The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  Can’t she read? I’m not repeating it. Not without screaming. So I say as calmly as I can, “Well, Dr. Hilton asked if I could come in today so she could explain the results of my blood test.”

  She opens a brown folder and flips it open. “That’s indeed what I see here.”

  “Does it show my hormone levels?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Am I in the early stages of menopause?”

  “I’ll let the doctor explain when she comes in. Let’s get your blood pressure and temperature,” she says, wrapping that padded thing tighter than usual around my arm and sticking the disposable thermometer under my tongue as if she’s really trying to shut me up. “When was your last menstrual cycle?”

  “I didn’t have one in January, I’m happy to say, and I’m due again in two weeks, but good riddance,” I say, holding on to the tip of the thermometer.

  “And that date was?”

  “Christmas.”

  “Your blood pressure is excellent: 121 over 70. Now let’s get you to hop on the scale and then go right over there to the restroom and get me a clean urine sample, okay?”

  “Sure. Be happy to.”

  I close my eyes when I get on the scale. I can feel it tipping too far to the right. In fact, I think that silver clip might just keep going straight through that shiny picture of a kitten and a puppy playing together on the wall. “Don’t tell me what it says,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”

  I go into the bathroom. She’s been in here quite a few times today. I try not to inhale any more of her toxic scent than I have to. After I come out, she guides me into Room #1 and gives me the take-everything-off spiel. I put the blue gown on backward and hop onto the table. When she tells me the doctor should be with me shortly, I feel like saying: “Sure sure sure! Heard this already. Save it for the next patient.” I lie back on the stainless steel examination table. Decide to take advantage of this time by closing my eyes. The tissue paper on both sides of my hips crinkles and makes a crackling noise.

  I bend over and pull my backpack up with both hands and start rummaging through it when I realize that this is not an appropriate place for me to clean this thing out, and since I’m trying not to always be “doing something” in every free moment, I decide to drop it back where it was, but a thick wad of notebook paper falls out. I forgot all about this! As I flip page after page, I wondered if I was having a “moment” because it’s clear to see I was writing very fast:

  January: Stop swearing. This is a lazy, cheap, and ignorant way to express myself. But I enjoy swearing sometimes, and don’t always use it in a hostile or malicious way. In fact, I could probably come up with at least a hundred different ways just to use the word “fuck” in all its forms: Fuck you. I will fuck you up. Abso-fucking-lutely. My husband cannot fuck. You get on my fucking nerves. I can’t fucking believe this. You fucker. This is fucking ridiculous. I’ll try. February: Improve my vocabulary. Try to learn a new word every day and use it in a sentence. If I was around more intelligent people, I might be able to get some practice. This was a problem I had when my kids were little. I’d say something like “Go ahead and just gesticulate.” And Spencer or Simeon would say, “Gest-who? Mom, come on. Give us the normal word, please!” I’d think: what the fuck? But I’d say: “Just try moving those little arms, then.” March: Eat smarter. April: Stop being so critical. This is going to be tough because it’s so much easier pointing out other people’s shortcomings than it is recognizing and acknowledging your own. And so much more fun. But, sad to say, just about every negative thing I’ve said about someone eventually winds up becoming a problem I have to face. May: Volunteer! Stop being so selfish and shallow. This concept wasn’t designed solely for rich white women with nothing else to do. June: Go to church and Pray More Often! Let’s be realistic: not necessarily every single Sunday but enough so that I feel redeemed. Remember not to waste God’s time with chitchat and don’t ask for any special favors because too many folks are asking for special treatment all day long. Don’t ask for anything. But if I have to, ask for the ability to use common sense, be stronger, be more patient, compassionate, honest, and forgiving. The rest should fall into place. If not, it means I’m not paying attention. July: Exercise! Something. But break a sweat. (Hot flashes do not count! Ha!) August: Cook something new at least once a week! This is so last-year. I must’ve been out of my fucking mind. In fact, I’m thinking of taking a cooking hiatus. September: Be more sociable. I should do more things with my friends since I don’t do much with my husband. Maybe make some new friends even though I love Bunny and Paulette. Try reconnecting with a few that I liked in college who found me on the Internet but whom I have yet to e-mail back. Try not to compare. October: Write letters again! Especially to people who think I’ve forgotten them because I have. Reminisce. November: Change my hairstyle every three months. (Why did I want to do that? Oh yeah, for variety.) December: Go somewhere I never thought I’d go. Do something I never thought I’d do. (Like where? Like what?)

  Did I really write all of this stuff? Was I on some kind of fucking medication around then? Nope. That’s the reason why I’m here now. Does swearing in my thoughts count the same as actually swearing out loud? A knock on the door startles me and I throw my tablet on the floor like it’s an illegal drug.

  “Marilyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure,” I say, and sit up like a board is behind my back.

  “How are you these days, Marilyn?”

  “So-so,” I say. “I like your new office.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looks good. Too good. Like she’s had work done. But to that I say, right on.

  “Well, let’s see here.” She sighs, flipping through my chart, and then she just closes it.

  “How far into it am I?”

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what? I thought you said the blood test would show my hormone levels.”

  “It does, indeed.”

  “Are they high or low?”

  “Well, Marilyn, I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about the numbers.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, the levels indicate that you’re probably pregnant.”

  I know I didn’t hear her right. I couldn’t possibly have heard her say the word “pregnant.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “This is what the tests say.”

  “You can’t really be serious?”

  “Well, when you told the lab that you’d missed a period, they automatically did a pregnancy test when checking hormone levels, just in case.”

  “I don’t fucking believe this!”

  “So I take it this isn’t good news for you then, Marilyn?”

  “Preg-nant,” I blurt out just to hear myself say it. “How pregnant am I?”

  “I can’t tell you that based on this test, but since your next cycle is due in”—she looks at my chart—“it says here, around the eighteenth of February—then it would be safe to put you at roughly six or seven weeks.”

  “Six or seven weeks?” I whisper and realize I’ve been tapping the base of this metal exam table with the heels of both feet, which I can’t seem to stop until I place both palms on my kneecaps and press down. I take a few deep breaths and think of Trudy of all people. “Wait a minute. Okay. Wait. I thought I was supposed to be going through menopause! That’s what I came in here for!”

  “You probably were, Marilyn, but sometimes there’s one last hurrah left.”

  “Hurrah?” I sigh, but I’m abso-fucking-lutely positive that she knows I’m not waiting for a fucking response.

  Chapter 4

  Hi, honey. Two things: I’ve got a surprise to show you when I get home, and I’m going to be a little later than I thought.” I look down at my cell as if I can see his voice coming out of it. I don’t really like surprises because they usually disappoint. And in Leon’s case it almost always means it’s somethi
ng more for his benefit than mine but he’ll present it so it comes across like it was meant for both of us to enjoy. If it doesn’t fall into this category, this is what will be an even bigger shock.

  So he’s going to be late. Good. Arthurine can eat frozen Stouffer’s and be happy. I could whip up a low-fat dessert, but this, too, takes time and I feel like sewing or hot gluing something—anything—tonight.

  “Marilyn? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, but I can barely hear you. Hold on a minute, would you, I’ve got a call from Joy coming in, which must mean it’s important because she never calls me on my cell. Be right back.” I press TALK. “What’s going on, Joy? Is Lovey all right? She didn’t sound right at all when I talked to her the other day. Is her pressure up again?”

  “And hello to you, too. No. Her pressure is fine.”

  “Is she taking her pills?”

  “Yeah, she’s taking all her pills. Her cholesterol is all right. And she still weighs a ton.”

  “Well, why was she talking crazy?”

  “Because she’s going crazy. Sometimes I wish to hell I was crazy and then I wouldn’t have to worry about nothing. But I ain’t. And I’m the one in bad shape. And I was…”

  “I have to call you right back, Joy. Leon’s on the other line and it’s long distance.” I hang up without waiting for her reply. Whatever she wants has got something to do with borrowing or needing some money or her world will end without my help and once again she’s sorry to have to call me like this but she had no choice and after searching for and not being able to find any other avenues—like a job, for instance—she has come to me, her very last resort, which is supposed to make me feel grateful that she saved the “best” for last. I have no intention of calling her back anytime soon because when I don’t, her world doesn’t fall apart any more than it already has and she usually manages to find someone besides Lovey and me to squelch off of.

  “Leon?”

  “I’m still here, Marilyn.”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, too,” I say and then wish I hadn’t.

  “What kind?”

  “Probably not as big a one as yours—so don’t even think about it. Anyway, what time do you think you’ll get home?”

  “You’re not at home, are you? No, because I can hear the other cars and the wind. Did you try out a class?”

  “What class?”

  “At the gym. You said you were going to try spinning or something.”

  I forgot all about that. Why didn’t I just keep my big mouth shut until after I went? “I didn’t make it because I forgot today was my annual Pap test and I couldn’t miss that.”

  “I can understand that. Everything okay?”

  “Appears to be, but they send the actual results by mail. Oh no!”

  “What? You’re not in an accident, are you?”

  “No. I forgot that Sabrina and Nevil are going to some kind of metaphysical lecture tonight at Cal and I promised to keep Sage overnight. They’re dropping her off around seven and it’s almost six now.”

  “You couldn’t be that far from home, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand, Marilyn?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do we have any plans for the weekend?”

  “Of course we do! We’re flying to Vegas with six of our closest friends for two nights of nonstop partying and we’re staying at the Bellagio and I’ve got tickets to Cirque du Soleil’s O and Celine Dion, even though you don’t like her, and while you guys are in the cigar lounge us girls will be sipping apple martinis and salivating over male strippers, but other than this little excursion, I think we’re free.”

  “Very funny, Marilyn. What male strippers?”

  “Why’d you ask?”

  “I was just wondering. Some of the fellas wanted to get together and do eighteen holes on Saturday.”

  “What else is new?”

  “But we could try and do something like this one day save for the strippers. They’ve got some great courses in Vegas. Do we have six close friends?”

  “Forget it, Leon. I was just messing with you.”

  “Well, let me ask you something. Are there ever any men in those classes?”

  “What classes?”

  “The ones at the gym. Or are they just for women? I’ve been thinking. It’s really time I start using my portion of that membership rather than let it go to waste.”

  “Am I hearing right, Leon? Did you just say you actually want to go to the gym?”

  “That’s right.”

  I’m trying not to laugh when I ask: “What part of your anatomy would you like to focus on first?”

  “My whole body, actually. You haven’t seen Frank in months and you know how huge he was? You probably wouldn’t recognize him if you saw him. He’s lost about thirty pounds and looks fantastic since he moved out.”

  “What do you mean ‘moved out’?”

  “He’s getting a divorce.”

  “He? You mean Frank and Joyce?”

  “Well, yes, technically, but Frank is the one who’s filing.”

  “You can’t be serious, Leon.”

  “Very. I thought I mentioned this to you a while ago.”

  “Mentioned? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you more of the details later. But anyway, so many of the guys at work have turned to the gym to get rid of stress and they’ve reshaped themselves completely. I think I may be one of the last of the Mohicans.”

  I’m supposed to laugh but I can’t. “What time did you say you’ll be home?”

  “I can’t really say just now. We’re finishing up the last-minute details on the Douglass project—you know the one in Riverside?”

  I nod, knowing he’s not really waiting for an answer. I listen to him ramble on but I don’t hear a word he’s saying. What I’m really thinking is that Leon’s phone call—a cliché if ever there was one—most likely means he’s on his way to an economy hotel (he’s a miser, but wouldn’t be caught dead in a motel) where in a couple of hours he will, if he hasn’t already, order room service (at least a decent bottle of Moët), and his much-younger-than-me, slender and sexy girlfriend who probably works in a cubicle somewhere in his office, is spraying on some kind of popular perfume after having just come out of the shower so that after he arrives and imbibes a little he will have wiped me and Arthurine from his mind and loosened up enough to enjoy watching her suck his dick like he’s in some porno movie and to be fair and make sure he can repeat this escapade, he’ll also manage to go down on her the way he used to go down on me when there was more space between my thighs and they were ripple-free. And when he wakes up fifteen minutes later and looks at the clock, he’ll drag himself out of bed and take a quick shower and drive home triumphant that he still “has it” and when he comes into the bedroom to see if I’ve been waiting up for him, which of course I will not have been because I’ll either be sound asleep or pretending to be, he’ll run back downstairs where he will take his dinner from the microwave and dump it down the garbage disposal where I happened to have left a spoon and the noise will give him a jolt and he will remove said spoon and place it in the sink and then take his second shower of the night and not think I’ll notice that he’s done either. However, in the morning while I’m putting dishes into the dishwasher—including the scratched spoon—he’ll tell me how good dinner was and thank me for being so thoughtful.

  “Anyway, you know how these guys can be,” he’s saying. “I might have to have a drink or two with them, but I’ll call when I’m on my way if it’s not too late. Promise.”

  “It’s no problem, really.”

  “And how’s Mom doing this morning?”

  “What? I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up!”

  “I said, how’s Mom?”

  I press END twice, which turns the phone off. I don’t want to use up
any of my minutes talking about Arthurine right now and Lord knows I don’t want to think about going home and facing her. Sometimes she’s telepathic and today she’ll probably look right through my skin, directly into my belly and see that I’m pregnant. I wouldn’t put it past her. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll be in a six-hour coma or completely absorbed watching reruns of Home Improvement when I walk in.

  My luck must have run out because Miss Holy Thang is sitting in the family room with the TV off. She’s nodding like a junkie, those aviator-size glasses having slid to the tip of her nose, apparently from reading what looks like a real book. This is a first. The door chime must’ve had a delayed reaction because she just now snaps the paperback shut and slides it away from my view. “Hello there, Arthurine,” I say.

  “Evening to you,” she says, trying to appear alert. She is dressed for church on a Monday but hasn’t been anywhere today except for two trips to the mall. The first was about seven this morning when a bus picks up her and about thirty other senior citizens and takes them to the mall to walk before the stores open. She gets back about ten, leaving just enough time to shower and be ready for the shopping van that comes back around noon. They mostly have lunch, window-shop, buy lots of trinkets, or see a PG-13 movie.

  “How’re you feeling this evening?” This is a loaded question that I know I should not have asked.

  “Fair to middlin, but this morning the voice of God said, ‘The child is not dead but asleep. Little girl, I say to you get up!’ Where’ve you been all day? You weren’t at work.”

  I feel like saying, “None of your business, Miss Newly Resurrected. And since when did you start checking up on me?” But I don’t, because it would be rude and disrespectful. “I had errands to do.”

  “I know that, Marilyn. But where exactly did you go?”

  I want to say, “None of your damn business!” but of course I don’t, for the same reasons. I grind my molars and say as softly as I can, “I also had my annual female checkup this afternoon.”

  “What’d the doctor say?”

  “She didn’t say anything, Arthurine. I just had a Pap smear, that’s all.”