling through the cobbled streets of Paris, my smart, switched-on son or daughter next to me, chattering a mile a minute. I picture Christmas in my apartment – presents and a tree, laughter and voices. We’ll start traditions, the two of us; we’ll cocoon ourselves with love. I want that. I want that so very much.

Tina calls back that afternoon and says Heather and Kevin will meet me at my apartment tomorrow at ten in the morning. I decide to act as if I’m going out to scout a new contact. Venture capital can be a lonely business – often I’m working on my own, researching, networking, finding opportunities and leads. It doesn’t have the cut-throat camaraderie of investment banking, but it’s also less pressurizing. Supposedly.

So at nine-thirty the next morning, on the pretext of meeting a mysterious new contact in midtown, I’m running around my apartment, tweaking the fresh flowers, which now seem ostentatious and showy. I’ve also bought some macaroons from a bakery on Madison, and they sit on a plate on the coffee table, looking too elegant to eat.

I probably should have baked, had a plate of warm oatmeal cookies at the ready, but that’s just not who I am. I have herbal tea and fennel apple juice, both of which look and taste disgusting, but All Natural keeps shipping me free samples of their new products. It’s healthy, anyway, and that’s what moms are supposed to want, right? Except I don’t feel anything like a mom. Yet.

The intercom buzzes at ten minutes after ten, and my nerves leap and jangle. ‘Tina and Heather to see you, Miss Thomas,’ Sergei the doorman’s voice comes through the speaker, and I

tell him to let them up.

Two minutes later the doorbell rings, a discreet, melodious chime. I take a deep breath, check my reflection – I’ve worn my hair down, unusually for me, and have paired a crisp white blouse with tailored trousers. I thought about going more casual but I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t taking this seriously. So here I am, Grace Thomas, venture capitalist, mother-to-be. Maybe.

I take another deep breath and open the door.

The first thing I think is that Heather is not at all what I expected, and yet at the same time she completely is. Her hair is stringy and limp, her eyes faded, like life has worn her right out. I know from Tina that she’s only twenty-nine.

Yet she’s also not how I thought she’d be, because there’s something in her expression that is alert and intelligent, although she is clearly nervous – as nervous as I am, although I think I hide it better. She’s dressed neatly, in jeans and a loose button-down shirt, and what really gets me is her smile, both hesitant and sincere. It transforms her face, makes her eyes crinkle, wiping the strain of years away for a breathtaking second.

I don’t know how to feel about that smile, because it makes her seem so genuine and nice, but, meanly, I’m not actually sure if I want her to be either of those. I realize I don’t want her to be anything, beyond someone anonymous I can forget about later, which sounds awful but I can’t help it, it’s true. She’s an extra to my story, my family, and yet she’s also the most integral part. Yet another oxymoron about this delicate situation.

‘Heather. Hi, I’m Grace.’ I hold my hand out for her to shake, which she does rather limply. Then I step inside and usher her in, chatting about how nice it is to meet her, and was there traffic? I laugh lightly at something Tina says that isn’t all that funny, but ice breaking is something I know how to do, putting people at their ease even as I make a snap judgment. Right now I need to feel like I’m good at something.

Yet Heather doesn’t seem at ease as she walks toward my living room and then stops on the threshold, staring down at the thick cream plush carpet.

‘Should I take my shoes off?’

She’s wearing a pair of dirty knock-off Keds, no socks. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly. Would you like something to drink? Herbal tea? Green juice?’

‘Green juice?’ Heather stares at me blankly.

‘This is great,’ Tina assures me. ‘Thank you so much for having us.’

‘I have sparkling water,’ I tell Heather. ‘Or just tap water. Whatever you like.’

‘Um, sparkling water, I guess. Please.’

‘I’ll have the green juice,’ Tina says, and she gives me a reassuring smile before I get the drinks. When I come back to the living room Heather is strolling around, leaving gentle indentations in the plush carpet as she gazes at the artwork on the walls, which is all abstract and, now that I look at it, kind of ugly.

I don’t have any personal photographs in here; I keep those in my bedroom and study, mostly of me and my dad through the years, as well as one arty black and white of my mom when she was in college. They’re too private for strangers to look at, not that I have strangers in my apartment all that often, or ever. Except for now.

‘So.’ My voice comes out too loud and Heather jumps a little as she turns around. ‘Was Kevin not able to come today?’

In the ensuing silence, the air practically crackles. Heather stills. I am instantly regretting my question, an attempt at small talk that has obviously failed. ‘He has a chronic injury to his back,’ Heather says, ‘and he isn’t able to leave the house very much.’ Her tone makes me think it’s her standard excuse for Kevin’s no-shows.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She doesn’t reply and I gesture toward the two sofas upholstered in soft, gray leather. ‘Shall we sit down?’

Heather moves obediently to the sofa and sits, her head slightly bowed. I feel a sadness emanating from her that makes me feel sad myself, sad for her, for whatever shitty circumstances brought her to this decision, but her sadness also alarms me. Tina said Heather had decided to go ahead, but I’m not feeling that right now. I take in the tired lines and faded eyes, the sense of both acceptance and despair that hangs about her like a shroud. I don’t want to feel sorry for her, I don’t have space for it, and yet I do. I really do.

‘You have a nice apartment,’ Heather says rather dutifully, and I murmur my thanks. I can see how she’s taking everything in, from the paintings on the wall to the modern sculpture to the pile of expensive coffee table books I never even open, and I feel nervous about what she might think.

This house was an interior decorator’s blank canvas, and yet right now it seems to reveal too much about me. A lack in me, because it’s so impersonal, like an upscale hotel. I should have personal photos around, and well-thumbed paperbacks, a cookbook left open somewhere.

Oh, this? I was just thinking about whipping up a quinoa and chickpea salad. Although maybe Heather doesn’t even know what quinoa is. I’m not sure I do, no matter that I’m supposed to be some organic expert now, thanks to All Natural.

‘So, Heather, maybe you could tell Grace why you liked the look of her profile,’ Tina says. She sounds as if she’s instructing two four-year-olds to share.