Rob says, running a hand through his hair. “I need to think about this.”
“Of course you do. We both do. And Alex too. But—” I pause, then plunge once more. “She’s coming over in fifteen minutes to talk about it.”
Rob starts, almost tips his wine glass over. “What? Martha, I’ve barely—”
“I know, I know,” I soothe, “but she’s feeling anxious and wants to get everything sorted out as quickly as possible—”
“Sorted out? Have you already said yes?”
“No, of course not. I just suggested the idea.”
“You suggested it.”
“Yes—”
“Not Alex.” He speaks flatly, and I stiffen.
“What are you implying, Rob?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want Alex to feel—feel like she has to do this. And I know how much you want a baby.”
“You think I’m pressuring her into this? Is that what you think?”
“Not intentionally—”
“Then how?”
“I don’t really want to get into the dynamics of your friendship with Alex, Martha, but it’s not like you guys are, well, normal—”
“Normal?“ My voice rings out. “What do you mean, we’re not normal?”
Rob sighs. “I only meant that you’re really different from each other. There’s a disparity—”
“We had one conversation about this,” I say. “One. That’s it. And then today she called me and asked me to talk. So whatever you’re worried about, it’s not like that. Okay?” My voice is shaking. Rob gazes at me, and his brown eyes seem soft with sadness. He rises from the sofa and puts his arms around me, and I realize I am trembling.
“Okay,” he says quietly, and as the intercom buzzes I twist out of his embrace.
Chapter 6
ALEX
I’m feeling incredibly nervous about this meeting. I actually threw up on the sidewalk outside their building, although that might have been the nausea. It’s got worse over the last few days, and I can barely keep anything down.
I called Martha on impulse, because I think I’ll feel better once something’s settled. Yet now that she’s agreed and I’m here I’m not so sure any more. I might not want an abortion, but I’m not sure I want to give this baby up. No, that’s not true. I know it’s completely impractical to keep a baby. I really do get that. And I know I’m not cut out to be a mom. No, the thing I’m feeling uncertain about is giving this baby to Martha.
Which makes me a complete bitch, because she’s practically my best friend. I should be saying stuff like there’’s no one I’’d rather adopt my baby than you instead of wondering if I’m making a huge, awful mistake.
But giving a baby to a friend…a control-freak friend like Martha…it just feels so weird. So awkward. And Martha doesn’t really do awkward, so I have no idea what this is going to look like. Feel like.
Rob greets me first, giving me a hug, which is more than he usually does, and inwardly I squirm at this sign of what feels like pity. Martha stays back, smiling, although I see an uncertainty in her eyes, a surprising vulnerability, and I feel like telling her it’s going to be okay, or even hugging her. She would so not go for that, and I smile at the thought. I smell the greasy, spicy aroma of takeout food and my stomach lurches. Again.
“Sorry,” Martha says, and it kind of freaks me out how she notices everything. “We ordered in. Thai. I’ll clear it up.” She bustles around taking paper cartons and foil dishes back to the kitchen, which at least gives her something to do. Rob and I just stare at each other.
He smiles wryly, rubs the back of his neck. “Come on and sit down.”
We sit, him on a chair and me on the big overstuffed sofa by the window overlooking Central Park West. I’m looking around the room with these new eyes, these mother eyes, except I’ll never actually be a mother. But now I see the room with all its substantial furniture—real furniture, solid wood, not plastic or particle board. And there are photographs in sterling-silver frames, and real art on the walls, modern stuff. The walls are painted a soothing sage green with pale gray trim, and even the paint looks expensive. The area rug is soft and thick under my feet, and out of the corner of my eye, on the polished coffee table, I see copies of Country Life and Harper’’s Bazaar, their corners lined up.
“How are you feeling?” Rob asks, and I turn to face him, see him still smiling wryly, clearly uncomfortable but trying to work through it.
“Oh, you know.” I wiggle my fingers. “So-so.”
Martha comes back in, still bustling. She stops on the threshold and looks at us and it seems to me like she is planning her attack. But then Martha has always been a planner, a battle general; when I toyed with the idea of going to grad school about five years ago she presented me with a printed list of pros and cons over coffee.
The memory, strangely, relaxes me, reminds me that despite our differences and the gaps when we don’t see each other, we really are friends. I trust and love her. I do.
“How are you feeling?” Martha asks, coming to sit down in the chair opposite Rob. I wiggle my fingers again, give the same line. She nods. We all stare.
Rob breaks the silence first, by clearing his throat. “Maybe you should tell us what you’re thinking, Alex.”
What I’m thinking? I want them to tell me what they’re thinking. “Well, obviously I’m pregnant.” Silence. “And I’m not really in a position to keep the baby.”
“Not in a position,” Rob says, “is different than not wanting to.”
Is it? I blink, and realize I am, suddenly and inexplicably, near tears. “Well,” I say, and my voice sounds a little thicker, “in this case it isn’t.”
“Are you sure about that?” Rob asks quietly, and across from him I feel Martha tense, as if a wire is running through her.
I blink again and feel moisture gather at the corners of my eyes. Damn. This is not how I wanted to start this conversation. They’re both staring avidly at me, so it’s impossible to hide. I touch the corner of my eye with my fingertip. They both notice; Martha looks down and Rob reaches for a tissue.
“Sorry,” I say. “Pregnancy hormones.”
“The thing is,” Rob says, “you know we’ve been trying for a baby for a while. And I don’t want that knowledge, or your friendship with Martha, with us, to influence your decision.”
Well, of course it’s going to influence my decision. I wouldn’t even be here if we all weren’t friends, or if Martha didn’t want a baby.
“I mean,” Rob clarifies quietly, “the decision about whether you want to keep the baby yourself.”
Martha is so tense she could practically snap. She is gripping the arms of her chair, but she notices and puts her hands in her lap. She still doesn’t speak.
“I can’t keep the baby,” I say, and I hear the tiny lilt of a question in my voice. I know they hear it too because Martha clenches her hands tightly together, her knuckles like little bony hills of white, and Rob gives me a sympathetic, understanding kind of smile.
“Why can’t you?” he asks.
“Have you been to my apartment?” I try to joke, but it falls flat. “Look, I’m not like you guys. We know that. I’m single, I have no savings, my apartment is a sixth-floor walk-up…” I shake my head. “I