Happiness Sold Separately

by Lolly Winston

  “So quit asking me what I want, okay?” Toby whines. He throws his foot out to the side of his chair and pounds the carpet with his heel. “Just quit asking me!”

  A tired-looking woman across a coffee table from them stuffs her knitting into a plastic bag and gets up to leave.

  “Okay.” Gina shushes Toby and tries to draw him to her. “We’re going to talk to the police and then we’re going home.” She dips into her purse. “Here’s two dollars. Go to the vending machines and get yourself something. Candy, whatever you want.” Gina turns to point to a hallway, which is apparently where the vending machines are, and catches Elinor watching them.

  Elinor looks back to her magazine. Toby launches into a full-scale fit, crying and kicking and pounding his fists.

  “You probably think I’m a terrible mother,” Gina says to Elinor. She raises her voice to be heard, but her tone is flat and without emotion.

  Elinor is startled by this candor. She closes the magazine and looks past Gina, out the window at a patch of blue sky pierced by a palm tree. “You probably think I’m a terrible wife.”

  Roger snaps his book shut and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms.

  “What if Dr. Mackey dies?” Toby wails. He drops the money Gina gave him on the floor and doubles over, so that Elinor can no longer see his head.

  “Toby!” Elinor snaps at the boy. “Look at me.” The magazine slides out of her lap and smacks the floor. Toby turns slowly toward her. His face is mottled with red splotches from crying. “Dr. Mackey is going to be fine. The neurologist came and told us so. The MRI was fine.”

  “That’s right,” Gina agrees.

  What do you know! Elinor picks up the magazine. She flips through the pages, trying to maintain her cool, searching for the goofy plastic spiders, which had soothed her nerves a moment ago.

  Toby turns from his mother, crosses his arms on the opposite arm of his chair, and rests his head, crying quietly. Gina rubs circles on his back. They are silent, but connected by Gina’s touch. Elinor can’t blame Toby for melting down. The kid’s been dealt a crappy hand—a single working mother who had an affair with a married man, an unloving father in another state. Elinor’s husband is the number one thing this ten-year-old boy wants in his life. And a ten-year-old boy is probably the number one thing Elinor wants in her life. The truth is, she’s a little afraid of having an infant. She’s never admitted this to anyone. Not even Kat. She’s afraid she might not be qualified to handle something so fragile, afraid of the sleep-deprivation crazies. Afraid she’ll fail at breast-feeding. Afraid she’ll do a bad job in Ted’s eyes. Yet she can’t wait to have a child in elementary school. Someone to decorate the Halloween cupcakes with. If, as Kat did, she had to make cupcakes for her kids’ school, she’d try to get her kids to decorate them with her. Their cupcakes wouldn’t be nearly as neat as the ones in the magazine. Theirs would be crazier, messier, more fun. She wants to be more fun. She supposes there’s a difference between being funny and fun. Gina is probably fun. Sex, weed, stir-fries, accommodating yoga poses. Elinor is funny, but lately she hasn’t been much fun.

  The detective emerges from Ted’s hospital room. He speaks to Gina, Roger, and Elinor individually, then to all of them at once, in a semicircle around the coffee table. He has an inky black mustache, and Elinor licks her upper lip, remembering the sensation of Noah’s mustache. While he’s probably seen it all, the detective seems impressed by the details of the afternoon as he repeats them: Elinor encouraged Roger to contact Gina to tutor Toby, who told Ted to go to the mall to meet Stan, only there is no Stan, but there’s a Shane, whom Ms. Ellison has filed a restraining order against, for previous drunken and disorderly behavior. Then the “actual altercation” occurred, including a stabbing, which led to a head injury. Right, everyone agrees. The officer reports that Shane has been booked without bail.

  “Do we need to press charges?” Gina asks.

  “No, ma’am. I automatically send the report with the assault charge to the district attorney. A prosecuting attorney is assigned on behalf of the state. Would you like to press additional charges for violation of the restraining order?”

  Gina nods.

  Elinor is glad she stuck to civil law. Still, she wouldn’t mind pressing a few charges herself. Against Shane for stabbing Ted. Against Gina for sleeping with Ted. Against Toby for calling her house repeatedly. Against Noah for cutting down her tree. Against God for taking her baby. This is what she doesn’t like about practicing law—forever trying to enforce justice, to fight life’s unfairness. It takes so much energy, and somehow seems to miss the point.

  “He is a threat to my son and I,” Gina says.

  Me, not I, Elinor thinks. You’re prettier. I’m smarter. She wrings her hands. I’m pettier. I’m pretty petty! She feels exhaustion tug at her from the earth’s core.

  “And clearly he’s a threat to society,” Gina adds. “He’s not the way he used to be.” She sounds genuinely sad about this.

  “It’s not your fault,” Roger says.

  Why are men always racing to Gina’s rescue?

  “Well, I’m sorry anyway,” Gina tells Roger. “And you seem like you would have been a good tutor.”

  The cop narrows his eyes. He opens his mouth to ask Roger something, then seems to decide he doesn’t need to. He pats the surface of the coffee table, which is brown Formica made to look like wood. “I’ll let you all go now. I know it’s been a long day.”

  They all stand. Gina turns to leave, tugging Toby behind her by the hand. He begins to cry again. Gina bends to hoist him into her arms. He’s a big boy to carry, but Gina seems strong. Elinor is surprised that they are leaving. She thought they would hang around—say good-bye to Ted, linger. She imagined she might be jockeying for position with them throughout Ted’s hospital stay. Whether she likes it or not, she realizes she has gotten used to sharing her husband with these two. She watches Gina release Toby so he can walk and they amble down the hall—Toby’s head resting against his mother’s narrow waist, Gina’s arm draped lazily across her son’s back. Although they are leaving the hospital, getting smaller and smaller as they shuffle away, they are inevitably following Ted and Elinor home.

  21

  As Elinor drives home to grab a few things for her night at the hospital, she calls Kat to let her know that Ted’s going to be okay. She doesn’t want to recap the soap opera while driving, so they agree to meet at the house.

  By the time she turns onto their street, the sun has dipped over the hill and the ginkgo tree—bright yellow, now that fall is here—seems to hold all the remaining light of the day. Elinor parks in the driveway and climbs out of her car to water it. She unloops and drags the hose across the lawn. Probably she’s been overcompensating with the watering, but she’s desperate for something to take care of other than corporate mergers.

  People tend to flood the surface without ever reaching the roots, she remembers Noah explaining, showing her how to adjust the hose to a slow trickle. Elinor watches the soil turn dark and moist. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so dismissive of Noah and his tree trivia. A plane rumbles overhead. The neighbors’ house across the street is still decorated for Halloween. Little blow-up bats flutter in the thin branches of the birch trees. Elinor is always surprised and excited by how many trick-or-treaters come to their door every year. It’s a painfully good neighborhood for kids.

  “Tree’s looking great,” Kat says from behind. “Tell me more about Ted.”

  Elinor relays the sordid details of the showdown at the mall, followed by the neurologist’s prognosis.

  Kat shakes her head. “Thank God Ted’s going to be all right.” She looks at Elinor. “Roger and Gina?” she asks, skeptical but nonjudgmental. “Two birds with one stone?”

  “Theoretically. My short-lived matchmaking career. Maybe the only thing I can do is work in an office.”

  One of the ginkgo’s scalloped leaves spirals to the ground, like a tiny yellow fan. “You know those are supp
osed to fall off now,” Kat says with concern.

  Elinor nods. While the oak provided more shade, she has to admit that the ginkgo is prettier. The oak was gnarled and arthritic, while the ginkgo is as graceful and demure as a geisha.

  “Hey!” Elinor hands Kat the hose. The calamity of the day made her forget the present she picked up for her in town this morning. “I know it’s not your birthday yet, but I don’t feel like waiting.” She scoops a little velvet box out of her purse and passes it to Kat.

  Kat hands back the hose. “What . . .” She takes the box. “Oh!” she exclaims as she opens it.

  Elinor spent weeks searching for the emerald earrings. While Kat’s ears are pierced, she hardly ever bothers with earrings, which she insists get in the way. Finally, Elinor asked the jeweler downtown to design something with lever-back hoops that wouldn’t be too dangly, so Kat could wear them while running and wrestling with her boys.

  “Wow.” Kat holds up one of the small white-gold earrings, admiring the emerald on its end. She struggles a little sliding it into her earlobe. “Ouch! What’s the occasion?”

  “You being you. Putting up with me.” Elinor turns to hug her friend, accidentally watering her leg, making them both yelp with surprise.

  Sleep smothers Ted. But it isn’t a restful sleep. Since his body can’t toss and turn, his mind does. In his troublesome dreams, he re-creates the scene at the mall with more violent outcomes. Ted stabs Shane. Shane stabs Toby. Toby is sprawled on the cream-colored marble floor, his eyes closed, his mouth open, blood everywhere. It’s Toby, but it doesn’t look like Toby. It is a different boy.

  “I’m a doctor!” Ted shouts. The crowd of strangers parts to let him get to the boy.

  “I know,” a voice says.

  Ted feels the familiar pinch of the blood-pressure cuff.

  “What practice are you in?” A nurse hovers at his side. Mickey and Minnie Mouse are dancing on her pink scrubs.

  “What?” Ted’s tongue is too big for his mouth.

  “You were telling me that you’re a doctor. What kind?”

  “Oh, a podiatrist.” Usually, Ted feels sorry for hospital patients because they’re always woken up. It’s impossible to get any rest. But he’s glad this nurse stirred him from his dreams.

  “Your wife just went home to get a few things.” The nurse smiles and removes the cuff. “You’re doing great, but she’d like to spend the night with you.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Ted says. But he’s happy that Elinor’s coming back. He wishes the nurse would stay with him until El gets here—help keep him awake. The woman heads for the door. Ted says, “Would . . . ?” He almost asks the nurse to sit with him. How ridiculous. Hospitals are so understaffed as it is. And he’s a grown man. A doctor!

  “Can I get you anything?” the nurse asks. “A Popsicle?”

  “Popsicle,” Ted repeats. The word comes out clearly as he says it. He’s relieved to no longer have the sensation of slurring his speech. “Popsicle,” he says again, the two P’s making a pleasing pop sound. The nurse mistakes his enthusiasm for a yes and brings him one.

  At home, Elinor showers and changes into sweats. She’ll curl up in the chair beside Ted’s hospital bed and read. She collects a few magazines, and her paperback of The Moviegoer. She and Kat have started their own two-person “greatest hits” book club, trading picks of their favorite college novels. Elinor’s been pulling old paperbacks off the narrow top shelf in her study and turning through their brown, brittle pages, savoring their slightly moldy smell and the fact that the stories she loves most are still there, word for word. All is not lost. As she slides Walker Percy into a canvas bag along with a bottle of water, she looks at their bed, neatly made. At one point, she thought they should throw out the unlucky mattress and buy a new one. That’s when she and Ted started checking into hotel rooms on weekends, trying to make getting pregnant fun. Once they even set up their tent in the backyard and slept outside. They zipped their sleeping bags together, made love, and fell asleep quickly. But they awoke at two thirty achy and damp, and crept back inside. Elinor had become so superstitious, she believed that if they had lain in the tent until dawn she would have conceived. You weren’t supposed to be leaping up at all hours of the night.

  Now, as she sits on the end of the bed to pull on her Ugg boots, something crunches under the duvet. Elinor gets up and peels back the covers to find a scrap of eggshell on her side. What the hell? Are birds laying eggs in their bed? The piece of shell is white and bumpy, with a few coffee grounds smudged on it. Maybe it traveled in from the kitchen floor, stuck on her sock. She always seems to be tracking things into the covers. She balances the shell on the nightstand, unsure of why she doesn’t want to throw it away.

  Leaning back on the bed, she peers into their closet. When Ted moved out, he did a big purge, dragging many of his old clothes, shoes, books, and CDs to the Salvation Army. Although he’s moved back in, his clutter-free side of the closet seems temporary. They seem temporary—their marriage an experiment as fragile as embryos in a lab.

  Ted’s shoes have been winnowed to six pairs—three sets of loafers, a pair of Tevas, hiking boots, and sneakers. Elinor realizes that she can stand the notion of Ted leaving, of him moving out of the house again. Having seen him prone in a hospital bed, she knows now that what she can’t bear is the thought of him dying.

  It hurts not to follow your heart. Elinor sees this in Ted’s face every day. She’s not sure if he even realizes that he’s in love with Gina. If you do follow your heart, it will likely hurt others. But she’s not hurt or angry anymore. Just sad, which feels less crazy. She’ll always love Ted. Even when she hated him, she loved Ted. And she believes they’ll always be friends to some degree. She’s pretty sure this is wisdom, and not cockiness or exhaustion. It’s easy to love someone, when you get right down to it. What’s really hard is to have compassion for them.

  She stands up to close the folding closet doors, the slatted wood creaking shut as his sneakers and her clogs disappear.

  The next time Ted awakens, he discovers that his sutures have burst and his stab wound is bleeding. A fried-egg shape stain of blood covers his gown.

  “Oh!” The sound of his own voice startles him. Then he laughs. The Popsicle was cherry, and he fell asleep eating it. He reaches for the call button to get help with the mess, then decides against it. Everyone says how doctors are the worst pain-in-the-ass patients in the world. He doesn’t want to live up to that reputation. Besides, Gina will be here soon. No, not Gina! Elinor! Elinor will be here soon.

  Ted chews the end of the Popsicle stick, the wood soft between his teeth. He closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine Gina’s embrace—how, after they made love, she would massage the small of his back, his sacrum, then knead her fingers up either side of his spine. It was a heavenly massage that ended with her fingers vigorously rubbing his scalp until the stress of the day would tingle up and off to the ceiling.

  As Elinor passes through the kitchen toward the garage, she notices the red light blinking on the answering machine. She presses the button and the voice of her OB, Dr. Kolcheck, fills the room. The pathology report from the miscarriage came back. It was a trisomy 15, which is uniformally lethal. “In other words,” the doctor says, “there was no chance of survival for the fetus.” She apologizes for leaving this information on the machine, but she wants Elinor and Ted to know that there was absolutely nothing they did wrong. Elinor’s eyes fill when she hears the words female fetus. A girl. She won’t tell Ted tonight. She’ll wait until he’s released from the hospital and feeling better.

  They would have had a girl. You see, she imagined a boy. That was the problem. Cowboy boots and overalls and . . . no, she will not do this.

  Dr. K is cut off by the answering machine, but then the second message is from her, too. “There’s more information I’d like to share with you,” she says. “So please feel free to page me at this number anytime until eleven o’clock tonight. I’ll b
e up.”

  Elinor writes down the number, dreading the thought of more information. From now on, she’d like less information. Fewer reality checks. Still, she dials the phone.

  “Oh God,” Elinor says when Dr. Kolcheck answers cheerfully. “I’m so sorry to disturb you during the evening.”

  Dr. K lowers her voice. Elinor hears a door close. “No, you saved me. I am at the most boring party. All these people talk about is wine. Vintage this and vintage that. I mean drink it and shaddup!”

  Elinor laughs. It would have been great if Dr. Kolcheck had delivered their baby.

  “Listen.” Dr. Kolcheck is more serious now. “Because the miscarriage was due to a chromosomal anomaly, I ordered a test for a rare condition that I was pretty certain you don’t have. But surprisingly, you do.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Elinor squeezes her eyes shut.

  “I know,” the doctor says sympathetically. “It’s called a balanced translocation and it is completely harmless to you. We wouldn’t even know about it if it weren’t for this test. You’d never sense a thing.”

  “Wha—?” Elinor sits on a stool at the counter. This is just the type of information she doesn’t want to have to assimilate anymore.

  “It’s very rare. Only one in fifty thousand people have the combination that you have. The correct number of chromosomes is there, but two pieces of chromosomal material are swapped. In your case, numbers three and fifteen. It’s as though you’ve got one spoon in your fork slot, and one fork in your spoon slot. It’s completely harmless to the patient. You’re healthy. The problem is . . .”

  There is always a problem. Elinor doesn’t want to be a patient. She wants to be a person. A person without a medical file as thick as a phone book.

  “. . . it increases the odds of miscarriage and lowers the odds of conception. So, before we move forward, I’d like you and Ted to go for genetic counseling. I’m out of my league here, but I know of a great doc in town who can present you with more specific statistical odds for conception and miscarriage.”