From the WSJ Opinion Archives
AMANDA.BRIGHT@HOME
Chapter 16
Bob takes on Big Diaper, and Amanda has an epiphany on the operating table.
Click here to read Chapter 15 and here to start at the beginning.
"Diaper duty."
This was how Bob characterized his new assignment at the Department of Justice. His boss, Frank Sussman, phrased it somewhat differently: Bob was being transferred to an investigation into anticompetitive action by the Cuddly Wuddly Diaper Company.
"It's big, Bob, it's big," Sussman assured Bob. "False claims about absorbency. Attempts to force supermarket chains in poor neighborhoods to carry only the Cuddly Wuddly brand--you can imagine the financial repercussions for struggling single mothers. And there's even an environmental side. Cuddly Wuddly commercials claim the diapers are manufactured from 100% recycled paper products, unlike their competitors. Total crap, if you'll excuse the pun. Obviously some of this investigation overlaps with the FTC--you'll be working with their people, too. Really, I think this is a tremendous opportunity for you.
"Of course, it wasn't an easy assignment for me to get for you, not that I wasn't delighted to push for it. I gave you the highest recommendation."
It was an early September evening, and Amanda and Bob sat on a bench outside an ice cream parlor on Connecticut Avenue, eating cones with the children.
"Are you sure it's that bad?" Amanda asked. "From Frank's description, it sounds important. We use Cuddlies, although I won't anymore."
"Maybe it's important, but it's not the same. It's a comedown, there's no getting around it. And I have all this knowledge about the high-tech industry. It's valuable. It seems a shame to waste it."
"Who would want it?"
"A lot of people. Hochmayer for sure. Maybe Chasen. There are others, too."
"You'd leave government then." Amanda said this with less shock and passion than she once would have.
Bob bit into the side of his cone.
"I'd certainly consider it. Hell, there's nothing really to keep me at Justice--"
"Except principle." Amanda uttered these words too without enthusiasm, as if she were a bored professor walking Bob through an exercise in logic.
"Yeah, right." He took another bite. "We saw where that got me."
"You don't think Frank was motivated by principle? There was--there is--merit to the Megabyte case."
"Sure there is. We wouldn't have acted on nothing. And I'm sure the DOJ will come up with something. But, loath as I am to admit it, I think there's some truth to Frith's complaint that the investigation was politically motivated. I mean, I've been pushing this case for two years. Why did they suddenly pick it up now? You start thinking it through--Hochmayer and Chasen's donations to the party, their friendship with the president, Senator Ratchett's campaign debt . . . A lot of Frith's competitors live in Ratchett's state. And Frith has managed to make himself unpopular with practically everyone in Washington.
"I don't know. Maybe, like the cynics say, it is just about payoff. And if it's just about payoff, why am I not at least being paid off in the private sector where I could make some real money?"
"Because you are principled," Amanda said firmly.
"Yeah--but maybe I need some new principles."
For Amanda, though, the change of season was dramatic. In the space of three months, her entire personal landscape had been bulldozed and replanted. Gone were the familiar hedges and old trees and mossy stepping stones. In their place was a field of fresh, overturned soil in which thin, tethered saplings and sparse shoots of grass struggled against opportunistic weeds. This new landscape might be an improvement over the last--but until it grew in, it would be impossible for Amanda to tell; her whole life seemed as yet an unrealized vision, as mysterious and unknowable as the baby growing within her.
Amanda was keenly aware that Bob, too, was trying to adjust to a radical change in his surroundings. Bob had been obscure, then notorious--and was now forgotten. Perhaps Mike Frith's denunciation of him in his Senate testimony might qualify him for a footnote in some future scholarly text. Perhaps not. But among the people to whom the case mattered in the here and now, "Bob Clarke" was already a figure of little more significance than the fly that briefly disrupted the composure of the Judiciary Committee chairman. In the Antitrust Division's offices at the Justice building, manila files were passed along, nameplates on offices were changed, and a new Bob took over the old Bob's desk and chair. Even to Bob and Amanda, the scandal lost its sting of humiliation more quickly than they expected, and they were left with the empty carapace of the memory.
Bob left for work in the mornings as he always did, but he discharged his duties in a plodding and perfunctory spirit, like an understudy who knows his odds of playing the big part are tiny but who must rehearse the lines anyway. He lingered over the newspaper, took a second and sometimes third cup of coffee, and often volunteered to drop Ben at public school--which didn't start until 9 a.m.--on his way down to the office.
When he returned in the evenings, he would brush aside Amanda's questions about what he had done that day and would instead insist upon hearing about her ordeal with the plumber, the confusion at carpool, the rudeness of a cashier, or the funny thing Ben or Emily had said to the teacher. It was as if he were seeking comfort in those aspects of their life that had survived unchanged, and this affected interest in the small details of domesticity was in some ways more alarming to Amanda than the arrogant indifference he had shown at the height of the Megabyte case.
Occasionally Amanda ventured to ask him whether there were any "new leads" on the job front, but Bob evaded these questions as well. Only once did he let it slip that Hochmayer and Chasen no longer returned his calls.
Gradually the trees tinted gold and the wind carried the first whiffs of autumn--smokiness, chill, dying things. Amanda's waistline thickened around the nutshell of her growing baby. She had not heard from her friend Susie since their last meeting at the coffee shop. From a small item at the bottom of a television column, Amanda learned that Susie's show had been cancelled. A few days later, "The Ear" reported that "luscious pundette Susie Morris is moving to Los Angeles to pursue other options." The item lewdly implied that those options were not all related to her career. Some weeks afterwards, Amanda glimpsed Susie at a bank machine. Amanda was in her car, waiting for a light. As Susie turned around, the autumn sun glinted off her hair and face, and she glowed with radiance, preternaturally pretty, like a lithe figure in a sunlit Old Master's canvas, if an Old Master had ever painted "Woman Making a Withdrawal on a Street Corner." Amanda recalled what she once read about birds, that they sing their most beautiful song just before they die.
She saw little more of her mother's-group friends. She attended only one of their gatherings that fall, at Patricia's house in Chevy Chase.
Patricia's sour, mistrustful-looking housekeeper led her downstairs to the playroom. The formal rooms on the main floor of the house were evidently reserved for grander company; with their dusted tables and perfectly arranged cushions, Amanda wondered if Patricia shouldn't take the extra precaution of erecting velvet ropes to guard their entrances.
The playroom was pleasant enough. Sliding glass doors opened onto a garden and a pool covered by a green sheet. The children romped outside in the leaves, and Ben and Emily dashed to join them.
"Just watch that Ben doesn't climb on the 'Winged Victory.' " Patricia offered Amanda her taut cheek to brush with her lips but her eyes nervously followed Ben's progress into the yard.
"I warned him," Amanda replied.
Patricia's stone statue, which she described as "an authentic Beaux-Arts study" of the famous piece in the Louvre, had been shipped from a Paris flea market the previous spring. Patricia believed that its deteriorated condition lent a "tragic, ruined" quality to the otherwise flat suburban lot, and her pride in it had inspired her to collect other pieces, including a scaled-down cast of Rodin's "Thinker" and a doleful concrete bunny ("Meredith picked that one--she has a good eye").
The other mothers greeted Amanda more warmly. Christine lounged on a sofa with her legs extended to show off new suede boots. "How's Bob doing?" she asked.
"Fine, thanks." Amanda refused a glass of wine from Patricia.
"We want to hear all about it," Kim said excitedly. "I can't believe I was away when you made 'The Ear.' "
"There's really not much to tell. It's over now."
"But you had Jim Hochmayer to dinner!"
"He was seeing a friend of mine. That's over too. Patricia, would you mind if I got myself some water?"
"Go ahead. There are glasses above that sink over there."
"You have to tell us everything, Amanda," Ellen reiterated.
"I had Bob and Amanda over during the Senate hearings," Christine said casually, stroking one of her boots.
Amanda spent longer than she might have letting the tap water run cold. It was the first time she had ever possessed a story that piqued the mothers' interest, but she could not bring herself to share it. She knew this was a violation of mothers'-group rules--the foremost being that you must share all personal information, no matter how trivial, and that of your husband and neighbors as well. It was not only that Amanda was reluctant to revisit the story, although she was, or to reveal Bob's changed position at the Justice Department--a fact that had mercifully gone unreported. It was, rather, that she found that she had developed an aversion to exposing any aspect of her life to these women.
Why this should have overcome her now Amanda couldn't say; she only knew that since the beginning of the school year, she had avoided their company. She had not at first consciously intended to do so. But when Kim left a message on Amanda's voicemail inviting her to a postsummer gathering, Amanda was too busy settling Ben into his new school. Something else got in the way of the second meeting--and then the third.
Amanda returned with her water.
"How was Portugal?" she asked Patricia brightly.
"I can barely remember now, so much has been going on. Too hot, I think."
"Amanda," said Ellen, as if coaxing a reluctant child, "Don't be modest. We won't accuse you of name-dropping. Just tell us about Jim Hochmayer."
"He's an--interesting man."
"Don't push her," interjected Christine. "A good hostess doesn't gossip about the important people who come to her house." She gave Amanda a chummy, protective smile; Amanda of course had already told her everything. "Let's move on. What I'd like to know, Amanda, is what's the inside dope on the Megabyte case. There hasn't been much in the news lately. And since I own stock . . ."
"So do I," said Patricia glumly.
"That's because there hasn't been much going on," Amanda replied, keeping her voice neutral. "The DOJ is still investigating, of course. I think they're still trying to get more companies to come forward against Megabyte. But as you know, Bob's no longer on the case--"
"I didn't know."
"I didn't either."
Amanda cleared her throat. "Frank Sussman promoted him to a very important antitrust case in another division. I think he was so pleased by Bob's work on Megabyte . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Ellen and Kim nodded credulously, but Christine was buying none of it; Amanda saw in a flash that she had lost her protector.
Patricia examined her nails. "I suppose that's the nature of government. The pay is low and they're always shuffling you around."
None of the women inquired further about Bob's "promotion." Amanda, still uncomfortably aware of their disappointment with her refusal to discuss Hochmayer, thought she might compensate by sharing her less controversial news.
"There is something, however, I haven't told anyone yet--other than Bob, I mean," she ventured. "I'm pregnant."
This was not the juicy gossip the women expected but it nonetheless took them by surprise.
"Oh, how wonderful. That's lovely," murmured Kim.
"How far along are you?" Ellen asked.
"Nearly three months."
"I don't think I could endure pregnancy again," Patricia remarked. "Not that Meredith wasn't worth it. But it took me six months to get my figure back."
"Congratulations," said Christine. "But why?"
The question flummoxed Amanda. "I--I don't know what you mean."
"I mean it seems to me that you have the perfect setup, a boy and a girl. I could see it if you had two boys or two girls . . ."
"To be honest, we didn't exactly plan it."
Patricia snorted. "At our age it's hard to get pregnant by accident."
"It just happened." Amanda had not expected to be defensive about it--not in this crowd--but Christine's reaction was the most unsettling. How often had she spoken about her satisfaction in giving up work for motherhood?
"I don't know. Perhaps I'm just getting old. The thought of going back to diapers and feedings when your life is so neatly arranged . . ."
They were interrupted by a scream from outside. The women all started in their seats, but before any of them could rise, Ben ran in with the left side of his head awash in blood.
"Good God!" Amanda raced to him and began using her shirt to mop the blood from his hair. "Patricia--please, do you have a damp cloth?"
"I'm getting one. Watch the carpet."
The other mothers swarmed around.
"Is he OK?"
"It looks like a bad scrape."
"They bleed like anything from the head."
"It's not deep. I don't think he needs stitches. The blood's stopping."
Patricia arrived with the cloth.
"Ben, sweetie, what happened?"
"I f-f-fell." In one hand he clutched a large chunk of stone.
"What's this, honey?" Amanda unfurled his grip.
There, plainly, was the carved feathered tip of a wing from the "Winged Victory."
Amanda was not hurt by these exchanges. In retrospect, it seemed odd that they should ever have befriended her, or she them. Later, Amanda would come to see that the friendships formed in the early years of motherhood often resemble those formed in battle: an intense camaraderie based on the besieged circumstances of the moment. When the shelling ceases, the smoke lifts from the field, and the troops return home to resume the normal lives they feared they would never experience again, there is little left to say to former comrades-in-arms except, "Hell of a time, wasn't it?" For now, Amanda felt only relief at not having to keep up with the other mothers as her belly swelled and she became ever more preoccupied with her preparations for the upheaval of the coming spring.
Her children, after an initial show of curiosity when they were told the news and an ensuing argument over whether their new sibling would be a brother or sister, almost immediately lost interest in Amanda's condition--except to wonder occasionally where the baby would sleep or whether it would covet one of their toys.
Each month Amanda checked in with the midwife. Each month the midwife listened for the baby's heartbeat--a fast, swishing sound like windshield wipers going full-speed. Each month, the midwife announced that the baby was doing well. Its movements increased in strength: first, a tiny flutter, then gentle motions like the finning of a fish resting behind reeds.
She passed her spare hours in the library of Ben's school, sorting books and reading stories to the younger classes. The satisfaction of helping in the library was as ephemeral as that of dusting; the smiles and wonderment and gaping stares of the little faces gathered before her on the carpet lasted no longer than a clean countertop. But the clean countertop did not run over to her and embrace her or trill excitedly to other countertops that "Amanda is here today!"
Amanda barely thought about returning to work anymore. She did not wish to look beyond the day-to-day or week-to-week; she could not. For now, the hours she logged among the library's squat chairs and overburdened carts gradually filled the space inside her that had once held larger ambitions, and she took pleasure in having finally found an interest that did not conflict with her family. There would be time later, she assured herself, for dreams that extended further--and yet those dreams did take shape in her mind. She could see herself teaching, a vocation she had never before considered. She kept this vision to herself, but it existed as a beacon on a distant horizon, flashing through the fog, steadying her perspective and guiding her through the surrounding, crashing waves.
Perhaps it was the calming rush of the hormones coursing through her body, but even Amanda's worries about Bob's job were locked away in a mental safe to be opened at some unspecified future date. Bob said nothing further about leaving government, and she ceased to ask. Their lives seemed as suspended as the one that floated in her amniotic fluid.
Sometimes, when Amanda awoke in the middle of the night, she tormented herself with doubts. The darkness, rather than cloaking her worries, exposed all the cracks and fault lines in her daytime logic. It marched out exhibits of her life thus far: Thirty-three--nearly 34--and what did she have to show for it? What sort of return would there be at the end of all these years of investment in her children? Maybe she would be too old to try something new--who would hire her?
Her own mind framed the accusations her mother did not utter. The morning after their last encounter, Ellie Bright had risen early, said an unrepentant goodbye, and returned home to New York. When Amanda telephoned some weeks later with news of the pregnancy, Ellie was silent. She didn't need to say anything; Amanda could hear every word without the elder woman having to articulate it: So this is what you choose to do with your life? This is why your father and I scraped to send you to Brown? This is your way of amusing yourself--by defying everything I taught you?
But when daylight came, Amanda's thoughts would reorder themselves and appear in their places as solidly as her dresser and bed. If any demon from the night persisted, she would call her friend Liz, who became her unofficial exorcist. When Amanda repeated Christine's concerns--"you have the perfect setup, a boy and a girl"--Liz scoffed that this attitude reflected "pure consumerism--children as items of consumption to adorn a successful lifestyle." To Amanda's distress over her fattening figure, Liz declared, "Carry yourself proudly--like a galleon under full sail!" One day Amanda wearily wondered: "Did previous generations of women have to think all the time about whether they were doing the right thing or not?" And Liz responded with a teacher's enthusiasm when a slow learner finally masters a lesson. "My point exactly! You know in your heart what you're doing is right. So stop thinking about it."
"I try, Liz. I just wish sometimes that I felt more comfortable in my own life."
The massage remedy lasted about 30 seconds. Bob helpfully squeezed and poked at her shoulder blades but he was no Shiatsu artist. His clumsiness reminded Amanda of her first labor. Bob's ministrations to her then--the warm cloth on the forehead, the tennis ball in the lower back, the encouragement in her breathing, everything the books and Sarah Blumstein had taught him to do--only annoyed and aggravated her pain. Amanda longed to crawl away to a dark corner and be left alone, like a cat, and she was not sorry when Bob became faint during the birth's final stages and had to be led from the delivery room by an orderly.
More usefully, Bob arranged for them to spend Christmas at his parents' house in Syracuse, sparing Amanda the ordeal of decorating a tree and cooking Christmas dinner. They drove through Pennsylvania in a blinding snowstorm and stayed the night with Liz and her family in Binghamton. It was hardly a visit: Amanda's headaches were growing more persistent and almost immediately after arriving and getting the children to bed, she had to lie down herself, excusing herself from the elaborate meal Liz's husband Steve had cooked.
"Are you cold?" Liz asked, entering the darkened, enclosed porch that served as a makeshift guest room. "I brought you some of Steve's soup."
"I'm OK. I'm piled with blankets."
"Do you think you ought to call the midwife?"
"She's away for the holiday. There will be no one there but some on-call doctor I don't know. Did you get headaches when you were pregnant?"
"Sometimes. Not as bad. Drink some soup."
Liz sat next to her in the dark and gently stroked Amanda's head like a baby's; her cool, maternal hand was effective, and within a few minutes Amanda was asleep.
They had to leave early the next day, and when they set out, Amanda felt much better.
"I'm sorry I wasn't a better guest," Amanda apologized, embracing her friend outside the car.
"Don't worry. Next time. Get in the car. It's freezing."
The headaches subsided somewhat, and Amanda was able to pull herself through the next few days. Bob's mother, a retired nurse, commented once or twice that she didn't like the look of "Amanda's puffy eyes." Amanda balked at the fuss and reiterated Sarah Blumstein's objections to treating pregnancy like an illness.
"I'm not saying it's an illness, dear," replied her mother-in-law delicately as she stirred gravy for the turkey, "I'm saying you look ill. You should be flushed and energetic at this stage. If I were you--not that I wish to interfere--I'd call a doctor as soon as I got home."
Amanda could not be certain that her wanness and lack of spirit were not a result of a three-day stay with her in-laws. Their little house looked cozy from the outside--a modest suburban box whose yellow light spilled through plastic mullions onto the big snow-laden spruce on the front lawn. But inside, the thin drywall and warped hollow doors offered little defense against the rambunctious noise of two bored children and the raised voice of her mother-in-law as she strained to make herself heard through her husband's deafness. Bob sheltered Amanda as best he could, but the headaches returned, and Amanda was relieved when everyone was finally loaded back into the car and they were waving goodbye to Bob's parents through frosted windows and puffs of exhaust.
"I don't remember feeling this bad last time," Amanda complained.
"What's that?" Blumstein was distracted. One of her other patients had gone into labor, and 10 minutes of Amanda's appointment had been spent "talking the client through" some contractions. "Well, you're older than you were--even a few years makes a difference. But why don't we see you again next week--let's not wait a month. Get plenty of rest until then."
Blumstein bustled off with her "catching kit" (she didn't "deliver" babies but "caught" them), and left Amanda alone to change back into her clothes and see herself out.
Two nights later Amanda awoke with more pain, this time in her right side. It felt suspiciously like indigestion--she and Bob had gone out for Indian food with friends. Bob stirred.
"Are you OK?" he whispered sleepily.
"I think it's the curry."
"Can I get you something?"
"No--I'll just lie here for a little bit. I'll be OK."
He rolled towards her and fell asleep, his big hand resting on her belly.
"I've taken down the information and I'll give it to Sarah," the young man said. "She should be back later."
Amanda peered over the top of his clipboard to read her chart.
"I've gained seven pounds in one week?"
"Seems so," the young man said.
"Isn't that unusual?"
"Depends. It could be water. You look a little bloated."
"I thought so myself."
"Well, we'll have the tests back to see if anything else is up. Baby moving around OK?"
"Not a lot. It seems to have been sleeping a good deal lately."
"Uh-huh." He made a notation on the chart. "Well, I'll pass this all along to Sarah."
Blumstein phoned Amanda that evening.
"You're blood pressure's up a little, hon. Still some protein in the urine."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you keep resting. We'll watch this--I'd like you to come again next week."
"Is it serious?"
"No, it's probably nothing. You're otherwise feeling OK?"
"I had some indigestion the other night. Indian food."
Blumstein laughed. "Stay away from the vindaloo, and I'll see you in my office."
The telephone rang. By the time she made it across the room to answer it she was out of breath.
"Are you OK?" It was Bob.
"Just fat and slow."
"You sound terrible."
"Thanks."
"Can you talk?"
"Sure. I don't have to fetch the kids for an hour."
He lowered his voice furtively. "I've finally got some good news. I didn't want to say anything to you--I didn't want you to be worried or to get your hopes up or anything, but . . ."
Amanda heard a knock in the background.
"Wait. Someone's at the door." He placed his hand over the receiver and a muffled exchange took place.
"I'm sorry but now I have to call you back. Will you be there?"
"Bob!"
"I can't help it--what time can I call you back? I have a meeting in 15 minutes so it will have to be after that."
"I'll probably be picking up the children--and afterwards I was going to take them to the Kid Outlet in Rockville. There's a big sale on baby equipment that's ending tomorrow. I should be home by 4:30."
"I'll be in another meeting. It'll have to wait until I get home then."
"Now you'll have me dying of curiosity all afternoon."
"Better to talk tonight anyway. I'll try to get there early. Gotta go."
"I'm going to the Space Rangers aisle first."
"Stop pulling, Ben. We're going to slip. And watch the cars."
Once inside, Amanda took a cart and tried to orient herself. She felt another headache building and she wanted to get her shopping over with as quickly as possible.
"This is our plan, kids," she said, snapping Emily into the child's seat and restraining Ben from grabbing at a display of marked-down Christmas ornaments. "Mommy has some things to get for the baby. If you both behave--"
"I want--"
"Shh! Let Mommy finish. If you both behave, I'll buy you one treat each--a small one--but only when I've got what I need. Understood?"
"I want to go to the pink aisle!"
"No--Space Rangers!"
Amanda heaved the cart in what she guessed was the direction of the baby equipment, dimly trying to sort out what it was she needed. The pain in her left temple was increasing. She turned down one aisle and dead-ended at a wall of party favors.
"This isn't it."
"Can I get these, mom?" Ben reached for a package of ghoulish rubber skeletons.
"No, Ben! Not till I'm finished!"
She craned her head over the racks to look for a sign. Distantly--it seemed a quarter-mile away, through a maze of bicycles and toy shelves--Amanda saw what appeared to be a painted icon of a baby hanging above some cribs.
"Let's try over there."
She wheeled the cart back around and pushed it through an area in which every package, shelf and bit of plastic was colored bright fuschia. Her right temple now chimed in with pain, like the wind instruments joining in the overture of strings. Emily strained in her seat, her pudgy hands grasping at every glittering box they passed.
"Printheth! I want the printheth! Oh, mommy, there's a thportthcar for my dollth--I want the thporthcar!"
Ben, for the moment, was blind to the toys around him. "Let's hurry," he said impatiently.
They entered the baby section. A rack of car seats stretched nearly to the ceiling, and dozens of carriages and strollers were parked at all angles as if by some crazy attendant. Rows of empty cribs with tags dangling from them were lined up, like an orphanage in which every infant has suddenly vaporized.
Amanda hesitated, unsure where to start. The bassoons were now kicking in, along with the timpani and bass. A car seat was what she needed--she remembered that much despite the booms going off in her head--and she paced back and forth, trying to decide which of the many car seats seemed best for its price (All 40% Off As Marked!). This one was $49.99 but looked impossible to install; here was one for $59.99, but its pattern r
