14. Helen
Ican move like a cat when I want to—not making a single sound.
I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to leave without being noticed quite so badly in my life. With her friend there, Mandy was too uncomfortable to drill me about the ultrasound, and I reciprocated by not asking her more questions about said friend.
But this morning, all bets are off.
I’ve nearly made it out the door, no coffee, because the smell might wake the old bird, when I stupidly step on the slightly-lighter-than-the-others floorboard that squeaks.
I cringe, but I don’t hear anything. Maybe it wasn’t loud enough. I’m just closing the front door when I hear the bellow.
“Helen Fisher, you stop right there.”
I close my eyes and exhale, wondering whether I might be able to sprint to my car and close the door without her catching me. Heart condition or not, she’s in good shape. I’m not confident I can make it in these heels, and they’re all I have until I meet my assistant later today.
And if I try and fail, it’ll be worse, because she’ll know I ran.
I inhale and exhale once, channeling all my breezy, no-stress vibes, and then I step back inside. “Good morning, Mandy.” I force a smile. “I didn’t realize you were awake. I’m in a bit of a rush, since I’ve got a meeting with?—”
“I don’t care if your meeting is with God himself.” She points at the sofa. “You’ve got a meeting with me first, and God’s patient. He’ll wait.” She drops her hands on her hips. “I won’t.”
So much for breezy. “The thing is?—”
She steps toward me, one bushy grey eyebrow arching imperiously. “The thing is that you’re pregnant, and you got an ultrasound when you could’ve just gotten an abortion, and you had the proof in your purse instead of tossing it in the trash, and so you’re going to tell me whatever kind of rubbish is rolling around in your misguided brain, and then I’m going to tell you what to do about it.” She points again. “Now, sit.”
The best defense has always been a good offense. I drop my briefcase and put my hands on my hips. “I’ll sit as soon as you tell me why you filled your house with bizarre, tacky, disjointed decor and then tried sneaking some hottie with a smolder in here right under everyone’s nose.” I can arch my eyebrow and glare with the best of them. “God probably also wants to know what you’re doing, but he’ll have to wait in line.”
She glares at me for about ten seconds.
And then she bursts out laughing. She drops onto the edge of the sofa she was pointing at. “Fine.” She huffs. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
I exhale gustily and step around the edge of the sofa. “You already saw mine.”
“But you lied and said it was Abby’s baby. Please tell me you’re not going to hide and dispose of that child like you could do with an ultrasound photo.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not even a child yet. It’s a gummy bear.”
“Helen.”
“Don’t Helen me,” I say. “I know that you and Abby and?—”
Mandy leans forward, startling me. “This isn’t about religion and it’s not about any other nonsense like that.”
I blink.
“I’m old,” she says. “And because I’m old, I can tell you that regret is a pretty constant companion. Do you want to take a guess what my biggest regret is?”
I shrug. “Something to do with Jed?”
She laughs. “No. Try again.”
“How about we skip the part where I take a half dozen more stabs in the dark and you just tell me?”
Her smirk is annoying. “You’re so smart, and you can’t guess my regret?”
“Not having a baby?” I roll my eyes. “Because if you tell me you had an abortion before they were easy or safe, and then you say it was the biggest regret of your life, so help me. . .”
Her hand slams down on the end table, harder than I’d expect from a lady her age. “You’re such a brat, Helen. No, I never did that, because I never even got pregnant. But you’re engaged to a man who adores you—a hot man—and he’s willing to put up with all your crap. You may not be old, but you ain’t young either, and you have a chance to bring a child into this world with that man.” She shakes her head. “If you throw that chance away, that’ll be your biggest regret until the day you die. Mark my words.”
“So what will you do to make sure I don’t screw up?” I ask. “Fake a pregnancy of your own, pretend to get an abortion, and then skip town until I see the error of my ways?”
Mandy’s frown deepens. “Why are the smartest women also the most universally irritating?” She sighs, collapsing back against the sofa. “Until your brilliant sister and her sister-in-law Amanda showed up in town, I was all alone.” She reaches down and scratches Jed’s head. “You think that’ll be fine. You’re happy alone. You have work, and you have enough money to keep yourself comfortable, and you haven’t got a clue. In fact, you’re probably even dumber than I was.”
“I’m not like you,” I say. “You had no one. I have Abby and her kids.”
She shrugs. “That’s true. It’s different for you. You’ll always be the crazy aunt. But why settle for that when you could be the mother?”
“I don’t want to be a mother,” I say. “Because if I was, I’d profoundly screw up my child. I’d wreck that kid, because I’m too selfish to be a proper mother.”
“As someone who profoundly screwed a few things up, I will just say that you never think you’re doing it when you are. The people who are the most afraid of screwing up are usually the ones who do the best job.”
I’m too upset to interrogate her. I’m too upset to do much of anything except throw one more glare over my shoulder as I finally march through the front door for a meeting I don’t even have. As if running away from the old broad wasn’t irritating enough already, I realize she still hasn’t told me anything about her visitor or all those tacky rugs and carved figures. Luckily, right as I reach my car, my phone dings, which distracts me from my spectacular retreat.
It’s not David, like I expect.
It’s not Abigail, which would also be normal.
It’s not even my amazing assistant, who’s almost always the first person to text me, thanks to the time difference between here and New York City.
No, it’s Oliver, my jerk of an ex.
I HAVE ANOTHER SHAREHOLDER FOR YOU. CAN YOU FLY TO BOSTON?
It is my favorite time of year to visit the east coast, with the leaves changing and the crisp fall air. And this feels like a good time to break away from all the people here and their provincial sensibilities. Maybe once I’m surrounded by people who haven’t been brainwashed by the pro-life movement, I’ll be able to make a smart decision.
I call my pilot, waking him up, and ask whether we can get clearance to take off after the recent snowstorm. It was only three or four inches, and it’s been hours since it stopped snowing, so about twenty minutes later, he confirms that we can.
I’LL BE THERE BY TWO P.M.
Oliver texts back almost immediately. DINNER AT 6? CAPITAL GRILLE.
Capital Grille opened in Boston not long before he and I graduated from business school, and it was our favorite place to go back then. It’s not a strange place to suggest. In fact, it’s one of my favorite chain restaurants, but it’s weird that he’s suggesting it.
Up through now, there has been no reason to really have a conversation with David about Oliver. Yes, he’s my ex. Yes, he broke my heart almost twenty years ago, but I haven’t had much interaction with him since, and I have no plans to in the future.
Or, you know, I had no plans.
Now I do.
I’m nearly to the tiny hangar we use while I’m here, just off East Airport Road. I used to drive into Rock Springs to take off, but that’s way too big a hassle, and my pilot’s actually dating someone who works at the True Value now, so he doesn’t mind staying in Manila, thankfully. I have just enough time to call David before leaving.
My adorable boyfriend picks up before the first ring has even finished. “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”
“That’s not good,” I say.
“Well, usually it is,” he says, “but in this case, I was contemplating a suicide pact.”
“Enjoying time with the parents, are you?”
“They really, really want to take you to dinner. Any chance you love me enough to endure one tonight?”
I cringe. “I definitely love you enough, but we may have to do tomorrow. I just told Oliver I’d meet him in Boston for dinner so he can introduce me to a new shareholder with Vitality Plus.”
“Oliver?” David sounds like he’s wracking his brain.
“Oliver Lawrence,” I say, hoping maybe he won’t connect that it’s my ex.
“Oliver Lawrence, from business school?” He sounds like he’s choking. “The guy who stole your senior project and had his daddy bankroll it for him?”
“That’s the one,” I say. “He was the shareholder at the last meeting—the guy’s name, McFarland, was some kind of weird cover.”
“Fantastic,” David says. “Well, I’m sure it’s just delightful for you to be working with that guy again.”
“He apologized,” I say. “But like everything with him, it was underwhelming and unconvincing.”
“And you’re flying to Boston to have dinner with him?” One of David’s best qualities is that he’s almost never jealous. He never throws fits over my time or my interactions, which are predominantly with other men, thanks to their complete entrenched domination in the business world. In fact, no matter who I’ve been in contact with for the past year, he’s never so much as grumped. He doesn’t sound jealous now, or at least, not precisely. “Do you need me to come along?”
“And what? Punch him for me?” I laugh.
“Actually, I’d do that for free,” he says. “That guy may have stolen your senior project, but I saw him cheating on tests at least twice. Even before he screwed you over, I had no respect for him at all.”
“Trust me,” I say. “Neither do I, and he knows I feel that way. But if Elon called me himself to offer to introduce me to some shareholders, I’d go.”
“After what he said about your dress last year?” David whistles.
“I know, and I hate leaving you alone with your parents too.” That’s actually a lie, but I care enough to make it sound almost believable.
“Look,” David says. “If you need reinforcements, let me know. I would be willing to forgo the pleasure of my parents’ company and come to your rescue.”
I’m sure he would. His wry humor has me smiling as I board the plane. I’m even in a good mood as I land in Boston. I have a few hours to kill before dinner, so I wander down Newbury Street. It’s been a while since I tried on any clothes. Usually my personal shopper takes care of bringing things to me, but it feels like a good time to shop, what with the chaos in my life ranging from bedbugs to internal parasites.
When I wander into the Ralph Lauren store, it’s because of a gorgeous black dress in the window. The bodice is simple, but looks almost whalebone in its severity. The skirt is asymmetrical and yet somehow, still full. It looks like the skirt of a wedding gown, but tucked and ruched and rucked up in various places.
And black, of course.
I’m debating trying it on when something just to my right catches my eye. Socks. Tiny, pastel socks. They have a little bear swinging a golf club on the pair in the front, and there are two polo symbols on the other two pairs in the set.
They’re clearly socks made for babies.
I pick them up without thinking. I should be examining them for Nate, but they’re far too small for that. I bought him the cutest moose socks last month, or rather, my assistant picked them out. He spent half an hour staring at and wiggling his own feet when Abby put them on. Even to someone with a heart of stone, it was pretty cute.
But these are newborn size. They’d be far too small for Nate.
Children grow quickly.
I’m sure it feels like an eternity of long, sleepless nights at the beginning, but as a bystander, Nate has more than doubled in size already and he’s not even a year old.
I could buy them for Andrew. He’s small enough, but I don’t need to get him a package of socks. It’s stupid. I should put the socks down. I’d have far more use for a black dress. I decide to try it on, but I take the socks with me to the dressing room, tossing them in the corner of the bench when I try on the dress. The dress is everything I hoped it would be. It’s everything I won’t be able to wear in another month or two, if I’m stupid enough to keep this baby.
Which I’m obviously not.
Now that I’m away from Abby and Mandy and all the other little goodie goodie moms in Utah trying to force their hopes and dreams on me, I know it would be the ruination of my entire life to have this child.
But when I look at those socks, lying at a strange angle in the corner, alone and neglected, my heart turns over. I plan to walk out of this dressing room with just the dress, march to the register, and buy it. I’ll never so much as look back.
As I walk out though, I bend down and grab the socks, and in that moment, I realize that I may be more conflicted than I realized. It may not be Mandy and Abby who are confusing me. I may not know what I want myself.
I march to the front and I buy both the black dress and the tiny socks.
They’re diametrically opposed in my mind. I should only be able to have one or the other. I should pick the path I want to follow and stick to it, tenaciously, doggedly. That’s what Helen Fisher does.
She never deviates from the path. She plows ahead like a snow plow.
A sleek, beautiful, sparkly snow plow.
Before dinner, I change into the black dress. It looks even better than it did in the dressing room, and when I pair it with an intricately designed onyx necklace, tiny flecks of black stone glittering like dark lace around my neck, and large, crystal cut onyx on my hand and at my wrist as well, I’m ready for dinner. When I glance in the mirror on my way out the door, a black widow stares back.
The woman in that mirror eats men and destroys companies for fun.
She’s not nurturing.
She’s not kind.
She’d make a terrible mother, and she knows that. She doesn’t care. That’s Helen Fisher, at her most basic. No matter how much I want the socks, I know what I am.
As I walk through the doors of The Capital Grille, I’m prepared to make my pitch and either buy or convince another shareholder to help me take over Vitality Plus, because this is what I do. Only, when I reach the table, the only person waiting for me is Oliver.
“I lied.” He’s smiling. “There’s not another shareholder.”
“What?”
“I thought about telling you they couldn’t make it,” he says. “But lying got me into trouble with you last time. I thought you might value my early confession.” He’s dressed impeccably, as always. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt—Brioni, I think—open at the top. Not many men hit the gym harder as they get older, but Oliver has. I can see it in the four inches of skin that he’s left bare. His smile broadens. “You clearly put some thought into how you wanted to look when you saw me again.”
But the only reaction I have to his attempted smolder is revulsion. “You lied to get me out here, and you think that’ll be endearing?” I step closer. “Please tell me you’re kidding and there will be another Vitality shareholder here any moment.”
He bites his lip, eyes me up and down, and then doubles down on the smirk. “You can’t fool me, Helen. You didn’t dress in that to meet a shareholder. You wanted to see me again.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not.” He reaches for my wrist.
I step back, managing to bump into our waiter as he approaches. “Welcome to the Capital Grille. I have menus.” He acts like I didn’t just crush his foot, so he should get bonus points for having a high pain tolerance.
But I’m not about to order stone crab and reminisce over old times with someone who lied again to get me here. “I won’t be joining Mr. Lawrence,” I say. “In fact, if I were you, I’d kick him out.” I pause. “He stinks.” I spin on my gorgeous, strappy, Valentino heels and head for the door.
“Wait.” Oliver, shockingly, is following me out. “Clearly this was a misstep. I did try to reach out to some of the shareholders I know, but none of them were free on such short notice. I should’ve waited, but Helen, I couldn’t.” His voice cracks. “I think I’m still in love with you.”
That makes me laugh. Loudly. People around us turn and stare, and the waiter who handled being stepped on so well looks like he might have a heart attack. He’s not sure how to usher us out fast enough, clearly.
“I didn’t chase you last time, and I didn’t apologize, but this time, I will. I’ll do anything.”
“It’s been twenty years, Oliver. We were done a long, long time ago.” I start walking again, but he keeps coming.
“He could be cheating on you, you know. Guys like him are always high risk, but with as much as you both travel, how do you know he’s even faithful to you?”
We’ve reached the foyer, at least. Even with the dark lighting that’s a hallmark in places like this, I can see his face. He looks. . .desperate. I have no idea what he wants from me—money? A recommendation? A job?
I don’t care what his endgame is. I have no patience for it. “If someone had said that to me while we were dating, or really, while I was dating anyone in the past two decades,” I say, “I might have been worried. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s why I never dated anyone I cared about. But for the first time, I am dating someone I trust.” I smile. “And it’s glorious. You should try it sometime.”
As I walk out, I realize that it’s the first time I’ve ever dated someone like David. That’s the real reason I said yes when he proposed. It’s not that I wanted to get married. The very thought almost gives me hives. But with David, it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d never have another woman on the side. He’d never be unreasonable and demanding. He’d never betray me in business, either.
He’s the kind of guy who gives money to kids with cancer.
He offers to fly out and punch my ex, who clearly deserves a shiner.
He lives in Manila half the year, because I have family there.
He’d be a wonderful dad.
The thought, as I’m climbing into a car that will take me back to the airport, shocks me. It’s true, but it shouldn’t matter. Those stupid socks are in my bag, the one that’s already in the trunk of my car, headed for the airport. The socks I don’t need. The socks I don’t want.
By the time I reach Utah, it’ll be late. Past midnight. Way too late for me to try to talk to anyone. But I want to, anyway. So I text David and tell him that I need to see him. I tell him the meeting didn’t go well, but that I’ll be back late, and I know his family’s there, and I know it’s bad timing.
I’LL WAIT UP FOR YOU. COME BY MY PLACE?
I knew he’d say that. I knew it. His place is a small house he bought from a retired couple and renovated with leftover stuff from the resort. It’s far, far too nice for the area, and I’m sure he’ll sell it before too long. But there’s space for his parents in his guest room, and he doesn’t have a dog, so showing up shouldn’t wake them.
On the flight, I plan to review my leads for the last few shareholders. I’m only about three percent away from a controlling vote, but that three percent can make or break any attempt to take over. I need to lock the last few votes down, fast.
Instead of working the leads, though, I find myself opening a Word document and making two columns.
Keep. Terminate.
The reasons on the terminate column fill up fast. Health. Time. Sleep. Freedom. Financial success. My happiness. Health and business risks. Baby’s happiness. Baby’s health. Possibility of health issues for child, increased because of my age.
The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes that the cost of my having a baby would be catastrophic. If it just means I do one less deal a year, my board members would be justified in losing their ever-loving minds.
The keep column, on the other hand, has nothing listed beneath it. It’s still blank. I finally type, ‘Make Abby and Mandy happy.’ I reluctantly type ‘Make David happy.’ That is a big one, and I know that. I want to make him happy. I do. I finally write two more words. Otter and then socks.
But looking at those columns, it’s clear.
I was confused by bear socks and rhetoric. The only smart move is to tell David—so my conscience is clear—and either tell him that I have an ectopic pregnancy or that I’m terminating the pregnancy. The white lie about the ectopic would be easier, but I’m not sure whether I can say it out loud.
I’m not sure whether I can survive not saying it.
When I finally drive out to his house, my hands are shaking. I’m still wearing the black dress. I feel less like a black widow and more like a widow in mourning. Will David hate me? Will Abby?
Will I hate myself?
Why do women have to go through all this while men get off scot free? I’ve wondered that a dozen times during my life, nearly every time myself or a friend has had a pregnancy or std scare.
Until now.
I pull out my phone to text him, but David’s already walking toward me. He’s wearing plaid flannel pajama pants and a dark blue shirt, which I can barely make out from the backlight of the porch. He opens my door and pulls me up and into his arms.
His mouth presses against my temple. “I’ve missed you so much.” He sighs. “Are you alright? What happened?”
I’ve never once shown up here late at night like this. Never.
I practiced my speech the entire way over. I know exactly what I should say, and I need to be sitting across from him, in a chair, calm and collected.
But my speech falls apart. The columns blur. My heart is pounding, and I feel sick, and I’m scared, so I just blurt out the words, “I’m pregnant,” like they’re a grenade I’m lobbing.
David freezes for a split second, and then he pulls me even tighter against his chest. “Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry.”
He’s sorry?
“I know that’s been hard for you, but it’s alright. I know how you feel about it.” He shifts me until he can see my face. “I know what it means to you, and I’ll support you however I can.”
He’s assuming I’ll terminate it.
Of course he is.
I’ve been really, really clear. I’ve been vocal. He knows me.
And he loves me anyway.
“I made a list,” I say. “I didn’t just drive over to tell you the second I found out.”
His half smile just makes him even more handsome. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. Actually, I’m a little surprised you’re telling me at all.” His hand slides down my arm and his fingers lace through mine. “I’m proud of you for that. Let’s go inside. We can talk.”
“But you’re not going to fight with me?” I blink. “Argue for the future of our baby?”
He sighs. “Would it make a difference if I did?”
I’m not sure. I don’t tell him about the socks.
“Your sister Abby would already have done that, I’m sure.”
I can’t help my wry smile. He knows me well enough to know that Abby already found out, and that she would have made a case for keeping it. “Abby was pretty good about it, actually.”
“It’s not like you’ve been close-mouthed,” he says. “We all know where you stand.”
It hurts, in that moment. Being pro-choice doesn’t mean I want to kill babies. It means I value choices. It means I think women should be able to choose.
“But that’s not what I’m doing,” I say. “I bought something.” I reach through the open door of my car and rummage around, shoving things down and back until my fingers brush against the soft, fleecy fabric. I pull the socks out and hold them up, triumphant. “I made a list, and there was nothing on the ‘keep’ side.” I clear my throat. “Except making you happy, and making Abby happy.” There’s no way he would understand otter and sock as logical reasons in that column. But I realize what he will understand.
“And making me happy.” I hold out the socks. “I thought maybe we should have the baby. If you want that, too, I mean.”
I worry he might whoop loudly enough to wake his parents or the neighbors. I worry he might stop breathing.
But I didn’t expect him to start sobbing. My big, strong, tough man starts to cry then, his hands reaching slowly toward the socks, as tears roll down his face. “Do you mean that?”
I didn’t. Not until this very moment.
But the way he was willing to support me without recriminations, without manipulation, without making me feel less. . . It was just what I needed to know. If he can act like that when I know he wants kids, if he can do what I need instead of what he wants, and if he can do it without making me feel bad, then maybe he and I can do this, together.
The world needs more families with fathers like him.
“I’m worried,” I whisper. “I don’t think I’ll be a very good mother.”
“Only the best mothers worry about that,” he says. “Trust me.”
“That’s almost exactly what Mandy said.” I’m crying now, too. I hate it. And I love it.
He slowly brushes my tears away with his thumbs. “How many people did you tell before me, exactly?” But he’s smiling. He’s smiling, and he’s crying, and he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Just so I know what to expect.”
“The stupid Salt Lake Tribune said they can’t run the full-page article on it until tomorrow,” I say. “So there are lots of people around who don’t know yet.” I’m smiling too.
“It was the socks, wasn’t it?” David takes them from me. “You saw these adorable little socks, and you decided you had to have the baby.”
How does he know me so well?
“I’ll have some research to do,” he says.
“About what?”
“I want us to buy Ralph Lauren,” he says. “As a thank you, I mean.” He sighs. “Or maybe we can just name the baby Ralph.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
He shrugs. “People give girls guy’s names all the time. I had this roommate in college named Whitney—cool guy—and he always insisted it used to be a boy’s name, you know, before Whitney Houston ruined it.”
Now I’m laughing. “You have no naming rights. None at all.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, tugging on my wrist to try and pull me toward the house. “You know I’ll be doing almost all the diapers. I should at least be able to name the little pooper.”
“It’s not a pooper,” I say. “It’s a he or a she.”
“We should talk about that, too,” he says. “I don’t think we should force it into a gender box. We should let it choose its own gender when it’s old enough.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
He can’t help his grin. “I’m kidding.”
Thank goodness. “I need to paint the nursery.”
“Oh, no.” He groans. “You realize. . .”
“What?”
He takes my hand carefully and strokes the back of it, his fingers coming to rest on the top of my shackle ring. “My parents are going to lose their minds if we aren’t married before this baby comes.”
“Married?” I lift my eyebrows.
He shrugs. “They’re old school.”
I lean closer. “Well, as it happens, about that, so am I.”
He laughs. “Not even close.”
“And I was thinking. . . If we do it soon, I could wear this dress.”
He steps back. “That black dress?” He raises both eyebrows.
“What?” I spin around. “I like it. Not that many blondes can wear black, and it’s flattering. I can still squeeze into it, and I was wearing this dress when I decided to keep our baby.”
“I’m sold,” he says, “but prepare yourself for all the comments about whether it’s a wedding or a funeral.”
“My wedding,” I say. “Your funeral.” I’m smiling even broader, now. “I like it.”
He sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the doorway into his house. “You would. You’re a disturbing woman, Mrs. David Park.”
“So,” a woman’s voice says from down the hall. “Does this mean you will be getting married after all?” David’s mother is glowering as she steps into view. Not a night person. I make a mental note.
“We don’t have much choice now,” I say with a grin. “Your son knocked me up.”
The look on her face is priceless. It almost makes everything else worth it.