Separation Anxiety

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Separation Anxiety Page 13

by Laura Zigman


  It was Gary’s idea to stop socializing as a couple—for the simple reason that we weren’t a couple anymore—wasn’t that what separation was all about?—so the idea of having to socialize with Sari and her husband is making me nervous. Not only are we out of practice, but it’s also entirely possible that given Gary’s recent truth-bomb of telling me about his fling with the young CEO and the stress of the trip, we could make a scene. It’s entirely possible that the center will not hold.

  * * *

  “Tell me again how you know Sari?” Gary asks. We’re at a Dunkin’ Donuts, drinking coffee, eating Munchkins, taking a break to strategize and recalculate.

  “Sari Epstein,” I correct.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you just said ‘Sari.’ But you have to say her first and last name. Sari Epstein.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s one of those people where you have to say both names.”

  He rolls his eyes—okay. Anyway—then repeats his question.

  “She’s a really successful creativity expert.”

  “Define ‘successful’ and ‘expert,’” he says while I glare at him. “Does she have a TV show?”

  “No.”

  “Has she won awards?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Bestsellers?”

  I shrug. “She’s never written a book. Unless you count coloring books.”

  Gary stares at me. “Then how is she so successful?”

  “She has a podcast.”

  He snorts. “Everyone has a podcast.”

  “And she’s on social media. She has really big Twitter and Instagram followings that focus on authenticity and courage and how to unlock the creative spirit.”

  Gary’s eyes glaze over. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “It’s not. She’s really pretty and really smart and totally committed to what she does. I could learn a lot from her.”

  He looks at me with mild disgust and a tinge of intrigue. “Maybe you guys should get a room.”

  “Maybe we will.”

  “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  “Maybe you won’t be invited.”

  We each have another Munchkin.

  “So what kind of a name is ‘Sorry’?”

  “It’s ‘Sari.’ S-A-R-I. Like the traditional Indian dress.”

  “Well, it sounds like ‘sorry.’ The traditional English apology word.” He laughs at his own dad-joke, which, I try, but fail, not to laugh at, too. “Is she from India?”

  I stare at him like he has a bird on his head. “She’s from Long Island. And, like I said, she’s really really pretty. Except for the forehead thing.”

  “What forehead thing?”

  “Glenn is obsessed with the fact that she has a giant forehead.”

  “She knows Sorry, too?”

  I explain that she doesn’t know Sari Epstein in real life either—that she’s just seen pictures of her on social media. “And it’s not just that she has a giant forehead: it’s that she has a giant forehead and wears her hair parted in the middle, making her giant forehead even bigger.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Wearing her hair parted on the side, or with bangs, either of which would minimize the giant forehead instead of strangely emphasizing it.”

  “I bet that’s the real reason you’re going. Because she’s obsessed with someone’s giant forehead.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Anything for Glenn.” We both laugh, then, thinking the same thing, stop abruptly. “God, what are we going to do without her?”

  Our smiles fade and we both sigh heavily, then look away, drinking our coffee, poking at the box of picked-over doughnut holes, inexplicably stale so early in the day. He gathers our trash, then nudges my foot under the table.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  I check my phone and see that Sari Epstein has responded to my text, which I share with Gary:

  We can put you up here in our incredible guest quarters. And we promise not to look at you like you have a bird on your head!

  * * *

  I’ve never heard anyone brag about their own guest quarters—or even call their guest room guest quarters—and it’s unclear if they’re going to put us up for free or charge us for our stay, but I’m so flattered that she references my book—that she knows who I am—that I Google “expensive florists near me” as we head toward Woodstock. It’s clear we’re going to need to show up with a very special hostess gift.

  An hour later I’m leaving a place called Mattahorn, where I easily drop $150 in under ten minutes, despite Gary’s pleas to get something small. But since I don’t want to appear cheap, especially in light of these allegedly incredible guest quarters, I opt for a giant orchid, the biggest one they have, which is now even bigger wrapped for transport and gift-giving in a cellophane-pod tied at the top with green grosgrain ribbon (the salesgirl, in fact, had to jump up onto the shop’s sleek cement counters, ducking her head under the halogen lamps and plant misters, to staple the wrapping shut and tie the bow).

  It’s also almost impossible to carry, now that the wind has picked up and Gary is circling for a parking space. Waiting for him on the sidewalk, I feel like I’m windsurfing and that with one more strong gust I could end up airborne. When Gary comes around the corner and spots me, he pulls up and I open the trunk, but we quickly realize that the orchid won’t fit upright in the trunk (too tall) or lie flat in the back (too delicate). The only way to get it to Sari Epstein’s is to open the sunroof and drive with the plant sticking way out of the top of the car, like a scene out of a Dr. Seuss movie.

  “Seriously?” Gary says, staring at the giant orchid. He’s surprised but not surprised.

  “That’s all they had,” I lie.

  Gary looks at me, shakes his head. “See, this is why we’re broke.”

  “No, we’re broke because I’m taking a weekend writing seminar with a creativity specialist to help me get unblocked so I can get my career back so we won’t be broke anymore.”

  “Is that what Glenn says?”

  “That’s what I say.”

  “I’d rather know what she says.”

  I hand him my phone. “Then ask her yourself.”

  He snaps a picture of the plant sticking out of the sunroof and texts it to her with the caption Hostess gift.

  Seconds later, Glenn replies with a string of emojis—hands clapping, hearts beating, champagne glasses, dogs, unicorns, balloons—and then another text arrives with just one emoji.

  I show it to Gary before he pulls out into traffic. “It’s for you.”

  The Sleepover

  Sari Epstein’s house—a low-slung expansive midcentury ranch—sprawls atop a gently rolling hill, all white and glass and steel under a cloudy, gunmetal autumn sky—but the long driveway is blocked by huge shrubs, each wrapped in burlap and trussed like rib roasts. Confused, Gary slows, then parks on the side of the road. We get out of the car and stretch, then he gets our bags out while I crawl into the backseat to carefully extricate the orchid.

  It’s a hike up the long driveway to the front door, and we don’t suffer it in silence—there’s eye-rolling and sighing and even a grunt or two as I struggle with the plant swaying in my arms. We would have never lasted a week at Plimoth Plantation or on the American Frontier, I think, as I shift the weight of the plant from one hip to the other. Gary looks at me and shakes his head. “If it’s not the dog, it’s a giant orchid.” He’s right. What is it with me and giant barriers to the world?

  When we finally reach the door, we freeze. This has happened before to us—whenever we arrive somewhere, usually for dinner years ago, there would always be the tempting moment to forgo the knock; to back away silently from the door, to return to the car—the desire to leave before arriving has always been strong. Back when we were still in love it was because we preferred our own company to that of others; now it’s that being with others makes us feel worse than being alone
.

  My finger hovers over the doorbell. For the first time since I hatched this plan and we started executing it I’m realizing the full scope of the stupidity of what we’re doing.

  “Whose idea was this again?” I say, with a lame little laugh. I should apologize now to get it out of the way, but I just can’t. Not yet. “What if we hate them?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what if’? Of course we’ll hate them.”

  I try to shake off the dread. “It’s only two nights, right?”

  “Unless we leave early.”

  We both try to laugh but can’t.

  “What’s his name again?” Gary asks.

  “I forget.”

  “Hers is Sari. Sari, Sari, Sari.” He practices as his finger slowly heads for the doorbell and presses it.

  “At least this absurdity will be an icebreaker,” I say, trying to get my face around the cellophane on the plant.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. When the door finally opens all four of us freeze. I’m trying to get past my shock and awe at actually seeing Sari Epstein in person after only seeing her on my phone screen all this time—and trying to gauge, for Glenn, whether or not her forehead really is as prominent as it seems (it is), until finally we all awkwardly wave and start talking and shaking hands. Sari and her husband are probably trying to figure out how they got roped into housing us the night before a retreat.

  “Gary,” Gary says.

  “Gregory.”

  “My wife, Judy,” Gary says, turning to me, and then to Sari. “And you must be Sorry.”

  “‘Sari,’” Gregory corrects.

  Gary stiffens. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “No. You said ‘Sorry.’”

  “Sorry!” he says, without a trace of sincerity, until my elbow hits his rib and he tries again. “That must happen all the time. The Sari-Sorry thing.”

  Gregory sniffs humorlessly. “Actually, it doesn’t.”

  I wait for Sari to give Gregory a similar elbow to the ribs—we’re wives, after all, trying to make our dudes behave in an uncomfortable social situation—but she barely seems to register the tension. You’d think she’d pretend then. Doesn’t she want me to like her?

  Gary and I look at each other, then at the birds on both our heads. I push the orchid plant on Sari, harder than I intend to. Then, too loudly, I blurt: “Thanks so much for inviting us even though you didn’t actually invite us since we invited ourselves! Sorry about that!”

  Sari Epstein’s face finally registers an expression. I think she’s overwhelmed, but it might just be Botox. Whatever the cause of her placid expression, she seems to be struggling under the weight of the plant, which is understandable: it’s almost twice as big as she is. As am I. How can she be so small? Are her bones actually smaller than mine or do they just seem that way? Does she buy her clothes at Gap Kids or Janie and Jack?

  Finally, she speaks with the breathless, practiced gratitude of the professional guru. “Thank you,” she says, adding the flourish of a bowed head. “Orchids are my favorite.”

  An opening. I lunge for it as if my life depends on it. Which it does. “We wanted to make up for the fact that we forced ourselves on you. Especially on the night before the start of the retreat when you probably have a million things to do.”

  “A million things,” Gregory says.

  I ignore him. “The woman wrapping it actually had to jump up on the counter with a staple gun because it was so big!” I mime the scene, pretending my arms over my head are the two big flaps of cellophane, and my hands opening and closing quickly are the staple gun.

  No one’s laughing. Gary and I exchange looks. We want to die. “Then we drove with it sticking out of the sunroof!” Gary adds, joining the ill-fated pantomime, his entire torso becoming the plant swaying in the wind.

  Still nothing. My fake smile fades to panic, as does Gary’s—we are so fucked—but Sari Epstein barely seems to notice. Is she dead? Does she have a pulse? She turns around and pads down the slate floor toward a huge open kitchen. “Gregory will show your husband to the guest suite,” she says, having so clearly already forgotten Gary’s name. “It’s over the car-barn.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Sari hand-hugs a mug of tea while looking out the window over the sink. Vast fields roll as far as the eye can see. I think of our own tiny yard at home, with the previous owner’s compost heap we never got rid of and the lawn we never graded and seeded and cover instead every year with cheap dark mulch. I force myself to compliment her, when really I’m wondering how they can afford such a spread.

  “So this is all yours!” I say, my voice lilting a little at the end, but you can’t disguise jealousy. My tone is brittle and forced, and I’m pissed that I feel less than her in the midst of her affluence.

  “My coloring books and workshops and private coaching do really well, so Gregory and I—he’s a sculptor—get to do what we want to creatively. Everything changes when art becomes about money.”

  “Everything!” I’m trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

  “It must be the same for you, right? Your Bird book was a bestseller and the animated series didn’t hurt.”

  “It certainly did not hurt!”

  “See? I know who you are.” It’s like she’s reading my mind already, and I can’t help but be slightly awed and flattered again. “Just because you disappeared creatively doesn’t mean your fans did. There are lots of us waiting for your next oeuvre.”

  I cringe. She just misused oeuvre. How is that possible? Is Gary right about this whole thing being total bullshit? I nod and try to follow her continued gaze out the window.

  “And yet, for all my success,” she says with ethereal self-absorption, “it’s still a struggle. I think writing is the hardest job in the world.”

  “Posting, you mean.” Confused, I blink. I’m thinking about the tiny Instagram paragraphs she writes under her daily meditation and yoga selfies and how not hard they are. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re even harder to compose than actual writing.

  “Posting is writing.”

  “On a small scale.”

  “Whatever the scale, skill is still required. And effort. And it’s the hardest thing I do.”

  My $895 is already gone, so I decide to stop fighting. “The hardest.” I relent. I’m all in.

  “Harder than working in a mine.”

  “So much harder.”

  “Or digging ditches.”

  I shrug. “They’re just big holes!”

  The back door opens and a woman in chef whites enters the kitchen. “Andy will get dinner ready while we go into town, Judy,” Sari says, putting her cup down on the counter. “I’ll show you around and we’ll pick up some wine and cheese.”

  Andy has chin-length violet-silver hair, a pierced lip, and a full sleeve of tattoos on both bare arms. She looks at Sari and then at me with sadness, then pity. It takes me a few seconds to realize that we are too ridiculous to even bother hating. I blink in horror. I have crossed a line I never even knew existed. I want desperately to disappear.

  “Thank you, Andy!” I say, gushing. Then, as if that’s not weird enough, I wave and walk toward her with my hand extended. “Hi! I’m Judy!”

  Andy looks at my hand like it has a bird on its head. “Judy. Chill,” she says calmly, before heading toward the refrigerator.

  * * *

  Sari and I get into a huge SUV—the kind you have to actually step up and hoist yourself into—so that we can go into town to buy wine and cheese. She backs out and drives all the way down the lawn to the road, passing our car.

  “Sorry you had to park so far from the house. We had a muddy thaw.” She shrugs with faux frustration. “Country living.”

  “It was good exercise.”

  “That’s why it’ll be great to start yoga this weekend. It changed my life. I’ve cut my Xanax in half.”

  “I know,” I say. “You posted a lot about that last year.”

&
nbsp; She ignores me. “So I never did ask you what you’re working on now.”

  I shrug. “Work.”

  Sari looks confused.

  “I have a day job,” I explain. “I write for a health and wellness site.” I tell her a little bit about Well/er—the founding bro-dudes, how young everyone is, how I get my inspiration for “researched” pieces from my everyday life. “Maybe I’ll write about this trip!” (“Is country living actually like chicken soup for the soul?” “The science behind how a daily walk in nature can boost the quality and quantity of your creative output.”)

  “Creating isn’t work for me.” Sari sniffs. “Creating is my life’s work. There’s a difference.”

  Sari pulls the SUV into a gravel lot in front of a slate sign hanging from a lamppost: VERMONT COUNTRY PROVISIONS. We jump down out of the car and pad across the gravel, her clogs digging in with each step. Inside the dimly lit shop with sawdust on the wide-plank floors, multiple blackboards show cheese and wine specials written out in colored chalk, while wealthy weekenders fondle delicately wrapped hunks of triple-crème from local dairies and artisanal crackers. If Gary were here he’d tell me it smells like feet. Though we have been apart for less than an hour, I miss him desperately.

  Sari puts a few things in her hand basket—two bottles of light pink wine; a tiny log of herbed goat cheese; and a small container of olives—and just as we turn toward the front of the store to pay, I see Gary and Gregory coming in. I now know the true meaning of the gratitude Sari is always tweeting about.

 

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