Candy went to the gym every single morning and made me agree to meet her there on Tuesdays and Fridays before work. She enjoyed the StairMaster. When I arrived, late on purpose, I would take the one next to her.
“Answer me one question,” I said as I set my meter for a molehill pace. “Why is it you never sweat?”
“I’m accustomed to exercise,” she said. “Besides, eventually I do sweat.”
“Where?”
“My cleavage.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“That’s sexy sweat.”
“I’m going on a date with Ellison on Saturday night,” she said.
“That’s great, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather be seeing Dishwasher Guy?”
“He was handsome. But I like Ellison. He’s taking me to New York to see that play Wilkes Booth: A Night at the Theater, about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.”
“You’ve already seen that.”
“True, but it was superb, and Ellison already bought the tickets. Besides, it’s not like I have to act surprised at the ending. The time to live is now. After all, I don’t know what the future holds after my operation.”
I asked her what was involved, but I already knew, because I had read about it online. There is a problem, though, about researching diseases on the Internet. They always show the worst-case scenario. Like a photograph of someone with type 2 diabetes would depict a man with all-black, rotting toes on his left leg and no right leg at all. Sometimes I think medical sites obtain photographs of diseases by going to skid row and asking men with no access to medical care to pose.
I took a sip from my water bottle as I climbed and listened.
“It’s called an abdominal hysterectomy. The surgeon makes an incision across my belly in order to remove the upper part of the uterus. He’s planning to leave the cervix. I need two to three days in the hospital afterward. They say it takes about six weeks for full recovery. But it does leave a scar. I just hope it’s not big. I told him I’d prefer a horizontal incision.”
I couldn’t believe she was worrying about a scar. What, did she walk around nude all day? Mostly, I was aghast that she hadn’t checked any of this out online.
“There are easier ways to do it,” I said. “I think you should consult another doctor.”
“For example?”
“Laparoscopic or robotic.”
“But why wouldn’t he have suggested that?”
The conversation was getting serious. I thought it would be best if I stopped exercising, in order to talk to her . . . or in order to stop exercising.
“I don’t know,” I said as my workout came to a halt, but she kept going. “Maybe he’s in a rut. You know how it gets when you’re our age. You do something a particular way for years. You never think about doing it another way. It’s like Harvey and the microwave. The microwave was tucked away in a corner forever. So, one night, Harvey goes to make popcorn and starts complaining that he abhors where the microwave is. Knowing Harvey, it was too far to travel from the cupboard where he procured the popcorn to the microwave. I was very annoyed, so I unplugged the machine and moved it. He said, ‘I didn’t know we could move it.’
“Go online and research the newest methods. Question your doctor. If he insists on doing it the old-fashioned way, go for another opinion. Absolutely no ageism here, but I prefer young women doctors.”
“Okay. I will.”
“Will you?” I can really be a pain.
“I said yes. There’s something else that’s bothering me.”
“Your woes are my woes.”
“I’m really worried about vaginal dryness afterward.”
A man in a T-shirt that said “World’s Best Dad” was on the machine next to her. He was about to put on his headphones, but instead he just held them in his hand. Vaginal dryness—such a showstopper.
“Candy, wake up! The tumor is probably sitting in one place. And it’s only the size of a Ping-Pong ball. It could’ve been as big as a paddle. Eighty percent of uterine tumors are benign. Everything will be okay. Just say a prayer or whatever it is that people who never go to church do.”
“Yoga,” she said. “I do yoga.”
“Assume a position, and be grateful.”
“I am grateful. But vaginal dryness is problematic. It can be devastating.”
It was certainly at the top of my concerns. Right after “I can’t get this jar of applesauce open.”
I had been trying to think of a way to introduce my kids to Jon. Not just because he wanted to meet them, but because I knew it was a healthy thing for me to do. So what if the kids judged him harshly because they weren’t ready to meet him? How many of their friends had I not liked?
I thought about Elisabeth’s first boyfriend in high school. He was so beneath her, she could have crushed him under her Reeboks. Then there was the girl with the waist-length blond hair whom Ben had dated his sophomore year in high school, before he came out as gay. Cassandra Klein. She never said hello when she came into our house. She’d be talking to Ben, and as soon as she saw me, she’d clam up, like her mouth had been wired shut. She had that popular-girl way of making even me feel insecure. I knew she was a “mean girl” in school, and I disliked that about her. I had heard from another mother on the PTO that Cassandra had been torturing her daughter on the school bus, poking fun at her book bag, probably the only one in Atherton that wasn’t from L.L.Bean. Life was so precarious on a school bus. To tell the truth, I’d rather be dropped from the sky without a parachute than board a bus to Atherton High School. Lucky for me, I had always walked to school.
Jon was active in the Guild, and I had known him for years and years, but in all that time, he had never met anyone in my family. What if I had a boyfriend who didn’t care who my children were? Who never asked a word about them? I’d never like that kind of man. I had to grow up and take my boyfriend home to meet my children.
As I mulled this over, Ben texted to say he was headed to Vermont. He offered to stop on the way to have breakfast with me at Kerry’s, a breakfast and lunch place in Atherton. When the kids were young, we ate there so often Harvey called it “the annex.”
It occurred to me that the casualness of this unscheduled event—as well as the down-home ambience provided by Kerry’s plywood walls, Venetian blinds, vinyl chairs, wobbly benches, and harvest-gold Formica tables circa 1980—would shout out to everyone “This is no big deal.” Even though it was. Although Jon had not brought up the subject again, I wanted him to meet my kids before it became a thing. If we all met on Saturday morning at Kerry’s, the deed would be done.
“Of course I will meet you at Kerry’s,” I said to Ben. “I could use some of those banana-walnut pancakes.”
“I know exactly what I am having.”
“Let me guess. Western omelet with three pancakes and a side of corned beef hash.” I prided myself on knowing what everyone in my family liked to eat. In a grocery store, I would purchase three kinds of cereal or three brands of bread just to be certain every member of my family was happy. When I spotted a mother in a supermarket calling home to see what her children wanted, I felt that if she really loved them, she would know without making the call. I’m not saying I am not crazy.
“You always know what I like,” Ben said.
On that cue, I plunged in. “So Jon happens to be free on Saturday morning, and I am thinking I would bring him along. He’s a big fan of Kerry’s. Loves the waffles—with whipped cream. Asks for extra syrup.” That’s enough, Marcy.
“Sure, Mom.”
Sure, Mom? It was that easy?
“I’ll call Elisabeth and see if she can make it too,” he said.
So much for it being easy. I knew Ben was dragging along his sister, who was always busier than an ant building a hill, because he had no intention of going to this “boyfriend-meeting thing” alone. Whatever. I liked my kids depending on each other. I knew it had helped a lot during the initial phase of
my separation from Harvey.
Jon and I arrived at Kerry’s first, then Ben, who had picked up Elisabeth at her apartment.
“Jon, this is Elisabeth and Ben. Elisabeth and Ben, Jon London.” I could have run through rapid gunfire and appeared less anxious.
Unfortunately, Kerry’s, which was hidden in the back of a strip mall and rarely busy, was packed with people enjoying or waiting to enjoy breakfast before all the things suburban families did on weekends, most of which involved a child and some type of ball.
Elisabeth was jumpy, and the first thing she said was “Mom, I have a lot to do today. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to stand on line.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “There’s never a wait here.”
Jon pointed to the trophies on a table filled with fathers and sons. “Looks like there is some kind of awards breakfast going on.”
I started rethinking my decision. Maybe I should have picked a restaurant that took reservations. Maybe I should suggest another place. The trouble was, I felt stressed enough without figuring out where we should go. No one was talking. And the silence between us was ringing like a school bell.
“It looks worse than it is,” I said.
Ben assessed the situation. Jon said nothing, which was exactly the right thing to say.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Jon,” Elisabeth said, “but I can’t stay. Maybe we will get together another time.”
“You’re going?” I asked. I think I squeaked it. I was so surprised and so let down.
“That group,” she said, pointing out the stretch of fathers and sons, “will be here until next soccer season.”
I could tell from his face that Jon thought Elisabeth had plenty of time. That the truth was that she didn’t want to spend it with him. Jon strolled over to the self-service coffee.
I pulled Elisabeth aside. “Elisabeth, you’re making Jon feel awful.”
“I didn’t plan on a three-day line for a pancake.”
She always did like a “short” stack.
The three of us were silent until Jon returned with his coffee.
Ben said, “How about we just go over to Dunkin’ Donuts?”
In New England, there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner. In the time it takes to eat one cruller, you’re passing another Dunkin’ Donuts.
Jon shook his head. “Why don’t we just drive through?” he whispered to me.
I wasn’t sure what to do now. But I knew what I should have done. I should have picked a restaurant that took a reservation.
“Elisabeth,” Jon said, “I am so sorry about the wait. I understand how busy a doctor can be. I’m glad we got to meet, and I have to say you are even more beautiful in person than in pictures.”
“Thank you,” Elisabeth replied. “Well, I guess I could be a little late.”
Jon smiled. Ben rolled his eyes. A friend of Elisabeth’s walked in, and she fell into a conversation.
“Hammer. Party of four,” the host, who was also a waiter and a busboy, called out.
“Not too bad,” Ben said.
“I know the maître d’,” Jon joked. “We went to catechism together.”
“I thought you were Jewish,” Ben said.
“That was a joke,” Jon told him as we headed to our table.
Ben smiled at me as though to say “This guy isn’t half-bad.”
As we sat at the table, holding menus, Elisabeth continued to chat up her friend. I waved to her. Finally, she bothered to join us, ordering a short stack, as I expected. When our heaping platters arrived, Ben, Jon, and I dug in, as though the last time we’d seen food, it had been dropped on our encampment from a Red Cross helicopter. Not Elisabeth. She took out her cell and stared at it, as though reading a text.
“Oh, I really have to go,” she said. “Ben, can you give me a ride?”
Jon glanced at me. I glanced back.
“No. But I can call an Uber.”
I was so relieved that Ben wasn’t leaving with her.
“Well, Jon, it was nice to meet you.” She should have added, “Even if I was colder than gelato.” She pushed in her chair and headed out the door.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect Elisabeth to greet Jon as though he were the Dalai Lama. Pleasantries would have more than met my expectations. But those pleasantries needed to last at least a half hour.
“Patriots fan?” Ben asked Jon to drum up conversation.
At least Ben was being gracious.
“Not really,” Jon said.
“Me neither.”
“Red Sox?” Jon asked.
“Yankees,” Ben replied.
And then, from that one word, Yankees, the two revved into a discussion of players, scores, the old stadium, and the new stadium.
The bill came. Jon grabbed it.
“Thanks, Jon,” Ben said. “Next time, it’s on me.”
“Then I will order the filet mignon,” Jon joked.
“At Burger King?” Ben said.
We walked out into a beautiful day, and Ben went to his car.
“He’s great,” Jon said. “I enjoyed meeting Elisabeth, but I am sure not as much as she enjoyed meeting me.”
“I am so sorry,” I said. “It’s going to take time.” I blew out a breath. “Elisabeth is uncomfortable. What am I supposed to do? She’s a grown woman. She’s a doctor. She has patients.”
He turned and stared directly into my eyes. “You should have planned this better.”
“You’re blaming me?” He pushes to meet my kids, then he holds me responsible when it doesn’t work out?
“How often did you go out as a family to a place like Kerry’s for an important occasion?”
“Just on weekends for breakfast.”
“So you thought you would just get it over with. Not make a big deal. Is that what I am to you? No big deal?”
He was right. I had been so intent on getting the big meet-Jon moment over with that I had not thought at all about how he would feel or what would be best for him.
“Slapdash won’t do. Either I’m important, or I don’t need any of this. I have no baggage. No kids. No ex-wife. My life couldn’t be simpler for you. I am not dancing at the perimeter of your circle.”
I bit my bottom lip. I nodded. “You’re right. I’m going to make this up to you. I am going to take a stand.”
Ever since Harvey left, I had been working on that. I was taking stands all over town. Just the day before, I had fired my house cleaner. Not because she did a bad job. I used to call her the magician. It was because she stole my credit card and bought a television with it. She claimed it was for her son to take to college, to put in his dorm room. What really steamed me was she went totally top of the line. What? He was going to college with a seventy-two-inch television?
“Marcy, it’s not always about taking a stand. Sometimes it’s as simple as making a reservation.”
The next day, I called Elisabeth.
“What was your problem?”
“I don’t know. It was just weird.”
“It may be weird. But it’s my life,” I said.
Silence.
“Elisabeth?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
I was happy she was sorry.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t we try again? Ben can come to Connecticut another time, and we can all have dinner at the house. Or, better yet, why doesn’t everyone come to my apartment? We can have drinks and cheese, and it will be relaxing.”
I tried not to overreact, but I knew she could hear in my voice how thrilled I was.
Later, I walked upstairs and sat on Elisabeth’s bed. Although my children had been gone for years, it was only recently that I had asked them to come home and claim their possessions—posters with pronouncements from Einstein and Freud, locked diaries, dusty textbooks, stuffed animals with missing body parts, prom pictures in front of limousines, term papers, college sweatshirts, party dresses short enough to be mistaken for blouses, ragged
T-shirts purposefully ripped at the necks and bearing names of bands that no longer existed, and pictures of elementary school friends they hadn’t seen since the first day of middle school. The list went on and on. I didn’t live in a house. I owned a long-term-storage facility.
In her quest for success, Amanda had lived in four cities since high school, and her Day-Glo-pink bikini swimsuit was still in the armoire in her room. Elisabeth had hired a U-Haul but only because it was less irritating than having me on her back, when at the time, I was already a hump about her dating a married man. Ben had shown up with a duffel bag.
Yes, my kids had taken what they wanted from their rooms, but they had forgotten about the basement, which was loaded with the souvenirs of our lives. I had possessions that hadn’t been looked at since Jimmy Carter couldn’t get the hostages out of Iran.
I considered whether I had the heart to go down to my basement, which was the entire length and width of our house. Wisely, Harvey had decided to finish only half of it and leave the rest for storage. This worked well when the kids were in their teens. They were able to have a birthday party in the finished part and sneak off into the storage area to make out. I’d bet that they still didn’t think I knew about this. But how else to account for sweaters I found crumpled in corners near the dusty, old furniture from Harvey’s mother’s house?
I left Elisabeth’s room. I went downstairs and stood at the precipice. I put my hands on the knob to the basement door and took a step onto the charcoal carpeting.
At the bottom of the stairs, there were cartons and cartons of Bountiful merchandise and a life-size portrait of Harvey’s mother. There were file cabinets, most of them in a color of green that didn’t even exist anymore. I wondered why my husband, who owned a warehouse, needed to store the blight of his business in our house.
Husbands and Other Sharp Objects Page 14