Minus Me

by Mameve Medwed

  “Oh, yes,” Annie agrees. She used to skate with Sam, back in high school when they flooded the old fairgrounds parking lot; they were both good skaters, evenly matched, gliding along, hands around each other’s waists, the loudspeakers blasting out tinny golden oldies whose lyrics seemed both utterly profound and intended only for them: “Love Makes The World Go Round,” “Love Me Tender,” “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” Later, they shared hot cocoa behind the creaky carousal while Sam warmed her mittened hands between his own. “Isn’t this great?” he marveled.

  Everything will be great again, she consoles herself now. Once she’s back. This surprising new lease on her life will make her marriage even better than before. Maybe they should renew their vows, have a party to celebrate, rent out city hall … She pictures champagne and mini Bunyan hors d’oeuvres, their toothpicks more tightly secured. And a gooey multitiered cake.

  “Isn’t this great?” Ursula exclaims, interrupting Annie’s reveries. They are standing at the rink’s rim, the whole skyline of New York City stretching before them. Down below, crowds weave in and out, some skaters clinging to the side walls, some swirling around with the grace of the professionals in the Ice Capades, which performs at the Passamaquoddy arena every January. A lithe woman executes an axel jump. A young man grabs her and waltzes her across the frozen floor. “Yesterday” plays from the loudspeakers. Annie lifts up her cell phone to take a picture to send to Sam.

  A little girl squeezes in beside them. An adorable, rosy-cheeked moppet, perhaps four or five. She’s bundled into a velvet-collared red coat with matching leggings, like a nineteenth-century portrait come to life. “Mummy, I can see,” she calls.

  “That’s terrific, Annie.”

  Annie spins around. A woman directly behind her is patting the back of a sleeping infant snuggled into a BabyBjörn pouch. Annie has one packed away, still in its unopened cardboard box. “Just be careful. Don’t bother the people next to you,” the child’s mother instructs.

  “She’s no bother,” Annie insists. She kneels down next to the little girl. “You know what?” she says. “My name is Annie too.”

  The little girl’s eyes widen in amazement. “It is?”

  Annie nods. She smiles at the mother, who smiles back at her, unconcerned, it seems, about strangers who could be potential kidnappers or pedophiles. Maybe she recognizes Ursula and assumes such an eminent person would be above suspicion—despite, in the way of sophisticated Manhattanites, never acknowledging Ursula’s People-magazine celebrity.

  “I have a little sister,” young Annie informs her.

  “So I see. What is her name?”

  “Esmé. After a story.”

  “I’ve read that story.”

  “I’m named after someone too. My grandmother. She’s really Ann.”

  Annie leans forward. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispers. “I’m really Arabella.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Isn’t it? I much prefer Annie.”

  “I’m going to take skating lessons next week. I think I will be very good at it.”

  “People named Annie are good skaters,” Annie says.

  “I know.” She points to a mound of melting snow. “There’s not enough to make snow angels. Do you like to make snow angels?”

  “I do. Where I come from, Maine, it’s usually so cold and snowy that you can make snow angels for a very long time.”

  “That’s a good place to live.”

  “It is.”

  Just then the baby, Esmé, wails.

  The mother struggles to take her out of the carrier, but the strap catches on her sleeve.

  “Can I help you?” Annie asks.

  “That would be wonderful. Would you mind holding her while I adjust this thing?” She passes the baby to Annie. “Fair warning: she’s a howler.”

  Esmé lives up to her reputation. She howls. Blood-curdling cries that elicit glowers of accusation from the surrounding tourists. The baby’s face turns red, scrunches up; hot tears squeeze out from the corners of her eyes.

  Annie nestles her against her chest. She strokes her back. The baby shudders and quiets down. Annie caresses the velvety cheek, the silky fuzz sticking out from her hood. Esmé sighs, settles her body into Annie’s, and falls asleep.

  “You’re a baby whisperer,” the mother says. “You must have children of your own.”

  Annie nods. What a fraud she is, pretending she’s refined her calming skills on wiggling offspring she’s actually borne. What a demonstration of impostor syndrome. She hugs the baby closer. Is there a purer bliss than snuggling a sleeping infant?

  “Careful,” Ursula comments. “You don’t want to awaken her.” Her eyes on Annie are sharp, assessing, hard to read.

  At last the mother has adjusted the strap. She holds out her arms. It’s not easy for Annie to forfeit the coveted weight of the child and pass her back.

  “Thank you so much,” the mother smiles. “Annie, say good-bye to the nice lady.”

  The little girl turns to Annie. She extends a fluffy angora-gloved hand. “Very nice meeting you,” she says with a half curtsy.

  “Very nice meeting you,” Annie replies.

  “Maybe you can come back sometime and watch me when I really learn how to skate.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Though I don’t think Esmé will be good at it.”

  Annie laughs. “Because she’s not an Annie. Only Annies have all the right moves.”

  * * *

  At the surgeon’s office, Dr. Albright listens to her heart and lungs. He checks her incisions. “Excellent healing,” he grants, adding in a tone of self-congratulation, “the scar is almost invisible.”

  Ursula, who has followed her into the examining room without asking permission, agrees. “You could sew for the best Paris couturiers, James.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he jokes, “if my day job doesn’t pan out.”

  He’s sent Annie for an X-ray, which he now clips to the light board. “Just as I predicted. No evidence of sarcoids. You can stop any medication. No heavy lifting for a month.”

  “A clean bill of health,” Ursula gloats.

  “Clean as the driven snow. I’ll refer you to the pulmonary specialist right down the hall—top man in his field—to make sure all continues to stay well. You should schedule regular checkups every six months at first and then annually.”

  “A perfect excuse to visit me,” Ursula says.

  “I hardly need an excuse.”

  “We’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other—your trips to New York.” She straightens her scarf. “As well as my own excursions to Passamaquoddy …”

  Annie stares. Has she missed something?

  Ursula flutters her lashes, then flashes a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin.

  Annie turns to Dr. Albright. “I assume there are pulmonary specialists in Maine?” she asks.

  Ursula answers for him. “None better or more renowned than right here at this hospital. A truth to which you can surely agree, darling, now that brilliant James has saved your life.”

  “You’re right,” Annie acknowledges. She means it. She is not taking any more risks with her health. She’s sticking with the hospital that saved her. Maybe God can come unbidden, but sometimes you just have to do the bidding yourself.

  “Accordingly, you’ll travel to New York for the specialist and dear Ambrose can take care of any other little problems at home,” Ursula summarizes.

  Home. Now that she’s won the get-out-of-death card, Annie can pass Go, collect her bill of health, and proceed to home.

  “I guess that’s settled, then,” Dr. Albright concludes.

  “I can’t find the words to express …” Annie begins.

  “I’m glad we had such a fine result.” He shakes her hand.

  Annie heads for the door.

  Ursula grabs her elbow in midstep. “Just one more thing …”

  “Yes?” the doctor asks.

  Wit
h no preamble, no gentle paving of the way, no waiver from the party concerned, Ursula announces, “My daughter wishes to have a baby.”

  “Ursula!” Annie exclaims. Astonished and horrified. Embarrassed and appalled. She yanks her arm from her mother’s grasp. “Let’s go.”

  Ursula will not be moved. “She’s had several miscarriages. How many, darling?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Annie mumbles. “Dr. Albright is a lung surgeon.”

  “And one stillbirth. Heartbreaking.” Ursula daubs at her eyes.

  Dr. Albright has already punched numbers on his phone. In Annie’s haze of fury, she can only pick out scattered words and phrases: The Knicks Sunday. A favor. Daughter of Ursula Marichal. Yes, that one. Find time. I owe you.

  “Stanley. Dr. Stanley Feld, fertility specialist, on the twenty-second floor, will see you next week. On the way out, stop at the desk and my nurse will write up an appointment card.”

  * * *

  In the taxi back to Ursula’s apartment, Annie’s mother puts her arm around her. “The nurse informed me that the fertility specialist is booked years in advance,” she crows. “Even Kuwaiti princesses and Olympic medalists have to wait in line.”

  “The power of Ursula Marichal,” Annie says, “to bring people back from the brink of death, to secure them doctor’s appointments beyond the reach of mere mortals or royal personages.”

  “Nonsense,” Ursula protests faux-modestly. “Yet, it is truly amazing how quickly we managed to see James and then this renowned …” She pulls the card from her pocket, not having trusted it to Annie. “This Dr. Feld.”

  “But,” Annie says, “I promised Sam I’d be home in the next couple of days.”

  “Arabella, what’s a little more time away when …?”

  “Not that there’s a chance.”

  “Of course there’s a chance.”

  Annie thinks of Esmé; she can still feel the heft of the child in her arms. Muscle memory. Could this doctor work a miracle?

  “At least tell Sam about this new development,” Ursula urges.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s your marriage, Arabella. Far be it from me to give you advice.”

  “Yes, you’re pretty stingy with your advice,” says Annie. She studies the peppy weather woman on the screen underneath the taxi’s sliding-glass window. A storm coming from the north, the woman announces. She thinks of Sam’s loss-of-baby nervous collapse. “On top of everything else,” she continues, “how cruel to raise Sam’s hopes. And imagine his downward spiral if those hopes get dashed.” She needs to address him face-to-face, analyze that cherished face, then calibrate her words in response to emotions only she can decode. She looks at the map of a snowbound East Coast. “With a little luck, I can plead bad weather.”

  “In my opinion, weather is entirely less reliable than a relapse into bronchitis or pneumonia,” Ursula states.

  Annie leaves a message on their home voice mail when she’s sure Sam will be at work. “It’s me. I won’t be able to get back as soon as I thought,” she says, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Not to worry,” she adds, “but my cold’s taken a turn for the worse. And they’re predicting a storm. I’ll let you know the second I change my ticket. Miss you. Love you.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, he calls her back.

  “Where were you?” she asks.

  “How are you?” he sidesteps, and without waiting for her answer, he continues, “Here’s the plan. Just book the next plane out. It’s only a couple of hours in the air, and I’ll pick you up in Bangor. A little husbandly TLC, and I promise I’ll have you as good as new.”

  Annie’s torn. She wants Sam. She wants to go home. She wants to give in. She wants to give up. Is it selfish to ask for more? Why not be grateful for what she has?

  Yet again, she pictures Esmé and her big sister. How can she not take the chance, no matter the odds? “If only I could,” Annie says, the lies tripping off her tongue with practice-makes-perfect dexterity. “They’re worried about bronchitis,” she explains, then produces a volley of coughs as evidence. “Ursula’s doctor has already made a house call to check me out.”

  “Are you on antibiotics?”

  “Penicillin.”

  “That should solve the problem. In twenty-four hours, you’ll be fit to travel. I’ll come bring you home. This is getting ridiculous.”

  “The doctor doesn’t want me on a plane.”

  “Then we’ll go by car.”

  “To Maine in this weather? Besides, he’s afraid the bronchitis might turn into pneumonia. I need more rest.”

  He shuffles some papers—a calendar? “Okay. In that case, I’ll fly to New York and stay with you. I’m sure I’ll be a better nurse than Ursula.”

  “That’s sweet but unnecessary,” she replies. “You’d be surprised, but I’ve got Ursula waiting on me hand and foot. I think it’s a role she’s really embraced. Why rain on her parade”—she turns coy—“even though I’d pick your particular style of nursing anytime. Besides, you’re busy in the shop.”

  “Screw the shop. Give me the name of Ursula’s doctor. I’ll ask Ambrose to call him and check things out.”

  “Too many cooks. Besides, I could be contagious. I wouldn’t want you to …”

  “For you, I’ll take the risk.”

  “It’s just a few more days, Sam.”

  He sighs. “I’m not going to argue any longer, Annie.”

  As they say good-bye, Annie tries not to dwell on how quickly Sam gave in.

  Chapter Twenty

  Annie’s soaking in Ursula’s yacht of a bathtub, bubbles up to her chin. She’s tried out all of Ursula’s loofahs, her sponges, her boar-bristle brushes, her mitts made of Turkish toweling. Surrounded by steam and heat and unguents whose labels promise all manner of life-changing, body-changing, stress-changing benefits, Annie sighs and sinks deeper into the water. She rubs her scar, which she plans to treat with one of Ursula’s stretch mark–vanishing creams as soon as she climbs out of the bath.

  If only Sam were submerged under these bubbles next to her. In the early days of their marriage, they used to enjoy baths together in a tiny old tub perched crookedly on porcelain claws. Limbs pretzeled, they nonetheless managed feats of acrobatic lovemaking, their contortionist positions guaranteeing giggles, soap-stung eyes, and tailbones bumped against the chipped enamel. Back then, they could occupy a single twin bed, share one desk, watch TV while hammocked into their lone butterfly chair. When did they start to require more acreage: a queen-sized mattress, a vast sofa, his-and-her toiletries?

  It’s hard to ignore the distance between her and Sam, one she can’t blame just on geography. Her texts are answered in monosyllabic okays. As a crackerjack interpreter of symptoms, perhaps he doesn’t believe her fake coughs and contrived croakiness. Is he having more fun with good-sport Rachel than she imagined? Impossible. Perhaps he’s just fed up. What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive, Miss Mullen used to quote in high school English class, citing Sir Walter Scott as the author of lines they assumed Shakespeare had composed. Everything will be okay, Annie concludes. She can untangle that web. She can risk putting her marriage on hold until next week. Afterward, at peace with childlessness, she can return to Passamaquoddy and resume her old life. But now, better to have exhausted all possibilities before her biological clock ticks its last tock.

  She gets out of the tub, dripping onto the bath mat appliqued with Monet’s lily pads. She spreads the stretch mark oil over her scar, a salve that smells surprisingly of licorice. She wraps herself in Ursula’s towels, thick and toasty from their heated rack. It’s time to take action. If good deeds can assuage guilt, she knows what she has to do. In the bedroom, she pulls on jeans and sneakers. She Googles family-run mom-and-pop sandwich shops. She is amazed to find the biggest cluster not in Manhattan but in Greenpoint, a neighborhood unfamiliar but—she checks—easily accessible. She pores over Google maps, studies directions and subway
station charts.

  As soon as she steps out from the hallway, Ursula gazes up from her script. “Darling,” she says, “you look dressed for herding cows.”

  “I’m off on a few errands,” Annie explains. She grabs the cashmere coat from the closet, wishing Ursula hadn’t given away her parka, so better suited to today’s Brooklyn-bound trudging mission in due diligence.

  “Shall I accompany you, Arabella? I can be ready in half an hour.” Ursula folds down the corner of a page. Her voice turns hopeful. “Do your errands include Bergdorf’s?”

  “Greenpoint.”

  “How brave. Never ventured there myself. Isn’t it in an”—Ursula grimaces—“outer borough?”

  “So it seems. I won’t be long.”

  Ursula returns to her page, where she squiggles a few lines in the margin with her gold-tipped lapis lazuli fountain pen. “For such terra incognita, darling, you’d be wise to engage my car service.”

  * * *

  Annie takes the subway. Following her maps and the phone’s GPS, she strolls to 86th Street for the express to Grand Central Station. Schoolchildren in blazers and plaid pleated skirts scamper up and down subway stairs and platforms, trailing backpacks and musical instrument cases. If eight-year-olds can figure this out, there is no reason for a thirtysomething country cousin to be daunted.

  For a second, her eyes alight on a tall, redheaded man waiting on the platform. Her breath catches. Could it be Charles, he of the summer fling all those years ago? Charles who so expertly rid her of her virginity in his downtown loft? The string of what-ifs now parading through her brain is hardly surprising, given her recent tensions with Sam. She remembers the elegant way Charles held a martini. How he could summon a cab with just a nod. But when the man bends his head to his newspaper, Annie notes the unfamiliar profile. Of course not. Besides, after twenty years, she’d never recognize him. The current Charles could have lost his hair, developed a paunch, grown a beard.