Driving Lessons: A Novel

by Fishman, Zoe

  “Yes. Well, no. I haven’t yet.”

  “Sarah! Come on! This is a great starting point for you.” She scowled at me.

  “I know, Mona! Geez. I’m planning on working on it while you’re in surgery.”

  “Okay, good.” She looked at her watch. “Shit, it’s nine forty-five. How did that happen? Maybe we should leave now, just to be safe.”

  She looked at me with an expression of panic on her face. As she got up, I closed my eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Please, God, let this operation go smoothly. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had as insurance. I turned to Mona, who was rummaging through her wallet.

  “You ready?” I asked, trying my best to sound calm.

  “I guess so,” she whispered. “I wanted to be all tough today, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”

  “Who do you need to be tough for?” I asked.

  “You.”

  “Me? Are you kidding? I’m the biggest wimp on the planet. I practically crapped my pants a moment ago just thinking about driving a car.”

  “Maybe I wanted to be tough for me,” she said, reconsidering.

  “Mona, you are the strongest person I know, hands down, no contest.”

  “I am?”

  “The way you’ve handled this—the way you handle everything—you are incredible. To be nervous about this operation does not make you weak. If anything, it makes you stronger.”

  “How’s that?” She closed her wallet and pulled her shirt hem down over her waistband.

  “Embracing vulnerability is strength, I think. Not feeling like you have to apologize for it is strength.”

  She reached down to help me up from the couch. “I like that,” she said. “Thanks.”

  The waiting room smelled like pepperoni. I crossed my legs and my foot shook against my will. A teacher had reprimanded me loudly once in middle school, in front of the entire class, for my endlessly vibrating appendage, and the embarrassment stayed with me still. I stood up to stop myself, and the man sprawled out on the couch across from me opened one eye in annoyance. Fidgeting was not encouraged here either, apparently.

  I glanced at my watch. The doctor had told us that Mona’s laparoscopic hysterectomy should take about forty minutes, which blew my mind. You could get a manicure and pedicure in forty minutes, commute to work in midtown in forty minutes, wait in line for brunch on a weekend in Manhattan for just forty minutes if you were lucky. It seemed like an impossibly short amount of time to enter someone through an incision the size of a keyhole, scoop out some vital organs, and close her again. Impossibly short in that context, but impossibly long for the person waiting on the other side.

  I ambled over to the wall directory, curious where the nursery was. I’d never seen one in real life, only on television. All of those freshly scrubbed pink babies wrapped in their blanket burritos with those tiny paper bracelets circling their wrists. It was on the third floor. On second thought, it seemed unfair to Mona, to go look at babies while she was having her chance to have one removed. I would stay put. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a number that I recognized, but I couldn’t remember from where.

  “Hello?” I asked tentatively.

  “Sarah?”

  Oh, that voice. That unmistakable, nicotine-edged, blunt voice. The kind of voice that would ask you if that was what you were wearing when you had already commuted in to work and were tucking into breakfast at your desk. It was Meghan.

  “Oh, hi! Meghan, how are you?” I began to perspire despite the fact that the hospital’s temperature rivaled that of a meat locker.

  “Oh God, this Petals launch is officially dead in the water. Five years of blood, sweat, and tears and sayonara. Utter bullshit.”

  Petals was a tween makeup line that the company had been trying to launch for what felt like forever. Every time we had been ready to unveil our plan, either the celebrity spokesgirl ended up in rehab or a focus group of twelve-year-olds ripped our packaging ideas to shreds with their tiny manicured nails. It had been the bane of my existence while I worked there.

  “Good riddance, I say.” I walked outside into the fresh air. The smell of pastries from a nearby coffee cart tickled my nostrils. My eyes lit up as I realized that I could have one, minus the guilt. Point one for pregnancy.

  “I suppose. Although, at the moment we’re focusing on men’s makeup. Kill me now.”

  “Men’s makeup?”

  “Oh yes, it’s all the rage, didn’t you know? The bastards lose weight at ten times our speed, look better as they age, and now can pat a little concealer onto their under-eye circles to salt the wound even further.”

  “What on earth are you calling the line?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “What about Bastard Balm? For the lip balm, at least. Assuming there is one.”

  “That’s actually not bad.” A pen scribbled furiously in the background. “Listen, I got your e-mail. Of course we can grab lunch. What’s your week like?”

  “This week is out, but next week works. Are you free on Tuesday?” I heard the tap-tap-tap of her keyboard.

  “It’s a miracle, I’m free. How about one o’clock at that sushi place around the corner?”

  “Around the block from work?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Sushi Den. See you then.”

  “Okay, see you then. And, Meghan, thanks a lot, I really appreciate it.”

  “As long as you aren’t begging for your job back. You aren’t, are you? I’m just about to hire someone remotely acceptable and can’t deal with any more setbacks on that front. You should have seen the candidates I had to interview. One woman came in with her thong hanging out of her pants, for chrissake. It was all I could do not to kick her out of my office. Anyway, I have to run. See you next week.”

  “See—”

  Click.

  Mona looked so fragile in her hospital bed, as though her vigor had been surgically removed as well. Her arms, once brown and strong, now appeared almost twiglike to me, and gray, like the bark of a birch tree. Her hair had not lost its luster, however. It spread across the pillow like a sea of dark chocolate. She blinked against the glare of the fluorescent lights.

  “Hi,” I said quietly.

  “Hey,” she replied hoarsely.

  “Want some water?” I stood up too quickly, and my asleep foot shot pins and needles of pain up my leg.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay, no problem, you got it.” I dragged my foot with me to the small kitchen that I was already a frequenter of. I didn’t even like Gatorade, but there were three bottles of it in my bag. If it was free and not nailed down, I was taking it. I filled her glass with ice and shook my foot in an attempt to speed up its recovery.

  “Here you go,” I announced breathlessly as I handed her the cup. She turned her head and smiled at me.

  “Sarah, take it easy. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I sat on the bed. “Can I sit here?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’m a spaz. Forgive me. I’m the world’s worst nurse.”

  “You’re not my nurse, you’re my friend. And you’re an excellent friend.”

  “No, you are.”

  “No, you.” Mona’s laugh morphed into a cough.

  “You okay?” I asked, panicking.

  “Yeah.” She finished coughing. “The doctor told me that everything went really well. I’m just a bit hoarse I guess, from the breathing tube.” She sighed and held the cup on her lap. “I’m sad,” she confessed.

  “I’m sure,” I answered, since I had nothing else to say. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

  “No.” She sat quietly and I began to get up to comfort her. She waved me away. “No, no, please. No hugs or anything right now. I just need to be sad.”

  “Do you want me to get lost?” I asked. “I can wander the halls, no problem.”

  “No, I want you here. Just don’t speak or anything for a while, okay?”

>   “Okay.”

  “You know, before this, I kept trying to imagine what it would feel like after it was done. Would I feel differently with so much of me gone? Would I be relieved that it was over? Would I look different?” She rubbed her eyes. “Remember the first time you had sex, and afterward you just laid there, wondering if other people would be able to tell just by looking at you that you were someone that had sex?” She looked at me and I nodded. “I remember my first postcoital moment in the mirror so clearly. I was literally examining my face, as though the words ‘just had sex’ might be etched into it somewhere. Of course I looked exactly the same, but to me, I didn’t. I looked older. Wiser. At any rate, that’s the way I feel now. Like I must look different now that so much of me is gone.”

  “Want a mirror?” I asked.

  “You have one?”

  “Sure, a compact.”

  “When was the last time you wore the sort of makeup that required a compact, Sarah?”

  “That’s beside the point. I carry it for emergencies. You never know in this day and age of reality television when a camera crew might appear on the scene.”

  I dug into my bag and reached my arm across the blue blanket to hand it to her. She opened it tentatively, as though she was afraid it might explode.

  As she lifted it to her face, I found myself holding my breath. Of course she looked exactly the same, but fact and fiction were often impossible to separate in times of emotional strain. She tilted her face to the left, and the right, and then lifted her chin up and moved it back down before snapping the compact shut.

  “Well, I look the same,” she declared. “For better or worse. Definitely tired, though.”

  “You always look tired,” I said, teasing.

  “Thanks a lot. Who are you, my mom?” She stuck her tongue out at me. “Sarah, I’m never having kids. It’s official.”

  “But you know what else you’re not having?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Cancer.”

  “God, I hope you’re right. I really hope you’re right.”

  “Okay, honey, time for me to check your vitals,” announced a nurse, wheeling a cart in behind her.

  “Want me to pick you up some dinner from the outside?” I asked as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Mona’s arm. “Hillstone?”

  “You would do that?” Mona beamed. “For me?” I gave her a thumbs-up and grabbed my jacket. On the street, I headed south as I dialed Josh.

  “Sarah,” he answered. His voice sounded like home.

  “Josh. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. How’s Mona?”

  “The operation went well, but she’s very sad.”

  “The doctor says everything looks good? The cancer is out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the most important part.”

  “You’re right, it is. I think the reality of her situation has just really hit her now, though.”

  “The not-able-to-have-kids part, you mean?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The timing of our situation and hers, it’s just crazy. I feel terrible about it.”

  “Tell me about it. What’s it like, both of you knowing that you’re pregnant while she can never be?”

  “She’s been incredibly supportive, but I’m sure it’s hard. I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

  “You feeling okay? Nauseous or anything? Should I come up there, Sar?”

  “Oh God, no! I’ll be home soon enough.”

  “Okay. You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How’s New York treating you, anyway? Are you still feeling over it, or has she got you in her claws again?”

  “No, I’m still of the same mind. I can’t imagine having a baby here.” A woman with half of her head shaved wearing a very expensive suit and stiletto heels emerged from a cab in front of me. “I mean, some things I’ll always miss. Sophistication, for one.”

  “Sure, that’s a given. The best-looking, most sophisticated people in the country are in New York.”

  “They really are.” I entered the restaurant and approached the hostess.

  “But think about it this way. In New York, we were invisible, but in Farmwood, we’re at the head of the sophistication-and-attractiveness class. Right?”

  “Speak for yourself! I am not invisible here. Hold on a second.” I placed my order and then took a seat at the bar between two balding fraternity guys dressed in identical black suits and blue button-downs, their shined black loafers reflecting the overhead light like mirrors. “Okay, I’m back.”

  “No, of course you’re not invisible. My point is that the bigger fish/smaller pond scenario has its advantages.”

  “Right. Hold on again.” I motioned to the bartender. “Could I have a seltzer, please? Thanks.”

  “A seltzer!” exclaimed Josh. “Never thought I’d see the day when my wife ordered a seltzer from the bar.”

  “The day has come.” We sat in silence for a moment as I took a sip.

  “I should get going, Sar. I have about a million tests to grade. Please give Mona a hug from me and tell her I’m thinking about her.”

  “I will.”

  “And you—take it slow.”

  “Roger that, doc.”

  After the hostess brought me my food, I settled my tab and walked out into the chilly air. Here, my feet knew where to go. I could close my eyes and find my way back to the hospital easily if I wanted to.

  Would I ever feel like my internal compass was hardwired accordingly in Farmwood? Could I actually get behind the wheel and know where I was going?

  In the distance, the hospital loomed in front of me like a giant honeycomb. I quickened my pace, eager to serve my injured queen.

  Morning, sunshine,” I announced groggily as I pulled back the curtain to greet Mona. She was sitting up, her mouth set in a determined line.

  “Oh, Sarah, don’t tell me that you spent the night here.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you that I spent the night in the pepperoni-infused waiting room.” I collapsed onto the foot of her bed.

  “There was really no need, my dear. I’m fine.” She smiled unconvincingly.

  “Yeah, but the idea of taking the bus to the subway and then going all the way back to Brooklyn just to wake up at dawn and do it again seemed like a miserable one, anyway. What’s one night?”

  My explanation was partially true. Yes, the one-two punch of bus and subway transport had been a bear to consider at ten P.M. on a Wednesday night, but the real truth was that I was scared for Mona.

  She had cried throughout dinner and when pressed, refused to talk about anything. She’d ask me to go, told me that she just wanted to be alone, really and truly, and so I had made myself relatively comfortable two hundred feet away.

  “Did the doctor give you the green light?” I asked, shuddering as I caught a whiff of my own breath.

  “Yep, all systems go.”

  “Did he tell you what to expect? What to be wary of in terms of symptoms?”

  She reached over to smooth my furrowed brow. “Yes, Florence.” The nurse wheeled in a breakfast tray.

  “What’s on the menu?” I lifted the silver dome to find congealed eggs and damp toast, with what appeared to be beef jerky passing for bacon alongside it. “Ew.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Mona pushed her covers back. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You sure you’re ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” She began to stand up and I reached out to help. “My scar is so tiny, Sar. You wouldn’t even know it was there if you weren’t looking.”

  “That robot is a hell of a surgeon, huh? Somebody give that guy a promotion.”

  Mona smiled. “Ooh, feeling a little woozy.” She stretched slightly and rocked on her toes with her eyes closed.

  “Take it easy.” I stood up myself and grabbed her. “You need some help?” I asked, handing her her clothes.

  “I didn’t wear this in the
hospital bed like I was supposed to!” she exclaimed, unfurling her folded sweater and draping it across the bed. “You called it, though. Who can be bothered when they give you the gown?” She reached around to untie it. “To be honest, this thing is actually dangerously comfortable.”

  “Should we steal a few?” As I opened my mouth to forecast my own expanding girth and potential use for them, I thought better of it and snapped it shut.

  “Oh my God, Sarah, me wearing these at home as nightgowns would be the end of my libido. Let’s at least pretend I’m going to want to have sex again.”

  “What do they say about that, anyway?” I asked. “Can you? Physically, I mean?”

  “Physically I should be fine. The doctor said I could even resume sex in a month or so. Emotionally, well, that’s a different story.”

  Ten minutes later, Mona’s nurse wheeled her down the hall as I walked beside them. The elevator opened and a new mother cradling her swaddled, tiny infant sat in a wheelchair with her husband and a nurse behind her.

  “There’s room, come on in,” said the new dad.

  “Oh no, we’ll wait for the next one,” I answered.

  “No! No, we’ll get in,” barked Mona. And then quietly, “Thank you very much.”

  We got in and I glanced at Mona, expecting to see her staring at some imaginary something on the floor. Instead, she peered down into the bundle, a look of wonder and sadness on her face.

  “He’s so sweet,” she whispered.

  His mother looked over at her, her eyes bright. “Thank you. We think so.”

  His eyes were shut, the delicate pink lids and sparse eyelashes reminding me of a baby bird. Suddenly, his mouth puckered into an O and we all giggled appreciatively. “He’s hungry, I guess,” she announced. “Everything is so new now. I can only guess.”

  “We can’t believe they’re letting us take him home,” murmured his dad.

  “Believe it,” said the nurse, sounding bored.

  “Good luck,” said Mona as we parted ways on the ground floor. The parents smiled graciously before being whisked away. In nine months’ time, that would be me and Josh. I couldn’t believe it.

  “What’s that Robert Frost poem?” asked Mona as her nurse deposited her by the door and she stood up.