Such a Fun Age(8)
“I thought . . .” He shook his head. “I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen while you’re breast-feeding.”
Alix pursed her lips with a face that said, So did I. “It’s rare, but it’s not impossible.”
“Alix . . . We can’t do this.” Peter referred to the kitchen table turned receptacle for a current LetHer Speak project including Polaroid pictures and bulky brown craft paper. Sippy cups were drying on paper towels lined against the windowsill, and casserole dishes held extra recycling. That morning, Peter had come downstairs to an intern who hung her head upside down to put her hair into a ponytail. He then made his coffee as she and another intern put on white event polos with LetHer Speak embroidered on the pockets. “We don’t have enough pots to put a second child in,” he said. And two days later, after a letter arrived from the corporation that would be purchasing their apartment complex, Peter announced, “I’m calling a broker in Philadelphia.”
What was she supposed to do, say no? There was a gap in New York housing so large that it would have been insane to suggest buying their place or renting a bigger one. Yes, she now made more money than she ever had, but no, it wasn’t enough to comfortably house two children in their current West Side neighborhood. And sure, she could look into Queens or New Jersey, but then she might as well just move to Philadelphia. Alix did work from home. Philadelphia wasn’t that far away. And more than anything, this was the person Alix had framed herself to be when she met Peter in that bar. “I think I’ve got like three years left in me for this city,” she’d told him. “Every time I sit in someone else’s butt sweat on the train, it goes down by about two weeks.” This was one of the things Peter had liked most about Alix: that she didn’t need to be at every event, that she liked getting out of the city, that she was an excellent driver, and that she wanted her children to trick-or-treat at houses, rather than apartment lobbies and Duane Reade.
So she had to move. Alix and her family would be moving out of New York City. But the timing couldn’t have been worse. Alix had been busy writing a very important letter of her own to the campaign team of Secretary Hillary Clinton, who had just announced her run for the presidency. This was a cause that mattered to her, Hillary’s feminist platform completely matched her brand, and a link to Hillary could keep Alix relevant even when she wasn’t living in the most relevant city in the country. Luckily, Alix’s dear friend Tamra knew a woman who knew one of Secretary Clinton’s campaign advisors. After four drafts and constant switches from Always, Alix to All My Best, Alix, she pressed Send on a volunteer proposal that she hoped would become a paying gig. Weeks went by and she heard nothing back from the campaign advisor or the agents she’d queried.
Abruptly, everything was packed, but Alix hadn’t allowed the tempo of her calendar to decline. She loved all of it: sitting on panels and listening to brilliant women in oversized shift dresses and dramatic lipstick, teens emailing her success stories of entry-level job offers they had accepted. But there was still no word from the Clinton campaign, or the six agents who received her book proposal. In the middle of fund-raisers and brunches, as she shook hands with earnest high schoolers, Alix thought, Is this it? Is this as far as I’ll ever go?
But on the morning of her last talk in New York City—she was speaking on a panel at an event called Small Business Femme—Alix decided, in a quick and incomplete thought, to not use her breast pump. She called one of her interns in, the one with the most babysitting experience, and said, “How would you feel about having Briar on your lap during the panel?”
On a stage in a SoHo theater space, Alix positioned herself between two male panel members, a podcast host and a reality TV show father who had quintuplet girls. Seated across from a crowd of three hundred, the panel discussed reproductive care and empowering books for girls as Alix’s breasts—particularly the left one—ached with expansion. Finally, after the audience laughed at a joke made by the host, Briar stirred and opened her eyes.
Briar hummed and asked why Mama was up there and if the intern had any Cheerios and if she could get down. Alix held a finger to her lips toward her daughter in the front row. Her intern motioned to the door and mouthed, You want me to take her out? Alix shook her head. She waited until she was asked another question.
“I think that women are often just asking for a seat at the table,” Alix said. The microphone attached at her collar bounced her voice to the back of the house. “But what’s heard is ‘I want special treatment,’ when that’s not the case. And the fact that . . . Actually?” Alix’s heart raced as she pushed forward. “I’m sorry to interrupt myself and the conversation.” Was she really doing this? Yes, she told herself. Yes she was. “I have a lot more to say on this topic, but my daughter is the very fussy person in the front row because she took a very long nap, and if it’s alright with everyone, I’d like to . . . well, I’m not really asking.” She stood and talked with her hands as she made her way to the front of the stage. “I’m going feed my daughter as I participate because I can definitely do both.”
Whoops and cheers went up from the crowd. Alix bent her knees sideways as she reached for Briar, who was immediately met with awwws as she gripped her mother’s neck. “Will you throw me that shirt?” Alix motioned to her intern for the pastel pink T-shirt that had been given to her in a goodie bag. She threw it over her shoulder and walked backstage.