Page 5 of You Will Never Be Me
“You’re making a mistake.” My voice comes out wobbly, lacking conviction. And god, could I have come up with more of a cliché?
“I’m sure we are, but we take our clients’ safety very seriously. Thank you for coming by, and I’m sorry not to have better news.”
And just like that, I’ve been dismissed. I lift Sabine up—she’s so heavy, and the diaper bag is so heavy, and I just want to lie down—and stride out of the office. I can’t meet anybody’s eye. Did they all know in advance that I was going in there to be rejected? A huge lump wedges in my throat, and my breath is coming in and out all shaky with tears. I manage to bite out a hushed “Thank you” to the receptionist as I hurry out of the office. It’s only when I’m out of the lobby that I let the tears come.
“Fucking bitch,” I whisper under my breath. I can’t even wipe them off because my hands are full. There hadn’t been time to take the stroller out of the trunk of the car, and boy am I regretting my choice now as I lug Sabine and the diaper bag across the parking lot under the unforgiving LA sun.
I need Mer.The thought hits me like a brutal sucker punch. It’s true. I need my best friend. Days like these, all I want is to drive to her place, plop Sabine in a playpen with Luca, and eat Ben & Jerry’s (Phish Food for me, Chunky Monkey for her) right out of the carton while we bitch about what a bitch Michelle Reyes turned out to be. God, why did we have to fight? Of all the things I regret, this is the one I can’t get over. Our horrible, soul-ripping fight.
Stop it. No use ruminating. I need to move on.
As I near my car, I spot someone peeping into it. “Hey!” I call out. With tears blurring my vision, it’s hard to tell if the figure is male or female, but something tells me it’s a woman. She jerksaway from my car and runs off before I can say anything else. I hurry to my car, my blood pounding in my ears. There doesn’t seem to be any damage done to it, but still, I can’t shake off the sickening, nervous sensation lurking in my gut. Michelle’s words echo in my head:Your trolls seem more…personal.
I look around the parking lot, unable to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Someone who knows what I’ve done.
3
MEREDITH
What am I doing? Justwhat the hell am I doing? This isn’t Stalking Lite anymore. I’m in full-on Joe Goldberg mode. In fact, Joe Goldberg would probably give me that judgy stare of his and say, “That’s messed up.” Shut up, Joe. At least I’m not a killer.
I should stop. This isn’t cute anymore. But when Aspen navigates her way out of the parking lot, I start my car and follow once more, making sure to keep some distance away from her. We take the 110 back toward Pasadena. Aspen’s place is a couple blocks away from Caltech, a gorgeous home surrounded by a pristine front yard and a backyard complete with a pool and a tree house and a patio to die for. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in San Gabriel. She shops at Trader Joe’s. I shop at the San Gabriel Superstore. She buys organic pre-marinated bulgogi in sterile vacuum packs. I buy frozen nuggets and off-brand hot dogs.
“How is that fair?” I say to Luca. He’s taken a break fromsucking on his foot and is sucking on his fists instead. “This is why we gotta do this, right, sweetie?”
I lose Aspen right as she exits, but I know her route like the veins on the back of my hands. I don’t panic. I take the turn, not even bothering to try to peer around the car ahead of me to see if she’s still there. I drive down Mission Street, and just as I knew I would, I catch sight of her Land Rover driving into the Trader Joe’s parking lot. I nod to myself and drive away. It’s lunchtime, and I’m famished. Luca feeds like a fiend, so I’m just constantly hungry. And tired. And cranky. This whole breastfeeding business is bullshit.
When I got pregnant, I thought to myself:I’m going to be that mom that every other mom loves to hate.I’m going to be skinny because I’m going to take on breastfeeding like it’s a fucking Olympic sport. My baby’s going to suck all the calories right out of me.And you know what? I really did do that. For the first month of his life, Luca was basically attached to my boobs 24/7. And it was hell. The tips of my nipples cracked, scabbed over, then the scabs were pulled off as he sucked. It was excruciating, like razor blades on my nipples. While milk poured out of me, tears flowed from my eyes, and snot leaked from my nostrils. I was leaking liquid everywhere. I couldn’t even bear to use the breast pump because my nipples were stinging so bad, so when Luca wasn’t nursing, I hand-expressed the rest of my milk into Medela bottles. Once, as I was squeezing my breast like a cow’s udder, I cried so much that a teardrop plopped into the bottle. My scream jerked Luca awake. I picked up the wailing baby and latched him to my other nipple and called Aspen.
“Is it tainted now?” I bawled. “Do I have to throw it out? There’s like, four ounces!”
Aspen laughed. “No. Oh my god. Tears are okay. It was only a drop, right?”
“But I’ve got my eyelash extensions! The tear is probably contaminated with eyelash glue or something.”
“Babe,” she said, “you know how much crap is on our nipples? Sweat, natural body oils, moisturizer. Give the expressed milk to Luca. He’ll be fine.”
Relief washed through me. But right on the heels of that surge of relief was something else. Something that had caught on to the patronizing tone in Aspen’s voice. Heard the silent laughter in the way she’d said, “Babe.” There was something familiar in it. And it was then that I realized it was how I used to talk to her.No. I was never that patronizing toward her, never.
She was still talking. “I was like that with the twins. Sterilizing everything. And now, with Sabine, I’m just like, meh. She’ll be fine, you know? Yesterday, she dropped her pacifier on the kitchen floor, and I just gave it a rinse, wiped it off, and put it back in her mouth. It’ll be fine!”
She was trying to reassure me. Part of me was grateful, but it was only a small part. The major part of me was furious. How fucking dare she look down on me like that? Treat me like a novice? I was the one who made her. When I spoke again, my voice was pure ice.
“No, I’m dumping the milk. Maybe you’re okay with giving Sabbie dirty milk, but I don’t think I could live with myself if Luca got sick.”
There was a pause. Jesus. Why did I have to come at her with claws out? She was just trying to help.
No, she wasn’t. She knew exactly what she was doing. Remindingme that the status quo had flipped, and that now she was the expert—the one showing me the ropes.
Still, the silence stretched on until I wanted to snap. Then, finally, she laughed. “Okay, Mer. You know best.”
“I do.”
The memory of that day, that almost-fight, scrapes like a knife against raw skin. There have been so many of those moments, especially once I announced my pregnancy. Dozens of little comments from Aspen made to cut me down—to remind me that I am now walking a path she’s already sprinted. She had the twins six and a half years ago; she’s a total pro at motherhood. And now here I am, stumbling down this path all alone. I’m not like her. I don’t have a devoted husband or an assistant. It’s just me and Luca against the world.
By the time we get home, Luca is full-on crying. I gather up everything—my purse, the bulging diaper bag, and Luca—and hurry inside my apartment. Inside, I lift up my shirt and yank down my bra and latch him on.
After the first two months or so of breastfeeding, things got better. My nipples got used to it, the wounds slowly healed, and nursing stopped feeling like I was being mauled by a pack of hungry lion cubs. Still, contrary to popular belief, it hasn’t helped me lose the baby weight. Sure, breastfeeding burns some calories, but it’s not actually that much.
