He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “Three days.” He starts pouring me a fresh cup of water.

  “And he hasn’t left your side since they brought you in,” a heavyset nurse says as she comes into the room and starts pushing buttons on the machine next to the bed.

  “I guess I’m a stay-put kind of person,” Nick says into the room without meeting my eyes.

  The nurse moves to my bedside and pushes away the coverlet. “I’m just going to check the wound,” she says as she begins removing bandages from my stomach. I keep my eyes focused on her face as she peels away the dressing so I don’t yet have to confront the visual of whatever damage lies below.

  Even with the painkillers flowing through my veins, I wince against her ministrations, but she seems pleased with what she finds.

  “Well, you won’t have to stay put all that much longer.” She looks at Nick over her shoulder before turning back to tell me. “Seems you’re healing up good.”

  “Careful,” Nick says, “if you give her too much confidence, she might attempt a jailbreak. A bit of a runner, this one.” Even though he says it like he’s making a joke, his shoulders are rigid.

  I blink at his words. Is that what I’ve been doing? Running away? Again?

  Even here, battered and bruised in a hospital bed, I can feel my anger at Nick still simmering inside me. His presence is allowing me to relive all the horrible things he said, the way he let me just take Wyatt and leave. But a different voice, maybe a more reasonable one, is telling me that I am the one who put us into a complicated situation with the surrogacy arrangement— that I was too quick to react, too slow to empathize. Now that Nick is actually standing in front of me in his favorite black T-shirt and distressed jeans, the biggest part of me just wants him to stay. I want him to watch bad TV at my bedside until I’m recovered and to bring me home afterwards.

  After the nurse leaves, he returns to the chair he’s been occupying nearly constantly for the past few days.

  “Did you come to apologize?” I ask, willing him to plead for forgiveness, to give me a reason to relent.

  “Really?” He lets out a breath that might be a laugh before meeting my eyes. “Twenty-seven separate flower arrangements, and you still have to ask?”

  I wait for more. I will not do the work in this conversation.

  “I was a moron. I was so insanely jealous at the idea of you carrying someone else’s baby that I did everything wrong. The fact is, I think that what you did for Donovan and Chip . . . well, I think it’s pretty extraordinary. It’s quintessential Maggie, bucking the establishment in your endless quest for goodness.” He pauses, takes a steadying breath. “I sit outside on our deck every night, nursing a warm beer and wondering how I allowed jealousy and ignorance to turn me stupid. I should have fought harder before you left. I never should have put you in the position to want to leave in the first place. Leaving is your MO, I know that. But it doesn’t have to be that way with me.”

  He stands and walks toward a duffel bag that’s sitting beneath the window. I watch as he pulls out a small paper shopping bag that’s been folded over itself. He reaches inside to reveal a pile of pamphlets.

  “If you’re feeling well enough, maybe you could flip through these.”

  I push myself up a bit, trying to sit, but I’m arrested by another twinge in my abdomen.

  “Here, stop.” He lifts a remote from the side of the bed and uses it to raise the top portion of the mattress so I’m more upright. He hands me the small stack, and I see that the brochures are for colleges—Arizona State, Grand Canyon University, Brown Mackie College, and a number of others.

  As I appraise the possibilities that he has just placed into my hands, something inside me begins to melt, and I hope it’s not just the effects of all the meds coursing through my system. It feels like something has shifted inside me, and I’m feeling ready to forgive him. I guess near-death experiences have a way of changing perspectives.

  “Have you actually apologized, though?” I say it as I think it.

  “What?”

  “Are you sorry? I need to hear it.”

  “Oh my God, yes!” His voice is filled with relief as he takes one more step toward me, then falls to his knees beside the bed and grips the edge. “I’m sorry! I am sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  I glance down at the University of Phoenix brochure that’s on top of the pile, allowing myself a moment to absorb his words. When I look back at him, the cautious hope I see in his expression makes me catch my breath, allows me to fill my lungs with air that I hadn’t realized was missing for all these months.

  “I’ve heard good things about Arizona State,” I say, looking down at the pile again.

  “Here.” He stands and reaches for the catalog, thumbing through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “The education major.”

  I eyeball the shiny pages and see that Arizona State offers a degree in elementary ed and another one in art education, the two areas in which I am most interested.

  “It wasn’t just the pregnancy,” I say gently, worried that I’m sabotaging a newfound alliance before it’s even solidified.

  “I know,” he responds in the same subdued tone, acknowledging that we had already been falling apart well before I decided to carry those babies. “You called it, years ago. When I asked you to marry me and you said life was going to drag us down, that we should wait. I think it’s happened now, that we’ve seen it. Wyatt, the restaurant, the rent—it’s been hard, no doubt. But I’d still rather do shitty and hard with you than easy, breezy with someone else. This isn’t a proposal, but I’m just throwing it out there so, you know . . .”

  I wait.

  After a beat, he continues, “If I have to pass another day without your babbling mouth and your crazy ideas and your wild hair, honestly, my brain might actually explode. I mean”— he flinches a little, like he’s bracing for something—“unless you’d say yes now?”

  His full lips are open, as if he has more to say but is waiting, holding himself back. I think he is literally holding his breath as he waits for me to respond.

  “Well, no,” I say lightly, trying to be the reasonable one in this situation, even though reason has never been my forte. “Not now now. But now-ish is a definite possibility.”

  The corner of his lip tilts up and he starts to say something.

  “But”—I interrupt before he can get the words out— “maybe next time some candlelight, or rose petals . . . A little something more in the pomp and circumstance department wouldn’t kill you.”

  He takes my face in his hands and plants a warm, wet kiss on my lips, sealing the deal.

  I guess Wyatt and I are going back to Phoenix.

  Chapter 16

  MAGGIE

  FEBRUARY 2009

  The study group I joined for my Intro to Child and Adolescent Development class is made up entirely of other late-to-the-game students like me. I’m not even the oldest. Joy Kliber worked twenty years as a waitress before returning to school for a teaching degree, and Mark Shafer spent twelve years working as a personal trainer. Now he wants to teach PE to elementary school students. Crystal, our fourth member, is a hairstylist. We old-timers found each other right away when classes began, feeling out of place with all the recent high school grads. At twenty-six, I’m hardly elderly, but with a three-year-old son and a husband at home, I relate better to forty-two-year-old Joy than I do to the sorority girls toting wine coolers around campus.

  Tonight we’re meeting at the Denny’s restaurant near Crystal’s apartment to prep for midterms. We’ve just finished reviewing the chapter on attachment theory, and now we’re moving on to my favorite topic: paracosm, which is a phenomenon where children invent their own complex worlds. It’s sort of like imaginary friends and secret languages, only on a much larger, more involved scale.

  “I don’t have that many cards for this chapter,” Crystal tells us as she pushes her pink-framed reading glasses into place and flips through a pile of flashcards. She taps her lon
g fingernails against the laminated tabletop in consternation as she looks back at us.

  Mark reaches across our plates of breakfast-for-dinner foods and takes the stack of index cards from her. He has thick, dark hair and a fleshy, boyish face. I imagine school children would love having this energetic muscleman teach them how to play dodge ball and badminton.

  He shuffles the cards he’s holding like a dealer at the Bellagio. “I think this is more of a theoretical topic than a memory-based exercise.”

  “Right,” I say. “I just found an article about Emily and Anne Bronte and how they created a world called Gondol when they were kids. The article says that imaginary world play can be an early indicator of giftedness.”

  “Don’t you mean Charlotte?” Crystal asks. “Emily and Charlotte Bronte, not Anne?” She’s squinting at me, like she is questioning her memories.

  “Nope, Anne was the younger sister,” I say.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she shakes her head. “No, that’s definitely not right.” She’s becoming agitated, as though I’ve declared something outlandish, like gravity is just a figment of her imagination.

  “Are you seriously questioning the Maggie Fisher?” Mark scoffs. He gets so competitive and bent out of shape about the high marks I earn in class that I’ve begun to hide my graded papers before he has a chance to spot the ninety-eights and one hundreds or any of the glowing comments written underneath.

  “Let’s stay focused,” Joy pipes in, clearly sensing my discomfort. She leans back in her chair and rests an open binder on her large stomach, reminding me of how I used to place bowls of ice cream on my pregnant belly when I was carrying the twins. At the thought of pregnancy, my mind flashes back to the appointment I had at my obstetrician’s yesterday, but I immediately push the images away; I’m still trying to come to grips with everything Dr. Lustrin had to say.

  “The point,” Joys says, “is about world building and why children might do that. I think that by creating their own worlds, kids are somehow better able to ground themselves in actual reality. Maybe by comparison?” She sounds confused as she begins rifling through a packet of articles that our professor handed out early in the semester.

  “It’s sort of like Facebook, if you think about it,” Crystal pontificates. “Users curating photos, posting proof of their happy moments, leaving out all the crap that happens the rest of the time. The feed turns into a fake world, what they wish their worlds looked like, instead of representing what’s truly real.”

  “It’s an interesting theory . . .” Joy looks at me for verification.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not on social media.” I shrug.

  Joy starts to say something, probably to let me know how much I’m missing by opting out, but I interrupt with, “It’s just not for me.” I don’t want to get into the fact that I’m embarrassed by the way my life unfolded after high school, by my early start to childbearing and my late start to educating myself.

  “It’s worth checking out,” Mark says, stabbing a fork into one of the pancakes that remains on Crystal’s plate. “Great way to keep up with people. And news. That’s where I’ve been getting all the breaking headlines.” He shoves the entire pancake into his mouth.

  I shrug again and sip the bitter cup of decaf I ordered with my dinner. Crystal starts suggesting other fake worlds we can investigate—children’s stories, amusement parks.

  As the three of them debate, my mind wanders back to Facebook. I wonder if it’s time to adjust my perspective. My life has actually taken a number of positive turns since I graduated high school. Sure, I was a screwed-up nomad for a few years, but I’ve gotten my act together since then. I’m working my way toward a teaching degree at a respectable school, I have an adorable son and a successful husband who’s creating a name for himself in the culinary industry. Even if Dr. Lustrin’s theories are right and I can never have more children, I’m hardly the near-homeless single mom that I was a few years back. Not to mention, I’m sure many of my former classmates would envy my decision to settle in Arizona, with its slower pace and better climate. It feels good, I realize, to take a step back—take stock like this—and recognize that I’m finally in quite a good place, literally and metaphorically. Sometimes the best part of these psychology classes is the introspection that results from studying psychological phenomena.

  We buzz through the remaining chapters and an additional order of French fries. I manage to restrict myself to just a few of the fries, knowing that Nick will most likely bring something decadent home from the restaurant later and I’ve already shoveled a week’s worth of carbs into my mouth tonight.

  We say our good-byes, and Joy and I walk through the parking lot to our cars together. The sky is completely dark, but the lot is almost as well-lit as the restaurant’s interior.

  “Don’t let Mark rankle you,” she tells me as we cross the concrete, the pavement warm beneath my flip-flops even now, so long after sunset. “He’s just jealous because it doesn’t come easy to him like it does for you.”

  “I just work hard,” I say, dodging the compliment, as I pull her into a quick half-hug.

  “Sure, sure,” she says with a laugh and waves me off. “Drive home safe.”

  As I navigate my way through the Phoenix streets toward home, I realize that Joy might be right. The coursework for this program has been a breeze for me. I’ve even taken extra credits each semester with the hope of earning my degree sooner. After all those angry, wayward years during my teens and early twenties, is it possible that I’m finally landing where I actually do belong?

  When I get home, Nick’s pickup isn’t in the driveway, and I feel a stab of disappointment. The house is quiet when I step inside, so I ditch my backpack in the mudroom and go looking for Trish, the teenage sitter from down the block.

  I find her on the floor outside Wyatt’s room, reading a book. She puts a finger to her lips and stands to follow me back to the kitchen.

  When we’re far enough from Wyatt’s room, she tells me, “He’s been asleep since seven, but this book just pulled me in.” She smiles up at me, revealing the dimple in her left cheek.

  As I count off dollar bills to pay Trish for the night, I think to myself that there must be at least a dozen sophomore boys in town who are in love with this shiny girl. I hand her the money, and she tells me again how much she adores Wyatt, which in turn makes me adore her.

  After she leaves, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down at the kitchen island to wait for Nick. I can detect the lingering scent of fish nuggets—the dinner Trish made for Wyatt—in the air, and I think again about how lucky we are to have such a perfect sitter right down the street. She’s so perky and kind, and an excellent resource for our busy family. In contrast to my sullen, introspective, overly emotional high school self, she’s all rainbows and dew drops, probably every parent’s dream child. She reminds me of Tess.

  But I’m not that girl anymore—that miserable, aggrieved teenager. On a whim, I grab my glass and move over to the small desk that’s built into the corner of the kitchen. I power up my laptop, and before I know it, I’m logging on to Facebook and creating an account.

  As I scroll through names and click on pictures, I’m astonished at the vast magnitude of this database. So many names I haven’t thought about in years keep appearing on my screen as I search from one old friend’s page to another. There are high school friends, day camp friends, people I knew through Hebrew school, others from my apartment building. Stranger yet, so many of these people seem to be friends with each other, as if everyone has always known everyone else, and I was the only one who wasn’t aware.

  As I’m poking through more pictures, a dialogue box appears in the corner of my screen—a real-time message from Tess.

  Tess: Finally. Welcome to the future.

  Me: This website is crazy. Everyone is on here.

  Tess: Duh. You should search ex-boyfriends. That’s the best part of FB.

  Me: Yuck. Still working on forget
ting most of them.

  Tess: There’s probably an alumni page for your high school class. We have one for my grade. That’s kinda interesting too.

  Me: Ok, checking it out now.

  Tess: Good luck getting out of the vortex. This site will suck you in and never let go!! XO

  She’s not wrong, either. I glance at the clock and realize I’ve already been snooping around on here for forty-five minutes. My eyes shift toward the window, wondering what’s keeping Nick, but then I decide to follow Tess’s advice and look up the page for my high school class—graduates of 2001—and just like she said, there it is.

  One of my old classmates, a guy named Patrick Podell, seems to run the site. There’s announcement after announcement wishing various classmates happy birthday. I see a post from Serena Hendricks, who I remember as one of the quietest girls in the grade, announcing that she has an upcoming art show at a gallery in the Hamptons. I glance at the date and realize the post is more than a year old. Even so, I continue scrolling through the other, older posts, reading about births, promotions, new homes, all the wonderful milestones that people imagine for their adulthood when they’re children. I wonder if it’s all real or if they are mini-paracosms, people’s fantasies about the way life would turn out.

  As I continue reading, I see a link posted by a girl name Fiona Drescher. She was someone I always liked, even though we weren’t really friends. She was a part of the uber-popular crowd, and I didn’t have the patience for any of her friends, but I thought she had an interesting edge.

  She writes, “Was I the only one who missed this? I always knew that guy was a creeper.” Her words ignite an immediate sense of dread in my gut, and I scroll down to the comments section in hopes that this isn’t going where I think it is.

  Maya Sanders: Had no idea. So crazy!

  Jon Epstein: What a loser. So glad I didn’t play an instrument.

  Lydia Reid: Thank God someone spoke up. Here’s to brave young women.