“I’m not even dressed, Max,” Andy said, waving to the tangle of towels, black dresses, and support undergarments on their bed.
“Don’t worry about it, she’s here to see Clem. Take your time, I’ll pour you some champagne. Come out whenever you’re ready.”
She wanted to scream at her husband for not consulting with her on this most unwelcome surprise, but instead she just nodded and motioned for him to close the door. She could hear Max introduce Barbara to Isla—“Oh, Australia, you say? What an interesting place”—and then their voices faded as they headed toward the living room. Andy turned her attention to a pair of nonmaternity Spanx shorts, size small. She worked them inch by inch over her thighs, and they resisted every step of the way. Clearing the widest part of her leg was cause for celebration, but it was short-lived: she had to focus on getting them over her butt and stomach. They dug and pinched up and down her entire lower body, and by the time she had finally yanked them into place, beads of perspiration ran uncomfortably down her back and between her breasts. Her hair, professionally blown out for the first time since Clementine’s birth, now stuck to her face and neck. Grabbing a magazine to fan herself and clad only in nude-colored, too-tight shaper shorts and a heavy-duty nursing bra, her body spilling out of both, Andy started to laugh. If this wasn’t sexy, she didn’t know what was.
Her cell phone rang from the nightstand. She rolled like a greased piglet across the bed and grabbed it.
“Bad time,” she said automatically, the way you could only do when you were a new mother.
“I’m just calling to wish you good luck tonight.” Jill’s voice was warm and familiar, and immediately Andy felt herself calm ever so slightly.
“Good luck being a postpartum, leaking, lactating, overweight cow among a sea of gorgeous people, or good luck leaving my baby girl with a stranger I essentially found on the Internet?”
“Both!” Jill said brightly.
“How am I going to do this?” Andy moaned, acutely aware she was already late.
“Same way everyone else does: wear all black, check your cell phone every four to five seconds, and drink as heavily as the situation will allow.”
“Good advice. Drink, check. Cell phone, check. Now I just need to cram my ass into the long-sleeved black dress. Remember, with the cutout in back? The one I used to wear all the time pre-baby?”
Jill laughed. Not nicely. “You’re barely four months out, Andy. Don’t expect a miracle.”
Andy stared at the dress laid out next to her on the bed. Depending on whether she was a four or a six, it either looked elegantly fitted or sexily curve-hugging, and depending on accessories, it was perfect for everything from a quick drinks date to a ballroom wedding. Tonight, however, it looked better suited for a doll, or maybe a tween.
“It’s not going to happen, is it?” she asked, her voice a near whisper.
“Probably not. But who cares? You’ll be back into it in another couple months, what’s the difference?”
“The difference is I don’t have anything to wear!” Andy didn’t want to sound hysterical, but her sweating had increased and the clock was ticking. Dress-wise, there was no Plan B.
“Of course you do,” Jill said, her tone the same one she used with Jonah when he was being particularly petulant. “That black dress, with the three-quarter-length sleeves? That you wore to grandma’s brunch in March?”
“That’s maternity!” Andy wailed. “Not to mention it was appropriate for an eighty-nine-year-old’s birthday party.”
“Think of how much thinner you’ll look in it now.”
Andy sighed. “I’ve got to run. Sorry I can’t ask anything about your life right now. Plus Barbara’s here to visit Clementine. I swear it’s on purpose, the one night I cannot afford to get upset because I’m already a wreck—” Andy stopped herself. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Everything’s fine. Get rid of Barbara, and go have fun. It’s your first night out in ages, not to mention a hugely exciting professional night, and you deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
“But remember—keep drinking.”
“Got it. Black, phone, booze. Good-bye.” She hung up and smiled at the phone. She missed her sister desperately sometimes, especially on nights like these.
Max appeared in the doorway. “You’re still not dressed? Andy, what’s wrong?”
Andy grabbed a damp towel from the floor and held it up to her chest. “Don’t look at me!”
Max walked over and stroked her sweaty hair. “What’s going on with you? I see you naked every day.”
When Andy didn’t say anything, Max pointed to the dress beside her. “That one looks too corporate,” he said kindly, although Andy knew he must have overheard at least part of her conversation and probably said corporate when he meant small. He opened her closet and rifled through her dress section. He pulled the exact same dress Jill had suggested. “Here,” he said, holding it aloft. “I always love you in this one.”
Andy sniffled, close to tears, and clutched the towel closer.
Max removed the hanger and laid the dress on the bed. “Why don’t you put this on and touch up your makeup? The car’s waiting for us downstairs, but it’s early. Come say a quick hello to my mother, and we’ll be off.”
“Sounds great,” Andy mumbled as Max dabbed the tiniest bit of shaping mold into his hair and adjusted an imperceptible fly-away. She put on the maternity dress. Jill and Max were right, it was the only possible choice, and it didn’t look terrible. Sleek? No. Sexy? No. But it contained her gigantic nursing bra and covered her jiggly tummy and concealed her not-quite-back-to-normal bum, and honestly, that was more than she could have hoped for. She paired it with super-sheer stockings, the kind with the seam up the back, and a pair of stacked three-and-a-half-inch Chloé heels that had hurt a decent amount pre-baby and now made her feet feel like they were wedged into Chinese binding slippers. Ignoring the dull ache in her calves that would surely become shooting pains before the night’s end, Andy slicked on a new rich red lipstick she’d purchased for the occasion, smoothed her blowout as best she could, and thrust her shoulders back. Was she her pre-baby self? Not exactly. But, at least for someone who had just birthed a child, she wasn’t half-bad.
Max whistled appreciatively from behind her as he checked her out in the mirror. “That is one hot mama,” he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
For a moment she let him touch her jiggly belly, saying, “These little rolls here turn you on, don’t they? Come on, just admit it.”
Max laughed. “You look fantastic.” He reached out and lightly cupped a breast. “These are a dream.”
Andy smiled. “The rack alone is almost worth it, isn’t it?”
“That and the kid. Between the boobs and the baby, I’m fully on board.” He led her into the hallway, helped her on with her silk wrap, and squeezed her hand tightly when Isla emerged from the nursery holding a heavy-lidded Clementine. Barbara trailed behind her, looking absolutely fabulous in a tailored sheath dress with a coordinating blazer and nude patent pumps.
“Hello, Barbara,” Andy said, suddenly feeling like a towering, graceless tank next to her coiffed and elegant mother-in-law. “How lovely of you to stop by.”
“Yes, dear, well I hope it’s not an intrusion, but I realize it’s been weeks since I’ve seen my granddaughter, and I was in the neighborhood . . .”
Barbara paused and glanced around the hallway. “Did you do something different here? Is that painting new? Or perhaps that mirror? What a relief! I have to say, I never did like that . . . that collage you chose to display so prominently.”
“Mother, that ‘collage’ was a mixed-media piece from a very hot new artist whose work has been displayed all over Europe,” Max said. “Andy and I found it together in Amsterdam, and we love it.”
“Mmm, well, you know what they say! There’s no accounting for taste, is there?” Barbara trilled.
Max shot Andy an apologetic lo
ok. Andy shrugged in response. They’d been married for a year, and while she’d hardly forgotten about the letter Barbara had written to her son about his choice of wife and wasn’t exactly used to her—she didn’t think she’d ever be—Andy was no longer surprised by her either.
In the living room, Barbara perched on the edge of an armchair as though it was teeming with bedbugs.
Andy couldn’t resist. “Oh, Max, remind me to call the exterminator first thing Monday morning. He hasn’t been here in forever. We’re overdue.”
Max looked at her questioningly. Barbara leaped to her feet. Andy tried not to laugh.
“How did she do on her bottle?” Andy asked Isla, wanting nothing more than to grab her daughter from this stranger’s arms.
“Great, she drank all five ounces. I changed her dirty nappy, and I’m going to put her down now. She wanted to say good night to her mama first.”
“Oh, come here, my love,” Andy said, relieved at the chance to hold Clementine one last time without appearing as psychotic as she actually felt. For this, she was already grateful to Isla. “You be good for your new babysitter, okay?” Andy kissed her daughter’s chunky cheeks once, twice, three times before handing her back.
Isla settled Clementine comfortably on her shoulder and nodded. “I’ll read her Goodnight Moon now and rock her to sleep. Then—”
“Don’t forget to put her in her sleep sack,” Andy interrupted.
Max squeezed her hand again.
“What?” She looked at him. “It’s important.”
Isla rushed on. “Of course. Put her in her sleep sack, read Goodnight Moon, rock her to sleep. Dim the lights without making it completely dark and put on the white-noise machine. She will probably wake up around nine thirty or ten to eat again, but even if she doesn’t, I should dream-feed her the four-ounce bottle in the fridge, right?”
Andy nodded. “If you can’t remember how to use the bottle warmer, just put it in a mug of hot water for a few minutes. But please remember to test the temperature before you give it to her.”
“Okay, Andy, it sounds like everything’s great here,” Max said, kissing Clem on the forehead. “Come, sit for a minute and visit and then we’ll head out.”
“You have both our cell numbers, just in case? And the sheet on the counter with all the emergency contact numbers? My mother’s in Texas right now so she won’t be much help . . .” She glanced at Barbara, who was intently reading something. “Better yet, just call 911 as fast as—”
“I promise I’ll take wonderful care of her,” Isla said with a quiet, reassuring smile that nonetheless made Andy wish she had a nanny cam.
Andy stopped, frozen, wondering how this had happened. She’d sworn every which way that she would be the cool mom, the relaxed one, the mom who didn’t freak out over germs or babysitters or organic everything. The one who could go with the flow and not go crazy. But one look at the tiny, vulnerable being who was entirely dependent on her for everything had changed all that. Andy had only left Clementine with her mother or, once, out of sheer desperation, with Max’s sister, and that was only when she had doctor’s appointments and didn’t want to subject Clem to the filthy waiting rooms. She’d returned all the sleepers and onesies they received as baby gifts unless she could confirm, beyond a doubt, that none contained poisonous flame-retardant fabric; also returned were all plastic baby toys that read “Made in China” or could not be proven BPA, PVC, and phthalate free. Against every promise she’d made herself, her husband, and anyone who would listen, Andy moved heaven and earth to stick to Clem’s schedule, a carefully choreographed routine of feedings, naps, playtime, and walks that was prioritized over everyone and everything. It wasn’t like she wanted to be the lunatic helicopter mother, but she felt helpless to control it.
Andy took a deep breath, exhaled quietly through her mouth, and forced a return smile. “I know you will. Thank you.” She watched as Isla carried Clem to the nursery.
The sound of Barbara’s voice brought her back to reality. “Andrea, dear? What is this?” her mother-in-law asked, holding aloft of a small sheaf of papers.
Andy sat on the couch and grabbed her champagne glass, liquid courage. Barbara must have decided that the couch had a higher likelihood of being vermin-free, because she sat down next to Andy and crossed her legs. “Here, this. It says, ‘Miranda’s Ultimate Baby List.’ This isn’t from Miranda Priestly, is it?”
It had been tacked to the bulletin board above her desk, a funny place for Barbara to snoop, but Andy didn’t have enough fight in her to bring it up.
“Ah yes, Miranda’s list. She sent it to me right after Clementine was born. Miranda doesn’t really like people per se, but apparently she has a soft spot for babies.”
“Is that right?” Barbara murmured, glancing through the pages, her eyes alight. “My, my, it’s quite comprehensive.”
“That it is,” Andy said, glancing over Barbara’s shoulder. She’d nearly fainted in shock when it first arrived a couple of weeks after Clem’s birth, accompanied by a box wrapped in pink paper and festooned with white ribbons and a silver Tiffany baby rattle. Inside the box was a note on Miranda’s letterhead that read, “Congratulations on your new addition!” Beneath that, under a half-dozen layers of tissue paper, nestled the most exquisite mink blanket Andy had ever seen. Or really, the only mink blanket she’d ever seen. It was silky-soft and enormous, and Andy immediately folded it and draped it across the foot of her own bed, where she snuggled with it almost every night. Clem had yet to puke or poop or drool on it, and as far as Andy was concerned, she never would. Mink! For a baby! Andy smiled to herself now and remembered what Emily had pointed out: clearly Miranda had chosen this gift all by herself, because no assistant would ever send a full-sized mink throw as a baby gift. For anyone. Ever. And if that hadn’t been fabulous enough, there was also “Miranda’s Ultimate Baby List.”
Twenty-two pages, single-spaced. A table of contents with subjects like “Items Needed for Hospital,” “Items Needed at Home: First Couple of Weeks,” “Baby Toiletries,” “Baby Medical Needs,” and “Safety Checklist.” Naturally, Miranda gave her recommendations for putting together the perfect layette (preferably from Jacadi, Bonpoint, and Ralph Lauren): short-sleeved onesies, long-sleeved onesies, footed pajamas, socks, booties, knit caps, hand mitts, pants-and-top outfits for boys, dresses or rompers with leggings for girls. Washcloths, towels, crib sheets. Swaddle blankets, stroller blankets, monogrammed nursery blankets. She even had a favorite brand of hair accessories. But it didn’t stop there. There were Miranda’s recommendations for pediatricians, lactation consultants, children’s nutritionists, allergists, pediatric dentists, and doctors willing to make house calls. She listed all the resources one might need to put on a bris, a christening, or a baby-naming service: acceptable synagogues, churches, mohels, caterers, and florists. Decorators who specialized in nursery design. A contact at Tiffany who would place the baby’s monogram on silver spoons, cups, and commemorative plates. A diamond specialist where Daddy could buy Mommy the perfect push present. And most important of all, a list of people to aid in the raising of said babies: night nurses, nannies, babysitters, tutors, speech therapists, occupational therapists, educational consultants, and at least a half-dozen agencies, all of which were chosen and vetted by Miranda herself for providing “the right kind” of caregivers.
Barbara finished reading the list and set it down on the table. “How considerate of Ms. Priestly to share her list with you,” she said. She cocked her head to the side and peered at Andy. “She must really see something in you.”
“Mmm,” Andy murmured, unwilling to shatter Barbara’s newfound respect for her. Assistants had compiled and organized the list, Andy knew that, and the only flattering fact was that Miranda had directed her staff to send it to her. That, and the mink blanket, which Andy shamelessly showed to her mother-in-law.
“Spectacular!” Barbara breathed as Andy placed it across the woman’s knees. Barbara stroked it reve
rently. “What a unique and thoughtful baby gift. I’m sure Clementine simply adores it.”
Max emptied the last drops of champagne into Andy’s glass. He refilled his and his mother’s with Pellegrino. “Mother, you’re welcome to stay, but Andy and I must have to go. The car’s been waiting downstairs for twenty minutes, and we’re now officially late.”
Barbara nodded. “I understand, dear. I just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see my granddaughter.”
Andy smiled magnanimously. “Clem enjoyed it too,” she lied. “You’re welcome anytime.” She refrained from pointing out that Barbara hadn’t so much as held her beloved granddaughter, nor even patted the baby’s head. From everything she’d seen, her mother-in-law had admired Clem as she lay in the safety of her babysitter’s arms, and for the first time, Andy understood a bit what it must have been like for Max to grow up with this woman as his mother.
She and Barbara stood; Andy gave her an obligatory kiss on the cheek and turned to find her clutch, but Barbara’s hand closed over her own. “Andrea, I’d like to tell you something,” she said in her Park Avenue–accented voice.
Andy panicked. Max was already halfway down the hallway, getting their coats. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been alone with Barbara Harrison, and she was in no place to—
Barbara’s hands tightened over both of Andy’s, and she felt herself being drawn closer to her mother-in-law. So close that she could smell her delicate perfume and see the deep indentations around her mouth, so ingrained that not even the latest and greatest fillers could tackle them. Andy held her breath.
“Dear, I just wanted to tell you that, for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re a wonderful mother.”
Andy felt her mouth fall open. She couldn’t have been more shocked if Barbara had confessed that she had a vicious meth addiction.
Was it merely because Miranda Priestly had deemed her an important-enough person with whom to share her list? Probably. But Andy didn’t care. She didn’t care because it was still nice to hear from the mother-in-law who thought Andy unworthy of her son, and it was nice to hear because Andy knew Barbara was right: she had flaws like anyone else, but she was a damn good mom.