Mama's Got a Brand New Job Page 4

  I took a seat, suddenly overwhelmed by the myriad changes about to foist themselves on my already over-committed life. I had nine months—or was it eight months?—to grow a baby in my stomach, prepare a household for its arrival, hire a nanny, stay fit, maintain my obligations as a wife to Dale and a friend to many, and somehow make partner at McCale. The fewer number of people who knew about my situation, the lower the odds that any changes to my behavior would be noticed. I hedged and asked, “Can we hold off on saying anything at least until we go to the doctor?”

  “Fine,” said Dale, as he gorged on a spider roll. A couple of deep-fried crustacean legs were still sticking out of his mouth when he said, “But we’re going to have to tell your mother.”

  6

  “Yes, Mom. I’m pregnant.” I abruptly pulled the phone away from my ear. From across the living room, even Dale could hear the feverishly loud shrieks through the receiver. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “Maybe we should have waited. She’s freaking out.”

  Dale flipped a page in the Marketplace section of The Wall Street Journal and smiled uneasily.

  As the only child to Anna Marie and Stephen Nichols, I should have better anticipated my mother’s joy-meets-hysteria reaction. After I explained to her that Dale and I had confirmed the results with two pregnancy tests, she finally settled down. That meant she could focus on the questions.

  “So, eight months from now puts the baby due in the winter sometime. That’s a good time to be pregnant. You’re going to be so swollen and it would be so much worse in the humidity of the summer.”

  “I didn’t think about that, Mom.”

  “Although I am concerned about you spending the last trimester on the subway, pregnant, during the busiest shopping season of the year. You’ll have to just take a cab.” Mom wasn’t one for dirt and grime, which is why she lived in Westchester.

  Thankfully, my dad interjected. “Does that mean the baby is coming in December or January?” This was a critical question to both my father, a tax accountant, and to Dale. An interest in numbers was about all that the two of them had in common, and I was surprised how much mileage could be derived from discussing the IRS tax code.

  “We’re thinking December. And yes, Dale is thrilled with the potential tax benefit.”

  “Well done, you two!” I didn’t thank him because I hadn’t planned it. And seriously, how could anyone think about taxes at a time like this?

  “So when are you finding out the sex of the baby? When do they do that these days?” asked my mom.

  “Uh, I’m not sure when we can find out.” I sat back down on a broad chair in the living room and said, both to the phone and to Dale, “We definitely want to know the sex of the baby.” Dale flapped his paper in agreement.

  “When are you going to the doctor?”

  “I don’t know. I just found out I was pregnant like, ten minutes ago.”

  “Well, you better get there A.S.A.P. You have a good O.B./Gyn., right? You need to get those visits scheduled immediately, especially with your crazy schedule.”

  My head was getting fuzzy. “Right, Mom. Whatever.”

  She huffed haughtily through the phone. “You know that Dale needs to come to the appointments too. That’s what Nan Smithfield’s son-in-law did. She said it really helped her daughter relax. And he’s a better father because he was such an active participant in the pre-natal process. Is Dale there?”

  I looked over at my husband, who was really challenging himself intellectually by adjusting his scrotum and reading the paper—at the same time. I handed him the phone. It seemed as if he were still reading as he graciously responded to what could only have been some bossy directives from my mother. He handed the phone back without smiling.

  “Well, Dale seems very excited,” said Mom. “He’s going to take good care of you.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “I’m not an invalid.”

  “Actually,” noted my dad, “you are technically categorized as ‘disabled’ by most health insurance companies.”

  My mom jumped in. “What I mean is, Dale can take care of you and the baby. Financially.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not quitting my job!” I let out a loud, nervous grunt. The notion of quitting work to be a stay-at-home mother had not even come up in conversation with Dale. I made a reassuring shrug in my husband’s direction and then tried to explain a few things to my mother. “Mom, I didn’t go to law school just so I could walk away from my job a few years later.”

  “But Dale makes a lot of money,” said my mother, missing the point entirely.

  “We’re supposed to be equal contributors. We bought this co-op based on that assumption. Dale and I are in no shape to just eliminate a chunk of the household income.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have bought the apartment until after the baby. If you had waited, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  “But we bought the apartment so we could have room for the baby.” I went into the kitchen. I started to clean up the sushi debris as noisily as possible.

  Dad broke in. “Well, it sounds like you’re busy. Let us know when you go to the doctor so we know everything’s O.K. Love you.” And he hung up the phone. I wished I could do the same.

  “You don’t have to get so sensitive, Maxine. Although the hormones do go crazy when you’re pregnant.”

  I crushed the Styrofoam containers and wadded up the plastic bags. “Got it, Mom. Thanks,” I said loudly. “I’ll talk to you later!”

  “I’ll call you at work tomorrow morning. We love you. And congratulations, dear.”

  Dale and I had collectively strategized to identify the optimal date and time for our first appointment with the obstetrician. He wanted a date shortly after an important Inter-Tech announcement. According to him, trade activity on one of his key stocks was the lightest a day or so after big news was released. I, on the other hand, was more concerned about the time when the appointment would be set. Anything scheduled over lunch would raise the fewest eyebrows. And since I wasn’t telling a soul at McCale about my impending motherhood, I’d have to play the extended lunch card as long as possible.

  All that coordination was for naught when we arrived at the obstetrician’s office and were informed that the doctor was at the hospital. “One of her patients went into labor,” explained the receptionist. “It can happen any time!” she said gleefully.

  Dale and I stared at each other, in complete alignment over the fact that “anytime” was fine, as long as it didn’t interfere with “our time.”

  “So, what does this mean?” I asked. “How long is she going to be?”

  “I’m not sure,” was the inconclusive response. “It usually takes about two hours, but since it’s twins, it may take longer.” Sensing our growing frustration, she offered, “You can sit right over there. We’ve got some bottled water and free Wi-Fi.”

  The syllables “Wi” and “Fi” seemed to send an electric shock up Dale’s spine. He propped himself on the counter, his torso half way inside the opening to the receptionist’s area, phone in hand. He was logging on to the system. “I see you don’t utilize a system password for your network,” he said, in a mildly scolding tone.

  “Is that a problem? I’m sorry. I’m not responsible for the network! That’s not my job!”

  “Of course it’s not your job,” said Dale, as he loaded something onto his phone. “Your job is to ensure that my wife and unborn child get access to the best medical care your office can provide.” That was probably over-stating and slightly misrepresenting her job description, but the receptionist wasn’t provided the time to form a rebuttal. Dale shoved his phone in front of her face. “You see this?”

  “It’s a graph,” communicated the receptionist flatly.

  “You are correct. It’s a graph. And it represents my job.” A woman, way more pregnant than I was, entered the office. She waited to check in, but Dale was oblivious. He had a special gift for convincing oth
ers of his professional superiority, yet still inspiring empathy for the hard work required to maintain it. I turned to the woman and shrugged. She, like me, was going to have to wait.

  Dale handed the receptionist his phone, imparting to her a level of trust, and more importantly, forcing her involvement in the conversation. “That graph shows the real-time performance of the stocks I monitor.”

  Her eyes glazed as she responded, “Wow. That’s amazing.” In truth, it was amazing. Bobbie Macaluso had commissioned the design of some proprietary stock-monitoring software for all the Worthington associates. It had a battery of alarm settings, customizable for the user. In other words, if Dale’s stock fell below a given threshold, his phone would alarm, regardless of where he was. And that included the bathroom at Worthington, or so I had heard in gross detail from O’Shaughnessy.

  Dale explained the features of the program to the receptionist. He showed her the downward trend of Inter-Tech. He instilled panic in her mind over the fact that, if the stock continued on its current trajectory, Dale could potentially lose millions of dollars for investors over the next few hours if he were trapped in a doctor’s office, unable to react. This seemed ridiculous, and I surmised that Dale was showing her a graph of historical trading volume, not real-time information.

  Nonetheless, his scheme started to work. She handed the phone back to Dale. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, Mr. Pedersen. Dr. Armstrong won’t be back for a few hours. Do you want to reschedule? Or maybe you’d like to see Dr. Patel?” She started clacking on her keyboard. “Yes, Dr. Patel could see you right now. Come right on in.” She buzzed the door and let us into the interior waiting room.

  There was a reason Dr. Patel could see us right now. She was new. Her bio had been forwarded to all patients of the practice, undoubtedly in an effort to offload the workload of the other partners.

  Dale played on his phone while the nurse collected all the requisite diagnostic information: blood pressure, heart rate, weight, etc. When I disclosed the date of my last period, the nurse quickly deduced that the embryo inside me was probably around eight weeks old. She told me all about the fact that the “baby” was now a bunch of replicating cells about the size of a small kidney bean. The head and major organs had already started to develop. Next month, it would have webbed hands, maybe even fingernails. I looked down at my stomach, and all I could see was a tiny bit of bloating.

  Logically, none of it made sense. All this stuff was going on at a microscopic level inside my body, yet I had no direct supervision over any of it. Not like I was qualified to oversee the physical development of the fetus. Grow arm, here! Make legs longer! While this little thing toiled away on its own schedule, my job was to be an enabler. I was supposed to give it everything it needed to fulfill its purpose, to grow into a healthy person. Eat right. Check. Don’t smoke. Check. Don’t drink alcohol. Uh oh.

  Vodka, wine, probably a few cordials . . . all consumed after conception. Had I already impaired the development of my poor child’s brain? Had I already done irreversible damage to the heart and the spinal cord?

  Addressing the alcohol-consumption-before-knowledge-of-conception issue soon became Topic #1 to discuss with Dr. Patel. Dale and I were a bit impatient, as even though Dr. Patel had been billed as available “right now,” it took her fifteen minutes to join us.

  The door opened slowly, and Dr. Patel entered slowly. She had the gait and the frailty of an 80-year-old woman. Her metabolism likely rivaled that of a growing turnip. Her wrinkle-free complexion was the most telling indicator of her age; she had to be in her late 20’s. Which meant that she was fresh out of her medical residency. My immediate thought: no matter how inexperienced she was, she couldn’t screw up an ultrasound.

  Her elocution was painstakingly deliberate. If this was her pace of delivering patient care, she’d have a short-lived practice in New York City. “So, Dr. Patel. I have a question about some of my behavior prior to learning that I was pregnant.”

  “Please lie down, Mrs. Pedersen,” instructed Dr. Patel, patently ignoring my question. “I am going to perform a pelvic examination. Please relax.”

  “Why are you doing that?” asked Dale, his voice a squeamish panic. “Can’t you just do an ultrasound?”

  Dr. Patel probed around my private parts with surprising and much appreciated efficiency. She removed and discarded her rubber glove, and then helped me sit up. “Everything seems normal,” she said. Now that the invasive patient interaction was over, an air of relief seemed to infuse her with confidence. “And it is too early in the process for an ultrasound. You’ll get one some time in the next trimester. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked. “I was eating and drinking all kinds of things before I knew I was pregnant. How am I going to know that the baby is O.K.? What if something’s wrong?”

  Dr. Patel entered some data into the laptop in the office and addressed my concerns with what seemed like the canned answer for every other mother who had come in with the same freaked out questions. “At this point, you know to avoid alcohol while you are pregnant. The nurse will give you a packet of information about all the important pre-natal activities, food choices and supplements you should take.” She shut the laptop. “Right now, you’re going to get some blood work done. That will tell us if there are any major problems, genetic issues, etc.”

  “And how long does that take to come back?” asked Dale, always anxious for data.

  “About three business days. We’ll contact you if there are any problems.”

  Not satisfied with that answer, Dale followed up with, “How much would it cost to get the tests expedited?”

  Dr. Patel looked at her watch. Then she gave Dale and me the once over. “You two look very healthy. Is there a history of Down’s Syndrome in either family?”

  “No,” we replied.

  “Developmental delays, physical or mental?”

  “No.”

  “Autism?”

  “No.”

  “Spinda Bifida?”

  “What?”

  She put her hand on the handle of the door. “My best advice for you is to not go looking for problems with the baby. Your blood pressure is excellent. You’re close, but not yet 35, so you are not a high-risk pregnancy. Your family history is solid. I can’t make any promises, but it looks like this will be a very ordinary pregnancy. Any other questions?”

  Dale and I had none. But for the first time in my life, I was happy to be average.

  7

  “So this is where you practice your magic!” Jacques Deschemel was standing, unexpectedly, in my office. I glanced out to Joy and then winked in appreciation. Other secretaries might have pulled the gate-keeper card, eliminating any sort of impromptu interruptions by unannounced guests. Joy, however, was shrewd enough to allow select people the privilege.

  I couldn’t have been happier to see him. Our McCale team had exceeded Jacques’s expectations, and I was proud to be leading the charge. Working with a pioneer like Deschemel was a rarefied experience. Here was a man, who, in the twilight of his years, was on the cutting edge of innovation. Jacques refused to let his company stagnate. And the innovations kept coming: new products, new markets, new ingredients. Happily, I, along with my team, was there every step of the way to legally protect him.

  He gave me a kiss on both sides of the cheek.

  “Merci for stopping by, Monsieur Deschemel. Assiez-vous, s’il vous plaît.”

  Jacques sat down, as I had offered. “Your French is flawless, Maxine. Did you study in France?”

  “I did take a semester in Paris, while I was in college. I was researching France’s role in the American Revolution. Le Marquis de Lafayette, Ben Franklin. That whole crew. Practicing the language was an added bonus.”

  “Well, if you ever get tired of New York, you could always work in France. The lifestyle is much more, eh, civilized.” While I did love my time in France, Dale and I were committed to raising our fam
ily in Manhattan. Besides, Dale would go bonkers transitioning from the global eminence of the S&P 500 to the regional coterie of the CAC 40. I acknowledged Jacques’s comment with a sustained smile and then inquired as to the purpose of his visit.

  Jacques opened the leather case at his feet. “I have some news,” he said. He pulled out a small bottle, about half the size of a soda can, and put it on my desk. “I’m also here on unofficial Parfum Aix business. Well, sort of Parfum Aix business, but not exactly.”

  He seemed nervous about something, which was completely adorable, so I eased him through his befuddlement. “O.K. First tell me about the official Parfum Aix news.”

  “That is simple. I am returning to France.”

  I was shocked. Well, sort of shocked. Why would I be shocked? Jacques Deschemel was French. He lived in France. Of course he’d be returning there. “Well, of course you are,” I said. “We will coordinate with whomever you designate as your local representative and liaise with you while you are back home. You’re returning to Grasse, or Paris?” It didn’t really matter where he was going. I was running at the mouth on lawyer-speak auto-pilot, trying to determine how his departure was going to affect McCale’s effectiveness as corporate counsel.

  “Vivienne Suivant is the acting head of the American offices for Parfum Aix. I believe you have met her once or twice.” Vivienne was hard to forget. Glamorous, flirtatious and creative, she was the yin to Caine Seaver’s yang. Vivienne’s introduction to the scene would complicate my job ten-fold. Exactly what I needed now that I was with child.

  ‘Yes. Vivienne will do a wonderful job,” I lied. “So what is the non-Parfum Aix news?”

  Jacques pointed to the bottle on my desk. “That.” I picked it up, assuming it was a prototype for a new line of Parfum Aix perfumes. I was about to take a whiff when I was cautioned by its creator. “It may not be what you think.”

  I sniffed the contents of the bottle. My eyes moistened from the pungent, alcoholic aroma, my face contorting in confusion. “Is that . . . gin?” I sniffed it again, now with a clearer expectation of what was in the bottle. It smelled botanical and floral, but had an unpleasant isopropyl undertone.