Chapter 22
My secret is like a whisper in my ear.
I’m pregnant. I’m thirty-five and accidentally pregnant.
After the meeting with Grant Wilpers, managing partner at my firm, it becomes a roar.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Klara, but it’s not your year,” he says.
I stare hard at his receding hairline. My emotions feel uncontrollable, and I have a sudden urge to cry into my palms. Instead, I take a breath, swallow. “Can I ask why?”
“The evaluation committee decided that you didn’t have enough trial wins. You were a strong candidate for partner, but not quite strong enough. With a few more trials under your belt, you’ll probably get there.”
“But I settle my cases,” I say, unsure if I sound confident and strong or like a whining toddler.
“I avoid a lot of trials because my clients take settlement offers. I negotiate those offers. I negotiate favorable settlements for my clients, which saves the firm time and money. I wouldn’t think I’d be punished for that. ”
“Well,” says Grant, “that may be. But sometimes trial is the right move. Certain members of the committee felt that you…you might accept a settlement offer that other lawyers wouldn’t, to avoid trial.”
There’s fire on my face. “Whether to accept a settlement offer is the absolute right of the client,” I say, although Grant obviously knows this. “I can’t accept a settlement offer if my client doesn’t want to.”
“No, but you manage their expectations. You sway them. We all do. It’s part of our job.”
“And I think I do it well.”
“Look,” says Grant with a gentle finality that makes me want to slap his smug male face, “it was a tough decision. You were close. Think about the feedback. Take some time to digest it, and if you’d like to discuss it further, we can set up a time to chat. How does that sound?”
It sounds like you’re ending this argument because you can’t win it. It sounds like you’re full of shit.
“Sure,” I tell him. I stand and leave the glass conference room with its glass walls.
It’s only three in the afternoon, but I stop in my office just to turn off my computer and grab my purse. I leave without telling anyone where I’m going or why.
I need to talk to someone, but Zoe is at work.
I can no longer turn to Adam. My mother would only make me feel worse.
I’ve never been able to go to her in the face of professional upset, in the face of any upset.
My mother would barely be able to hide her glee.
You’re not so much better than us after all, are you, Klara?
But as I flee to the parking garage, I realize that I want you. Only you.
By the time I get to my car, I’m crying. I never call you during work hours. You answer on the first ring.
“Klara,” you say. “What is it?”
Thirty minutes later, you use your key to enter my condo. I’m on my bed, still wearing my blouse and pencil skirt, but I’ve unzipped the back. My stomach feels bloated, and wisps of nausea swirl. I need it to go away, to rid my body of the cells that are making me feel so weak.
“What happened?” you ask. You climb onto the bed beside me and kiss my hair. You lie down, face inches from mine, and use your palms to blot the wetness from my cheeks.
“I didn’t make partner,” I tell you. Saying the words out loud adds certitude to them, like they’re now carved into stone.
“Oh, Klara,” you say, tracing a finger along my temple. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I say. Then: “Sorry.” I turn my face, bury it in my pillow. “I’m a mess.”
“Never,” you whisper. “You’re perfect. And you deserved to make partner.”
You don’t know this, but it’s the right thing to say. It makes my heart swell, my shoulders shake.
“What is it?” you ask gently.
“I feel so emotional,” I admit. “Like I can’t control my emotions.” And I am usually, always, so controlled, so poised. It’s terrifying to be anything else.
“That makes sense,” you tell me, explaining my own feelings away, but this doesn’t bother me the way it normally would.
“No,” I tell you, even though it does make sense. Because you don’t get it. You don’t know. “You don’t understand,” I insist.
I feel your finger on my chin, nudging gently, trying to turn my face. “What is it, then?” you ask. “Help me understand.” Your voice is slightly breathless, full of wonder, like you already know.
I vowed to take care of it. I vowed not to tell you at all. But I’m crushed. I’m a mess. I’m not in control.
“I’m pregnant.”
You are quiet and still for one beat, then two. Then you pull me into your arms. “Klara,” you whisper, and you’re holding me so close that I can’t breathe. Your cheek finds my neck, and it’s damp. You’re crying.
“What?” I ask, pulling away from you, feeling your arms release with a reluctance that makes my chest feel tight.
“I’m so happy,” you tell me. “I’m just so happy.”
Your lashes are long and thick, and I picture them on a baby, on a plump-faced toddler with cheeks as soft as the back of a dog’s ear.
So I press my lips together, and I don’t tell you about my appointment the following week. My thoughts race, but I try to hold them steady. I let your joy and surprise wash over us both, and I wish that I held it inside me, too.
Your body shifts, hand diving into the pocket of your dress pants, then back out again. In your fingers is a black velvet box. Exactly the shape and size most women my age would be thrilled to see.
“I’ve had this for months,” you say, and your eyes don’t leave mine. “Sometimes in my apartment. In my car. In my desk drawer. Today, I put it in my pocket. Isn’t that strange? I know it’s early, but I know, Klara. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”
You use a thumb to flip the box open. My blackout curtains are still drawn, so there’s no light to catch the diamond.
I should feel joy. I should feel relief. I’m thirty-five and pregnant. I’m not a partner. A decade out of law school, married to my career, childless, and still not a partner.
In your hands, you hold a different path.
One I’d not wanted to take, but how easy might it be?
How comfortable? Just a slight turn of the wheel, and I can veer that way.
The path has already been paved. In fact, the decision has been made for me, in some ways.
And you love me in a way that no one ever has.
So while something inside me screams No, that isn’t what I say.