This Fragile Life

“Have you been to the OB?” I ask and she hesitates, so I know she hasn’t.

“I will,” she says. “There’s not much point yet, really.”

“Isn’t there?” Immediately I know I sound too sharp. I take a breath, release it slowly. “How far along are you, anyway? I forgot to ask.”

“About eight weeks.” She still sounds subdued, and it irritates me.

“Well, let me know when you make an appointment and I’ll go with you,” I say, as lightly as I can, and it’s only after the words are out of my mouth that I realize maybe she doesn’t want me to go with her.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, but she doesn’t sound enthused and I force some more small talk before we finally both call it quits.

Afterwards I sit at my desk, alternating between anger and fear. Are all our conversations going to be this awkward? I hate feeling as if I have to tiptoe around her and yet I’m too afraid not to. But this is going to be my child, and I want some say in her pregnancy decisions. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? It certainly feels reasonable to me.

That evening I wait for my friend Maggie in Bryant Park. She’s running late so I surf the Internet on my smartphone, and end up, as usual, on one of the many pregnancy websites that chart fetal development.

At nine weeks, your baby measures 2.3 cm in length and weighs less than 2 grams. Earlobes are visible, as are fingers and toes.

2.3 centimeters. That’s what, an inch? An inch of infant, of life, waiting for me. My fingers clench around the phone. I feel a throb of longing, a surge of fear. A single inch and I am desperate.

“Hey, Martha.” Maggie comes up behind me, and her sharp glance takes in my phone’s screen before I can shut it off. “Baby Bump dot com? Are you serious?”

I click my phone off. “Hey to you too.” I smile, tightly. Maggie raises her eyebrows.

“I know you can’t be pregnant.”

And bizarrely, this hurts. The absolute certainty she has, because I know it too. I can’’t be pregnant. It’s been five years since Rob and I started trying, four years since they found the scarring on my Fallopian tubes caused by undiagnosed PCOS. Three years since the first IVF attempt, when I still felt keyed up with hope and determination, both leaching away with each further attempt.

And now? Now I feel hope again, and it terrifies me.

“I’m not,” I say lightly. “But a friend is.” Maggie just looks at me, her eyes slightly narrowed, and I know she’s wondering why I’d be scrolling through fetal development for a friend. It’s definitely not my style, but I don’t feel like getting into the uncertain complexities of what’s going on with Alex.

“This baby thing has hit you pretty hard, hasn’t it?” she finally says and I tense. Great, now she feels sorry for me.

“Let’s go,” I say, and we head towards the gym on Eighth Avenue where we work out together three times a week.

This baby thing. I know Maggie doesn’t understand it, doesn’t feel it as I do. We’re the same age, but she’s defiantly single, still enjoying the club scene, the carousel of boyfriends. I’m secretly sneaking glances at pregnancy magazines at the newsstand.

I’m not sure I totally understand the baby thing either. I had a plan; I’ve always had a plan. Rob and I started dating in college, were engaged at twenty-six, married at twenty-seven. When the ring was on my finger I mapped out our lives: pregnant at thirty-two, another at thirty-four, family complete and back to work full-time at thirty-five. Perfect. Except of course it didn’t happen that way, and the more life veered from the plan the more I wanted it, needed it, and having a baby became a way to prove myself, almost an obsession.

As it is now.

Maggie doesn’t mention babies while we work out, side by side on treadmills and then fifteen minutes with free weights. We shower and head up to the café on the second floor, take two stools at the bar and order our usual protein shakes.

Maggie talks for a while, and I try to listen. I usually like hearing about her cases, her colleagues, the cut-throat atmosphere that energizes me. And I like to reciprocate, talking about multimillion-dollar ad campaigns, my pitches and longed-for clients, the whole thing. Yet today I can barely summon the will to listen and Maggie notices.

“What is up with you, Martha?” she asks, and she sounds faintly annoyed.

“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

She frowns. “Is it still the baby thing?”

I can tell from her tone that she feels I should have been so over ‘the baby thing’ ages ago. Years ago.

“Actually, it is,” I say, and then because I need to tell someone, I need to relieve this awful, aching pressure that is building and building inside me, I say, “My friend who’s pregnant? She’s going to let us adopt the baby.”

Maggie stares at me for a moment, her eyes widening, and then she blinks. “What friend is this?” she asks, and there is something so skeptical in her tone I almost wince.

“You don’t know her. She’s a friend from high school.”

“And she’s willing to give you her baby?”

“She’s not in a position to keep it.”

“So she has an abortion.”

“Maggie.” My throat is tight. “We want this baby. And she wants to give it to us. People do this all the time, you know. Private adoptions.” I speak firmly, as if I believe it. Maybe if I say it enough I will.

“Well, all I can say is, you’ve got a really good friend there.” She drains her shake, and I am left silent, spinning, because the question ricocheting through my brain is: do I?

Do I have a really good friend? That good?

I don’t know the answer.

Chapter 12

ALEX

The second to last day of camp Ramon runs right to me as soon as he comes in the doors of the gym. I crouch down, give him my biggest smile. He’s opened up these last few days, smiling more, laughing a little, his eyes lighting before his long, curly lashes sweep downwards. Today though he hugs me almost fiercely, burying his head in my shoulder. I can feel the tension in his little body and I ease away.

“Hey…hey. You okay, buddy?” I realize I shouldn’t have asked, because his expression irons out and he turns away from me. I feel a twinge of concern, a lurch of fear.

I don’t think much more about Ramon until he comes in for his art session towards the end of the day. I’m so busy, cranking out class after class of boisterous kids, trying to keep them focused and interested and the paint off the walls or each other. Camp is coming to an end so they’re more hyper than usual, and several times jokes turn into fights and I’m wading right into the middle, separating them with heavy hands on shoulders, even as part of me longs to curl inward and protect the vulnerable barely-there curve of my belly. Even now, I think of it. Always, I think of it.

Ramon sits by himself during art, his bent arm hiding his paper. He lowers his head, his silky hair obscuring his face, everything hidden, protected, just as it was the first day, and I wonder what is going on and if his mother knows. If she worries. Motherhood is such a leap into the unknown, into the exposed emotions like peeled-back skin, and I’m glad I won’t have to feel all that. That will be Martha’s job.

But will I feel it? Will I not be able to resist? I already feel it, a little bit, with Ramon, and it hurts.

“Hey, buddy.” I come closer, touch his head just lightly because there are always rules about touching. I’ve broken too many by allowing him to hug me when he arrived. “What are you drawing?” I ask and crane my neck to see but he moves his arm and shows me anyway.

And that’s when I see it. Not the drawing, which I barely glance at, but the perfectly round circle, red and livid, on his inner elbow. It looks—and in my job I’ve seen them before—like a cigarette-burn mark.

Everything in me sinks with dread. I manage to say something about his drawing even as my brain buzzes.

As a teacher, I am legally required to report suspected child abuse. I make a call to Child Protective Services and within forty-eight hours I must file a written report. My part then is essentially done, and they take over. They might remove Ramon from his home, put him in temporary foster care. They might contact the police, if it appears the abuse is not from a family member. There could, in rare instances, be a court case, and I might be called to testify. But the likelihood is I’ll never see Ramon again and I’ll never even know what happens to him.

I’m cold, so cold, as I walk through the art room, murmuring encouragement and praise. I don’t want to call CPS. I never do, because it’s awful and ugly and yet so often necessary. I’ve done it twice before, and both cases were most certainly warranted. I don’t know what happened to either of the children involved, but already I feel more invested in this—in Ramon—than I ever did before.

I’m thinking about Ramon, but I’m also thinking about his mom. I remember how she smiled at him when she picked him up. How tired and pinched she looked, and part of me thinks, She’’s doing her best. Isn’’t that all any of us can do?