Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

She dreaded visitors and phone calls. At her request, Peter had turned off the phone and told everyone but Diane’s mother and his parents and stepparents not to come for a few days. But Diane also resented the absence of company. Every desire and instinct were accompanied by an equally strong reluctance and revulsion.

She felt deserted and betrayed by the world. Her doctor had refused to allow her to lie in with Byron until she felt stronger. She didn’t argue or even disagree. Still, it wasn’t her choice. Her baby had been carried off and was delivered only to be fed (or failing to feed) with an immediate announcement by the nurse of when he would be re-collected. Even her brief times alone with Byron made her aware of her failures. Byron seemed uninterested in eating, so she was useless instead of crucial; she didn’t have the strength to get up and put him back in the Lucite cart the hospital used to wheel the babies from the nursery to the rooms, so instead of being the most trustworthy caretaker, she was the least reliable. His visits were an hour long at most, so she had yet to diaper him or rock him to sleep (he never seemed fully awake anyway), and although she made the effort to hold him up against her shoulder to burp him (it hurt some muscle below), nothing like a belch had ever been heard. She longed to feel maternal, for a rising tide of sentiment to overwhelm what she thought ought to be trivialities — her discomfort, her fatigue, her loneliness — but she was dead to Byron. He seemed utterly foreign, a misdelivered package.

Her mother, Lily, appeared on the first day, looking radiant. In her old age, Lily’s jowls, her thick glasses, and her crumpling skin had made her rather gargoylish — Peter once said at a drunken dinner party that he reconsidered marrying Diane after seeing what time had done to Lily — but on this day the wrinkling of age was ironed by Lily’s joy in her grandchild.

“He’s beautiful!” Lily exclaimed before she was halfway in the door. She had stopped off at the nursery and viewed Byron through the glass, swaddled in his blanket, his eyes closed, his mouth pursed, concentrated on rediscovering his former peace. Lily came into the room, stood still several feet away from Diane’s bed, clasped her little, pudgy hands together, and repeated: “He’s beautiful!”

Diane was already exhausted by her. Diane knew Lily’s enthusiasm would be set on high for Diane to scale, or otherwise Diane would be left behind, watching her mother enjoy an exhilaration that, by rights, belonged only to herself. Diane tried to beam a smile, but it must have looked queasy.

“How are you, darling?” Lily asked, lowering her tone sympathetically. She moved toward the bed, took Diane’s cheeks in her hands, squeezed, and made a whooshing sound of pleasure and possession. “You look pale.”

“I’ve just had a baby.”

“That was yesterday. You shouldn’t be in pain now. What do the doctors say?”

“Ma, I’ve had a C section! That’s abdominal surgery. You don’t recover from that in a day.” Already Diane was whining like a teenager. Barely thirty seconds gone and fifteen years had been lopped off; if her mother stayed for longer than two minutes, they might be wheeling Diane into the nursery. Where was Peter? He had promised to be there as a buffer.

“My friend Harriet’s daughter had a C section — she was on her feet in three days. Maybe you should get another doctor. Doctors aren’t perfect, you know. They make mistakes.”

Diane closed her eyes. Why did she have a cartoon mother? It was hard to have nightmares as bad as the reality of Lily.

“Hello!” Peter entered, looking disgustingly fit. He was dressed in his festive Waspy summer clothes, ready to board the yacht at the Cape. “Hello, Lily! You look lovely”

“Your son is beautiful!” Lily said, also grabbing Peter by the cheeks and smacking her lips on his. That was a remarkable expression of warmth from Lily to Peter; she had never accepted him into her heart either publicly or privately, presumably because he wasn’t Jewish. “What difference does it make?” Diane had once asked her, exasperated. “Really, Ma? What difference does it make?” “It makes a difference,” Lily had said, nodding to herself, her tone heavy with accepted sorrow, going to the ovens bravely.

“You too, huh?” Peter said cheerfully.

“Don’t you think he’s beautiful?” Lily pleaded.

Peter laughed good-naturedly. He strolled over to Diane and kissed her. “You really are mother and daughter.”

“What are you talking about!” Diane snapped at him. Peter couldn’t have come up with a more infuriating remark if he’d worked on it all night.

Peter turned to Lily. “Exactly what Diane kept saying right after the birth. ‘He’s beautiful, he’s beautiful,’ ” he imitated, with a hint of a Yiddish accent.

“But he is!” Lily mocked a protest. “I’m not prejudiced just because I’m his grandmother. I’m very objective.”

“What do you mean?” Diane insisted to Peter. “When did I keep saying to you, ‘He’s beautiful, he’s beautiful’?”

“At the very instant of his birth.” Peter seemed full of himself, enunciating his words like a preening actor, his eyes darting from Diane to Lily to measure his effect. “You were madly in love with him the moment you saw him. I was green with envy — knew I was finished. Hopeless. I’ll be lucky if you remember to set a place for me at dinner.”

“Don’t be jealous of your own son,” Lily said, now perfectly serious.

How stupid, Diane thought. I don’t even know that baby. I’m scared of it, and he’s concocted the reverse to portray himself as a victim. I lie here with my head broken, my stomach split, my thighs lumpy, my breasts swollen — and he plays the jilted lover, no doubt anticipating excuses for his future indifference and neglect.

Had she made a ghastly mistake? Peter had told her no to the idea of having a baby, in his mild but utterly resolved manner, over and over, never wavering, never, in even the most hypothetical discussion, conceding that one day he might change his mind. But time was passing, faster and faster as she left thirty behind. She had wasted several years after college, trying to decide what to do (really it had been an attempt to find something besides the obvious, anything other than the law), so that she was, in general, three years behind everyone. Four in some cases, since she had gone to private schools that didn’t believe in skipping, no matter how bright the student. And she had been bright — effortlessly, democratically achieving A’s, without regard to the area. School had been the theater in which she always got the leading part, resounding applause, and rave reviews. She missed it.

Diane longed to be her former taut self, snapping awake, grabbing her books, her notebooks filled with her precise handwriting, to begin another long day, surrounded by friends eager to please and impress her, while she pleased and impressed her professors. She began to weep at the thought of its loss.

“Diane,” Peter said.

“Darling,” her mother said. Lily’s big face was in front of her, the eyes swimming in the glasses, fish grown too large to be contained by their bowl. “We’re all very proud of you,” Lily said, and hugged Diane, the small, thick hands squeezing hard.

Diane heard herself sob. Peter stood still, his face distant and puzzled, a baffled stranger. The first year they were lovers, he liked to kiss her flat stomach, so smooth and tight that the hipbones made visible points in the air, fins gliding through her undulating sea. Peter would surround her navel with kisses and then run his tongue into it. Tickled, she’d suck her nonbelly in even more so that the bones of her ribs appeared, impressed by her olive skin. Finally he’d put his mouth to her sex, his hands grasping her thighs, his fingers almost able to touch his thumbs, so thin were the tightly packed sausages of her legs.