by Fishman, Zoe
“Sure, of course.” She stared at me keenly, as though she knew I wasn’t telling the entire truth. It seemed that we were both suspicious of each other.
“So you two travel a lot?” I asked, fidgeting under her gaze. She answered by going off on a familiar tangent—Morocco . . . Brazil . . . and wow, this time of year in Paris is our favorite—as I inhaled both my cheese plate and my wine. The only thing worse than an athletic bragger was a travel bragger. Turned out that she was both.
“So how long have you and Mac been together?” I asked her when she had finished.
“Twelve years.” She smiled broadly. “I was one of his patients initially.”
“Get out! That’s so soap opera-y.”
“I know, isn’t it? Guess there was a plus to my wonky knee after all.”
“Josh and I met at a—”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry to do this, but I really have to go. I’ve got to get these grades posted or else the dean will have my ass. Terrible planning on my part.”
“Oh no, it’s okay.” I watched her stand up and brush invisible crumbs off her flat stomach.
“We have to do this again. Do you and Josh own bikes? The four of us could head up to the mountains one Saturday and ride some trails.”
“Sure,” I lied. “Sounds good.” She gave me a double kiss good-bye—of course—and I sat back down as she left. A friendship match it was not, which, in a way, really sucked. She was the only woman my age I had met, or even seen for that matter, thus far. Plus, I sensed more to her stark antiprocreation declaration, which would have been fodder for a true bond if the rest of her wasn’t so off-putting.
Maybe I wasn’t giving her enough of a chance. Then again, the thought of enduring any more humble-bragging, assumed familiarity, and terrible listening skills was enough to make my head throb.
Whatever. I had made it through this day alive, which was no small accomplishment, my recent borderline agoraphobia and aversion to jewelry and Iris considered. Kudos to me.
8
He looks like Kate,” I declared, staring at the computer screen.
“How can you say that?” asked Josh. “What about him looks like her?”
“His lips.” I tilted my head. “And his face shape. Totally Kate.”
“Why is everyone so obsessed with which parent the baby looks like? Franklin’s essentially been inside a jug of water for nine months. He looks like a manatee with a hat on.”
“Josh!”
“What are you thinking about?” he asked. Truthfully, I was eyeing Franklin’s swaddled shoulders and wondering about the current state of Kate’s vagina.
“Not much. Just in awe, I guess. I mean, he was inside of her less than twenty-four hours ago, and now he’s not.”
“Tell me about it.” He grabbed the phone. “I’m gonna try to reach Ben again.”
As he dialed, I wandered into the kitchen, reminding myself to breathe. Franklin’s birth had sent my baby anxiety into overdrive. With every text from Ben, from All systems go! to He’s here!, I’d felt myself holding my breath in the anticipation of Josh’s revitalized vigor for a baby of our own. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head—Talk to him, Sarah—but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, especially not now, in the midst of his fraternal excitement.
“No answer again.” Josh came up behind me and massaged my shoulders. “Wow, Sarah, you’re tense.”
“Really? I don’t feel tense,” I lied.
“You sure?” He nuzzled my neck.
“Well, maybe a little.” I dropped my shoulders, surrendering to his touch. “That feels good. More, please.”
Beneath his hands, my neck felt like marble. As he prodded, I imagined the oxygen running through my veins as blue cartoon bubbles, like the ones in those bathroom-cleaner commercials.
“Let’s make love,” Josh whispered. I cringed. The phrase “make love” made me gag, but Josh was one of those rare people who literally meant the words. He refused to, as he said, adapt his vernacular to suit my immaturity, so here we were—me reacting like a fourth grader every time, without fail. His hands traveled down my arms, working them as though they were made of dough. It was mind-numbingly pleasurable.
“I don’t have to be at work for a good forty-five minutes. Come on.”
He spun me around slowly and began to kiss me. It felt good. Really good. I couldn’t remember the last time we had had sex. He lifted me up onto the counter. As he unbuttoned my pants and slid them off of me, I tried my best to focus on the undeniable sexiness of the scenario and not the fact that in a short while his sperm would be sprinting toward an open goal. I was off birth control, true, but the odds of his impregnating my thirty-six-year-old self so quickly were slim to none. Right? Right.
“Are you okay?” asked Josh, pulling away briefly.
“Yes, yes,” I replied, pulling him closer. “Come here.”
And so, we did it, on the kitchen counter, in the middle of the afternoon. With his forehead pressed to my sweaty clavicle afterward, my head was quiet, finally—if just for a moment.
Hello, Mona. This is the eighth message I have left for you. Under normal circumstances I would panic that you were dead, but since I saw you on Gchat this morning, I know that is not the case. Do you hate me? Seriously. This is getting ridiculous. Oh Christ, here comes another ladybug. I’m killing it now, can you hear me squooshing it? Anyway, for the love of God, call me back! Please?”
I hung up and sighed heavily, from worry about both the state of my relationship with Mona and our home’s apparent ladybug infestation. I was killing them by what felt like the hundreds, and still, there they were.
“Fuck it,” I announced, removing myself from the bedroom and entering what we called the office but was really a storage space for the boxes of books we had yet to unpack, which now, at over a month and a half of living here, was officially unacceptable. I eyed the empty bookcase and grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk drawer, slicing through the biggest box’s tape with gusto.
Out came my self-help library, Josh’s math textbooks, dictionaries of various mono- and bilingual varieties, my thesaurus from high school with my maiden name scrawled in black marker along the pages’ edges, and an old deck of tarot cards with their accompanying guide. I had spent hours with Mona in my early twenties releasing questions into the universe and assembling the cards in various formations that would reveal the answers. These questions almost always pertained to the guys we were dating, or more likely, sleeping with in the hopes of actually dating.
“Why can’t I talk to Josh about my baby issues?” I asked aloud, fanning the cards facedown in front of me. I plucked one from the left-hand side and turned it over. A frazzled woman screaming with her head in her hands looked up at me. Nine of Swords. Or in layman’s terms: fear, guilt, and doubt.
Bingo. When we had first talked about having kids, before we were married, it had been a no-brainer. Of course we’ll have them. At least two, maybe three. As the clock ticked on and loomed larger in the process, I had become less enthusiastic, always claiming that work was too busy, that as soon as I got through the next makeup season’s launch, I would go off my birth control.
Josh, remarkably, had never expressed impatience with me—probably because he was just as overwhelmed by the idea of raising said kids in our version of New York. But now that we were here, in Farmwood, with no excuses other than my as-yet-undeveloped need to “find myself,” it was a different story. I didn’t want to let him down, and so, despite the raging inferno of doubt within me, I had thrown out my trusty pack of pills. I just hoped, secretly, that my eggs were as shy as I was about the prospect of procreation.
I gathered the deck back together, re-bound the cards, and placed them reluctantly on the shelf. If I let myself, I could spend all afternoon asking questions I already knew the answers to.
I opened the next box and smiled, recognizing all of my photo albums. Pictures fluttered out of them like sparrows as I pulled them out
and piled them on the floor. I opened one to a page of Mona and me on vacation in South Beach. Oh, how young we were! Our moon faces with their caterpillar eyebrows smiled up at me, and I touched Mona’s wild, dark hair with my finger, remembering the trip.
We were twenty-three, no, maybe twenty-five—yes, twenty-five, because we had gotten our tattoos here, at a dirty shop off the main drag. I remembered it like it was yesterday.
We’d spent a day at the beach tanning in the way only twenty-five-year-olds can tan, angling our towels to follow the curve of the sun as the morning turned into afternoon; flipping from front to back at timed intervals; sharing cigarettes, gossip magazines, and outrageously expensive margaritas brought to us by dutiful cabana boys. All day, we’d flexed our manicured feet and considered the prospect of matching (tasteful, of course) navy stars between our big and second toes—mine on my right foot and hers on her left. Finally, after the nine thousandth time we presented the pros and cons of such a venture, Mona had had it.
“Enough already with this! It’s a tattoo, not a mortgage.”
“But both of them are forever,” I had replied, watching her in disbelief as she began to gather her things.
“So what? Let’s go, we’re getting tattoos.”
“We are?”
“Yes, first we’re going to do a shot of tequila each, and then we’re getting tattoos. I can’t talk about it for another second.”
“But what if we hate them?” I had whined, wobbling after her in my margarita-and-sun-induced stupor.
“We won’t.”
“But what if we think they’re cheesy?”
“We might. But we also might not. We’re talking about tiny stars here, Sarah, not ‘Thug Life’ across our shoulder blades. Besides, it’s a story.”
“That is true.” I paused to readjust my bathing suit. “When we’re old and gray and living in Boca together, we can show them off to our grandkids.”
“Exactly. And you might be old and gray, but I plan to be old and fabulous. Like Blanche Devereaux fabulous.”
“Well duh, obviously.”
And so, we had done it. Mona had gone first, lying to the tattoo artist about our alcohol intake with ease, and I had held her hand as she stoically received her permanent South Beach souvenir.
“Does it hurt?” I had asked nervously.
“Like a bitch,” she had replied calmly. And just then, the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends” had wafted from the shop’s speakers.
“You hear that?” I had asked, my mouth agape.
“Yeah,” she had replied with a grin.
“Fate,” I had whispered. I could still hear her laughing at my drunken proclamation. I glanced at my foot now, with its small and faded navy star, and smiled. Oh, Mona, I miss you.
Outside, a car pulled into the driveway. Shit. Ray is here. Time for my driving lesson, of all things. I closed the album and ran to put on my shoes.
I thought we might try a little lane changing today,” announced Ray as we cruised the neighborhood.
“Already?”
“Sure, why not?”
“But we just started,” I whined. “Can’t we just stick to rights and lefts for a little bit?”
“You serious?”
“Yes.” I rolled up to a stop sign in front of the elementary school.
“Girl, ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. I’m right here with you. You see this brake?” He gestured to the foot pedal underneath his Nike. “I got your back.”
“Ray, I hear you, but I have a lot on my mind today. My focus is off.”
“You think that every time you get behind the wheel your mind is gon’ be clear?” He shook his head. “You trippin’. My head may as well be Seattle for all of its cloudiness. That don’t mean I can’t check my rearview mirror and change a damn lane, Sarah. You’re makin’ this harder than it is.”
“All due respect, Ray—duh. I know that I’m making driving harder than it is. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’re testy today, huh? Go ’head and go around the neighborhood again if you really think you need more of a warm-up. I know better than to argue with a woman when she has that tone to her voice. There’s a reason I’ve been married for twelve years.”
“I don’t have a tone,” I halfheartedly argued. “Well, maybe a little bit of a tone. Like I said, I’m not a hundred percent today.”
“You want to talk about it?” Ray asked.
I glanced over at him. “Ray, you’re already putting your life on the line by getting into the car with me. I don’t want to bore you to death as well.”
“Suit yourself. But I doubt I’ll find it boring. Don’t let the brawn fool you. I’m a sensitive man. And like I said, I’ve been married for twelve years, so maybe I can offer some advice. Trust me, Vanessa and I have been through some shit.”
“It’s not a marriage issue. It’s a friend issue.”
“I got plenty of friends too. Make a left here, we’re goin’ on the main road.”
“The other way? But we’ve never been that way.”
“I think we’re gonna be okay, Sarah, just make a left. I know where we’re goin’.”
“Right, okay. Left. Sorry.”
“So, what’s up with your friend?”
“My best friend. She won’t call me back.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. I’ve been here for nearly two months and haven’t heard from her, despite the fact that I’ve called her a hundred times. I’m hurt.”
“Maybe she’s workin’ through somethin’. Doesn’t feel like talkin’ much at the moment. Make a right here into this park.” A few playground pods dotted a vast expanse of green.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“We’re gonna practice parking. Regular and parallel.”
“Parallel? No way.”
“Man, you are stubborn. I’m in charge, okay, Sarah? Even if you’re terrible at it, ain’t no one around for you to run over.”
“Fine. Sorry.” I drove past the three cars parked at the front of the lot. “And it’s not like her to shut me out. We help each other work through things. We always have. What I think is that she’s over me. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“How long y’all been friends? Go ahead and make a right into that spot right there.”
I turned the wheel abruptly, and glided diagonally in. “Shit,” I grumbled. “And fourteen years, to answer your question.”
“Back it up and straighten your wheels.” I put the car in reverse and took a deep breath before attempting it again. “That’s right. Take it slow and steady. We got an hour to get this right. Take your time.” After wrestling the wheel like it was a pair of Spanx just out of the dryer, I managed to slide between the lines. “Good work, my friend.”
“Do you mind if we take a little break? Just turn the engine off for a minute?” I asked.
“Sure, no problem,” said Ray. “You wanna step out of the car for a second, get some air?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I answered gratefully. We got out and I leaned against the hood, slowly circling my head to stretch my neck. Its tendons burst into virtual flames as I did so. Ray came around and stood beside me.
“Fourteen years, huh?” he asked. “That’s a long time. Lots of changes to go through together.”
“Exactly. And now, poof. Nada. I don’t understand. For other friends—less important friends—to forget me, that’s perfectly understandable. But this . . . this is different.”
“Just be patient. She’ll be back around.”
“I guess. I just miss her so much. It’s hard, being here all alone. I may not have liked my life much in New York, but at least I had one.”
“Well, you ain’t all alone. You got your husband.”
“Yeah, I know. But that’s different than having a best friend. Or even a friend, for that matter.”
“I’m your friend.”
“You are?”
“Sure. You t
hink I shoot the shit like this with all of my clients? Nosir.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’re interesting, Sarah. A little self-involved, maybe, but interesting.”
“Excuse you!” I laughed. “I’m self-involved?”
“Don’t take it personally. Everyone without kids is, I’ve noticed. You ain’t got anyone to worry about but yourself, so you lose sleep over the fact that your friend hasn’t returned a phone call or two.”
“That’s not fair, Ray. I think I would still sweat something like this even if I did have kids. What, you’re saying that kids turn everybody into Mother Teresa? Please.”
“Naw, that’s not what I’m saying. Not exactly, anyway. You’ll see.” Would I? That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That I wasn’t done worrying about me and therefore didn’t have what it took to worry about somebody else?
“So how do you get your clients anyway? Do you just drive around and hope people call?”
“Worked with you, didn’t it?”
“True, but you could do a lot more with this whole Mouse Mobile angle.”
“Like what?”
“You could cross-promote with a popular extermination company. Or what about that pet place by the grocery store?”
“That Pet Place?”
“Yeah, what’s it called?”
“That Pet Place.”
“I know, but what’s the name?”
Ray laughed. “That is the name. It’s called That Pet Place.”
“Get out! What is the deal with store names in Farmwood? They are hopelessly awful.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea, Sarah. How come you know so much about cross-promoting? That’s what you called it, right?”
“I worked in marketing in New York.”
“No shit, where?”
“Glow? The makeup company?”
“Glow! I know them. Vanessa loves their crap. You miss it?”
“Working for Glow?” I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“Well, you’re good at this marketing business. I’m gonna call up That Pet Place this afternoon. Thanks for the advice.”