by Jo Barrett
Heather leads me into the new nursery.
“Ta-da!” she says, flicking the light on. “Well,” she says, swinging her arms out like a game show hostess again, “What do you think?”
I look around. At the walls painted a soft, robin’s egg blue. At the white crib in the corner. At the miniature Alexander Calder mobile hanging over the crib from the newly painted white ceiling.
Armed only with a paintbrush and a shoestring budget, I see Heather’s done a tremendous job.
“Wow,” I say. “Make that double wow.”
“You like it?”
“Did you hand-paint all these little bears?”
“Stencils,” Heather says.
“You’re going to be one terrific mom.”
Heather smiles at me, beatifically.
Saint Heather.
“I may not be the brains of this family,” she says, “but at least I’ve got an eye for color.”
“Hey. Stop selling yourself short in the brains department,” I say.
Heather always does this. And it gets annoying. My best friend may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but she’s certainly not dumb. And I think having a heart of gold counts for something. Not to mention her looks. A girl as beautiful as Heather could probably get away with being a bitch. But Heather is a “pure soul,” as my brother likes to say.
Heather looks around the room, admiring her handiwork. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, flicking off the light. She motions for me to follow her. “C’mon. Let’s give Michael some more grief,” she says.
“Gladly.”
Heather waltzes into the living room, grabs the bucket of popcorn, and dumps the entire thing over Michael’s head.
“Hey!” he says, jumping up. He grabs my pregnant girlfriend, lifts her off the ground, and tosses her softly on the couch. “Looks like someone needs a spankin’!” he says, as he gently manhandles her.
“Michael stop!” Heather shrieks and begins giggling uncontrollably as Michael turns her over in his lap and begins patting her bottom.
“Who’s been a bad girl?” Michael asks.
(Oh Lord. I guess this is their idea of foreplay.)
“I was just leaving,” I say, letting myself out the door.
“Bye, Maddy!” Heather and Michael both shout, in unison.
I tread out to my car, haul myself into the driver’s seat, and slam the door.
I drive slowly, wishing there was someplace else to go. Like maybe a movie. But I’ve seen everything worth seeing. Plus a few not worth seeing.
I drive in silence and try not to think the unthinkable. The “maybe Carlton will come to his senses and come crawling back to me” thought. I picture him on my doorstep, on his knees, the Juliet ring in his hand.
“Marry me, Maddy,” he says. When I say yes, Carlton stands, and proceeds to strangle me.
Such are my dreams. Every single night.
Which is why I really don’t know why I’m pulling into my garage right now. I mean, it’s not even dark yet. And I’m already dreading going to sleep.
I ease the car inside, put it in park, and just sit.
Hmm. How long does it take this carbon monoxide thing to work, I wonder? Punching a button on my dashboard, I watch in the rearview as the garage door closes down behind me.
The engine is still running. I unlock my seatbelt. Could I kill myself in a matter of minutes? Hours? How long does it take? I crack open a window and let the engine idle.
I could probably sit here for days and it wouldn’t matter. And then I suddenly remember what I learned from the carbon monoxide websites…
Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. The odorless, colorless, poisonous gas attacks before you even know what’s happening.
The next thing I know, someone is shaking me.
“Jesus, Maddy! Are you trying to kill yourself?” I crack open my eyes and see a vision in pink. It’s Heather. And she’s wearing a pink jogging suit.
“You can’t kill yourself before my baby shower! I need you!” she screeches.
“Huh? What happened?” I ask, and my voice is dry, clogged.
Heather jerks open the driver’s side door and pulls me out of the car. My head is pounding like someone’s got a jackhammer to my ear.
“You’re asleep in your car! In the garage. And the car is running!” Heather shouts. Her voice sounds far away. “I’m taking you to the emergency room!”
I’m confused. Groggy. And I’ve apparently almost gassed myself to death.
“You left in such a rush, you left your purse at our house,” Heather says, her voice in a panic. “Oh my God! I never should’ve finished watching Erin Brockovitch!”
I swing my legs out of the driver’s seat. Try to stand. I see the garage door is up. Michael is standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Looking really pissed.
“We saw the light on in the garage,” he announces. “It’s a good thing Heather knows where your extra key is hidden.”
“I—I’m sorry?” I say, and my voice is hoarse.
“I told my wife if the fumes didn’t kill ya, I was gonna do it,” Michael says. He’s looking at me the way he does sometimes. Not mean. Just pissed.
“I think we should call an ambulance,” Heather says. I watch as she rummages in her purse for a cell phone.
“Water,” I croak. “No ambulance.”
Michael disappears and returns with a bottle of mineral water. “Drink,” he says.
I drink the water, quickly. Too quickly. Suddenly I feel the signal. The gurgling in my belly. I rush to my front yard and vomit on the sidewalk.
Michael doesn’t say a word. He grabs my garden hose and washes the puke into the street. Then he picks up his cell phone.
“No! I’m begging you! No ambulance. My health insurance has lapsed!”
Michael holds up his finger to shut me up.
“Hey Dad. Sorry to bother you so late,” he says. “I’ve got a question about carbon monoxide poisoning.” Michael turns his back to me and I hear him speaking to his father in a hushed tone.
His dad is a doctor, which comes in handy. So Michael’s done this routine before. Calling his dad when I thought I had a mole that looked like skin cancer. And the time when Heather thought she had Lyme disease because she was feeling “extra tired” that week.
Dr. Wasserstein calls us the “Hypochondriackers.”
I flop down onto the ground and clutch my stomach. Heather sits next to me and rubs my back. Gently. Like the extra nice person that she is.
“What’s happened to you, Maddy?” she asks, in a soft voice. “You were always so positive about everything. Remember when I was stressed out about getting pregnant? You’re the one who assured me it would all be okay. You always told me to leap before I looked, remember?”
I nod and stare down at the grass. “Maybe you shouldn’t have listened.”
“Nonsense,” Heather says.
Michael hands me the phone.
“Talk to my dad,” he orders me.
I shake my head no, but he opens my hand and slaps the phone into my palm.
“Dr. Wasserstein?” I ask, and my voice sounds meek.
“Do you have a headache, Maddy?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Is your vision impaired?”
I squint my eyes and look at Heather. She still looks pink. But it’s not blurry pink. It’s just pink pink.
“No.”
“Okay, I think you’ve been exposed to an elevated level of carbon monoxide. But I don’t think you need an ambulance. However, if you start experiencing irregular breathing, dizziness, fainting—any severe symptoms—then I want you to call 911. And then call me on my cell. Michael will give you the number.”
“Thanks Dr. Wasserstein,” I say, and I sound like I’m a kid, again.
“In the meantime, Madeline, I think you should see a therapist.”
“I’ll consider it,” I say.
/> “You know, I could put you on suicide watch.”
I laugh into the phone. But then I realize Dr. Wasserstein isn’t joking. Is that what everyone thinks? That I’m trying to kill myself?
Well, what were you doing? a voice in my head asks.
“It’s not what you think,” I say in a cool-as-cucumber voice. My head is ringing, my ears are popping and I think I’m going to throw up again. But I’ve got to save face here.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Dr. Wasserstein says. “Just remember, Madeline, my door is always open.”
“Thanks.”
I pass the phone back to Michael. Heather turns to me and says, “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
“Tryin’ to steal my wife,” Michael says, shaking his head. He’s not mad anymore. I can see it in his eyes. He’s back to his old whimsical self. If anything, Michael probably finds this mildly amusing.
“It’s okay, guys. I’m just going to bed,” I say. I hoist myself off the ground and brush off my jeans. “Thanks for bringing over my purse. You’re a lifesaver,” I say.
Heather says, “No problem.”
Michael says, “Lifesaver! Ha! I get it.”
We all have a good laugh, Michael orders a cheese pizza, and we sit around my kitchen till the wee hours talking about old times. So the night doesn’t end up sucking after all.
God, the lengths I have to go.
Chapter 24
When Carlton felt he was in the doghouse, he wooed me with tons of flowers. Cards. Chocolates. Candles. The whole shebang. Every day he’d surprise me with little gifts. It was as if we were back in our honeymoon period.
I craved the extra attention. And I loved the man who was giving it. He was my soul mate, if ever there’d been such a thing. If we were going to be together forever, I’d protect myself. And Carlton would protect me, too. He swore to it.
“Why do I love you so much?” he’d say, tweaking me on the chin.
“Just because I’m me,” I’d say, and we’d laugh.
Everyone made mistakes, I figured. And this was Carlton’s. His love was his Achilles’ heel. He’d been ashamed to tell me of his STD. That’s how much he wanted us to stay together.
So I forgave him.
That very week, the Carlton-Coming-Out-About-Herpes Week, I made an emergency appointment to see Cheryl, my gynecologist. In the waiting room I read all the pamphlets on STD’s, HIV, gonorrhea, syphilis. I read them all.
Apparently, if you have your pick of the litter, genital herpes is the way to go.
It’s the STD with the least amount of trouble. A minor offender in a roomful of felons.
I wait more than an hour for Cheryl. She’s a lesbian, my ob-gyn. And I know this because her life partner, Bernice, works in the office next to me at Henry’s marketing firm. She keeps Cheryl’s picture in a frame on her desk.
“How can you go to a lesbian?” Heather asks me.
“Because she happens to be a doctor,” I reply.
When Heather snickers, I say, “You know, Jewish people are supposed to be liberal.”
“You mean they vote Democrat?” she’ll say, with all the innocence in the world.
“That too,” I’ll say.
It kills me when Heather scribbles this in her book. The “How to be a Jew” logbook she keeps, filled with helpful hints, recipes for knish and latkes, that sort of thing.
Cheryl is actually the best gynecologist I’ve ever been to. When I finally see her, she tells me genital herpes is almost impossible to test for.
“You have to wait for a break-out. Then we test the open sore,” she says.
“How long until I have a break-out?” I ask. I’m up on the examination table, my feet in cold stirrups. On the ceiling is a poster with a cat dangling from a tree limb. “Hang in there!” the poster says.
It’s really bad.
Cheryl pokes and prods. Digs her fingers into my abdomen. “Could be years,” she says.
“If I’m infected, what happens to me?” I ask.
“The worst part of this disease is the social stigma associated with it. But you should know, Maddy, there is no cure—it’s a disease you have for a lifetime. But rest assured, people can lead normal lives with herpes.”
“All finished,” she says. “You can sit up.”
I sit up in my thin paper robe. The white paper crinkles underneath me. She takes her glasses off and lets them hang from a beaded chain around her neck. “There are topical lotions, and of course, pills, to control flare-ups. The only significant danger is for pregnant women.”
“How so?”
“If a woman gives birth during a flare-up, and the newborn gets infected in the birth canal, it can be fatal for the baby. Women with genital herpes are advised to have cesarean sections rather than risk natural childbirth.”
“How will I know if I’ve contracted it?”
She stands, walks to the sink. Washes her hands.
“You’ll know. The sores are often painful during the first flare-up. And you’ll most likely run a high fever. Come see me if that happens.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Maddy,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful who you sleep with.”
Before I can utter a word to Cheryl about being in a monogamous relationship with a beautiful man for the past several years, she walks briskly out, letting the door click shut behind her.
“Got it,” I say to the empty room.
Chapter 25
It’s time to buck up, Maddy, I tell myself. I practice smiling in the mirror, but it doesn’t feel right. My lips are lopsided. And kind of dorky looking. Like a person trying to smile.
I decide to shake off my depression with a good healthy dose of the outdoors. My tennis club is offering discount lessons. I figure I could use some work on my serve. Plus, since Carlton and I broke up, I haven’t had anyone to hit the ball around with. I’m rusty. Out of shape. And a tad flabby in the middle.
I could use a few hours outside, practicing my forehand with some individual one-on-one attention. So I sign up.
The next evening, I jog out to the court. It’s brisk and clear. A cool breeze sweeps across my cheeks and I glance up to a sky sparkling with stars. Perfect tennis weather, as my dad used to say.
I’m wearing tennis whites. My favorite white tennis skirt with pleats, a white Addidas sports top, and white shoes. My only playful item is my socks. Polka dot.
The court lights are on and I see a few people warming up. The instructor is dark-skinned, and thin. He tells me his name is Deepak and he’s from New Delhi, India. When he speaks, it’s in that exuberant, up-and-down singsong voice. I love the Indian accent.
The tennis class is filled with couples. Deepak pairs them together. I’m the odd man out, of course. The only single. So Deepak pairs me with himself.
I’m dismayed at first, but then I realize it’s good for my game to be paired with the tennis pro.
Deepak asks me why I’m taking lessons. “You do not need,” he says, generously, as I whap the ball to the corners. Give Deepak a little challenge. He saves face by hitting a thunderous ball down the middle. I swing for it and miss. A beginner’s mistake.
“Good game,” he says, chuckling. We each walk to the net and shake hands. Like me, Deepak is a tennis purist. He only wears white. Strict white. None of these crazy colors. Like Andre Agassi or Venus Williams.
I like Deepak and notice he’s wearing a gold wedding band. “Do you have kids?” I ask, as we gather around the cooler. I chug my Gatorade. Wipe sweat from my forehead. Deepak takes an Ozarka bottle and squirts water over his neck, then shakes his head, like a dog coming out of a lake.
“Two kids,” he says. “A blessing in many disguises. And you?”
I end up spilling the beans about Carlton. Telling Deepak everything about the break-up.
Well—not everything
“Do not worry about this man,” he says, in his deep, lilting voice. “We have a saying
in India—What goes around—” he swings his arm in a wide arc to demonstrate a circle, “comes back around!”
“Yeah, but sometimes Deepak, you need more than Karma. You need a professional,” I say.
He laughs and says, “Good one.” He doesn’t realize I’m serious as a heart attack.
Chapter 26
I thought quitting my job with Henry would be hard. Putting in notice and packing up my office, and so forth. But Henry makes things easy for me. He paves a smooth road, as they say. And turns my last day into a party.
He has helium balloons and cake and catering by Manny’s Mexican—my favorite enchilada people. Afterward, we pack up my office together and Henry takes small nips from a Jack Daniels bottle he’s hidden behind my desk.
“I still can’t believe I’m losing you to Forest Connors,” he says, flashing me his twinkling blue eyes. He’s wearing a pale, butter-colored suit today with a pink kerchief in the breast pocket. It’s a dandy—the kind of suit that only Henry can get away with. He loosens his tie and I can see he’s waiting for me to say something.
I debate whether to tell Henry the arrangement I’ve been forced into. The sweat equity, stock options–to-ownership, work-for-hire thing. It’s been such a nice day I don’t want to get him into a rant.
I decide to stick with the positive.
“I’m starting my own company, Henry. Can you believe it!”
“If anyone deserves it—you do, kiddo. Just remember what I told you about Mr. You Know Who.”
“I know, I know. I couldn’t even trust him to mow my yard.”
Henry lifts the whiskey to take a quick nip. He points the bottle in my direction. “Just make sure you don’t end up doing all the work and getting none of the reward.”
“Hey, I’ve got free reign to hire whatever employees I need. And plus, Carlton and I are splitting the workload.”
Henry raises his eyebrows in that clever, know-it-all, way. “I know what you’re capable of, my dear. As for Carlton…” he stops and shakes his head.