A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley
Fourteen
New York, New York
I welcome the new day feeling slightly less helpless than yesterday. I have to re-do Will’s oats only two times and I remember about fifty percent of the things I should bring to work—Jo covers the other half.
Mid-morning, I leave all three kids at the shop, leaving Jo in charge while covertly giving the job to Pam and head to Whole Foods.
After checking out the cooking books section earlier, I’m convinced smart shopping will be my salvation. The various cookbooks were harder for me to decipher than a Cyrillic dictionary. I couldn’t understand the name of half the tools mentioned or ingredients, making me even more terrified of cooking from scratch. When a book titled You Suck at Cooking: The Absurdly Practical Guide to Sucking Slightly Less at Making Food seems daunting, I should accept my limitations and work with what skills I have. At Wilkins and Marley, knowing when to outsource has been a key aspect of the company’s success. And since I can’t have a cook or order takeout every day, twice a day without breaking either the bank or my family’s health, I’ve decided to go with the next best option: store-bought, organic, pre-made meals. This alternative won’t be cheap either, but it’s the best compromise I can reach.
I don’t care if Jersey Caroline was a MasterChef. She probably mastered the science of cooking when she had “only” one kid to feed.
The strategy works. Even with my limited kitchen skills, I re-heat the roasted chicken and vegetables I bought for lunch without burning anything. Jo appreciates the healthy but tasteful meal, and even Will eats without being too fussy. Mom arrives as he goes down for his nap, and I go back to the shop with the other two. Every day is the same routine: breakfast, then bookshop. Lunch, bookshop. Dinner, bed. Sam is pulling long hours at work as the inauguration of the hotel draws closer, and I see very little of him. And even when we cross paths, I’m too tired to do much more than wish him good night.
But on Friday, I have something to look forward to. The Koi Hotel is opening its doors for the first time in Soho on New Year’s Eve throwing a fancy, no-expenses-spared party. As part of our invitation, Sam and I were delighted to discover we’ve been granted complimentary use of a suite for tonight. We’ve hired an overnight babysitter and don’t plan to come back until after breakfast. Mom, after going to her own New Year’s party in the neighborhood, is sleeping here in case Bram has a major freak out in the middle of the night. The babysitter isn’t a stranger, but she’s not Mommy or Daddy, and, apparently, when we aren’t present, Grandma is the next best thing.
Almost on schedule, I’m showered and pampered. I got my makeup on, my hair is up, and I’m wearing my new, fabulous silk dress. As I check myself out in the mirror, I could pass for the old—or more the real—me. For Manhattan Caroline, nightly galas in town were the rule, not the exception.
As I tighten the string of the only decent sandals—black leather with crossover front straps and high heels—I could find in Jersey Caroline’s closet, I long for the new pair of Manolo Blahnik that I’d bought just a few weeks before Melodie shipped me to this life. Velvet pumps with pointed toes, stiletto heels, and the cutest asymmetrical crystal leaf buckle. The Manolos would’ve been perfect for this dress. And I’m aware sandals are daring for a New Year’s party, but the hotel ought to have good heating, and I refuse to wear any of the scratched old pumps I found in the closet.
I tie the last string, stand up, and contemplate the final result. Well, Mama, three kids don’t look at all bad on you.
Sam—who’s probably used to seeing me in nothing sexier than yoga pants—is about to have a little surprise.
At the thought, my stomach free-falls as my cheeks heat. I’m spending tonight in a hotel room with my husband without the kids around to interrupt…
Sex, which hasn’t been an actual option until now, will be on the table. The thought has been at the back of my head all week, more so as the date of our romantic night grew closer.
If the Christmas night’s attempt before Bram’s interruption was any indication, tonight promises to be great and complicated. Sam is not one of the men I’m used to fooling around with in the city. Sex with Sam is bound to be intense, loaded with unresolved feelings on my side, and who knows what expectations on his. Do I even remember what making love to him felt like? Not really, and I’m scared about how powerful the reminder is going to be.
I conjure an image of twenty-something-year-old Sam on top of me, looking at me with nothing but love and desire in his eyes.
“Charlie Bear,” Sam’s voice drifts up the stairs, interrupting my internal struggle. “Are you ready? We’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”
I put on the only decent outerwear I could find at the back of the closet and rush downstairs. The black wool duster coat isn’t exactly evening wear or suited for this outfit, but I can’t go out with sandals and without a coat in the middle of winter. My sense of fashion doesn’t go that far.
“I’m ready,” I say, as my breath catches a little in my throat at seeing Sam in full smoking. Gosh, three kids look good on him, too. I stare, mesmerized.
My school-girl-crushing over my husband thankfully goes unnoticed as he and the babysitter are busy recapping for everything to be in order before we go.
Does she have our numbers and all the info about where we’re staying? Yes.
Does she remember what everyone eats for breakfast? Yes.
Know where the cat food is? Yes.
“And did you leave Bram’s milk in the usual place?” the babysitter asks Sam, who in turn looks at me.
I blink.
Sam stares at my full breasts peeking out of the unbuttoned coat, but not with the adoring, half-lost expression men usually reserve for women’s chest. He’s more skeptical—so much for my great expectations of making his jaw drop. Guess that doesn’t happen as easily after seven years of marriage and three kids.
“Did you pump?” he asks.
“Pump?”
The hubby swats his forehead. “I forgot I have to tell you these things now. You have to pump your breasts and leave some milk for Bram to eat in the morning or if he wakes up. We have some frozen, but he prefers the fresh one. Plus, your breasts might bother you if you don’t pump now.”
I blink again. “You mean I have to milk myself—literally—like a cow?”
Sam smiles, amused. “Not with your hands, you use the breast pump in your studio upstairs, and you’d better pack it as well and bring it to the hotel in case you need to pump again tomorrow. I can show you how to do it.”
I raise my hand to save some of the sexiness in this marriage. “Sam, YouTube was put on this Earth for a reason. I can manage on my own.”
I don’t care if he’s already seen me pump a million times, he hasn’t seen me-me do it. And I’d like to keep some mystery.
Upstairs, I take off the coat and shimmy out of the silk dress to avoid spilling on it.
I also remove my bra, then search for a breast pump tutorial for the model sitting on my desk.
I assemble the various pieces, place the plastic cup on my left breast, and gingerly push the on button.
The pump comes to life and for the first few pumps, nothing happens. The effect is a lot milder compared to a real baby nursing, so I amp the suction to the max level and wait impatiently for something to happen. A few more empty suctions and the familiar rigid nipple sensation arrives and finally, the milk begins to flow. I watch, fascinated, as the transparent cup fills with jets of milk from my nipple.
The novelty wears out quickly and soon the entire operation becomes boring. Until, randomly, my other boob goes rigid as well and spurs milk like a champagne bottle. When Bram feeds, I always wear breastfeeding bras, but tonight is the one night I thought I didn’t need a security bra and promptly forgot about the other-boob-will-spill-too chain reaction. I grab a towel to dab the leak. Gosh, breastfeeding is like another full-time job on its own.
Emptying one boob seems to take forever, and another forever to do the other. Sam must be losing his mind. By the time I re-dress and walk downstairs the proud bearer of eight ounces of bottled breastmilk, I find Sam pacing and checking his watch.
I entrust the bottle to the babysitter and smile at my husband. “I’m ready, sorry.”
He kisses my head, relieved. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about. I should’ve remembered to tell you. I take everything you do for granted, and the amnesia is reminding me just how much.”
If I wasn’t actually smiling like an idiot, I’d gag for how sweet, and perfect, and unbelievably sensitive he is. I’m sure other husbands would be sulking and complaining about being late, but not Sam. The only flaw he’s ever had is his insuppressible desire to reproduce himself, which apparently not even three little buggers have cured.
Mercifully, traffic isn’t bad getting to the city. Sam drives us across suburbia in our minivan, and in no time, we’re crossing the state border.
I’ve been gone for only a week, but the moment we emerge from Lincoln Tunnel—on the right side—New York wields its pull on me. Entering the city is enough for me to buzz with energy.
Sam must sense my excitement, because he turns to me and asks, “You still miss it, the city I mean, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Always.”
From the first time I visited, I never imagined myself living anywhere in the world but Manhattan. New York is the city that never sleeps. The place where everything is possible. The tall skyscrapers glitter in the night with a seductive promise, like when you meet the eyes of a handsome stranger in a bar. Anything could happen.
How could Jersey Caroline give it up? How could Sam? He used to love living on this side of the Hudson, too.
“Don’t you?” I ask.
Sam pokes my nose. “I know in your mind we’re still renting the two-bedroom in Midtown and loving it. And of course, I miss it.” Sam stares out of the window. “But we both agreed it was no place to raise children.”
“Why not?” I ask. Not in a polemic way, but in a matter-of-fact, what’s-wrong-with-raising-kids-in-the-city, plenty-of-people-do-it way.
Sam scoffs. “For once, we could’ve never afforded the square footage we have in Jersey. Imagine what a house like ours would’ve cost us in Manhattan.”
Probably less than what I paid for my penthouse, I comment bitterly in my head.
Sam must notice my discomfort because he asks, “A penny for your thoughts?”
“I was just thinking that maybe if we’d waited longer to have kids and given our careers more time to pick up, we would’ve been able to afford the space here.”
Sam shrugs. “Or you could be in a dead-end job you hate, slaving away for some big-name publishing mammoth with no soul.”
No, I’d be my own boss. Lead a publishing company with my name on the door. And swim in cash a la Scrooge McDuck.
Of course, I can’t say any of this. If I told Sam that without kids in the way I would’ve become super successful, he would dismiss my words as wishful thinking.
“You love your job,” he says on the defensive, as if he had to justify to me our life choices.
“I do,” I say truthfully. The bookshop has made me reconnect with literature at a visceral level where novels have gone back to being stories instead of a mere profit-and-loss spreadsheet. Because if I’m being honest, that’s how I’ve been running Wilkins and Marley for a few years now, with only the company’s bottom line in mind.
The atmosphere in the car is becoming tense, and I would hate for a silly argument to spoil the night, so I heed Melodie’s suggestion again and play the amnesia card.
“I know you moved away seven years ago and had your time to say goodbye, but in my head, I was living in Manhattan last week,” I say, which isn’t even a lie. “Cut me some slack.”
“Sorry,” Sam says. “I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly woke up married with three kids.”
“Oh, shut up.” I swat him playfully. “You’d be the happiest dad and husband in the world.”
He lets out a goofy smile. “I probably would, and what about you? You like being a mom?”
The question takes me unaware, even more so because the answer isn’t a definitive no.
“You know, I’ve only known the kids for a few days, but now I couldn’t imagine my life without them. I’m overwhelmed and in over my head most of the time, but it’s amazing to see how clever and independent Jo is. Or how imaginative Will can be. And even the little mothersucker is cute.”
Sam roars with laughter. “You call our youngest child the mothersucker?”
“Well, it’s what he is.”
Sam chuckles.
“But most of the time, I feel like a navy seal who’s been sent into action with no training.”
Sam reaches out and squeezes my thigh. “You’re doing an amazing job even without training. The kids love you, I love you, and you’re the best mother and wife in the world.”
In my alternative universe, I’m used to feeling on top of the world, even if no one ever tells me. Everyone respects me or fears me or admires or envies me. But does anyone love me? And why does it have to feel so damn good to be loved?