while they were coordinating their menstrual cycles and Russell was shooting Hilary up with progesterone, sticking a giant needle in her ass filled with a substance distilled from the urine of menopausal women: “It’s not natural, what we’re doing.” Hilary was drunk and probably coked-up after having stayed out half the night, rebelling against the strict regimen of temperance and injections they’d been observing the entire month, but Corrine sometimes worried that it was true, that they had tampered with the natural order of things.
All of these worries had preyed on her, but she’d always projected them into the future, hadn’t ever suspected they’d have to try to explain exactly what had happened before the kids were old enough to understand the basics of reproduction. How to explain to them that Russell had drawn the line at adoption and hadn’t wanted to raise kids that weren’t genetically his own, in whom he was afraid he would not see himself. So when it became clear that her eggs weren’t good, she’d devised this plan, almost unheard of at the time, to plant Hilary’s in her own womb. The fertility doctor had said, when she’d proposed it, “Well, theoretically it’s possible.” But, as hard as she’d tried, apparently she hadn’t considered all of the practicalities.
Checking her e-mails, she accepted an invitation to a screening next week, deleted spam for discount pharmaceuticals and breast enlargement.
Breast enlargement.
As if. Eye lift maybe.
The phone chirped, displaying the name and number of Jean, their part-time housekeeper and nanny. She was calling to say she had a doctor’s appointment and couldn’t get the kids after school. She sounded weepy, and Corrine was afraid that if she asked what was wrong, she would hear another tale of the cruelty and heartlessness of Jean’s girlfriend, Carlotta, who’d been making her miserable for nearly a dozen years now, and Corrine just didn’t have time for it this morning. Plus, she thought it was a good idea, today of all days, to pick the kids up herself. So she said, “Don’t worry, Jean. Take the afternoon off and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
—
Corrine took the subway to her office and spent the morning talking to various food banks in the greater metropolitan area, trying to secure vegetables that stood half a chance of not being rotten. Not quite the workday she might have imagined for herself twenty years ago. After her stint at Sotheby’s, she’d embarked on a successful but ultimately uninspiring stretch as a stockbroker before indulging her artistic yearnings by taking film courses at NYU, and wrote an adaptation of Graham Greene’s
The Heart of the Matter,
which had, against all odds, and after many years, made the arduous journey to production, and, just barely, to a few screens. In the heady months leading up to its release, Russell had managed to get her hired to write the screenplay for
Youth and Beauty,
the option on which had been renewed by Tug Barkley’s production company, but the project had gone dormant after two drafts. Later she’d struggled to write about what had happened to her in the months after September 11, but instead of inspiring a book or movie, her experience at the soup kitchen had led her to the job at Nourish New York.
She’d just finished a SlimFast at her desk when Nancy called.
“Oh my God, I’m so hungover.”
“Did you go out?” Corrine asked. Sometimes she felt she lived vicariously through Nancy, who was still pursuing the single-girl life that Corrine had never actually experienced for herself, and that most of her peers had resigned from a decade ago.
“I went to Bungalow 8 with that handsome young redneck that Russell’s publishing. By the time I was fucked-up enough to think about seducing him, he’d disappeared.”
“He does have a roguish, rough-hewn charisma.”
“Then I went to some after-hours place where some fan boy tried to seduce me, but even as drunk
All of these worries had preyed on her, but she’d always projected them into the future, hadn’t ever suspected they’d have to try to explain exactly what had happened before the kids were old enough to understand the basics of reproduction. How to explain to them that Russell had drawn the line at adoption and hadn’t wanted to raise kids that weren’t genetically his own, in whom he was afraid he would not see himself. So when it became clear that her eggs weren’t good, she’d devised this plan, almost unheard of at the time, to plant Hilary’s in her own womb. The fertility doctor had said, when she’d proposed it, “Well, theoretically it’s possible.” But, as hard as she’d tried, apparently she hadn’t considered all of the practicalities.
Checking her e-mails, she accepted an invitation to a screening next week, deleted spam for discount pharmaceuticals and breast enlargement.
Breast enlargement.
As if. Eye lift maybe.
The phone chirped, displaying the name and number of Jean, their part-time housekeeper and nanny. She was calling to say she had a doctor’s appointment and couldn’t get the kids after school. She sounded weepy, and Corrine was afraid that if she asked what was wrong, she would hear another tale of the cruelty and heartlessness of Jean’s girlfriend, Carlotta, who’d been making her miserable for nearly a dozen years now, and Corrine just didn’t have time for it this morning. Plus, she thought it was a good idea, today of all days, to pick the kids up herself. So she said, “Don’t worry, Jean. Take the afternoon off and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
—
Corrine took the subway to her office and spent the morning talking to various food banks in the greater metropolitan area, trying to secure vegetables that stood half a chance of not being rotten. Not quite the workday she might have imagined for herself twenty years ago. After her stint at Sotheby’s, she’d embarked on a successful but ultimately uninspiring stretch as a stockbroker before indulging her artistic yearnings by taking film courses at NYU, and wrote an adaptation of Graham Greene’s
The Heart of the Matter,
which had, against all odds, and after many years, made the arduous journey to production, and, just barely, to a few screens. In the heady months leading up to its release, Russell had managed to get her hired to write the screenplay for
Youth and Beauty,
the option on which had been renewed by Tug Barkley’s production company, but the project had gone dormant after two drafts. Later she’d struggled to write about what had happened to her in the months after September 11, but instead of inspiring a book or movie, her experience at the soup kitchen had led her to the job at Nourish New York.
She’d just finished a SlimFast at her desk when Nancy called.
“Oh my God, I’m so hungover.”
“Did you go out?” Corrine asked. Sometimes she felt she lived vicariously through Nancy, who was still pursuing the single-girl life that Corrine had never actually experienced for herself, and that most of her peers had resigned from a decade ago.
“I went to Bungalow 8 with that handsome young redneck that Russell’s publishing. By the time I was fucked-up enough to think about seducing him, he’d disappeared.”
“He does have a roguish, rough-hewn charisma.”
“Then I went to some after-hours place where some fan boy tried to seduce me, but even as drunk
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