Happily Ali After: And Other Fairly True Tales

by Ali Wentworth

  “He’s calling the passport office and trying to get all the bags back on the cart.”

  I grabbed her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Is that vein on the side of his temple bulging?” The vein was like an anger thermometer. When a taxi driver takes the wrong route on a rainy Friday night from downtown, the vein bulges so intensely it’s like he grew a finger out of the side of his head.

  I wanted to roll on my back, offering my belly like our corgi mix rescue dog Charlie does when he senses danger. I would surrender, I would transform myself into the role of indentured servant. I tiptoed over to my husband and pushed the cart and its heavy load like an Egyptian slave pushing clay bricks up a pyramid. If he thought I was self-punishing, perhaps he wouldn’t feel compelled to tell me what a dumbass I was.

  We stood in the subzero taxi line for over an hour. I kept myself occupied by eating frozen crow. In the taxi, which had the pungent smell of McDonald’s fries and sour milk, the four of us sat in stewed silence. Finally our youngest blurted out, “Are you guys getting divorced?”

  There was a beat. (Too long a beat if you ask me.)

  “No, of course not,” my master answered.

  Like all children, my daughters knew shit was going down, and escaped into their headphones. Images of life as an aging cocktail waitress and single mother flashed before my eyes.

  Back at the apartment, my children knew that I was still in the doghouse. They were at once elated and befuddled that it wasn’t either one of them for a change, but they also felt sorry for me. My youngest slipped me a Starburst like it was a knife snuck into prison. I didn’t absorb the extent of their concern until I witnessed them brushing their teeth and flushing the toilet, unprompted.

  And then came the moment of reckoning. I put on my blue monkey pajamas (I don’t own silk lingerie). I was just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to forgive her.

  We crawled into bed. Well, not really crawled, but folded in to our own respective sides of the bed. My mind raced. Should I go with hysterical tears? Light the Diptyque candle next to the bed and burn my forearm? Do that thing in bed women never want to do but save for emergencies?

  My husband pulled me toward him, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed my cheek. I closed my eyes. “I’m so so so sorry.” He kissed my cheek again. “I know you are. I love you.”

  And that, my friends, was true forgiveness. He didn’t yell once or swear or call me a fool (well, that is my family nickname) . . . He dealt with the situation rationally and maturely. He didn’t rub my face in it like an untrained puppy. He didn’t punish me. And like that, it was over. And thus the lesson for both of us: “If we really want to love, we must learn to forgive.”

  In conclusion, we were able to get to the passport office the following morning and get new ones issued. The trip was delayed a day, but still chockful of paella, El Greco paintings, and basilicas. And I did do that thing in bed women hate to do . . . #HeDeservedIt.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tug of War

  It was the middle of July and I had pneumonia. Nobody gets pneumonia in July—nobody I knew even had allergies—yet there I was, bedridden, with the shades drawn, chugging antibiotics and wheezing through an inhaler. One could argue that I am a sickly person. But it’s genetic. When WASPs insist on breeding within their incestuous circle, the results are sallow, chronically tubercular, and anemic offspring (see: All British people). We all look like the antique American folk paintings of babies with bulbous eyes and pallid skin.

  I was a dead ringer for the elderly gentleman in a wheelchair gasping for breath in those antismoking commercials. Adding to my misery was the fact that my elder daughter, who was one week in at sleepaway camp, was miserable. Despite the camp’s cell phone ban, she had managed to con or blackmail the counselors into lending her theirs, and was calling daily, crying and begging to come home. There is nothing more wrenching than a sobbing child—not a screaming child, hate those, but when it’s your own child weeping . . . I have had my fair share of driving in my pajamas at 3 A.M. in a snowstorm to fetch a child who got homesick during a sleepover.

  An important thing to know about my daughter is that she’s an excellent negotiator (read: manipulator). She is the Alan Dershowitz of middle school. I think she should skip high school and go straight to Harvard Law, but she has to finish puberty first. She can out-debate us on every matter except fifteenth-century theology and the history of American politics as it relates to war; my husband reigns mighty over those categories. When we first broached the subject of sleepaway camp, she expounded upon the ways in which it was too far out of her comfort zone. And by comfort zone I assumed anywhere outside her purple down comforter where she reclines Snapchatting, eating old Halloween candy, and painting her toes with glittery nail polish. We introduced the enlightened idea that the camp experience would reward her with a sense of independence. Her rebuttal was, “Why don’t you give me five dollars, let me walk ten blocks in Manhattan by myself to buy some eggs. That experience will make me more independent than any sleepaway camp will.” My husband and I were rendered speechless for almost an hour. She can scramble my mind; sometimes when I’m trying to dispense punishment, I end up locked in my room reading, Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret while she’s out having sushi with some extroverted adults.

  By the third hysterical phone call from a cell phone belonging to a counselor named Brandy, I tried to convince my daughter to keep a stiff upper lip, pull herself up by her bootstraps, and remember that “a hot iron, though blunt, will pierce sooner than a cold one, though sharper,” among other nonsensical and clichéd Puritan sayings instilled in me from my own upbringing. I then hung up and bawled like a baby. All I wanted to do was get on a magical, winged unicorn and bring her home, but I knew it would teach her nothing about independence, self-reliance, and all that bullshit. Or maybe I just wanted to go on a magical, winged unicorn. I called the camp director and tried to get an accurate temperature reading of her misery. I reached what sounded like a 1980s cassette-operated answering machine.

  A few hours later Uta called me back. Uta was the wife of the camp director and the office administrator. Uta had a strong Eastern European accent and a monotone way of speaking that brought to mind a Russian prison guard.

  “Hail-o, diz iz Uta. I’m ze kimp administrator.” Long pause.

  “Hi, Uta! Listen, I’ve been getting these heart-wrenching calls and I just want to make sure my daughter—”

  “Zair are no phuns allowed hair!”

  “I know, yes, she must have borrowed—”

  “Who dit she say she git ze phones from?”

  I feared naming names in case Uta was some leftover McCarthy spy still on the red hunt. And packing heat.

  “She didn’t say, listen, the point is, I’m worried. She’s been crying—”

  Uta cleared her throat loudly. “Evry gerl has homesickness. It’s nathing.”

  “Could you just give me updates?”

  Uta answered like she was reciting the weather, or my horoscope. “Yur daughter iz surrounded by luff.” And she hung up. She probably had to spit and shine her combat boots.

  It was only a two-week sleepaway camp and my daughter had just one week left, so I closed my eyes and took a huge drag from my medical inhaler. And popped another steroid.

  The following week, the pneumonia worsened. A simple walk to the kitchen was fatiguing. Even watching a movie would deplete me for hours (particularly the ones starring Kristen Stewart). My younger daughter and our babysitter would be out all day surfing, picnicking on the beach, and basically frolicking with joy. What normal people are supposed to be doing in summertime. Not living in a cave of darkness, despair, and phlegm. When I would hear the front door slam, I would call for them and offer them hundreds of dollars to fetch me a Bagel Bite or some peanut butter on toast. How quickly they had forgotten the sickly old woman who lived down the dark hall.

  I was living off mini bottles of Gatorade and Wheat Thins. Me
anwhile, my daughter had survived the second week of sleepaway camp. I hoped she would be filled with the feeling of true selfhood and fortitude, but instead it was pure animosity and mercilessness. In the months (and, I assume, years) to come, she would regale strangers with the story of how we abandoned her in Maine without money and food and left her to survive. Yes, her experience of tennis, riding, and campfire s’mores was on a par with being lost in the desert and chewing off an arm wedged between two boulders. They should make a film about her experience.

  It was very clear that I, in my enfeebled and frail state, would not be able to pick her up on the last day of camp. The idea of driving ten hours one way was ludicrous; a simple trip to the toilet involved resting on the side of the bathtub en route. The whole ordeal took an hour. I knew my husband could retrieve her and maybe stop for ice cream and speeding tickets and have a memorable and bonding day. And he could be the sponge for all her bitching and tales of woe.

  And then the world got far grimmer outside my own miserable cocoon. On July seventeenth the Malaysian airline flight MH17 was shot down. My husband was called to the anchor desk at ABC, where he sat for hours and hours of breaking news. In between throwing questions to correspondents regarding the developing investigation into a possible missile fired by Russian rebels in the Ukraine, he would e-mail me about camp. “You’re going to have to go get her!”

  Huh? I pulled the chilled washcloth off my fiery forehead. I e-mailed him back.

  “Fever. Delirious. Can’t.”

  Surely they would have to go back to their regularly scheduled programming; Rachael Ray was mid Naked Chef stew-off. And then he could drive up to Bangor?

  The news coverage grew more gruesome. I took a fistful of Tylenol and wrote, “Why don’t we get a babysitter to get her?” As soon as the network broke to a dependable health care commercial, I received his answer.

  “No, after all she’s been through it needs to be a parent.”

  This was one of those marital moments known as a power struggle. In most cases, my husband always trumps me. But on this particular occasion, I would say a winner was not so easily pronounced. Yes, he was anchoring pressing news, but I was deathly ill and literally physically incapable of the task at hand. He was the one who didn’t want anyone but a parent to pick her up. And we were the only parents. There are moments when sister-wives seem compelling.

  “Honey, I cannot operate a vehicle. I will drive off the side of the road. I can barely keep my eyes open e-mailing this now!” With that, I passed out.

  I opened my eyes minutes later to this: “Honey, I can’t leave work. What if you get your mom or someone to drive with you?” It was getting heated. Even though we both understood the other’s predicament, we were standing strong. Or in my case, lying down strong.

  I am always one to play the martyr card and even in my addled state recognized an opportunity to not only resent and bottle rage, but also emerge as the most magnanimous saint north of the Hudson. I would go in my soiled nightgown with a thermos of Theraflu and a box of Kleenex and save our child.

  “Fine (cough cough), I’ll go . . .” Slam phone down.

  It’s amazing how self-righteousness can spike adrenaline when driving long distances. I groaned out loud like a cow in labor. I cruised with the windows down, my chest feeling hollow, but enjoying the landscape of upstate Vermont and New Hampshire midsummer. It reminded me of my college days in vintage sundresses and bare feet skinny-dipping in lakes and eating tempeh wraps made by vegan hippies in Woodstock. And there I was, a grown woman (who would never let anyone see her naked) consuming beef jerky, driving up 95 north to deliver her daughter home. A daughter who was not jumping nude into sparkling lakes, but hiding under the infirmary cot with Brandy’s stolen cell phone.

  I felt old. And the pneumonia and difficulty breathing exacerbated that feeling. I reminisced about the long-haired guy with a lisp who used to recite his awful poetry to me while I wiped pumpkin butter off his beard. I wondered if he was married. And if he was married, whether it was to a man or a woman. And then I thought about all the ex-lovers and whimsical and fanciful summer days of my youth. And then I got angry with my husband again. How dare a man let his sickly wife trek to a far-off land? He must want me to die. And why do I have to do everything? I’m the only one who empties the dishwasher, throws out moldy cheese, and picks up underwear from the floor. If not for me, the show Hoarders would use our episode for sweeps.

  Righteous anger literally fueled me to drive above seventy miles an hour—a feverish pace inside and out. I finally reached the quaint and bucolic town in which my poor daughter was forced to drive bumper cars and chow down on homemade blueberry pancakes. And I won’t go on about the rolling hills and sparkling lake.

  Needless to say, when I walked into the dorm, my daughter was giggling and hugging other adorable girls in neon polo shirts. “Oh, hey, Mom!” Oh, hey, Mom? OH, HEY, MOM? After flirting with death to save her, all I’m met with is an “Oh, hey, Mom”?

  I must have looked deathly; I could feel my ratty hair matted to my clammy face. I hadn’t eaten in hours. All I wanted was the chicken noodle soup from Bernstein’s deli on Third Avenue. “Sweetie, is there a commissary or a vending machine?”

  She shook her head. “No. We had to throw out all the care packages because we had a maggot problem.”

  Ah, there was my cherry on top—a maggot problem. The sight of her enormous trunk and mildewed duffels made me even weaker.

  My daughter informed me that she was going to watch her friends in the swim competition. I decided I would rest for a few minutes after using my inhaler and taking my antibiotics and a steroid on an empty stomach.

  I climbed up to a top bunk. There were no sheets, blankets, or pillows, just a stained single mattress. A few photos of Demi Lovato were taped on the wall and the room smelled like old feet. I didn’t care; I was a walking corpse. I passed out. Or died, I’m not sure which.

  In my sweaty dream state I thrashed around envisioning myself packing my daughter’s luggage and soiled boots into the car. And in my dream the boots were made of lead and the car had four flat tires and I was three inches tall. There were also penguins, but I’ll save that for my shrink.

  Suddenly, I was nudged awake. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I screamed in delirium. I opened my eyes to my husband’s face. He was in a suit and tie; his skin was caked in orange TV makeup. I shot up, barely missing a concussion on the stucco ceiling.

  Knowing I would be a hot mess, he had found a way to hand over the reins at work and drove above the speed limit.

  My husband packed the car and bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal. It did make me happy. And the three of us drove back to New York City. I would like to pretend “singing songs and snapping our fingers,” but the time was mostly spent convincing our daughter that she actually did like camp and that homesickness was just part of the sleepaway experience. And explaining what an anxiety disorder was.

  CHAPTER 9

  Couples Therapy

  My husband and I have never been to couples therapy. But if we ever did, this is how I imagine it would go:

  Int. Therapist’s office. Upper West Side, NY. Afternoon.

  Husband, in a finely tailored suit and navy striped tie, and Ali, in tattered jeans and looking like a bedraggled Bennington college student, sit on a tweed love seat holding hands.

  Dr. Love sits across from the couple in a leather wingback chair, holding a notebook and pen.

  DR. LOVE: So . . . what brings you to therapy today?

  ALI: Um, everyone we know is in couples therapy and we aren’t.

  DR. LOVE: So you came to couples therapy because everyone you know goes?

  ALI: Yes, sir, that is correct.

  DR. LOVE: Ali, you don’t have to call me sir, I’m a therapist, not a judge.

  ALI: Yes, Doctor.

  Husband pulls out his iPhone 6.

  HUSBAND: Sorry, breaking news . . .

  ALI: Syria?

&
nbsp; HUSBAND: No. Drew Barrymore’s in town.

  DR. LOVE: Let’s start by each of you telling me the one thing in your marriage you want to work on.

  Husband is replying to e-mail.

  ALI: I never understood why shrinks have African masks. Was therapy born in Uganda? Or is it a literal shrinking heads metaphor? Did you buy them from the guy in front of the Whitney Museum?

  HUSBAND: I think we could both appreciate each other more in our marriage?

  ALI: That’s dumb.

  DR. LOVE: That’s not appreciative, Ali. There is no such thing as dumb here. It is a safe haven.

  ALI: Well, every couple says that. I would like to be appreciated more, sure, but if my husband followed me around telling me how wonderful I was and throwing peonies at my feet, I think it would get annoying. Appreciation is overrated. If I cook a crappy meal, I don’t want to hear, “This is the most delicious cod I’ve ever had.” I know it’s bullshit! I’m eating the same dry fish, so the compliment is meaningless—in fact it’s worse than that, it’s humiliating. But a week later if I make the same cod dish, but with more lemon and butter and it is delicious and he says so, the compliment means more because it’s true.

  HUSBAND: (Looks at Dr. Love) I don’t, I’m not . . . this is where it gets tricky for me!

  DR. LOVE: Ali, you seem angry . . .

  ALI: I’m not angry. And if I am it’s because of superficial things like I’m getting older, I’m afraid of death, and I’m really out of shape.

  DR. LOVE: Tell me one thing you think you could work on in your marriage.

  ALI: I wouldn’t mind bringing in someone new to the bedroom?

  HUSBAND: (Elated) Really?

  ALI: No. Not really.

  Husband looks down.

  ALI: I’d like to revise what my husband said earlier . . . I don’t want him to appreciate me more . . . I want him to feel like he exceeded every expectation by getting me.