Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

Emma stands in the bathroom doorway taking deep breaths. She makes herself look at the rest of the room. The floor is black-and-white linoleum tile. There’s a pedestal sink with a medicine chest above it. Emma resolutely pushes down her pants and sits on the toilet, leaving the door open. As she pees, she slowly forces her eyes over to the tub. It’s just a bathtub. Her bathtub. But she doesn’t deserve a bathtub-she’s a dirty girl. Emma feels the dread spreading like a stain, the familiar tightening in her throat, the queasiness in her stomach; her jaw goes slack and her eyes half close. Moving slowly, she stands up from the toilet, slips off her pants, takes the little tin box from her bag, and climbs into the tub. She crouches down with her legs spread. She runs her fingers over the tiny raised scars that line her inner thigh. The scars are her friends. But no more scars. She’s learned that. Don’t press too hard and you won’t leave a scar. So she opens the box, lifts the velvet, takes the razor and presses gently against her skin-just hard enough for the sweet obliterating pain to bring up a perfect line of blood.

Enthralled, Anne drags he sumptuous virtual sofa down from the corner of the computer screen and moves it around the tiny virtual room until she finds just the spot for it. She resumes browsing through Home On-line, dragging down one item after another until the room is, well, perfect. Then she orders the items she wants by moving around the room and clicking on them. That’s all it takes. The warehouse outside Poughkeepsie ships the products; credit card billing is instantaneous.

“Absolutely fabulous,” Anne says, turning to a beaming Nikki Spinoza, the genius behind InterMagic, a woman in her early forties who wears her extra poundage sans apology, dresses in thrift-store rejects, lets her flyaway hair fly away, makes no secret of her lesbianism, and runs a very loose ship. InterMagic is housed in a converted stable in Tribeca. The staff, none of whom looks over twenty-five, are encouraged to bring in their latest toys, and the yeasty chaos-strewn with everything from a beach ball to a four-foot robot-resembles a kindergarten classroom.

“I’m glad you like it,” Nikki says.

“Nobody else in the industry has anything approaching this. It’s more like playing a game than shopping. How soon can we have the site up and running?” Anne asks.

“A week.”

Anne feels that exquisite surge of elation called success.

“You’ve done an amazing job.” Anne turns to the entire room and applauds. “You’ve all done a fantastic job. I can’t thank you enough. Call Dean and Deluca. Lunch is on me.”

Now it’s the turn of the dozen motley designers and computer nerds to applaud. Just at that moment the front door opens and a three-year-old boy wearing denim overalls rushes up to Nikki.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Nikki sweeps him up and tosses him in the air. “Hey there, Tiger Balm. Justin, this is Anne.”

Justin says “Hi” and sticks out his arm. Anne shakes his tiny hand.

“We went on the Staten Island Ferry,” Justin says.

“No kidding, sailor.” Nikki looks about to burst with maternal pride.

“It was rough out there,” Justin announces.

“Well, it’s a windy day.”

“Choppy,” Justin corrects.

A woman in her mid-thirties, athletic, wearing black jeans and a T-shirt, walks into the office and gives Nikki a spousal kiss.

“Lisa, this is Anne Turner. Lisa Lewis.”

Lisa and Anne share a firm handshake.

“If Home gave frequent buyer miles, we could trek to Timbuktu. And that was before you hired Nikki. What a pleasure,” Lisa says.

“Well, Nikki has done a fantastic job with the website,” Anne says, feeling an immediate rapport with this loving and enthusiastic family. With it comes a twinge of longing.

“Let’s go to lunch. I want focaccia!” Justin says.

“Only a downtown kid, huh?” Nikki says.

“Hey Justin, get a load of this!” a voice calls from the other end of the office. Anne turns to see a giant plastic firefly sailing through the air.

“Wow!” Justin screams, charging off.

“I didn’t know,” Anne says, nodding in Justin’s direction.

“The crazy part is we didn’t want a kid, a couple of hip downtown career dykes like us. But Lisa had this cousin in Oregon she’d never met,” Nikki explains.

“Heroin addict, prostitute. Who’da thunk it? Oregon. She was Justin’s mom,” Lisa says.

“She died of an overdose. Justin was in the bed with her.”

Anne tries to imagine the horrific scene. “How old was he?”

“Eight months. We got him three months later.”

“Nobody knows who his father is,” Lisa adds.

“Has he asked?”

Lisa nods. “And we told him the truth.”

Anne turns and looks at the boy, who is gleefully launching another firefly. “He’s a very lucky child,” she says.

“No. We’re the lucky ones,” Lisa says.

Their marriage seems so guileless, so free of hidden agendas. Suddenly Anne feels dizzy and slightly faint. This is followed by a wave of nausea-they’ve been coming with some regularity for the past week.

“May I use your office for a moment?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Anne retreats to the sanctuary of Nikki’s large cluttered office. She sits down and stretches her legs out and waits for the nausea to pass. How would a child affect her marriage? Would the rivalries and resentments fade in the face of a new life? Or would the kid just become one more thing to struggle over?

And what would the baby look like, with its chubby little limbs? Would it have Charles’s smile? His eyes? Her coloring? If so, they’d have to buy sunblock by the gallon. Then it floods back-that afternoon on John Farnsworth’s leather couch, his flabby white body, his fat stubby penis poking into her, his tongue on her neck and cheek. She presses her fingertips into the knot of self-hatred at the back of her neck. She takes out her cell phone and gets Directory Assistance, then punches another number.

“Planned Parenthood.” The voice sounds so reassuring.

“Yes, I wonder if you could answer a question for me.”

“I’d be more than happy to try.”

“Is it possible to determine a fetus’s father?”

“It is.”

“How is it done?” she asks, reaching for pen and paper.

“Through DNA testing of either the amniotic fluid or the chorion, which is the outer lining of the sac surrounding the embryo.”

“And then that DNA is compared to the DNA of the possible father?” Anne asks.

“Exactly. How far along is the pregnancy?”

“About ten weeks.”

“In that case, the chorionic villus sampling would be indicated. It’s too early for amniocentesis. Of course, you’ll need a blood sample from the possible father.”

How is she going to get a blood sample from Charles?

“How long does it take to get the results?”

“About two weeks. The cost is around a thousand dollars. The company that performs the testing will coordinate the arrangements with your doctor.”

She can’t possibly go to her own gynecologist. Judith Arnold’s husband is a publishing executive; they travel in overlapping social circles with Anne and Charles.

“Oh, one last question.”

“Shoot.”

“How much of the father’s blood is needed?”

“Usually they take a syringe full, but all the lab really needs is a few drops.”

After she hangs up, Anne realizes her nausea is gone. There’s a knock on the door.

“Anne, lunch is here.”

Anne joins the crew as they eagerly unload the shopping bags full of scrumptious goodies from Dean and Deluca. Suddenly she’s famished. She finds a smoked turkey and roasted red pepper hero. There’s a tug on her pant leg.