by Fishman, Zoe
Whenever Josh brought up babies, a giant clock descended from the sky and hovered over my head like a UFO. It was go time, despite the fact that I had about a million reservations about my maternal aptitude—reservations that I had not breathed a word about to Josh. Our plan had always been to have kids. If I waffled now, I would be reneging on my part of the bargain and breaking my husband’s heart in the process. I kept telling myself that I would get over it, that it was just stage fright, and as testament to that mantra, I had gone off of my birth control a month earlier. Still, every time we had sex, I uttered a silent prayer that my eggs were playing hard to get.
“As much as I hated my job, there was a sort of twisted comfort in it,” I said, changing the subject.
“You took comfort in the complaining?”
“Well, that, and also, I was good at it. Granted, I may not have reaped any creative fulfillment from it, but I got the job done and then some. Plus, it’s all I know. What if I can’t do anything else?”
“Sarah, of course you can do something else. You just need the freedom to figure out what that something is.”
“You’re right. It’s easier to marinate in the cesspool of your own displeasure than to actually do something about it. No, I’m glad we’re moving, I really am. I needed a kick in the ass, obviously. I’m just scared.”
“I am too. But I think this vulnerability will be good for us. I really do.” He reached over and squeezed my thigh. “Look out, here’s our exit!” He crossed one lane, and then two, and then we were officially off the highway and that much closer to our new home. A home that claimed more than one and a half rooms—that had a yard, even. I hadn’t lived in a home with a yard in eighteen years.
Strip malls, fast-food joints, farm stands, screened porches, and sprinklers passed us by in the summer twilight. I took a deep breath in, relishing the smell of grass clippings, barbecue, and heat. In the city, summer smelled like burned asphalt, rotting trash, and body odor. This was nicer. Much nicer.
“I’ll take you by the school tomorrow,” said Josh. “It’s such a gorgeous campus. Still bummed about the rents down there, but what could we do?” Homes closer to campus ran for a much steeper rent than those farther out, so Josh had picked accordingly.
I nodded absently as the strip malls disappeared and the scenery turned to grass and trees exclusively. A little country living would be good for me. Maybe I would start an organic baby food business from the garden I would create—like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom minus the planting, gardening, or pureeing. Okay, never mind.
“Just how far out from campus are we?” I asked.
“It’s not so far. Once we have the car we won’t even notice.” He had purchased a used car from a fellow faculty member. He was so excited about it—finally, we wouldn’t have to schlep our groceries, dry cleaning, and laundry—but whenever he spoke about it I felt like I was listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher. Wah wah wah wahhhh, transmission, wah wah wahhhh, gas mileage.
The last time I had been behind the wheel, I was eighteen. I’d never had a car in high school, relying instead on the kindness (and sometimes resentment) of my friends, and when we went home now to visit my mother or Josh’s parents, they drove everywhere. I used my license for identification purposes only. Driving was as foreign a concept to me as those people who claimed they “forgot” to eat. My brain could not compute.
Once Josh had signed on for the job and our move was imminent, I had told him repeatedly that I was apprehensive about driving, but he always brushed me off. You’re better than you think, he would say. You just need some practice. I would nod absently in response, hoping he was right. I had never gotten over my first and last interstate experience, with my mother frozen in fear by my side. “YOU HAVE TO LOOOOK!!!!!!” she had screamed as a monstrous tractor trailer veered out of the way of my reckless merge.
As more greenery passed us by and Josh didn’t appear to be slowing down in any way, shape, or form, my anxiety mounted. Walking to civilization and any type of gainful employment did not appear to be an option. And forget about grocery shopping. The wheels of our trusty granny cart—our old neighborhood’s version of a Lamborghini—were not cut out for off-roading. Perhaps I could take up gardening after all. It could sustain us completely. Vegans in Virginia. Better yet, I would write a cookbook: The Virginian Vegans. I envisioned photo spread after photo spread of butter beans and lettuce wraps, Josh and I laughing uproariously over two jars of sweet tea on our front porch. Finally, Josh turned off the road.
“The house is fantastic,” he said, “which makes up for the fact that we’re a little farther out than I’d like to be.” A little farther out? “Sar, we have brand-new bathroom fixtures.”
“No!”
“I waited to tell you.” I had been dreaming about a bathroom that had been built post-1965 for what felt like my entire adult life. A faucet that didn’t leak; floor tiles that did not wear the grime of fifty years of bare feet; an actual bathtub as opposed to a stall shower that could only be shaved in if the water was turned off—these were the things I pined for during my New York apartment-dwelling existence. Not to mention, a bathroom free of wildlife.
“Remember the pigeons?” I asked.
He laughed. “The image of you standing over me, white faced and shaking with a shampoo bottle in your hand, will stay with me forever.”
Before moving in with Josh, I had lived in my own studio apartment in the East Village. Grimy and tiny, it had reeked of chicken and broccoli from the Chinese restaurant next door, but it had been mine. For that reason alone, I had done my best to turn a blind eye to its faults and probable health code violations, the worst of which was the presence of two pigeons in my shower one morning.
They had squeezed through the partially open window and were happily crapping down the side of the wall when my bleary-eyed self had discovered them. Not knowing what to do, I had grabbed the shampoo bottle and waved it in the air like a maniac, which had no effect on the birds, who regarded me with Zen-like stares. I had run to the bed, where Josh slept like a baby, and hovered over him, shaking, until he opened his eyes shortly thereafter. Ever my hero, he had cranked open the window and basically shoved them out as I cowered behind the commode.
“I still worry that I contracted something from those beasts,” he admitted now. I reached over and massaged his neck.
“No pigeons in Farmwood, I bet.”
“Nope.”
At the end of a street of well-spaced-out homes with carefully manicured yards, there was our house. It was gray stucco with white shutters, and its airy front porch claimed a cozy wooden swing hanging from the rafters. The sweet smell of honeysuckle perfumed the pink air.
“I can’t believe this is home,” I whispered, taking Josh’s hand. “It’s so pretty.”
“I know, right? It’s a real house. Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know.” I laughed as a firefly flitted by the windshield. “Let’s go in.”
3
When two vehicles meet on a steep road, the vehicle facing downhill must yield the right of way by backing up until the vehicle going uphill can pass.
Where is my Knicks T-shirt?” Josh yelled from the bedroom. That’s what we had to do now—yell to each other from opposite ends of the house. There was a certain joy in not being five feet away from each other at all times, which had been the reality of our urban cohabitation.
“How do I know?” Since we’d begun the Herculean task of unpacking, he asked me at least twenty times a day where something of his was, as though he hadn’t packed it all himself. As though I had some sort of magical sonar built into my uterus.
“I found it!”
“Good. Congratulations.”
Stomp, stomp, stomp. Josh appeared in the doorway of our kitchen, where I was unpacking box after box of kitchen appliances that we had received from our wedding registry and that I very rarely used.
You’ll want this ninety-pound mixer that costs four hund
red dollars, my married friends had said knowingly when I’d asked them for advice about what to sign up for. I will? For what? Get the red, the red is the best, they would continue, ignoring my reluctance. And so I did. I struggled now to hoist it out of its box. I had never even so much as plugged it in.
“You need some help with that behemoth?” Josh bent down to grab it. He placed it on the counter. “What is this?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I think it bakes cakes? Or something?”
“You’re going to be baking cakes?”
“Maybe. On second thought, it could be bread that it makes.” We both eyed it suspiciously.
“Let’s drive into town and get some lunch,” Josh suggested. “I read about this great fried chicken place near campus.”
“Fried chicken? It’s one hundred degrees out, Josh.” He danced over to me and pulled me in for a musty hug. “Do they serve anything else?” I asked crankily. “Like a salad?” I already missed our Brooklyn sandwich joint—the same joint that had driven me nuts with its foodie-inspired specials and imported pickles that cost nine bucks a jar.
“C’mon. You can drive.” We had picked up the car two days before and I had yet to sit behind the wheel.
“Maybe you can just pick me up something and bring it back,” I said as he scampered off down the hall to fill up his requisite water bottle. Josh was the most hydrated man on the planet.
“No way!” he yelled over his shoulder. “You need to get out of here for a while—see town. You’ve been unpacking nonstop for two days.”
I exhaled deeply and pondered a way to excuse myself from driving. I could say that I was too hungry to drive. No, lame. What was wrong with me? It wasn’t like I had never driven before. How hard could it be?
“Let’s roll, lady.” Josh tossed me the keys as he walked out the door. I followed him begrudgingly, eyeing the car with a furrowed brow. If I stared at it hard enough, maybe it would turn into a bike. Approaching it, my palms were like tear ducts. My fear frustrated me beyond belief. I was a ball-busting former associate VP, for chrissake! What was it about driving that reduced me to such a heart-racing, stomach-roiling mess?
I took a deep breath and got in. Screw this; I was taking charge. I checked my rearview mirror carefully and pulled my seat up before buckling myself in, my heart beating like a drum all the while. It was hard to breathe.
“Jesus, you’re practically sitting on the steering wheel,” joked Josh. “You sure you don’t want to scoot back an inch or two?”
“I’m sure.” I shot him a look.
“Okay, I’ll shut up. Sorry.” I turned the key in the ignition, jumping a little as the car came to life. Okay, good work. Car is on.
“I have to back out of the driveway?” I asked meekly.
“Well, yeah. You okay with that?” He looked at me curiously.
“I’m not so good at backing out,” I confessed.
“All right, well.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll go slow,” he said reassuringly. I nodded gratefully and pressed my foot on the gas.
“Whoa, not so hard!” said Josh as we jumped back several feet.
“Sorry. Nervous foot.” I gulped. The entire steering wheel was now coated with my sweat, like a glazed donut. I eased up and we began to move slowly.
“Okay, turn your wheel a little, you’re a bit crooked,” said Josh.
“Which way do I turn it?”
“What do you mean, which way?” He looked at me incredulously. Finally, he was getting it. I was cartarded.
“Well, if I turn the wheel to the right, the car goes to the left, right? I mean, correct?”
“Huh? It’s front-wheel drive, Sarah.”
“I know, but like, the back of the car tilts the opposite way from the way I turn the wheel, yes?”
“Sarah. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know!” I shrieked. “I don’t know! I don’t know how to drive, okay? I’m an idiot!” I put the car in park, opened the door, and attempted to get out, just as I realized that my seat belt was still fastened.
“Shit,” I grumbled as I undid the buckle and escaped. Josh looked out at me through the window, his mouth slightly agape. He turned the car off and opened his door. I stepped back, examining the grass.
“Hey,” he said quietly, taking my hand. My lip trembled. “Hey, Sarah. Look at me.” I shook my head as a tear rolled off the tip of my nose. “C’mere.” He kissed the top of my head.
“I’m a moron,” I sobbed. “I don’t know how to drive.”
“You’re not a moron, Sar. You’re just out of practice. It’s okay. It really is.”
“You didn’t believe me when I told you I couldn’t drive,” I offered.
“I know. I just—well, I thought you were exaggerating.”
“Yeah, no. Not so much.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Well, you’ll practice with me.”
“No, noooo. No way.” I pulled out of his hug and wiped my nose.
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to do that to our marriage, nosir. Ten minutes on the road with me behind the wheel and one of us will be thinking about purchasing a firearm.”
“It’s very easy to do here, by the way. Buy a firearm, I mean.”
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. “Maybe I can take driving lessons or something.”
“Like a fifteen-year-old?”
“Yes, like a fifteen-year-old, Josh. Thanks for the support.”
“No, of course. Of course I support you. It’s very smart of you to go about it this way. Very responsible.”
I leaned my torso against the passenger side of the car and folded my arms on its warm roof. “You’re patronizing me,” I announced.
“I’m not, I swear.” He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I know this must be hard for you.” He moved in closer and kissed the side of my face. “And frustrating. It’s like me and my fear of flying.”
“Sort of. Although, you can get around flying and not be a total recluse.”
“But I wouldn’t if it wasn’t for you. Remember our honeymoon?”
“I basically carried you onto the flight.”
“How many glasses of scotch did I consume at that airport Chili’s, anyway?”
“Enough. I think at one point our waitress just brought out the bottle.”
He grimaced. “So I owe you, is what I’m saying. I honestly don’t mean to patronize you at all. I understand. We’ll get through it.”
“Thanks, Josh.” He rested his forehead against mine for a moment before opening the passenger-side door for me with a smile.
On the way into town, I texted Mona. Is it weird for a 36 yr old woman to take driving lessons? Nothing fazed Mona, except for the occasional uncommunicative suitor. She had not only a scuba certification but a skydiving one as well. She would have a field day with my driving phobia.
I hadn’t spoken to her since we’d arrived, which wasn’t entirely inexcusable—we’d only been here three days—but it was still bothersome. I’d left two messages. She’d probably already forgotten all about me. Out of sight, out of mind. Call me, you jerk! I added, and slipped my phone back into my bag.
“Here we are,” announced Josh, pulling into a parking space in front of a small house that looked a lot like our own.
“They make chicken out of their house?” I asked.
“Yeah. Must be pretty convenient. Just roll out of bed and into the kitchen.”
“Yeah, but what about the smell?” I asked as we got out of the car and made our way toward it.
“The sweet smell of crackling skin? Sounds delightful to me.”
“Josh, right?”
I looked up. A very tall, very blond Uma Thurman lookalike floated toward us. My hands balled into fists reflexively.
“Yeah! Iris?”
“Yes, yes. Great memory. It’s actually a miracle that I remembered your name at all, truth be told. My brain is like a sieve.” She smiled, and her face
lit up like a choir of angels singing. I both hated her and desperately wanted her to like me.
“This is my wife, Sarah,” explained Josh. I reached out my hand to shake hers, immediately wishing I hadn’t. What was this, a job interview? Nerves had an alarming effect on me. Once, I had greeted an ex on the subway with a high five, much to my, and his, chagrin.
“Hi, Sarah. It’s nice to meet you. I’m a professor at the college as well. Josh and I met at that painful faculty lunch on Wednesday.”
I nodded, pretending to have known this already. “Oh, of course! It’s so nice to meet you.”
“How are you liking it here? Big change from New York, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s def—”
“So, Josh, you ready for Monday?” she asked, cutting me off midanswer. So much for southern hospitality. I pretended to be fascinated by the strings of my cutoffs.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. I have a crazy course load this semester. Four classes with about a thousand kids.”
“Good God,” said Iris. “That’s insane. Guess we have a lot of mathematicians in the making here.”
“What do you teach?” I asked.
“Art history.” Naturally. I bet she made pottery on a wheel in her backyard too, amid the wilds of the fresh herb garden that she had planted herself. And that she drove an antique pickup truck and baked her own bread as well, without the help of a ridiculous mixer that weighed a thousand pounds.
“Cool,” I offered weakly. Impossibly, an Adonis approached us with a wry smile on his face.
“Hi,” he said in a gravelly baritone, slipping one giant hand around Iris’s waist and offering Josh the other.
“You must be Mac,” he said, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m Josh.”
“Great to meet you.”
“And I’m Sarah,” I added, my voice cracking under the visual pressure of beholding two of the most gorgeous humans I had ever seen.
“Hi, Sarah.”
“Y’all here for Denise’s chicken?” Iris asked. “It’s out of this world.”
“That’s the word on the street,” answered Josh. He smiled broadly, clearly dazzled as well.