Little Girls(52)

“A handful? Susan? The kid’s an angel. Seriously, Laurie, what harm can it do? You and I can go out and eat a nice meal, maybe catch a movie. We haven’t had any time for ourselves lately. And frankly, I think it would do you good to get out of this house for a while.”

“That’s irresponsible.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ted, we don’t even know those people. And you just want to leave our daughter with them for an evening so we can go to dinner and a movie?”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ. They’re not serial killers. You met the mother—”

“The aunt,” Laurie corrected.

“—and Susan likes hanging out with the girl, so what’s the big deal? I swear, you make things bigger than they need to be.”

“Is that what I do?”

“What you do is have situations dictate your life instead of having your life dictate your situations.”

“Is that one of your arty amendments?”

He frowned. His nostrils flared. More calmly than she would have suspected, he said, “Why is it you always have to take a jab at my career? Is it because I don’t make enough money to suit you? That you think I’m wasting my time with all this?”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I’m proud of what I do, Laurie. Lately, you’ve been trying to downplay all of my accomplishments. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“This has nothing to do with your accomplishments.”

“Then what does it have to do with? Tell me, because I’m dying to know.”

Susan appeared in the doorway. They both fell silent.

“What’s for dinner?” the girl asked.

“Would you like to go over to your friend Abigail’s for some tacos tonight?” Ted asked her before Laurie could say anything.

Susan’s face lit up. “Can I? That would be great!”

“Go on up and put your shoes on,” Ted said. “I’ll walk you over.”

Susan turned and bolted down the hallway, then thundered up the stairs.

“Well, that was just wonderful,” Laurie said. “Thanks so much.”

“We’ll have a nice time.” His smile glowed. “You’ll thank me for it.”





Fifteen minutes later, as Ted walked Susan next door to the Rosewoods’, Laurie watched them from one of the dining room windows. The two of them paused for a few moments at the foot of the driveway and Ted dropped to one knee before the girl like someone proposing marriage. He talked for a while and then Susan nodded and said some things, too. At one point Susan pointed toward the house and both she and Ted glanced up. Laurie’s heart leapt; she thought they had spotted her spying on them. But then Ted stood and squeezed Susan’s shoulder. Susan snaked a thin arm around Ted’s waist as they continued into the street. Laurie wrung her hands the moment they disappeared from view on the other side of the fence.

She had been twenty-eight when she learned she was pregnant with Susan. The knowledge struck cold fear into her heart—fear at the prospect of being a parent. Previously, both she and Ted had confessed a passing disinterest in being parents, and her pregnancy was what some people termed “an accident.” But accidents made her think of fender-benders and broken drinking glasses in the kitchen trash. Laurie thought it was more tragic than accidental. When she informed Ted of her condition, she had expected reciprocal despair. Yet his elation astounded her. Ted had scooped her into his arms and twirled her around the kitchenette of their small apartment in Newington.

She had progressed through her pregnancy like someone preparing for an exam. She attended the requisite visits to the OB/GYN, was responsible about her diet, and ingested the prescribed bouquet of prenatal vitamins. She attended classes for new mothers-to-be, and she checked out countless books from the library on what to expect from a first pregnancy. And while all these totems were certainly informative, she realized that none of them promised her any success at her impending new career as a parent. She became convinced that no matter how many books she read and how many classes she attended, she was destined for failure. This certainty terrified her. Her own mother had still been alive back then, and she found herself speaking to the woman several times a week during her third trimester, as if to siphon some motherly wisdom from the woman over the telephone. But those phone conversations, while pleasant, did little to assuage her fear. Toward the end of her third trimester, she began frequenting the neighborhood playgrounds and parks, where she would sit on a bench and feign interest in some paperback novel. In actuality, she was there to observe. Mothers chased children around the playground, pushed them on swings, wiped snot from their noses and brushed dirt off their Oshkosh overalls. These mothers were curious creatures. Their hair looked uniformly choppy and serviceable at best. They wore horrendous jeans with high elastic waistbands and drab blouses that looked like they hadn’t seen an iron since the previous presidency. It was when Laurie began to feel like Dian Fossey among the apes that she finally abandoned this morbid little enterprise.

Ted had turned the extra bedroom of their miniscule apartment into a nursery. He did this of his own accord, without any prompting from Laurie, and she found his behavior endearing. She tried to absorb some of his confidence, but it was a futile exercise.