Meternity Read online

  Wow, I think, as I sift through all the details. This is a story that needs to be told.

  After talking to one of the women who went through the surrogacy process in Anand, a region in India where it is highly regulated, I realize that this is going to take days, if not all next week to get right. A feeling enters my stomach—not the dread I usually get before writing up a piece on the latest strollers or a manufactured mommy war. Instead it’s like going to a new yoga class where I’ll have to stretch a muscle that I haven’t used in a while. This feels, well, exciting.

  June

  Twelve

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 20: Extra Snaps, anyone?! Now that you’re over the hump of your second trimester you’re fiiiiinally feeling the urge to return to your daily scheduled selfies—your nails are stronger and your hair is thicker and fuller than usual because of some cuhraaaazy pregnancy hormones! Baby Smiles: 35!

  My September stories sail through fact-checking, and now, on Friday, as I put the finishing touches on the adoption and surrogacy story I feel happy with the progress I’m making at work, so much so that I haven’t really taken the time to look outside the office. It’s already almost time for the next bump size. The early June air is slightly warm, but luckily not making me sweat too badly. Addison Messengered me a magenta Grecian-inspired maternity dress earlier in the week and I’ve paired it with some black leggings and gold sandals. Who knew I’d find my fashion footing thanks to maternity clothes?

  But the moment I set foot in the office, Jeffry catches up with me. “What are your official maternity leave dates again?” he asks before I’ve even put down my bag.

  “I’m still due October 20,” I say nervously.

  “Yes, I know. But are you going to leave a week earlier? You, know, just in case you pop sooner than expected?”

  “No, I’d prefer to work right up until my due date,” I say. “I’ll let you know if that plan changes.”

  “Will you be staying out the full six weeks plus vacation?” he asks, his eyes narrowing, as I play with my hair.

  “Yep! Going to take full advantage of that! Ha!”

  Looking satisfied, he nods thanks, writes down the answers in his paper, then begins to walk away. But he stops.

  “Liz, do you know what you’re going to do after you give birth—in terms of child care?”

  I splatter my drink, not expecting this at all. “I, uh.”

  “Babies are expensive,” he quips. “Maybe you should be thinking about a plan.”

  “My mother is going to help out during the week,” I answer quickly, finding confidence. “The rest, I’m still working out.” He seems to take my answer at face value.

  Alix comes up to us and notices my pink dress accentuating my bump.

  “How are we doing today?” she says. “All good, I see.”

  “Hey, I have a doctor’s appointment at noon,” I say. “Would you cover for me in the cover lines meeting with Deb? I have to get some tests done.”

  “Sure. Okay,” she says, almost warmly. “You probably should start thinking about child care—this city’s best day cares have a mile-long waiting list.” Was it me, or was she trying to be helpful just now?

  At noon on the dot, I dart off to my “doctor’s appointment”—the mani-pedi place across town. It’s been years since I’ve had time during the week to get my nails done and it feels like Christmas. Why didn’t I think of this plan before?

  For the first time in a long time, I ditch boring light pink Ballet Slipper and choose a bold color that I imagine will somehow conjure up luck and love. Sexy Divide, a deep purple with gold specks from Essie’s eco-friendly line, is calling my name. As the manicurist finishes up, I find myself filled with positivity. It feels good to take action—albeit slightly crazy action—and I feel alive. It’s the first time I’ve taken time out of the office in years.

  As the technician ushers me to the drying station, I think about the office reaction to my pregnancy.

  Pam actually told me she was proud of what I was doing, and that at forty-two, she’d undergone three rounds of IVF to conceive. “I wish I’d known how hard it would be when I was younger,” she’d said. “If you can conceive naturally, more power to you.”

  The younger assistants had halfheartedly congratulated me, but had mostly stayed away. On their 35K-a-year salaries, the idea of single motherhood was probably their worst nightmare. All except for Caitlyn, who actually asked me if she could take me to lunch to find out “more deets,” most likely sensing the bump’s positive effect on my career trajectory.

  While I’m thinking about more ways to set aside time for “doctor’s visits,” I see the ash-blond “lob” or long, angled bob, reflected in the window and an immediate shiver runs down my spine. Shit! It’s Cynthia. What would she be doing at the cheapo nail place? I turn around to face the wall as my nails dry under the ultraviolet lights. Does she know about my supposed doctor’s appointment? “Elizabeth?”

  I turn around slowly, shoulders braced, hoping for the best.

  “Cynthia, uh, hi!”

  She looks at me for a second, then cracks a microscopically small smile. “This place is cheap but good, isn’t it? They do it so quickly you can just hop in and out,” she starts.

  “You’re not overly concerned with the ‘toxins’ in the lacquer. American neuroticism.” Not knowing how to respond, I shrug.

  “What color did you choose today?” I say as I walk over and show her the bottle of Sexy Divide.

  “I think I’ll do my usual—Wicked. See you back in the office.” Her tone is totally indiscernible. Maybe she didn’t know about my appointment. Phew. It’s weird to see Cynthia in a nonwork environment. It’s as if she’s actually a real person.

  Moments later, I recount the episode to Jules over a quick sushi-sashimi combo from the café’s sushi bar, which Jules sternly reminds me is a no-no when expecting—oops. She seems shocked that Cynthia would be going to the nail place across the street, too, and not to some fancy spa in Soho. At about 2 p.m., as I am settling in to research on some story ideas, my auto cal reminder pops up: Ryan meeting.

  Shit! I totally forgot that he’s coming here to the offices, where my bump will be in plain view! I can’t let him. Praying he hasn’t yet left his office, I email him. Hey Ryan, unfortunately we have to crash a story by the end of the day so I have to cancel all my meetings for the rest of the day. Let’s reschedule. I can come to your offices next week.

  I get a message back within thirty seconds.

  I’ll believe your excuse this time, but you better make it up to me. What about drinks tonight...or are you jetting off to some unknown destination this weekend?

  I know I shouldn’t accept his invitation—that this will only lead to more complication—but I reply anyway that I think I can find room in my schedule.

  Okay, McGann’s it is. See you there at 5:30. Will be good to see you, Buckley.

  * * *

  At five thirty, I walk into a full-on Friday night after-work happy-hour crowd at the bar, bump safely in my bag. I’m not expecting it to be this packed. As I wade through all the men waiting for their 6 p.m. trains at Penn Station and hitting on girls way too young, I look around for Ryan. He doesn’t seem to be here yet, so I order myself a vodka soda and wait it out, staring up at the TV playing baseball on ESPN.

  A few seconds later, a sketchy older dude comes up to me. An accountant or salesman, I’m guessing, too lazy to even hide his ring finger, which does indeed have a gold band. “Has anyone ever told you how pretty your eyes are,” he says, his white shirt wet with perspiration under the pits and his breath already gross and hoppy from his one-dollar Bud draft.

  I smile politely, not sure how to handle it. “No, um, maybe, well, I think...” It only fans the flames.

  “My name’s Bob,” he s
ays, proffering a wet hand from the sweating beer. “What’s yours?” I lightly shake the tips of his fingers as he gets pushed into me by the crowd. Just as I’m grasping for a way to end this conversation—

  “Thanks for keeping my lady company, dude,” I hear as Ryan pushes his way toward me. He wraps his arm around me and the guy slinks away. The warmth of his arms feels so wonderful that I have a minor brain freeze, and then Ryan pulls away.

  “Sorry I said that. I just wanted to get that guy away from you.”

  “Not a problem,” I say as I contort myself toward him.

  “And sorry I’m late, Liz,” he says as we both try to figure out whether a hug hello is now necessary. “My boss had me doing a ton of research today. I could use a real drink. And you’re having one with me,” he says, pulling my vodka soda out of my hand and signaling Seamus for two rusty nails.

  We take the drinks, and then he leads me to a table close to the back of the bar where we can sit. It’s noisy at first, so we just end up repeating ourselves a million times. But it does give us a good excuse to sit closely, whispering the answers into each other’s ears. Then, after about an hour passes, the bridge-and-tunnel crowd thins out.

  The conversation moves to where we went to college, and I tell him about my years in upstate New York, he tells me he went to USC for film. Then we talk about our similar upbringings. I find out that he grew up outside Pittsburgh, and that both our families are Irish Catholic, though his is bigger with a bunch of siblings and cousins always around, mine a little smaller and more of the silent, brooding variety.

  By ten thirty or so, I can feel him opening up more, so I let my own guard down. He shares that his father was a fireman and passed away in a five-alarm house fire when he was a senior in college. He’s the oldest in his family of four brothers and one sister, and he feels he’s not sure he’s doing the best job being a replacement father figure, spending most of his days working and nights watching soccer at East Village dive bars. It’s a heartfelt revelation. His natural-sounding tone tells me that he seems to have made peace with his circumstances, which makes me respect him even more.

  I debate whether to tell him about my parents’ divorce and my mom’s illness. Sometimes at the magazine I’ve had to keep up a protective front about my modest background, as if growing up near strip malls and the Jersey turnpike would somehow detract from my talents. Something pushes me to go for it, and I tell him the truth. “I’m really close with my mom, but my relationship with my father hasn’t been the best since their divorce.” I take a gulp of air. “He cheated on my mom.” Ryan gives me an understanding look and gazes at me silently for a second.

  “I get it. I really do, Liz. My only piece of advice would be not to hold on to the anger for too long. You’ll wish you had that time back.” His earnestness touches me.

  At this point, Seamus has sent over a round on the house. Ryan gives a cheesy smile, changing the tone. “I’ve known Seamus from way back. Right, my mate?”

  Seamus gives a nod. “Yer man’s the finest in NYC. Hold on to this one, miss,” he calls out.

  Ryan gives me a self-confident smile.

  “So,” I begin, “what were you like in high school?”

  “Very sneaky, Buckley, but that info doesn’t come for free. You tell me first.”

  “Umm...” I say, debating exactly how to answer. Luckily Ryan takes a stab before I can respond.

  “Bet you were the smart girl who never realized all the guys were secretly in love with her.” His voice carries a more intentionally coy tone now, and I can tell he’s flirting. But still, I find it hard to fully accept. If any guys were secretly in love with me, I was unaware. Ryan takes my drink and sets it down, grabbing my stool to move it one inch closer toward himself.

  “It’s possible,” I say, letting him think it even if it isn’t at all true. To my surprise, this admission makes his eyes widen in a little boy kind of way. It’s different from their usual confident steadiness. He notices my glass has been emptied, finishes his own in one gulp and raises it toward the bartender for another round.

  “Bet you had all the girls following you around,” I joke back.

  He looks sheepish. “Ha, yeah, the ladies loved me. You are right. About. That.” I could swear he’s saying it slowly, as if he doesn’t quite believe it. I’m shocked—this guy is so good-looking. Could this be the goldmine that A and B and I always joke about, a hot guy who doesn’t know how hot he is? Of course not. Not after what Alix told me.

  “Well, it doesn’t seem like it’s that way for you now,” I say, emboldened.

  “Sorta,” he admits. “It must be easy for you, though, Liz.”

  I wince, thinking, not exactly.

  We stop and just look at each other for a moment. He places his hand on my knee.

  Maybe it’s the drinks—we’ve each had way more than we probably should—but he says something almost to himself so I can barely hear.

  “I can tell you’re special, Liz. You’re your own person. Real.”

  I give him a ponderous look. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen you at Sing Sing, remember—Alanis Morissette?” My face gets hotter than I thought possible and I must look like a tomato.

  “It didn’t totally scare you?”

  “It was hot,” he says, bashfully. “I could see all the emotion you were bottling up. All that stuff. It’s real. You got lost in it and didn’t care how you looked. You weren’t mugging for all the attention like other girls would be. Snapping selfies while they sing and just caught up in superficial, mundane crap like finding a rich banker. The potential husband hunters, I call them.”

  I give him a coy smile. “You mean you don’t have a trust fund? Damn. Goodbye.” I pretend to get up. He laughs.

  “No, I mean, it’s true, though, isn’t it? Girls can be pretty cold in this city.”

  “That’s not all true,” I say. “I think most of us have just been burned too many times.”

  “So what are you looking for?” he asks.

  I pause for a second to think about it, noticing that I never really have before.

  “You know in the Peanuts cartoons, where Charlie Brown is always asking Lucy to hold the football? Whenever he goes to kick, she always pulls it away?”

  “Yes.” He looks at me curiously.

  “I guess I’m just looking for a guy who won’t pull the football away.”

  He takes a second to ponder it. “You don’t want a Lucy,” says Ryan finally.

  “Exactly,” I say. “Someone who won’t run away when I let my guard down and be myself. And, of course, someone who’ll go to Paris with me.” I add half-jokingly as an afterthought, which makes him smile.

  “One waits for the girl who loves Paris. They’re smart, yet have romance in their heart.”

  “Who was that? Oscar Wilde?”

  “Nope.” A big, proud smile forms on his face. “Me.” He slips his hand lightly around my midsection and pulls me closer to him. Then he scoots in so that our legs are completely touching. He looks over at me. It’s the moment, the turning point when a guy signals that he likes you, at least for the moment, and that you know he wants to kiss you and that it can happen if you want it to.

  He glances down at his phone. “It’s 11:11, Buckley. Make a wish.”

  The childlike way he says it makes me smile. I close my eyes, and then, for once in my life, say exactly what I’m thinking. “That you’ll kiss me right now.”

  Pretty soon our heads come closer, our lips meet. His have an electric force behind them, but I can’t quite make out the intent. Is it a fun thing to do in the moment? Does he want to come home with me? Is it a show of true feelings?

  “You know what, Liz. You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if he is really seeing me for the first time.

  He gen
tly touches the sides of my face and pulls me in for a long kiss. Behind it is a weight and emotion I’ve never experienced. Like a hot shower melting the chill away from my bones after a day in the frigid ocean. I can tell on the spot that this is it. I will completely fall for Ryan Murphy if I let myself. We sit, kissing for a good minute or so, then break away, realizing that the bar might not be the best place to do this.

  “Come with me,” he says with a little grin.

  He grabs my hand to pull me up. Before I really realize what’s happening, he’s helping me with my coat and we’re out of the pub and hailing a cab together.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something. Sir, can you take us to Thirty-Ninth and Seventh, please?” he tells the cabbie. “Is that okay?” he asks me. I nod. He places his hand on my knee and we sit in silence for a bit as the bright lights of Times Square flood in through the windows.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” says Ryan. We get out of the cab and then he leads me into the nondescript office building, signing in and nodding at the security guard who seems to know him. We enter the elevator, and he pushes the button for the seventh floor. Before we know it, the doors open to a very upscale editing suite. There’s a full kitchen, fitted with stainless steel appliances and a fully stocked coffee and snack bar. He leads me past a row of plush red couches to one of the rooms in the back, flicking on the lights.

  “I want to show you what I’ve been working on with my buddies.” He turns on the setup and begins to load his files. All of a sudden it comes on the big screen as well as the smaller screens. His face stares back at us on-screen with the sound up full blast. We both laugh as he turns it down.

  “This is the documentary I was telling you about.”

  “I didn’t realize you were starring in it, too,” I say.