Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [127]
Wendy shrugged. “No especially complex reasons, I don’t think. I had a perfectly normal childhood. Great parents, lots of kids around. I’m not ‘damaged’ or anything like that, I don’t think. I don’t not like babies, don’t get me wrong. Or children. In fact, I prefer children to babies. You can talk to them. Babies always frightened me a bit, to be honest. I once asked a friend of mine, who had a couple of kids, why she’d done it, and when I got her to stop going on about how wonderful it is, and how precious, and all that bollocks, she shrugged and said, ‘What about when you’re old—aren’t you worried you’ll be lonely?’ That just didn’t strike me as the best reason in the world to do it. I’m sure it’s not true for everyone, but it really made me think. I wonder why people do do it. Change everything, I mean. It’s just…well, I suppose I think that my life is pretty great without them. I’ve always loved my freedom. I love to please myself—selfish bugger, probably. Not be tied down. I’ve got no desire to spend my life exaggerating my kids’ achievements, covered in stains, with a handbag full of Wet Ones and tiny boxes of raisins.” She’d obviously thought about this.
“But you’ve got married.”
“Yes, true, but to someone who, it turns out, thinks just like me.”
“You’re lucky.”
Wendy narrowed her eyes and stared intently at Jennifer.
“And you? You’ve had the world according to me, whether you wanted it or not. What about you and your fella?”
“I’m not sure my husband thinks just like me. I used to think he did, but now…”
“You’re not so sure?”
“I’m not.”
“About babies?”
“About everything.”
Wendy waited to see if she was going to continue.
“And about babies. He really wants them.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“See—the danger years. Told you.”
Jennifer laughed. “That’s no answer.”
“No. Don’t think I can come up with an answer, my love. I’m not a card-carrying member of the antibaby club. That’s just me. And my fella, lucky for me. Seems to me, you’ve got to think whether you don’t want babies at all, or you don’t want babies with him. And I don’t mean to sound like the time police, and you’d be entitled to tell me it’s none of my bloody business, and you wouldn’t be the first, but I’ve never thought much of small talk. I’d rather have big talk. But you’ve got to do it soon. If it’s yes to babies but no to babies with him, you’ve got to give both of you a chance, haven’t you?”
Jennifer had a sudden image of Stephen with someone else’s children. It was a new thought for her, and a very peculiar one.
“You’re too clever for your own good.”
“Ah! See! Babies haven’t sucked my brain out through my boobs, that’s why.” Jennifer winced, but Wendy looked unrepentant. “Can’t ski for toffee though, can I?” She laughed.
Jennifer had never had a conversation like that with anyone else, not about Stephen. Not with Lisa, nor with Mum, although she had sensed, a few times, that her mother was trying to lead her that way, and she’d panicked and drawn the conversation elsewhere. She had never really understood why she hadn’t wanted to admit these things to her mum, admit failure. It wasn’t as if her life had been perfect. Bloody hell—who even knew, until Amanda’s letter—how imperfect a person she’d been. She didn’t know where the foolish pride came from. She was surprised that Wendy didn’t offend her, to be honest. But maybe it was the ephemeral quality of their relationship that made it okay, the fact that she’d probably never see her again. Or maybe she was just that desperate.
The next day was their last lesson together. Wendy was leaving that night, on the snow train. They got down a blue run with a red patch halfway down without falling once, yelling with triumph, and hugging a startled Justin at the bottom. As they parted, exchanging e-mail addresses neither of them really believed they would ever use, Wendy held her close for a minute and wished her luck.
“Think about it this way,” she said, “and see if it helps…imagine he’s not here anymore. Be as melodramatic or as low key