I’ve sat in this room a lot lately. I find it very calming, because when I go in this room the baby feels real to me, as if I could scoop her up from the crib and hold her to my chest. When I’m in this room, I’m happy.
Right now I am more than a little bit drunk. My head lolls back and I reach for my phone to check for messages. Bruce hasn’t called yet but I know he will. I’ve given my lifeblood to this company. I’ve given them my time, my energy, my passion. I’m forty next month and I deserve to be made partner. I will be.
Lying there in a bit of a drunken doze, I picture myself in this room, with my baby girl, in less than two months’ time. I picture myself holding her, cradling her into my chest, inhaling her warm baby smell. I scrunch my eyes shut, willing it to become real. To feel it.
But reality intrudes – I need to pee, and I am remembering a recent conversation with Jill, after one of our workouts, when she discovered I was planning to adopt. It happened stupidly; we’d finished working out and we were checking our phones as we waited for our protein shakes. When they came, I laid my phone on the counter, and it was open to MetroMom, a website for urban mothers that has an adoption forum. I’d taken to reading the posts rather obsessively, gobbling up stories of bringing home newborns, the bottle feeds and bonding, the wonderful reality of it, the incredulous joy other parents felt contagious. I hadn’t yet dared to post anything myself.
Eagle-eyed Jill, of course, saw what was on there before I’d managed to swipe the screen.
‘Grace,’ she said, her eyes wide with shock and, I feared, a kind of awful fascination. ‘Are you thinking of adopting?’
I hesitated, my instinct to deny it, because Jill and I didn’t share much personal stuff, and I still hadn’t told anyone at work. But denying it felt wrong, like denying myself, my baby. And so I lifted my chin and tried for an insouciant shrug.
‘Yes, actually, I am.’
‘You’re adopting a baby?’ Her eyes were like dinner plates.
‘The time feels right,’ I said, shrugging again, as if I wasn’t taking this life-or-death seriously.
‘But… but…’ Jill practically spluttered. ‘You’re about to make partner. This could derail everything.’
‘Why?’ I challenged. I felt defiant then, as if I could take on the world, or at least Harrow and Heath. I’d just ordered two boxes of newborn diapers off Amazon, and had even dared to subscribe to a box a month. Every step I took, whether buying diapers or folding a onesie, made me feel more hopeful, more certain. This was what I wanted, and it was happening. ‘They can’t keep me from being partner just because I have a child,’ I told Jill firmly, determined to believe it. ‘That’s sexual discrimination.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘They wouldn’t say it was because of that, but they’d still do it. You know how this business works, Grace. It’s still a boys’ club no matter what PR they try to spin.’
‘Well, I’m not telling anyone at work,’ I said, already regretting that she’d found out and that I’d admitted to it. ‘Anyone else, anyway.’
Remembering it all now, I think I should have lied to Jill, but what can she do? Tell Bruce? I feel cold at the thought. She wouldn’t, I tell myself, but I know she would, if she could just find a way to do it that didn’t make her look like a tattle. The real question is, would Bruce keep me from being made partner because of it? After all my work, the years I’ve put in, I can’t believe he’d be so cavalier about a piece of gossip from someone who he must know is envious of me.
I force myself to dismiss my worries about Jill and scroll through my contacts, deciding I am not too drunk for an impromptu phone call. I ring Ben. He answers on the fourth ring, which makes me think he was debating whether to take the call.
‘Grace?’ He sounds cautious.
‘Hi, Ben.’ I do my best to sound sober. ‘How are you?’
‘Um, fine.’
‘I know this is kind of out of the blue, but I just wanted to share some news.’ I slur a little, and I realize I’m drunker than I thought. I also shouldn’t have called Ben. He’s got to be wondering why on earth I did.
‘Oh?’ I hear him moving, shutting a door. ‘Yeah? What?’
‘Two things, actually.’ I try to enunciate. ‘I’m about to be made partner at Harrow and Heath and…’ I take a deep breath, my chest bursting with pride and happiness. ‘I’m adopting a little girl.’
‘Oh. Wow.’ Ben sounds pleased. At least I think he does. ‘Grace, that’s really good news. I’m so happy for you.’
‘Thanks.’ I feel the sloppy grin spreading across my face, but with it comes a sudden, piercing sadness. I don’t want to be sharing this news with Ben Foley, of all people, a person I haven’t seen in years; someone who I know doesn’t care about me any more. I want to be sharing it with someone who loves me. I want to be sharing it with my dad.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say abruptly, and I disconnect the call without waiting for his reply. Then I throw the phone across the room; it lands on the soft, cream-colored area rug and bounces harmlessly, which is less than satisfying. Part of me wanted the screen to shatter.
I miss my father. He’d have been so happy for me. I picture him cuddling my little girl, how he’d drape her over his shoulder while she burped, rubbing her back in slow, rhythmic circles, an expert grandfather from the get-go. I can see it so clearly that I can’t believe it isn’t going to happen, that it isn’t going to be real.
He’d have been such a great grandad. He would have taught her Pinochle, slipped her sweets, always been patient and ready to listen. He’d have taken her fishing, the way he did with me; the three of us on Cape Cod, Dad building the world’s biggest sandcastle, having barbecues on the beach, toasting marshmallows. Arms around each other, proud, cheesy grins in place, for the photos of those key moments – first day of school, piano recitals, graduation.
I can see it all, and I want it so badly, it’s like a physical ache reverberating through every part of me. I don’t want to be alone in this, and yet I am. I always am.
I sit there, drunk, half-dozing, trying to fight the tidal wave of sadness that threatens to drown me. I don’t want to feel sad now. I’m about to be made partner, to meet my daughter. I’m about to finally have everything I want. Why do I have to feel so lonely now?
Because happiness hurts when there is no one to share it with. I picture that on some inspirational poster with a picture of a kitten in a wine glass, or on a paperweight or a mug. Not exactly words to inspire.