What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  “It’s longer than most marriages.”

  “Well, it’s longer than all three of mine put together.”

  Costanza smiled.

  Susan took off the stethoscope and draped it around her neck. “And you two. Have you known each other long?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like I said, twenty-eight years is a lifetime.” Susan looked Costanza in the eye and waited.

  Costanza’s cheeks reddened. “We met earlier this year.”

  “In Italy.”

  Costanza nodded.

  “That explains the notable improvement in his mood.”

  “Does he need to know that you’ve figured it out?”

  “But why the—pretense? The double pretense, that is?”

  “I think I may still be trying to act as though none of this is happening.”

  This Susan seemed to understand. “A lot of women find it difficult to give up control over their bodies, even if it’s only temporary.”

  “So I am trying to exert it somewhere else? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Pretty much.”

  * * *

  After five minutes the door opened again. Susan returned with Henry. He washed his hands, palpated Costanza’s thyroid, and listened to her heart for himself as Susan looked on silently.

  Then he instructed Costanza to lie on her back and insert her legs into the stirrups.

  Susan gestured first at Henry, then at Costanza. “So, Henry, what exactly is the plan here?”

  Henry glanced at Costanza and understood.

  “I’m sorry,” Susan said to Costanza. “But after thirty years, you stop holding your tongue.”

  “You stopped holding yours after about thirty minutes, if I recall correctly,” Henry said. “The plan, my plan, is to help the woman I love to conceive a child. Usually treatment begins with an exam.”

  “Yes, but this is a most unusual situation,” Susan said.

  Costanza crossed her arms. “Henry wants me to have the best possible chance at succeeding,” she said, defending an approach that a few days earlier she was still questioning herself.

  “We all do.” Susan turned to Henry. “I can get Woo in here in three minutes. You can supervise. You do half the time already anyway. I’ll manage the story, but really I do think it’s the smartest thing for both of you—and for all of us.”

  Henry again glanced at Costanza, who nodded at him. “Fine,” he said.

  After Susan left, Henry said, “She’s looking out for me.”

  “I did raise the concern myself, you remember.”

  “I remember.” Henry sighed.

  Susan returned, as promised, in three minutes. Fewer. She was accompanied by a young doctor, Felicity Woo, who didn’t strike Costanza as a particularly felicitous person. She was small and brisk. Costanza had no idea what Susan had told her but decided that she could trust Susan, and so she decided to trust this Dr. Woo as well.

  Dr. Woo introduced herself as she wriggled into a pair of sterile gloves. Then her hands disappeared under Costanza’s robe. Henry looked on impatiently as Dr. Woo felt and prodded. She was not especially tender. A pain shot through Costanza, and she winced. Dr. Woo apologized but didn’t stop. She explained that she was looking to see if on physical exam she might find any polyps or fibroids, any growths or abnormalities that might impede implantation in her uterine cavity.

  She probed for several long seconds. “All clear.”

  Then the younger doctor nodded at Susan, who, having unwrapped a condom, slid it over the ultrasound wand and applied a generous squirt of lubricating jelly to cover its surface.

  (Condoms in a place where women were trying to get pregnant? It seemed as problematic to Costanza as that loudly ticking wall clock.)

  Dr. Woo angled the wand first one way, then another, at intervals freezing and retaining images. She gazed at the screen calmly and thoughtfully, apparently impervious to Henry’s monitoring gaze. Their joint silence worried Costanza. She imagined that they were seeing problems, growths; polyps or cysts of unwieldy dimensions. Tumors; horrors. She kept raising her head awkwardly, dividing her attention between the screen, where she understood nothing, and Henry’s face, where nothing was understandable.

  Finally Dr. Woo turned to her. “There’s no sign of fibroids, polyps, or cysts. The lining is thin, the antral follicle count reasonable at three. You’re in good shape.”

  “Good shape?”

  Henry dived in. “She means there’s nothing on exam or ultrasound that would impede your moving on to a cycle of IVF. Depending on your blood work, naturally. For that, as I told you earlier, we’ll have to wait until your next period.”

  Costanza was so relieved that for a moment she seemed to stop breathing.

  Dr. Woo made a note in Costanza’s chart.

  Henry turned to Susan. “Where next?”

  “Three.”

  Examining room three, Susan meant. He was moving on with his day. His hand reached for the doorknob, and the next minute, with the briefest and most distant of goodbyes—a goodbye he’d give to any other patient—he was gone.

  * * *

  Much of the rest of Costanza’s day was spent working on the new translating project she had accepted, a strange and original book called Honey from a Weed by Patience Gray. It was (and wasn’t) a cookbook. It wasn’t (and was) a memoir. The book captivated Costanza in part because it was so difficult to categorize, but largely because it spoke to her in a way that felt both personal and—given where her life was at the moment—necessary.

  Gray was an English food writer and, for a while, a jewelry maker whose companion (“The Sculptor,” otherwise unnamed) worked in marble. His quest for materials took them to Carrara, Catalonia, Naxos, and Puglia to live for long periods, often plainly, so plainly that they didn’t always have electricity. Gray’s approach was to adapt: to learn from local traditions and local women (and men), to follow the seasons, to appreciate bounty but also to accommodate deprivation. As a writer and a cook she moved nimbly between asceticism and sensuality. She was an early forager, a diligent researcher, a skilled listener, and her prose had a measured, elegiac quality that derived from her awareness that she had landed in places where the old traditions were dying out. In one passage she likened herself to a student of music who recorded songs that were no longer sung and would soon vanish.

  The reawakened cook in Costanza appreciated Gray’s culinary guidance—in that sense the project couldn’t have been better timed—but what moved her, truly moved her, was the way the Englishwoman gave herself completely to wherever she was living, and under whatever conditions. If there was no running water, she filled her pots at the local stream. If there were no vegetables in the garden, she headed into the forest to gather weeds. She faced each new circumstance, each new experience, with a curiosity that Costanza found enviable.

  As a translator, Costanza was herself used to doing a good deal of adapting. For several months at a time she traveled outside of her life and into someone else’s. It was as if she had spent years now living in a series of borrowed apartments, moving in for a season or two, wearing her host’s clothes, absorbing the relevant specialized information in the books on her shelves, peeking into her medicine cabinet, and sleeping in her bed, all the while forcing herself to become as invisible as possible, since as she well knew a translator should be heard but never seen. It was a particular experience, writing a story (or capturing an idea, or expressing a feeling) without digging it out of yourself, playing ventriloquist’s dummy—if the dummy could read and write—to another human being’s consciousness; and yet it was in that in-between space that she often felt most comfortable, in her work and (she had come to understand) often in her life as well.

  Around five o’clock Costanza took a break and checked the messages on her cell phone. Henry had called to let her know that he would probably be home around eight that evening. He said that if she needed him to stop for anything, she should leave him a m
essage on his cell phone, or with Wanda.

  That was it: nothing about the appointment, or Susan, or Dr. Woo—or her.

  Costanza packed up her manuscript and her notes and made her way back to Henry’s apartment, picking up the makings for a zucchini frittata and a green salad as she went. Foraging like Patience Gray? Not really, no.

  * * *

  Back at the apartment Costanza found Andrew in the kitchen, rooting around in the refrigerator. She hadn’t seen him for two weeks. “It’s Monday, of course,” she said—Monday being the fixed night he had been spending on the East Side. Quickly recalibrating her meal plans, she added, “I was about to run out for more provisions. How do you feel about lamb chops?”

  “I’m not doing so much meat these days.” He bit into an apple he had extracted from the fruit bin.

  “What if I throw together a pasta with funghi porcini? I still have some of our mushrooms left from Florence…” The our leaped up out of the sentence awkwardly.

  “Sounds great. But not tonight. I’ve got swim practice.”

  “And if you skip it?”

  Andrew closed the refrigerator door. “One: at the beginning of the year we sign a contract saying that we won’t miss a single practice—even if we’re not feeling well, we have to sit there and observe. Two: if I don’t swim or run every day right now, I might lose my mind. I’m going to guess that it’s been a while since you’ve been a senior at a New York City private school.”

  “Love the sarcasm, Andrew. But not counting these friendly stop-bys, you’ve missed three out of the last six Mondays.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t Jewish?”

  “My paternal grandfather was, but I never met him. Why?”

  “You’ve got the guilt thing down.”

  “I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty. It’s just that we’ve—I’ve—missed you.”

  “I’ve is probably more truthful.”

  She was determined not to be upset by two Weissman men in the same day. “All right then. I’ve.”

  He tossed the apple core into the garbage. She opened a carton of eggs. “You don’t have anything to say to that?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, the way you’re just standing there makes me uncomfortable. Why don’t you at least help me by cracking some of these into a bowl?” She produced a bowl, a whisk. “You can beat them too.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight. But only six whites.”

  “You’re pushing me to the edge of my culinary abilities.”

  “I think you can handle it.”

  But he couldn’t. Andrew tried, and failed, to separate the yolk from the white.

  “Here. Let me show you.”

  She took the oozing, half-cracked egg out of Andrew’s hand and demonstrated how he should let the white dribble into the bowl by pouring the yolk back and forth into the two halves of the shell. Then she gave him another egg to try on his own. As she did, Costanza thought how curious it was that she was making an egg-based dinner for Henry after a day on which she had begun the process by which her eggs would be submitted to his treatment.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Andrew was concentrating on his task. He nodded absently.

  “What was it like, for you, to have a doctor for a father?”

  “Well, he’s never treated me for fertility issues.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Andrew cracked and separated another egg, more adroitly this time. “We could never be sick, really, growing up. ‘These things are all self-limiting’—that was Henry’s standard phrase, every scrape, every wipeout on our bikes. Every bug. Ice packs? He never heard of them. Sugary chewable aspirins? A placebo. Cool Spider-Man Band-Aids like other kids? He swiped plain old ones from the office and only let us wear them for an hour or two at most before he’d rip them off. ‘Fresh air is best.’”

  Andrew began beating the eggs. “When I first started swimming—he and Mom were already apart by then—I slipped and fell getting out of a cab on my way to a meet one winter. It was kind of excruciating, but with self-limiting and all, my father was convinced it was just a sprain or a torn tendon, so I went to practice anyway. He did suggest an ice pack. The next day I couldn’t really tie my shoe, so I wore it unlaced. That night was a West Side night. My mother took one look at my foot and ten minutes later we were at the ER. The doctor spoke to her like he was ready to call child protective services. ‘You waited how long…?’ Oh, Henry and Judith had a big fight after that. The next time I saw Henry, he apologized to me. It was one of the only times I’ve ever heard him say he was sorry.”

  “After that things were different?”

  “Well, I never broke my foot again.”

  * * *

  It was almost as if Henry had eavesdropped on their conversation or had spent some time reviewing the way the morning had unfolded: he came home with pastry, a crusty bread, and a good bottle of white wine. It made Costanza feel briefly ashamed of her spare meal.

  As soon as the wine was poured and sipped, he asked Costanza how she thought it all went.

  “You mean after Susan outed us?”

  “Isn’t it more like she gave us a chance to rethink what we were doing?” Henry said.

  “We…?”

  Henry looked at her. “Okay. I. Other than that, I felt it went fine. Didn’t you?”

  “You just—flew out of there. At the end.”

  “I had another eight patients before lunch. Nine, maybe.”

  “To me that was some—significant news. To know that I checked out all right.”

  “It’s a little soon to celebrate.”

  She slipped the frittata under the broiler. She wanted to be sure to speak carefully, neutrally. “I know that … but are you always so—so remote with your patients, or is it just the ones you’re involved with?”

  Henry smoothed his beard. “I treated you the way I would most anyone else. I’ve been at this a lot of years, Costanza. You can’t expect me—”

  “To make an exception?”

  “To change my ways.”

  “But we’re thinking of making a baby together.”

  “I’m infinitely aware of that.”

  “On the basis of a relatively shallow knowledge of each other.”

  “Well, it’s becoming deeper,” Henry said lightly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s merely a statement of fact. As is this: you’re nearly forty, remember.”

  When she didn’t say anything, he added, “And I love you.”

  “So you keep saying. But the more you say it, the less I believe it. I’m beginning to think it’s an idea—a notion—maybe a longing—in you, rather than an experience between us.”

  Again he studied her face. Whatever he was looking for there, clearly he was not finding. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”

  “How do you know that’s not what love is, some kind of … delusion.”

  “Because I believe that something so strong has to be shared between two people. Also because I’m listening to my own heart. And trusting it.”

  In a softer voice she said, “The situation is unusual, Henry, you must concede.”

  “I do. This is hardly familiar ground for me. I’m just feeling my way. I’m bound to make mistakes. We both are.”

  “No. Just you.” She smiled. The atmosphere lightened.

  He put his arm around her. “Would it help if we got married? If I asked you to marry me?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “My heart. Where else?” He paused. “I realize it isn’t very romantic, the way I said it. But if you would have me, I would marry you tomorrow.”

  Costanza turned her beautiful, unreadable face to Henry. “And if there’s no baby…?”

  “Then we have each other.”

  She opened the oven and took out the frittata.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Costanza.”

  “Right no
w I can’t even think about answering your question. I’m not ready to. But I am ready to eat.”

  * * *

  On Thursday, her period began. She returned to Henry’s office for a blood test three days later. He brought the results home with him. Her random day-three FSH was thirteen. Thirteen put her slightly on the high side of the cusp: she could try an insemination or move directly into a cycle of IVF. His feeling was that she would do better with IVF, so she decided to do that. Just like that, she decided. After so much doubt, hearing that number, having a hard fact finally, anchored Costanza in the pragmatic. If an objective lab test suggested that her egg quality was beginning to deteriorate, then the time had come to sign on.

  The following week she received a phone call from one of Henry’s nurses, Sandra, who said that she was reviewing Costanza’s records and noticed she had yet to register for what she called (oddly, Costanza thought) a “teach class,” an evening in which she would be instructed in how to prepare and perform the injections, what to expect during the cycle, where to go on the day of retrieval, and other details related to her treatment.

  That Thursday, Costanza went to the hospital to listen to this nurse, Sandra, describe a typical cycle, from the very first blood test to the transfer of an embryo and the pregnancy test that would follow two weeks later. By the time she stumbled out of the room nearly two hours later, she was numb.

  Henry had gone to a lecture that evening and was not due back before ten o’clock. Costanza poured herself a generous glass of red wine, then in the dark, which in New York was never so very dark, found her way to the living room. She sat down in one of the chairs that faced the windows and sipped. As she sipped, a memory came. Out of nowhere, or so it seemed at first, her mind turned to the day when a line was drawn between childhood and what was to follow, between thinking she understood and understanding she didn’t, between feeling at home in her home and feeling truly at home nowhere ever again.

  It’s a Saturday in April, and she is in the garden at Recco, which is in lavish early spring bloom, the roses competing with jasmine and wisteria to sweeten the air. She is sitting at the round table under the grape arbor, doing her homework; trying to do her homework. Her father has been gone—only not gone, but missing—for two days. He’s away on an unexpected research trip, her mother has tried to tell her, unconvincingly, because for months now Alan hasn’t been doing any research, he hasn’t been going into Genoa to teach his classes, he hasn’t been reading (he who was never without a book in his bag, under his arm, in his lap, by his chair), he hasn’t even been out of bed for more than an hour or so at a time. At the bottom of the stairs that lead from the garden down to the street, the metallic clang of the lid on the letterbox announces the delivery of the morning mail, and a moment later Maria Rosaria comes flying out of the house, and flying is just what it seems like too, since her mother is still in her white nightgown, which swells and billows out behind her like a sail as she hurries out the front door and into the garden, past the arbor and the table where Costanza is sitting, through the gate at the top of the stairs, and down the stairs to the street. A second, gentler clang of the letterbox and then a long, excruciating silence follow. Costanza waits and waits. Five minutes, ten. In her memory she waits, it seems, for an hour, though she knows it cannot have been an hour, maybe it wasn’t even ten minutes, or five. Eventually she hears her mother’s footsteps, heavy, struggling, suffering footsteps that hoist her body back up the stairs. First a tip of her appears, a thatch of dark hair, then the rest of her, in profile, her features frozen, her shoulders and arms slack, her hands holding the mail where among the bills and magazines are two letters from her father, one for Maria Rosaria, the other for Costanza. One is open, the other still sealed. Two envelopes, two stamps, two sheets of paper, two lives never again what they were.