Baby proof

'Right,' I say. Then I go out on a questionable limb and say, 'And I always will.'

Zoe brightens. 'So maybe you'll marry him again?'

There it is, I think. My one great hope unearthed and put out there by a child. I consider my responses. I consider saying that it's a possibility. That I want that very much. That I miss Ben with my whole heart and believe that I made a huge mistake in not considering having a baby with him. That I was too stubborn and rigid and vindictive and proud for my own good. That I hope I'm not too late.

But I am afraid to say any of this out loud. I don't want to jinx myself. Instead I just offer up a vague and halfhearted, 'Well, Zoe, I wouldn't hold your breath on that one.'

Always literal, Zoe inhales dramatically and holds her breath, her cheeks puffing out and her face turning red.

'Breathe!'! say, laughing.

She shakes her head, a smile straining at the corners of her mouth.

'Zoe! Breathe!' I say again, tickling her until she releases the air in fits of laughter. When she finally gains her composure, she says, 'Aunt Claudia?'

'Yeah, Zoe?'

'If you do marry Uncle Ben again, I hope you do it soon. You know why?'

I watch her anxiously, concentrating on an itch in the small of my back. Surely the child doesn't know about aging eggs. Surely she doesn't know that I am going to have to offer Ben a child for the mere hope of getting him back. I finally say, 'Why's that, Zoe?'

' 'Cause. If you wait too long, I'll be too old to be your flower girl.'

I smile with relief. 'Hmm. That's a really good point, Zoe. You are getting up there in years.'

'So don't wait too long,' she says. 'And don't 'lope this time.'

'E-lope,' I say.

'E-lope,' she repeats.

'Ohh, right. Hmm. Well. We'll see about all that,' I say, wondering how long Zoe can keep up her barrage of questions. If I'm not careful, she might have me talking about my e-mail exchange with Ben, our lunch date, and my earnest hope that my ex-husband hasn't fallen madly in love with a girl named Tucker.

I brace myself for her next inquiry, which turns out to be blessedly innocuous: 'Can we try on shoes now?' she asks me.

'Absolutely,' I say, relieved that I don't have to tell my niece about Tucker, the fast-running, pretty-haired, fertile doctor who can't possibly love Ben like I do.

twenty-eight

The next morning I awaken to the sight of Zoe in her lavender polka-dot nightgown, standing on her tiptoes with her nose and palms pressed against my bedroom window. I study her earnest profile and the way a patch of her hair is spiked with static electricity.

I finally break her concentration and say, 'What's so interesting out there, Zoe?'

She turns, runs over to the bed, and says, 'It's snowing, Aunt Claudia!'

'Really?' I say.

'Yeah! Come look,' she says.

I follow her over to the window, remembering how thrilling snowfalls were as a child. Now snow simply signals inconvenience, particularly in a city that quickly turns into a dirty, slushy, slow-moving mess. But I forget all of this as I look outside with my niece. I even feel a twinge of disappointment when I see only a few scattered flurries and no accumulation on the ground.

'It doesn't look like it's going to stick,' I say. 'Just your standard November tease.'

Zoe looks crestfallen, and I think of how my sisters and I felt when our hopes soared on a snowy morning, only to have them dashed by the man on the radio announcing in the most chipper tone, 'All schools open!' Or even worse, when he'd give you a string of schools that had closed, but then announce that yours was the exception, without so much as a one- or two-hour delay as a consolation. One of the happiest days of my childhood was when my mother informed us that she was overriding one such poor decision. 'I'm not taking any chances with you riding that bus. I hereby declare a snow day!' There were some fringe benefits that came with having a non-rule-following mother.

'If it sticks, can we go sledding in the park?' Zoe asks.

'Sure,' I say, as I think of how emotions seem so magnified when you're a child. Joy is more all- encompassing, disappointments more crushing, hope more palpable. 'You want to do a snow dance to help it along?'

Zoe lights up again and says, 'What's a snow dance?'

I leap up onto my mattress and make up an exaggerated tribal dance which she imitates. Our legs and arms flail in the air until we are out of breath. Then I say, 'Okay! Let's get moving! We have a busy day ahead of us!'

'What are we doing, Aunt Claudia?' Zoe asks.

I highlight our itinerary, which includes a matinee, a trip to FAO Schwarz, and a horse-and-carriage ride in Central Park.

Zoe looks gleeful. 'Well, I better go put on my dress then.'

I smile and say, 'Yes. You'd better. And I think today calls for a touch of makeup, don't you?'

Zoe smiles even wider. She is a true girly-girl and is always clamoring for things like pierced ears, shaved legs, and makeup. Maura would kill me if I put holes in Zoe's ears or gave her one of my razors, but a little rouge and lip gloss is another story. She walks primly toward the bathroom and says in a voice more mature than her years, 'Why, Aunt Claudia. That is an excellent idea.'

A few hours later, after an inspired performance of The Lion King, Zoe and I exit the New Amsterdam Theater on Forty-second Street. The sun is out, and there is no trace of snow, but the day still feels wintry and festive. The city is already decorated with white lights and wreaths, and the streets bustle with holiday-season tourists. Zoe puts on her fluffy pink beret and matching gloves as I quickly hail a cab and ask him to take us to the Plaza, just across the street from FAO Schwarz. The whole way uptown, we sing 'Hakuna Matata' in rounds. It is one catchy tune. In all of our merriment, I nearly forget the underlying reason for Zoe's visit. I wonder if she will someday know the full truth about our weekend. If she will look back on our time together, and her memories will be more bitter than sweet.

We are dropped off in the driveway in front of the Plaza. I pay the cabbie and hold the door open for Zoe. She spills out of the cab, forgetting to be ladylike in her corduroy jumper and fancy coat. Then she points to a blue-faced mime holding freakishly still near the fountain in front of the hotel.

'Can I go see him?' she asks.

'Sure,' I tell her, remembering how Ben used to say, 'How is that considered a talent? Who actually would bother to practice something like that?' Clearly many others disagree with Ben's assessment of mimes because there is a fairly sizable crowd gawking and videotaping.

Zoe scampers off toward the mime, while I stay near the hotel stairs and retrieve my cell phone from my purse. I want to see if Maura has called with any sort of update. There is one new message, but it is only Daphne. I keep my eye on Zoe as I listen to Daphne tell me that she just made a lemon Bundt cake, and the boys are licking the beaters. Daphne goes on to say that she hasn't heard a word from Maura. 'Cross your fingers for some good news,' she concludes.

I consider that Daphne's version of good news is likely not the same as mine. Short of abuse, Daphne believes couples with children should stay together. I think it's more about being happy. Not Christmas-photo-card happy, but truly, deep-down-in-your-bones happy.

I skip Daphne's message and listen to a very old one from Ben that I haven't had the heart to delete since our divorce. It is the only recording I have of him. There is nothing special about it-he is only relaying the phone