Where'd You Go, Bernadette

by Maria Semple

  We parked illegally, and Mom swanned across the Commons carrying the take-out bags, with me at her heels. We entered Dad’s building. Looming above the receptionist was a jumbo digital clock that counted down:

  119 DAYS

  2 HOURS

  44 MINUTES

  33 SECONDS

  “That’s what they call a ship clock,” Mom explained. “It’s how long until Samantha 2 ships. They put it up as motivation. No comment.”

  The same clock was in the elevator, the hallways, and even the bathrooms. It ticked down that whole meal in Dad’s office, where we sat on the inflatable balls he uses instead of chairs, our take-out containers wobbling precariously on our knees. I was telling them about all the different kinds of penguins we were going to see on the trip.

  “You want to know the coolest part?” Mom chimed in. “There isn’t assigned seating at the dining room, and they have tables for four. That means the three of us can sit down and if we pile the extra chair with our gloves and hats, nobody can sit with us!”

  Dad and I looked at each other, like, Is she joking?

  “And penguins,” Mom quickly added. “I’m wildly excited about all those penguins.”

  Dad must have told everyone we were coming, because people kept walking by and peeking through the glass, but acting like they weren’t, which is what it must feel like to be famous.

  “I wish this was more of a celebration,” Dad said, glancing at his email. “But I have a video conference with Taipei.”

  “That’s OK, Dad,” I said. “You’re busy.”

  *

  From Dad

  Dear Ms. Loundes,

  First off, we’re thrilled that Bee has been accepted to Choate. While I’m an Exonian myself, my wife, Bernadette, always said her happiest days were spent at Choate, and Bee has wanted to attend ever since she was a little girl.

  Secondly, thank you for the kind words about Bee. We agree, she’s extraordinary. However, we are strenuously opposed to her skipping a grade.

  I have just looked over her application, and I realize there is no way you would know the essential fact about Bee: she was born with a heart defect, which required a half-dozen surgeries. As a result, she spent her first five years on and off at Seattle Children’s Hospital.

  Bee entered kindergarten on schedule, even though her little body was having difficulty keeping up. (She was in the zero percentile for height and weight during this time; she is still struggling to catch up, as you saw for yourself.) Yet her profound intelligence was already making itself known. Teachers encouraged us to get Bee tested. Really, though, Bernadette and I had no interest in the gifted-child industry. Perhaps because we both went to prep school and Ivy League universities ourselves, we did not fetishize them like other Seattle parents. Our primary concern was that our daughter know a modicum of normalcy after the sickening circumstances of her first five years.

  It was a decision that has richly benefited Bee. We found a wonderful neighborhood school, Galer Street. Sure, Bee was “ahead” of the other kids in her class. In response, she took it upon herself to teach the slower kids to read and write. To this day, Bee stays after school and helps in homework lab. She didn’t mention that on her application, either.

  Choate has marvelous facilities. I’m certain Bee will find more than enough to keep her from “growing bored.”

  While we’re on the subject, please indulge me while I tell you the story of the first and last time Bee ever claimed she was bored. Bernadette and I were driving Bee and a friend, both preschoolers, to a birthday party. There was traffic. Grace said, “I’m bored.”

  “Yeah,” Bee mimicked, “I’m bored.”

  Bernadette pulled the car over, took off her seat belt, and turned around. “That’s right,” she told the girls. “You’re bored. And I’m going to let you in on a little secret about life. You think it’s boring now? Well, it only gets more boring. The sooner you learn it’s on you to make life interesting, the better off you’ll be.”

  “OK,” Bee said quietly. Grace burst into tears and never had a playdate with us again. It was the first and last time Bee ever said she was bored.

  We look forward to meeting you in the fall, when Bee arrives with her fellow third formers.

  Sincerely,

  Elgin Branch

  *

  I am not sick! I was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome, OK? It’s a congenital condition where the mitral valve, left ventricle, aortic valve, and aorta don’t develop completely and which required me to have three open-heart surgeries plus three more because of complications. The last surgery was when I was five. I know I’m supposed to be so smart, but guess what? I don’t remember any of it! And double-guess what? I’m totally fine now, and have been for nine and a half years. Just take a time-out and ponder that. For two-thirds of my life I’ve been totally normal.

  Mom and Dad bring me back to Children’s every year for an echocardiogram and X rays that even the cardiologist rolls her eyes at because I don’t need them. Walking through the halls, Mom is always, like, having a Vietnam flashback. We’ll pass some random piece of art hanging on the wall and she’ll grab onto a chair and say, Oh, God, that Milton Avery poster. Or, gulping a big breath, That ficus tree had origami cranes hanging on it that awful Christmas. And then she’ll close her eyes while everyone just stands there, and Dad hugs her really tight, tears flooding his eyes, too.

  All the doctors and nurses come out of their offices hailing me like the conquering hero, and the whole time I’m thinking, Why? They show me pictures of when I was a baby tucked into the hospital bed wearing a little cap, like I’m supposed to remember it. I don’t even know what the point of any of it is besides I’m totally fine now.

  The only thing now is I’m short and don’t have breasts, which is annoying. Plus my asthma. Lots of doctors said I could have asthma even if I was born with a good heart. It doesn’t keep me from doing anything like dancing or playing the flute. I don’t have the thing where you wheeze. I have the even grosser thing where any time I get sick, even if it’s a stomach virus, it’s followed by two weeks of disgusting phlegm, which I have no choice but to cough up. I’m not saying it’s the most pleasant thing to be sitting across from, but if you care about how it feels to me, I’ll tell you that I barely notice it.

  The nurse at school, Mrs. Webb, is totally ridiculous the way she’s obsessed with my cough. I swear, on the last day of school I want to pretend to drop dead in her office just to freak her out. I seriously think that every day Mrs. Webb leaves Galer Street and it’s a day I didn’t die on her watch, she feels this soaring relief.

  I’m totally off-task. Why did I even start writing all this? Oh, yeah. I’m not sick!

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 2

  From: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

  To: Audrey Griffin

  You have been very dear not to ask me how the Microsoft town hall went. I’m sure you’re dying to know if I was a casualty of the epic downsizing that has been all over the papers.

  This was a top-to-bottom RIF, a ten percent haircut. In the old days, a reorg meant a hiring spree. Now it means layoffs. As I might have told you, my project was about to be canceled, and my PM got a little unhinged and flamed half of Microsoft. I maniacally checked meeting room reservations and the jobs website, trying to glean something about my future. Our top people landed at Windows Phone and Bing. When I tried to get answers from my PM about me, all I received in response was eerie silence.

  Then, yesterday afternoon, I got pinged by an HR rep who wanted to see me in the meeting room down the hall the next day. (I had seen that appointment. I had no idea it was for me!)

  Before I got out the teapot and threw myself a pity party, I dropped everything and found the nearest Victims Against Victimhood meeting, which helped enormously. (I know you’re a huge skeptic when it comes to VAV, but they are my rock.)

  I drove myself to work this morning because I didn’t want the added indignity of having to load a bunch of b
oxes onto the Connector. I showed up in the meeting room, where the HR woman calmly informed me that our entire team, except for those who already left for Bing and Windows Phone, were being RIFed.

  “However,” she said, “you rank so well that we’d like to assign you to a special project located in Studio C.”

  Audrey, I just about fell over. Studio C is on the new Studio West campus, and their work is the most high profile at Microsoft. Good news: I’m getting promoted! Bad news: the new product I’m working on is in high gear, and I’ll be expected to work weekends. It’s a hush-hush project. I don’t even know its name yet. Bad news: I may not be able to make the Prospective Parent Brunch. Good news: I’ll definitely be able to pay for the food.

  Talk soon, and go Huskies!

  *

  From: Ollie-O

  To: Prospective Parent Brunch Committee

  REAL-TIME FLASH!

  We’re up to 60 RSVPs! I’m just throwing out some fertilizer, but: Pearl Jam. I hear they’ve got kids entering kindergarten. If we get one of them—it doesn’t have to be the singer—I can grow it.

  *

  From: Audrey Griffin

  To: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

  Great news about the promotion! I’ll gladly take you up on your offer to pay for the food. I still have enough green tomatoes in the greenhouse to fry up for appetizers, plus dill, parsley, and cilantro for aioli. I’ve stored two bushels of apples and want to make my rosemary tarte tatin for dessert. For the main course, how about we get that traveling pizza oven to cater? They can set up in the backyard, which frees up my kitchen.

  Ollie-O was right about buzz being “viral.” Today at Whole Foods, a woman I didn’t even recognize recognized me and said she was looking forward to my brunch. Judging from the contents of her shopping cart—imported cheese, organic raspberries, fruit wash spray—she is the exact quality of parent we need at Galer Street. I saw her in the parking lot. She was driving a Lexus. Not a Mercedes, but close enough!

  Did you hear? Shipping a sick child off to boarding school! Why am I not surprised?

  *

  That day, I had a hall pass because our music teacher, Mr. Kangana, asked me to accompany the first graders for the song they were performing for World Celebration Day, and he needed me for rehearsal. I was at my locker getting my flute, and who did I run into, but Audrey Griffin. She was hanging some prayer rugs the third graders had woven for the art auction.

  “I hear you’re going to boarding school,” she said. “Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine,” I said.

  “I could never send Kyle to boarding school,” Audrey said.

  “I guess you love Kyle more than my mom loves me,” I said, and played my flute as I skipped down the hall.

  *

  From: Manjula Kapoor

  To: Bernadette Fox

  Dear Ms. Fox,

  I have researched medicines for motion sickness. The strongest remedy available by prescription in the U.S. is called ABHR transdermal cream. It is a composite of Ativan, Benadryl, Haldol, and Reglan, formulated into a cream for topical application. It was devised by NASA to administer to the cosmonauts to combat motion sickness in outer space. It has since been embraced by the hospice community to use on terminally ill cancer patients. It would be my sincere pleasure to send you links to various message boards that sing the high praise of ABHR cream. However, I must warn you, there are accompanying photographs of gravely ill patients, which you may find disturbing. I have taken the initiative to research the obtainment of ABHR cream. It is available only through “compound pharmacies.” We do not have these in India. Apparently, they are widely used in the U.S. I have found a doctor who will call in a prescription. Please advise me how you wish to proceed.

  Warm regards,

  Manjula

  *

  To: Manjula Kapoor

  From: Bernadette Fox

  If it’s good enough for astronauts and cancer patients, it’s good enough for me! Call it in!

  *

  Note from Audrey Griffin

  Tom,

  Here’s the check for your past work. To confirm, we’ll meet at my place Monday afternoon and pop up the hill to the house with the blackberry bushes. I understand your hesitation about entering the neighbor’s property uninvited. But I know for a fact nobody will be there.

  *

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 6

  That day, we had art sixth period, and I had gunk in my throat, so I stepped into the hall to spit it in the water fountain, which is what I always did when I was in art. Who turned the corner as I was hawking it up? Mrs. Webb, the nurse. She got all panicked that I was spreading germs, which I tried to explain I wasn’t, because white phlegm is dead germs. Ask a real doctor and not some office administrator whose only justification for calling herself a nurse isn’t nursing school but a box of Band-Aids she keeps in her desk.

  “I’ll get my backpack,” I grumbled.

  I’d like to point out that Mr. Levy, my biology and homeroom teacher, has a daughter who has viral-induced asthma like me, and she plays travel hockey, so he knows my cough is no big deal. In a million years he would never send me to Mrs. Webb’s office. When I get gunk in my throat, it’s easy to tell because I’ll be answering a question and my voice will start cutting out like a bad cell-phone connection. Mr. Levy will do this thing where he passes me a tissue behind his back. Mr. Levy is really funny. He lets the turtles walk around the classroom, and once he brought in liquid nitrogen and started freezing our uneaten lunch.

  I didn’t feel that bad about Mom having to pick me up early, because it was already sixth period. The thing I mainly felt bad about was that I wouldn’t get to tutor at homework lab. The fourth graders were doing a debate, and I was helping them prepare. Their class was studying China, and the debate was going to be pro and con Chinese occupation of Tibet. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Galer Street is so ridiculous that it goes beyond PC and turns back in on itself to the point where fourth graders are actually having to debate the advantages of China’s genocide of the Tibetan people, not to mention the equally devastating cultural genocide. I wanted them to say that one of the pros was that Chinese occupation is helping with the world food shortage because there are fewer Tibetan mouths to feed. But Mr. Lotterstein overheard me and told me I’d better not dare.

  There I was, sitting on the overpass steps in the rain. (We weren’t allowed to wait in the office ever since Kyle Griffin was sent there one day, and when nobody was looking he went through the Galer Street directory and started calling all the parents from the main office number. So when the parents looked at their cell phones, it said there was an incoming call from Galer Street. They’d answer, and Kyle screamed, “There’s been an accident!” and hung up. From then on, all the kids had to wait outside.) Mom drove up. She didn’t even ask how I was because she knows Mrs. Webb is totally annoying. On the drive home, I started playing my new flute. Mom never lets me play in the car because she’s afraid someone might crash into us and my flute will impale me into the seat. I find that ridiculous, because how could that even happen?

  “Bee—” Mom said.

  “I know, I know.” I put the flute away.

  “No,” Mom said. “Is that new? I’ve never seen it before.”

  “It’s a Japanese flute called a shakuhachi. Mr. Kangana lent it to me from his collection. The first graders are going to sing for the parents on World Celebration Day and I’m going to accompany them. Last week, I went to rehearse, and they were just standing there singing. It was my idea they should do a little elephant dance, so I get to choreograph it.”

  “I didn’t know you’re choreographing a dance for the first graders.” Mom said. “That’s a huge deal, Bee.”

  “Not really.”

  “You need to tell me these things. Can I come?”

  “I’m not sure when it is.” I knew she didn’t like coming to school, and probably wouldn’t, so why pretend.

  We got home, and I went up t
o my room, and Mom did what she always did, which was go out to the Petit Trianon.

  I don’t think I’ve mentioned the Petit Trianon yet. Mom likes to get out of the house during the day, especially because Norma and her sister come to clean, and they talk really loudly to each other from room to room. Plus the gardeners come inside to weed-whack. So Mom got an Airstream trailer and had a crane lower it into the backyard. It’s where her computer is, and where she spends most of her time. I was the one who named it the Petit Trianon, after Marie Antoinette, who had a whole mini-estate built at Versailles, where she could go when she needed a break from Versailles.

  So that’s where Mom was, and I was upstairs starting my homework, when Ice Cream began barking.

  From the backyard, I heard Mom’s voice. “Can I help you with something?” she said, all dripping with sarcasm.

  There was an idiotic little shriek.

  I went to the window. Mom was standing on the lawn with Audrey Griffin and some guy in boots and overalls.

  “I didn’t think you would be home,” Audrey sputtered.

  “Apparently.” Mom’s voice was superbitchy. It was pretty funny.

  Audrey started short-circuiting about our blackberry bushes and her organic garden and the guy who had a friend with a special machine and something that needed to get done this week. Mom just listened, which made Audrey talk even faster.

  “I’ll be happy to hire Tom to remove my blackberry bushes,” Mom finally said. “Do you have a card?” A long painful silence as the guy searched his pockets.

  “It seems like we’re done,” Mom said to Audrey. “So why don’t you go back through the same hole in the fence you crawled in, and keep out of my cabbage patch.” She spun around and marched back into the Petit Trianon and shut the door.