Meternity Read online

  I continue on to my desk. Jules is right. I really only have a few months to find a new job, or at least save enough money so I can quit, and all I’ve been doing is worrying about my dating life.

  Enough, I tell myself. I make a decision then and there to become a sober monk. For the next few days, I plan to schedule “doctor’s appointments” to start pitching travel stories—for real this time.

  Propelled by the onslaught of nerves, I pen a quick list of travel story ideas: to be fully researched and fleshed out into full pitches later.

  Romantic Dream Escapes

  The Newest Secret Beaches

  Hotel Hideaways Only Locals Know

  Dream Destinations on a Budget

  Island Getaways Only Hours Away

  This isn’t so hard, I think. Now I just need to find a few good examples of these places, write up pitches and send them out to editors. I quickly scan through my file for PR contacts and send out a few emails asking for leads on new destinations.

  New career will commence with plenty of time before Lucie Rose is due. Boys, schmoys! This summer I vow to become a travel-writing machine. But first I check Ryan’s Facebook status update one last time. In Laos for work. Fun times.

  Finally, I put aside my freelance story ideas and work on my draft of my feature story for Paddy Cakes. I name it “Special Report: New Foreign Surrogacy Options,” after I realize that there is big and timely news with nations such as Laos and Cambodia in Southeast Asia poised to become the next big options for safe, regulated surrogacy and adoptions.

  As I put the finishing touches on each one of the five women’s stories, sidebars and suggested caption copy, I realize it’s more than 2,500 words. Longer than any other piece I’ve ever written in my life, and for the first time ever at Paddy Cakes, a feeling of pride surges through me. Checking the story into our copy management system, I feel a sense of lightness. I reflexively look down to my notepad to see what’s next. Everything’s been checked off. I can go home at 6 p.m. tonight.

  Sun. Caffeine. A successful career. As I walk into the Bird Cage on Thursday, my mood could not be any better. The first email staring at me when I get in is from Ryan.

  Hey, back from Laos—up to anything tonight? We’re doing a story I wanted to tell you about. I open the attachment to see a picture of him standing there with five American-looking women, each holding a little baby in their arms. He looks so cute.

  After not hearing from him this entire week, I’d all but lost hope. Okay if we stick around my neighborhood? I ask, so I can go home and change quickly after work.

  Sure. Want to do dinner at Yangtze? he emails back quickly.

  I would have guessed the bar of choice would begin with a Mc or O in the name.

  Sure, I think I know it. I shoot back. I am surprised—and impressed. See you at 8. I sense a smile curving on my lips. I’m psyched to see him.

  * * *

  The day goes by uneventfully. Jules thankfully isn’t still on my case. But my good mood quickly ends when I get an email from Cynthia at the end of the day.

  At 6 p.m. on a Thursday this can’t be good. I stand up, smooth out my bump under my dress and walk over to her glass office. I double tap meekly while I wait for the signal, which never arrives, so I walk in without it. Cynthia slowly rolls her chair around to face me head-on.

  “At first I thought there must be some mistake,” says Cynthia, her odd calm making my neck hair raise even more. “But I double-checked the name on the file. Elizabeth Buck-ley.” She says each syllable slowly, her North London accent making her sound extra mean and indifferent.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I started reading about the mum going through misery in Cambodia, trying to get her baby, only to come back empty-handed and scammed out of thousands of dollars. The details were exquisite. Draining, sad, suspenseful. But then, I had to do a double take at the end of the story. The woman came back EMPTY-BLOODY-HANDED.”

  “I thought that’s what we wanted,” I finally finish.

  “Did you approve the subjects through me first?”

  “Of course,” I stutter, forcing myself to think double hard. “I’m sure I can, uh, track down the paper with your signature,” I say, voice all shaky.

  “Oh, sod it. I don’t need to see it. All I need to know is why you’d ever think I’d run something this bloody negative. No one wants to read about a woman who comes back without a goddamned baby.”

  “Well, I, er, thought it would be useful to know what to watch out for,” I say.

  “Well, I can’t run it. Find me a new mum,” Cynthia says, turning away. “By end of day.”

  “Sure thing,” I add chirpily. This means I have to cancel with Ryan. This is going to take all night, I think. I head back to my desk, sorting through my notes, hoping to find somewhere I previously overlooked. Nada. Shit. Staring up at the ceiling, I think to myself, WWTMD. What would a tiger mom do?

  Then, I get an idea. I blast our “infertility support” Facebook group an update that we’re looking for a mom on her way to Southeast Asia who is looking to adopt or work with a surrogate, and maybe there will be a chance that someone will respond with a lead. With just a few hours left in the day, chances are slim.

  So many women unable to get pregnant, I think, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  After ten minutes of posting, I’m still holding out hope that a woman will materialize out of thin air. A few good leads pop up, but by six thirty, no one cute, young or with exactly the right story, so I decide to text Ryan about canceling our plans.

  Hey, I need to stay late tonight, so unfortunately have to cancel. Unless you know of anyone who may be looking to adopt or find a surrogate from your travels. Sorry.

  Five seconds later, he texts back. Actually, we’re doing a story on a group of women who went to Laos. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I can get you one. When do you need her?

  :) Like, two minutes?

  Sure! I’ll have her call you.

  The phone rings, just as promised, and I’m able to get a perfect, heart-wrenching, beautifully drawn story from a woman named Kristy Nelson, who is thirty-eight and living in Columbus, Ohio. She’s a single “choice mom” who decided to use a surrogate after failing to get pregnant on her own with donor sperm. I feel happy to tell this woman’s story. And from her Facebook page, I can tell that she’s cute and thin, thank God. And no sooner has this novel expression crept there than I feel my phone buzz hard against the desk.

  How about that drink now?

  It’s Ryan.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock.

  Meet me at my apartment for a rusty nail? I write, texting him the details.

  See you there in 10 min. And I’m not rusty, trust me. ;)

  I bound down the escalator steps out of my building and into a cab, removing the bump and stuffing it into my gym bag.

  I head into my apartment to hide all forms of baby bumpage and then reapply my makeup, then check my phone. It’s already 11 p.m. He said he’d be here thirty minutes ago.

  Fifteen more minutes go by. Nothing.

  Finally, the broken buzzer rings. I head down to let him in, but when I see him through the glass door, something’s off.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting, Liz,” he says, greeting me with a sloppy kiss, glassy eyes and smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen.

  “That’s okay, I guess. Were you at drinks?”

  “Well, yeah, just my coworker Kendall.” He goes to rest his arm against the doorway for support, but misses. He’s wasted. “Can we go upstairs?” He tries to press against me, his breath boozy. This is not romantic—or even sexy. Am I just a hookup?

  “How was Laos? I’m guessing you had fun,” I say, an edge to my voice I’m not expecting.

  Ryan looks totally taken aback. “Look, I�
��m really into you, Liz. Let’s just go upstairs.” He smells like that Sarah Jessica Parker perfume. I’m not twenty-four. I don’t want to. Not like this.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to be controlling, but what, I mean, what is your goal with all of this? You know, us, hooking up?”

  “My goal? What are you talking about? I don’t have any goal.”

  “It’s just last time was—it was romantic. This is just—gross.”

  Maybe I can salvage the night, but then the words start bubbling out and I can’t stop them. “It’s a little ironic that you think all girls in NYC are controlling, but you can’t be straight with me, either.” Shit, why am I saying this?

  His eyes look like a mix of crestfallen and angry. “Look, Liz. I never said that I think all the girls in New York are controlling. I said some of them are just hoping to lock down a husband without even knowing anything about them. That it can be creepy. I’m not sure why you’re so upset. Let’s just go upstairs, you’re acting a little crazy.”

  Crazy, the default insult guys use when they have no other defense. The first time, he had to leave McGann’s without telling me why. Then, he never called me after our big hookup, and now, he didn’t even think enough of me to not make me wait tonight and shows up shit-faced. I’m not crazy, and for some reason, I can’t let it go.

  “I’m being crazy?” My tone takes a sharper edge.

  “Well, now you are,” he says.

  “I’m not crazy, Ryan. You’re just no different than every other guy in this city. All you want is some easy, uncomplicated girl to text and hook up with only when you feel like it.”

  With that, his eyes grow angry. “Liz, have you ever thought you might be making some pretty big assumptions here?”

  “Look. I can’t be hooking up with someone I can’t trust, Ryan. Sorry.”

  “Okay, wow. That’s all this was, then. Hmm. I guess I’ll go, then.” His tone comes out annoyed and angry, as if he can’t wait to get out of here. He takes my face in his hands, gives me a hard kiss on the lips, looks straight into my eyes, then turns around and leaves without saying a word.

  Fifteen

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 22: This week, your baby weighs in at a whopping pound, about the size of a small doll! Just like with your very first American Girl doll, you’ll probably wanna bond. Yep, this is tooootally happening. Can you believe it?! WTF?! Lol. Baby Smiles: 7!

  The next morning I can barely face myself, especially with a bump attached to my abdomen, so I decide, for once, to see if I can work from home. I should be more on edge about work, but I can’t seem to summon the feelings to care after what happened last night. I write an email to Jeffry, telling him that I have a half-day doctor’s appointment for tests and will be spending the rest of the day researching an organic baby food story we have coming up.

  To my surprise, he gets right back to me. You’re all caught up, so go ahead.

  The early summer day is warm with crisp blue skies, and it lifts my mood a little once I walk out the door. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t stuck in an office building on a day like this. I decide to wear the bump, just in case I run into anyone from work, and venture out for the day, armed with my phone and laptop, to install myself at City Bakery to write travel pitches.

  Hopping off the subway, I make my way to the Union Square Greenmarket with all sorts of vegetables, breads and organic meats for sale. The flowers hit me first, their smell and glossy rainbow hues fresh with water from the hose. All around the market I see women toting canvas sacks, many with BabyBjörns and newborn slings. It’s a new scene, and one totally different from the women surrounding me in bars, double-fisting Belvedere sodas and bucket bags.

  “How many weeks?” asks a pregnant woman standing next to me at the peach stand. I go about my business, not realizing she’s talking to me.

  “How many weeks,” she repeats, smiling. Out of habit, I start my lie. “Oh, almost six months.” I can tell from her slightly quizzical expression that she’s wondering the exact week, not the month. “Oh, almost twenty-three weeks,” I blurt.

  “Has she been moving up a storm?”

  “Yes!” My hands feel wet with moisture as I face her questions.

  “Do you know the sex?” she asks eagerly.

  “Uh, yes, it’s a little girl.” I can feel myself almost tear up as I say it. I find it embarrassing how much I’m enjoying soaking up the attention.

  “Little boys love their mamas. I shouldn’t say this really, because I have two boys, but my third child, Sophie, is just the best. You’re going to love having a little girl.”

  I smile, genuinely, rubbing my stomach. “I know. I was thrilled when I found out. So was my husband.” Where this comes from, I have absolutely no idea. I swallow hard as a thought of Ryan briefly passes through my mind. Then, the line of questioning changes.

  “So, where are you having her? I deliver at St. Luke’s.”

  “I’m not sure yet.” At that, her eyes gain a dimness.

  “At six months? Eek. Well which hospital is your OB affiliated with?”

  “Uh.” I stammer. Damn, I knew there was something I forgot to prep. The birth plan. How dumb am I? She’s now looking at me with a perplexed expression and one of concern.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Oh, you know. Ha. Free-range parenting and all that! Feeling my way through...” I toss off airily. Shit. She’s now staring at my left-hand ring finger.

  “You’ve had all your ultrasounds?”

  “Actually, it’s...uh...right now!” I say quickly “Can’t be late for an ultrasound! Baby hates it! Better go.”

  “I can give you the name of my doctor if you want,” she calls out after me.

  “That’s okay! Thanks anyway, she’s kicking hard!” I nervously titter as I run off toward the edge of the farmers’ market. Once I’m out of sight, I duck into a Starbucks to pull out the bump immediately. Oh, Lord.

  At City Bakery, a relaxing cappuccino and massive chocolate chip cookie later, I’ve sent off five query letters. I’ve got the genius idea of pitching a story about baby-friendly travel destinations to my favorite magazines: Spa Finder, T+L, Destinations and Caribbean Living, mentioning my Paddy Cakes’ credentials as proof of my authority on the subject.

  I immediately get a few bites back! The Spa Finder editor says they’re planning their upcoming lineup and will “get back to me,” and another from an interesting-looking publication called Meetings and Conventions Bulletin that Jules clued me in to. They say I can write anything I want for their blog—for free. But still, progress, I think, enthused.

  By midafternoon, I’ve finished researching the upcoming baby food story—a profile on mompreneur organic homemade baby-food tycoons living in Irvington on the Hudson. This working-from-home thing has its benefits. I feel so much more productive. Staring around at the warm bakery, I feel younger, like my college days when I got work done at my own pace. I could get used to this, thinking how refreshing it is to work outside the walls of the Bird Cage. It’s almost enough to distract me from the one thought that lingers—Will Ryan text to apologize for showing up drunk? Or am I supposed to apologize for making a big deal of it? I try to push away the thoughts of caring when all day long he does not.

  * * *

  Fueled by a productive day, I see if Addison and Brie will meet me downtown at The Smith for dinner.

  As I walk in, the tables of the trendy eatery are already filling up. It’s a little risky to be here—the type of place my coworkers might choose for dinner. So I’ve asked the hostess to seat us in the banquette section so we aren’t in plain view.

  I slip into the restroom to readjust myself and wait for a table at the bar next to a group of hopped-up twentysomethings, talking and texting loudly as I wait for my friends.

  “Oh my
God, best thing I ever did. Best,” says a blonde, wearing a smartly cut management consultingesque pantsuit. Her two young friends look at her expectantly. I decide to listen in, wondering what they’re saying. I’m sure it will be something like, breaking up with her boyfriend, or quitting her job to take a gap year. Secretly, it’ll be nice to hear the kind of carefree talk you can only have in your twenties.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” says her friend, equally b-school-alum looking.

  “I just figured, I don’t want to stress out about it and end up some thirtysomething wishing I’d frozen my eggs earlier.”

  Huh?

  “But it’s like fifteen thousand dollars. How did you afford it?”

  “Graduation present.” Early twentysomething smiles triumphantly. “Now, I can, like, date any guy I want, and not have to worry. So smart, right?”

  “Sooooo smart,” agree her two friends.

  I wave down the bartender immediately and ask for a carafe of rosé. Oh, God, I think, texting Addison and Brie to get here ASAP. 21-year-olds are now freezing their eggs! I haven’t even had my fake baby! The world is coming to an end!!! They both say that they’ll be here in five.

  “Should we be legitimately worried about this?” I ask my friends, still a bit in shock from the whole thing as we make our way to our booth.

  “It might not be the worst idea ever. I’ve been looking into it actual—” says Addison.

  “Wait, you have?” demands Brie. “Me, TOO!”

  “Well...I have no idea where this business is headed and it’s taking all my time, so I have to have a plan B, right?” says Addison, launching into the whole thing.

  “You guys have both been researching this?” I look at Brie, then back at Addison, pleadingly.

  “Doesn’t everyone? I was going to set up some appointments in the fall if nothing pans out before that. I watched that TED talk you sent me on taking back our reproductive choice—”

  “Wait,” I say, disbelieving what I’m hearing. “Have you both been talking about babies behind my back?”