Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

Peter’s mother, Gail, and his stepfather, Kyle, were depressing visitors. They sat on chairs at the foot of the bed, overdressed in formal clothes, their faces stilled by polite smiles. They looked like wealthy tourists who had been mistakenly booked into a seedy hotel for the night but were determined to make the best of it. Diane thought she was used to Gail’s coldness — shocking in a mother — but that Gail maintained her reserve even about the birth of her first grandchild startled Diane anew. Peter’s father, Jonathan, and his stepmother hardly improved matters by phoning to say that they had a partner’s wedding to attend (“Second marriage, you know, he’s sensitive about our support”) and couldn’t come up from Philadelphia until next week. All this made Diane pity Peter, as she had years ago when they were first dating.

Of course, Peter had been reluctant to have a child. Look at the parents he had: divorcing when he was five, his mother an iceberg, his father obsessed with his law firm, hardly able to squeeze Peter in between cases and business dinners. It was a miracle Peter had ever gotten married.

On the day they left for home, Diane checked the room to see if she had packed everything. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Peter hold Byron. By hospital rule Byron wore a cap on his head. Lily had given Peter a puffy insulated baby bag from L. L. Bean to carry Byron. It was more suitable for winter than May. Little of Byron was visible, but Peter stared at that bit: big eyes closed, flat little brow, bright lips pursed, open at the center, ready for a nipple. Peter stared at all that with a frown, puzzling over the arrangement of features, possibly searching for a missing item.

“He has no eyebrows,” he said finally.

“Yes, he does!”

“Hardly. Just an outline.”

“He’s a newborn.”

Peter frowned again. Given the way Peter carried Byron — his arms stiff, holding Byron at a distance from his body, as if he were a bomb — Diane was relieved when the nurse arrived and, official procedure again, took Byron until they got outside the hospital.

Diane was exhausted by the short trip home. Byron slept through it all, even the exaggerated delight and interest of the doorman and the two elderly women who were regular fixtures in the lobby.

Diane was startled when they arrived at their apartment door, because it opened by itself. A broad-shouldered middle-aged woman, dressed in a white uniform, stood there, her eyes immediately focused on Byron. “He’ll be too warm in that, my dear,” she said, and took Byron away before Diane even got in the door.

“This is Mrs. Murphy,” Peter said.

Of course, the baby nurse, Diane reminded herself.

“Hello, ma’am,” Mrs. Murphy said.

Diane nodded in response, unable to talk. She wandered into her apartment, studying each room and its possessions with the curiosity of a stranger.

“When is he due for a feeding, ma’am?” Mrs. Murphy asked, appearing with Byron. She had taken off Byron’s outer clothing. He squawked, a bony arm stretching blindly at Mrs. Murphy’s bosom.

“Four o’clock.”

“You should be resting, ma’am. You don’t have much in reserve after a Caesarean. I’ll bring the little one in at four.”

“Thank you,” Diane said sweetly. Where was Peter? She heard his voice in the study, talking on the phone. She smiled graciously at Mrs. Murphy, just as she imagined this woman would expect a spoiled young mother to react to the competence and subservience of a baby nurse. You have no idea who I really am, she thought to herself as she walked by, pausing to kiss Byron. He was so soft! Like the soft hot interior of a muffin. The toothpick fingers pulled at her chin as she withdrew.

“We’ll have a nice talk while Mommy rests,” Mrs. Murphy said to Byron.

Yeah, she’s nice in front of me, Diane thought. She’ll probably smother him with a pillow the minute I’m out of the room. By the time Diane reached her bed, she was almost staggering. She felt lumpy and stretched, a sweater worn by a fat person. It was good to be in her room.

Peter looked in the door. “Tony Winters is on the phone. He wants to congratulate you. And then he’ll put Betty on.”

Diane listened to the eager voice on the phone. “Congratulations! I know you’re exhausted. So don’t talk. Betty and I are very excited. She wants to say hello.”

“Thank you,” Diane said, and sounded hoarse, weak, just as she should. But her mind was clear, for the first time in months. The core of her intelligence glowed with energy. I’d better write a thank-you note to Stoppard right away, she thought.

“Diane? It’s Betty. How’s the baby nurse?”

She laughed. “Weird.”

“I hated mine. She barely let me handle the baby. Always hinting that I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I can hardly move, so I guess it’s good. It’s better than my mother being around.”

Betty made an appreciative noise. “That’s true. I’ll let you rest. Call me anytime.”

“Okay, thanks.” That was strange. Betty’s friendliness was so ready, so eager, the relief of someone used to solitude at last finding a sympathetic ear. Was motherhood like that? Isolate you, leave you feeling alone, unappreciated?

She heard — faintly, faintly — her son complain. Peter looked in the door. He seemed happy. “Good, you’re resting,” he said. “Isn’t Mrs. Murphy great? She knows just how to handle him.” He left, shutting the door behind him. What the hell did that mean? That I don’t know what to do?

Diane closed her eyes and felt herself going, her strong, clear mind turning off.

I know what to do, was its last thought before sleep.

NINA ROLLED on ice cubes. Everywhere she let herself feel, there was cold, freezing through her like razors, shattering her bones.

“Wha—”

“You had a beautiful baby boy!”

She couldn’t climb out. The blue cold strangled her. She twisted her neck to break the grip.

“Wha … happen?”

“You had a beautiful baby boy!”

I’m dreaming, I’m freezing.

“Wake up!”

I’m dying in the cold.

PETER WAITED in his study for rachel to call.

He thought back to his earlier conversation with Tony Winters, the playwright. “You’ll see,” that infinitely sophisticated man had said, “the baby will turn you into sentimental mush. And it’s good. It’s really good. Like being young again, but without the foolishness. Like getting married, but with the commitment real, the product tangible, instead of impossible romantic ideals.”

Peter had wandered into the nursery afterward and watched Mrs. Murphy expertly change Byron’s diaper. Peter looked away while she changed the bandage on the reddened circumcised penis, but he forced himself to glance at the blackened stub of the umbilical cord. Mrs. Murphy wiped it with a cotton ball dipped in rubbing alcohol. At first, Byron cried at these ministrations, but she handled him so well, lifting him by his feet and sliding the diaper underneath in one graceful motion, that Byron soon stopped and stared blindly at her.

Mrs. Murphy kept up a running patter. “Do you see your daddy, watching, learning? So he can do this, too. And then he can take care of his little one, his treasure.”

My treasure? Peter remembered while he waited by the phone. He could initiate the call to Rachel, but she had said she would be hard to reach.

Earlier, Mrs. Murphy had put Byron in Peter’s arms and warned Peter to support the neck. Byron pushed his head at Peter’s breast, hoping.

“There’s nothing there,” Peter told his son, feeling bad about it.

My treasure? What can I give him? I don’t know anything. I don’t have any idea why I’ve lived the way I have, or what I hope for, or even what I wish had happened. I don’t love his mother and I didn’t want him to be born.