“I don’t want to be a mother,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “I’m sorry if that makes me selfish. But what I think is way worse—way more selfish—is having a child when you’re not fully committed to the idea of it. And I’m just not on board with this plan of yours, Ben.”
“Not now?” he says, reclining again.
“Not now,” I say. “And not ever.”
Ben shoots me a frosty look. Then he shakes his head, rolls away from me, and says into his pillow, “Fine, Claudia. I think I’m all clear now.”
The following morning we get ready for work in silence. Ben departs first, without kissing me good-bye. Then he refuses to return any of my messages during the day. I’m so distraught that I cancel an important lunch with a high-profile agent, and then I’m short with one of my sweetest, most diligent authors on the phone for being late delivering a manuscript.
“You do realize that if you don’t get this to us soon, there will be absolutely no way we’ll be able to get bound galleys out to reviewers, right?” I say, hating the strident tone in my voice.
One of the things I pride myself on at work is that I never take things out on people—not my assistant, nor authors. I hate people who let their personal life bleed into their profession, and I think to myself that if even the mere conversation about children impacts my job, I can’t imagine the carryover if I actually had one.
That night, I reread a manuscript and realize I don’t adore it as much as I did when I first bought it. It is a quirky love story—and I can’t help but wonder if my change of heart has to do with what’s happening in my marriage. I panic to think that this is the case. I desperately don’t want to change. I don’t want my life to change. I fall asleep on the couch, worrying and waiting for Ben to come home. At some point, I hear him stumble into our apartment and can feel him standing over the couch. I open my eyes and look at him. His hair is mussed, and he smells of bourbon and cigarettes, but he still looks hot. I have a sudden, crazy urge to just pull him down on top of me and make out with him. Cigarette breath and all.
“Hi,” he says, somehow managing to slur a two-letter word.
“Where have you been?” I say softly.
“Out.”
“What time is it?”
“Two-somethin’.”
Then he makes some crack. Something about wanting to reap the benefits of a childless life. I notice that he used the word childless and not our old term—childfree. I am suddenly angry again.
“Real mature, Ben,” I say as I get up and walk toward the bathroom. “Get wasted when the chips are down. Solid move for someone who thinks he’d make a swell dad.”
It is a harsh, unfair thing to say. Ben is anything but irresponsible. But I don’t take anything back. I just let the words hang in the air between us.
Ben’s eyes narrow. Then he clears his throat and says, “Fuck you, Claudia.”
“No, fuck you, Ben,” I say, moving past him and slamming the bathroom door behind me. My hands shake as I unscrew the toothpaste cap.
As I brush my teeth, I replay our exchange. It is a first. We never say things like that to each other. Although we’ve had heated arguments, we never resort to name-calling or swearing. We’ve always felt superior to couples who engage in that sort of battle. So our fuck yous become an instant symbol of our impasse—and of our impending split. It may sound melodramatic to hinge a breakup on a couple of harsh words, but I can’t help feeling that this is our point of no return.
I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, wondering what I should do next. It must be something significant, something more significant than sleeping on the couch. I have to mention the word divorce or leave our home altogether. I round the corner to our bedroom, fumbling in the closet for my largest suitcase. I can feel Ben watching me as I haphazardly shove clothing into it. T-shirts, underwear, jeans, and a couple of work outfits. As I frantically pack, I feel as if I am watching myself in the role of angry wife.
At some point, I change my mind. I don’t want to leave my apartment in the middle of the night. But I have too much pride to reverse direction. It feels utterly foolish to pack up a bag and then stay. It’s like hanging up on someone in a self-righteous huff and then being the one to instantly call back. You just can’t do that. So I calmly walk to the door, suitcase in hand, hoping Ben will try to stop me. I bend down, holding my breath as I put on my sneakers, double-knotting my laces, stalling to give him a few more seconds, time to formulate an apology. I want him to kneel before me, take everything back, tell me how much he loves me. Just as I am.
Instead, he says, cold as ice, “Good-bye, Claudia.”
I look into his eyes and know that the end has come. So I have no real choice but to stand up, open the door, and leave.
Four
The sole benefit of leaving your husband in the small hours of the morning is that it only takes a nanosecond to get a cab. In fact, I have my choice of two, both converging upon me at the corner of Seventy-third and Columbus. The cabbies undoubtedly spot my suitcase and think that they’re getting a good airport fare, so as I climb into one, I say, “Hi, there. Sorry. I’m only going to lower Fifth.” Then I blurt out, “I just had a big fight with my husband. I think we’re getting a divorce.”
It has always amused Ben how much I chat with cab drivers. He says it is a very touristy thing to do, and that it is unlike me to be so candid with strangers. He’s right on both counts, but for some reason, I can’t help myself in a taxi.
My driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. I can only see his eyes, which is unfortunate, because I have always thought a person’s mouth reveals more of what he’s thinking. The driver either doesn’t have a firm grasp of English or he is colossally deficient in the empathy department, because he says nothing except, “Where on Fifth?”
“Twelfth. East side,” I say, as my eyes drift down to read his name on the seatback. It is Mohammed Muhammed. I have to fight back tears as I think of how Ben once told me, on about our fourth date, that getting a cabbie named Mohammed or Muhammed, whether as a first or last name, is akin to a coin toss, a fifty-fifty proposition. Obviously it was a gross exaggeration, but ever since that night, we always check the medallion, and smile when we get a hit. It seems to happen at least once a week, but this is my first-ever double. I suddenly have the strongest urge to turn around and go home. Touch Ben’s face, kiss his cheekbones and eyelids, and tell him that surely this man’s medallion is a sign that we must fix things, somehow move forward together.
Instead, I rifle through my purse for my phone so that I can let Jess know that I’m on my way over. I remember that I left it in its charger in the kitchen. I whisper shit, realizing that she might not hear her doorman buzzing her. This could be a problem because Jess is a very sound sleeper. I fleetingly consider heading straight for a midtown hotel, but I’m afraid I’ll completely fall apart if I’m alone. So I stay on course.
Fortunately, Jess hears her buzzer, and within minutes of being dropped off, I am curled up on her couch, rehashing my fight with Ben while she makes us cinnamon toast and a big pot of coffee—the extent of her expertise (and mine) in the kitchen. She brings us each a cup, mine black, hers loaded with sugar, and says that it is time for a serious talk.
Then she hesitates before adding, “And the topic of this conversation is ‘Why Claudia doesn’t want kids’?” She shoots me a sheepish look.
“Aw, c’mon. Not you, too,” I say.
She nods like a stern schoolteacher and says, “I just want to review your reasons.”
“You already know my reasons.”
“Well, I want to hear them again. Pretend I’m your therapist.” She sits up straight, crosses her legs, and holds her mug with pinky and thumb out, Kelly Ripa–style. “And this is our first session.”
“So now I need to see a therapist just because I don’t want kids?” I feel myself slipping into my defensive mode, an all too familiar emotion lately.
Jess shakes her he
ad. “No. Not because you don’t want kids. But because your marriage is in trouble. Now. Let’s go. Your reasons, ma’am?”
“Why do I need to have reasons? When someone decides to have a baby, people don’t go around asking what her reasons are.”
“True,” Jess says. “But that is a whole nother topic about women’s role in society.”
In my mind, I hear Ben ranting about people saying a whole nother instead of another whole. “C’mon, people! Nother is not a word!” And just like I did when I saw Mohammed Muhammed’s name in the cab, I feel myself tearing up, thinking how much I am going to miss him and his quirky observations.
“Don’t cry, hon,” Jess says, patting my leg.
I blink back my tears, take a deep breath, and then say, “I’m just so sick of everyone assuming that you have to have kids to be happy. I thought Ben was different, but he’s just like everyone else. He totally bait and switched me.”
“It must feel like that.”
I notice that Jess is not exactly agreeing with me, so I say, “You’re on his side, aren’t you? You think I should just suck it up and have a baby.”
“I’m not…judging your feelings about not wanting kids. I’m the last one who should be judging anyone’s life choices, right?”
I shrug and she continues, “I think your decision on this is a perfectly legitimate choice. It’s the right choice for a lot of women…I think, in many ways, it’s a very brave choice…But I do think we should talk it over. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“About not having kids or about losing Ben?”
“Both,” she says. “Because right now they seem to be one and the same.”
I blow my nose and nod. “Okay.”
Jess leans back in the couch and says, “So go ahead there. Leave no stone unturned.”
I sip my coffee, think for a second, and instead of rehashing my usual reasons, I say, “Did I ever tell you about the study of mice missing the Mest gene?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, there was this study where scientists determined that mice missing this one particular gene—the Mest gene—have an abnormal response to their newborns. Basically, without this gene, they have no mothering instinct, and so they didn’t feed or care for their young the way the other mice did.”
“So? Are you saying that you’re missing the Mest gene?”
“I’m just saying that some women probably don’t have that…mothering instinct…I don’t think I have it.”
“Not at all? Not even a trace of it?” she asks. “Because I’ve heard a lot of women say that they thought they didn’t have it until they had a baby of their own. And then, voilà! Nurture city.”
“Is that a safe gamble?” I ask. “What if it doesn’t kick in?”
“Well. I think there are a lot of effective mothering styles. You don’t have to be Betty Crocker or June Cleaver to be a good mother.”
“Okay. But what if I’m sorry I had a baby at all? What then?”
Jess frowns, looking deep in thought. “You’re really good with kids,” she says. “You seem to really like them.”
“I do like kids,” I say, thinking of my sister’s kids and Raymond Jr. How good it felt to tuck his warm little body against mine and inhale his sweet baby smell. “But I have absolutely no desire to have one of my own on a full-time basis. And I firmly believe that if I had one, I’d wind up resenting Ben. Even worse, I think I’d resent our child. It’s not fair to anyone.”
Jess nods again, adopting that earnest “keep going, we’re really making progress” shrink expression.
“I like my life the way it is. I like our lifestyle. Our freedom. I can’t imagine the constant state of worry that parents have…From worrying about SIDS, to falling down stairs, to drunk driving accidents…that worry doesn’t go away for eighteen years. In some ways, it never goes away. You worry about your children forever. Everyone says it.”
Jess nods.
“And, truthfully, Jess, how many married people with kids seem genuinely happy to you?” I ask, thinking of my sister Maura and how her marriage started to become strained right after her firstborn, Zoe, arrived. And their relationship got progressively worse with her two sons that followed. I am not my sister, and Ben is not Scott. But it does not seem at all unusual for a relationship to change once children arrive on the scene. They are a drain on your time, your money, your energy, your patience. You can’t put your relationship first anymore. So for better or worse, the dynamic of two people shifts and takes a new form. A form that sometimes seems to have more to do with surviving than truly enjoying life.
“I know what you mean.” Jess looks sheepish and then says, “Trey often refers to his family as the ‘noose around his neck.’”
“Charming,” I say. “My point exactly.”
“I don’t think he means his son,” Jess says defensively. “Just her.”
Jess goes out of her way not to say Trey’s wife’s name, Brenda. I think it makes her feel less guilty. She continues, “But I don’t think he’d feel that way if he were married to the right person…And I don’t think you and Ben would end up feeling like that. I think kids bring problems to the surface. Y’all don’t have real problems. You would maintain a good marriage with kids.”
I know it might ruffle Jess’s feathers, but I risk it and tell her that Trey’s wife probably thought she would maintain a good marriage with a child back in their early days. Trey probably thought so, too. Jess juts her jaw in protest, but I continue, “And I know for a fact that when Maura and Scott were hooking up strong in Scott’s Jacuzzi and all over the rest of his bachelor pad, Maura would never have believed he’d someday cheat on her. That things would get so…depressing.”
Jess continues, “Those are the exceptions. Most couples are even happier with children.”
“I don’t think so. The unhappy ones seem to be more the rule…Then you have Daphne’s situation,” I say.
“Daphne seems to have a solid marriage,” Jess says.
“They do,” I say. “But right now I think she and Tony seem so obsessed with having a baby that that one issue has completely swallowed them up. They don’t talk about anything else. They don’t think about anything else. They’re…becoming boring.”
Jess laughs and says, “Weren’t they always sort of boring?”
Jess is the only person I let criticize my family. Still, I can’t resist defending Daphne. “Boring in a very sweet way,” I say, thinking of how excited she gets about things like scrapbooking. “I’d actually call her simple, not boring. Refreshingly simple…but lately she and Tony are just plain grim. Not that I blame them…”
Jess sighs loudly and says, “Well, anyway. The point is…there are plenty of happy couples who have kids.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I have no confidence that we’d be joining their ranks. And I’m not trying to turn my life into some kind of science experiment.”
“Like the Mest mice?” Jess asks.
“Like the Mest mice,” I say.
I stay at Jess’s place, only returning to my apartment once in four days, when I know Ben is at work, so that I can pick up my cell phone and some more clothes. I keep waiting for him to call me, but he doesn’t. Not once. I guess I really don’t expect him to, but every time I check my voice mail and hear “no new messages,” I feel a fresh wave of devastation. Of course, I don’t call him, either, so I hope that he is feeling the same way as he checks his messages in vain. Something tells me he’s not, though, and there’s something about this hunch that makes my pain feel exponentially worse. The whole “misery loves company” thing never applies more than when you’re breaking up. The thought that the other person is doing fine is simply too much to bear.
Jess insists that I’m being paranoid—that of course Ben’s just as sad as I am—but I have two good reasons for believing I’m in a worse state than he is. I share the first reason with Jess one night over Chinese delivery,
reminding her that Ben is blessed with the ability to wall himself off from pain and settle into a comfortable numbness. You always hear that it’s not healthy to repress emotions like this, but whenever I watch Ben skate on the surface of sadness, coping like a champ, I can’t help feeling envious. I have never been able to shut down that part of my brain. I think of last year when Ben’s cousin and best friend, Mark, was diagnosed with stage four testicular cancer. Ben remained stoic, almost defiant, throughout the whole ordeal, even when that phone call came in the middle of the night with the news that Mark was gone.
As Ben climbed back into bed after that brief conversation with Mark’s mom, I asked if he wanted to talk. Ben shook his head before turning off the light and whispering, “Not really. There’s not a lot to say.”
I wanted to tell him that there was a lot to say. We could talk about Mark’s way too short but still full life. We could talk about Ben’s boyhood memories of the cousin who always felt more like a brother. We could talk about their days at Brown, each of them passing up their first-choice college so they could go to school together. We could talk about the end, how painful it was watching Mark slip away. We could talk about what would come next, the eulogy I knew Ben had been writing in his head for weeks.
But Ben said nothing. I remember sensing in the dark that he was wide awake, so I stayed up, too, in case he changed his mind and wanted to talk, or at the very least cry. But he didn’t cry. Not that night or the next day. Not even at the funeral when his beautiful eulogy brought everyone else to tears.
It took six long months for Ben to break down. We were standing in the cereal aisle in Fairway when he picked up a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, a look of sheer devastation on his face. I didn’t have to ask what he was thinking about. He made it home and into our bedroom before I heard that strange, scary sound of a grown man stifling sobs. When he emerged, a long while later, his eyes were red and puffy. I had never seen him like that. He hugged me hard and his voice cracked as he said, “I miss him so fucking much.”