Baby proof

the years of not trying. Of wearing condoms, taking the pill, and 'pulling and praying,' Daphne and Tony's method of choice during their impoverished, ramen-noodle college days.

'You'll get to the bottom of this soon,' I say as I glance down at my cuticles and make a mental note to get a manicure before I see Richard again.

I listen to Daphne start ranting about an elderly driver not using his turn signal. Ever since an old man plowed into several schoolchildren at a crosswalk in our hometown last year, Daphne routinely scribbles down license plates and reports careless drivers to the DMV. 'I mean, God bless them, you know… I'm sure they don't realize that they shouldn't be driving. But it's just not safe, you know?'

I interrupt her tirade and say, 'Listen, Daph, I was wondering something… You know how you said that you hoped that it was Tony's problem? Fault?'

'Yeah.'

'What did you mean by that exactly?'

'I meant that I don't want to get blamed for this.'

'Blamed by Tony?'

'Yeah.'

'You really think he'd blame you?' I ask. 'That's not like Tony.'

'I know… But sometimes I get that feeling.'

'I don't think anyone should be blaming anyone,' I say.

'Yeah. Well. This whole thing is really stressful…' Her voice trails off.

'I'm really sorry, Daphne. I wish you didn't have to go through this.'

'I know… Just tell me that it will happen for me. Tell me I'll be a mother someday.'

'It will happen,' I say, believing it. 'And worst-case scenario, you could adopt. Right?'

'I guess so. But that is a last resort. I want my own baby.'

'But it would be your baby,' I say.

'You know what I mean,' she says. 'I want to carry a child. I want to fully experience every part of motherhood…'

'You will,' I say.

'Maybe that's the real reason I want this to be Tony's fault,' she says. 'If it's his fault, I can still have a baby.'

'You mean with someone else? You'd leave Tony?' I say, horrified.

'Oh, God, no,' Daphne says. 'I was more talking sperm banks… something like that,' she says.

I almost ask her if Tony would be willing to go down that road. It would surprise me if he would. He would do most anything for Daphne, but he strikes me as the sort of macho guy who wouldn't be able to handle that. But I decide not to stir the pot. Daphne has enough on her mind.

That afternoon, after I return about a dozen phone calls from various agents and authors, I find myself thinking about Ben and our marriage and how it wasn't what I thought it was the day we said I do. After all, people who belong together stay together despite major setbacks and disagreements. They may deal in fault and blame temporarily, but ultimately they work things out. Love conquers all. In sickness and in health. That's what good marriages are all about. I think of an extreme example-how Dana Reeve stayed with Christopher even though she couldn't have possibly wanted to be married to a quadriplegic. Their love was strong and real and more important than all the collective things they could no longer do together. It was more important than fantastic sex, or horseback riding, or having more babies. Dana had to let a lot of dreams die, but she did so willingly. He was worth any sacrifice.

I sit at my desk for a long time, my back to the computer, ignoring the ding of new e-mails, likely from Richard, and wondering whether Ben would have left if I had been diagnosed with a serious illness. If I had only a few years left to live. Or, if I couldn't conceive-as opposed to being unwilling to do so. I can't imagine Ben leaving me under any of those circumstances. So how could he leave simply because I didn't want kids? I wasn't throwing hardship at him; I just wanted things to stay the same. Couldn't my husband just love me enough to stay? Was that really so much to ask?

sixteen

It takes me a good three days to really shake the Ben funk settling back into my psyche. During this time, I avoid Richard. Not completely-we still talk and e-mail with staggering frequency. But when he inquires whether I'm free for dinner, I make up an excuse and ask for a rain check. I do not want to have sex with him while dwelling on Ben even though Jess insists that sex with Richard could be the very thing to help me get over the unexpected hump. I know from experience that having sex with a man while you're thinking of another can have the catastrophic reverse effect, and I remind her of my breakup with my college boyfriend Paul. My only other truly significant split.

During those early days in New York, right after graduation, Jess went out virtually every night, but I spent most of my evenings in, doing pathetic things like listening to The Cure's 'Pictures of You' on repeat and calling into radio shows to dedicate songs to 'Paul in Denver.' I couldn't snap out of my misery-nor did I really want to-until I met Anders at a roof party on the Upper East Side. Anders was a twenty-year-old Swedish tennis pro with long blond hair and a lopsided grin. We hit it off right away, although I recognized that he was the sort of guy with whom everyone hits it off and girls easily fall in love.

So I was psyched when he found me at the end of the night and asked for my phone number. We went to dinner and a movie the following week and began to hang out pretty regularly, although we never really analyzed what we were or where we were headed.

About a month later, we had sex on his futon, under a scratchy rainbow-colored afghan his grandmother had knitted for him. It didn't top the best of my sex with Paul, but it was way better than my first time with him, which I thought was significant and promising. Afterward Anders made us a midnight snack of Fritos and boiled hot dogs. Then he fired up his lava lamp and we danced to Marky Mark's 'Feel the Vibrations' until his neighbor pounded on the wall for us to shut up. I remember thinking that although I wasn't in love with Anders, I couldn't rule out the possibility of it happening. In fact, I was hopeful that it would.

A few days later, right before another date with Anders, I got out of the shower and noticed a blinking red light on my answering machine. Even though we hadn't talked in nearly three months, I knew right away it was Paul-which marks the closest thing I've ever had to a psychic moment. I hit the play button, and sure enough, it was Paul, drunk and rambling about how he really hoped that I was well. It was hardly an 'I miss you like crazy and wish I had moved to New York with you' sort of message, but still, he was calling me on a Friday night while drinking-something I had, with Jess's resolve, managed not to do. I listened to the message twice and then made myself delete it, fighting the urge to save it for further analysis. (Jess is gifted at reading between the lines and interpreting things like drunken voice-mail messages, perhaps because she had left her fair share up to that point. Then again, who doesn't drink and dial in their early twenties?) I had serious pangs as I erased Paul's familiar husky voice, but mostly I just felt proud of myself. I was a well-adjusted young urbanite dating a European with longish hair and a ferocious serve. I was so over my college boyfriend.

So in keeping with my image, I saw to it that Anders and I had a blast that night. We ate at El Teddy's, my favorite Mexican restaurant (one that has since closed) in Tribeca and got wasted on margaritas on the rocks with salt, which made me feel sophisticated with every sip as I only drank frozen margaritas in college. Then we met up with Anders's friends, mostly fellow tennis players, and danced at a velvet-rope club in SoHo. Anders was a great dancer, but didn't take himself at all seriously. Every once in a while he'd break into his hilariously manic 'running man' dance. He cracked me up and made me feel buoyant, in a way you can only feel in the aftermath of true misery.

Then something very strange happened. Back at Anders's apartment, as we were having sex for only the second time, I found myself thinking about Paul's message. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I was crying. I told myself that it was just the margaritas. I reminded myself that I was happy. I prayed that the moment would pass quickly and that Anders's room was dark enough for my tears to go undetected. But no such luck. Seconds later, I