by Karma Brown
“I’m sorry, I—” She winced, and while he surely noticed, he didn’t ask her if she was okay. “I was overwhelmed. With the house, and my book.” It was hard to read his expression. Alice pressed on. “And you were gone so much. Studying for your exam after work. All the time, it seemed.” She didn’t add how all the hours he and Drew spent together made her irrationally jealous.
“So this is my fault?” He was incredulous.
“It’s no one’s fault,” she began, then, seeing the look on his face, added, “Fine. It’s my fault. I fucked up. But I had these visions of being all alone all the time in our half-finished house with a baby, and . . . I didn’t know what to do.” She gulped back a sob. “All I can say is how sorry I am. And that I’m going to fix it, okay? I promise.”
Nate heaved a sigh before crouching beside the sofa. “This could have been so much worse, Ali.” He wiped the tears off her cheeks, his face contorted with worry and the remnants of his anger.
“I know,” she whispered, grabbing his hands and holding them tight. Her blinks got longer as the pain medication settled in. “I shouldn’t be a mother.” This was perhaps the most truthful thing she had said to Nate in weeks. Not everyone could be a decent parent; Alice’s own, particularly her father, were good examples of that. Even Jaclyn, whom Alice supposed had done her best based on the circumstances, had proved an inadequate role model. A “good” mother was someone who was selfless and wise and knew how to bake six different types of cookies from scratch. Who tenderly, and regularly, said things like, “You are the very best thing I have ever done with my life.”
“Not true,” he murmured, kissing her fingers lightly. “When you’re ready, you’ll be the best mother.” He sounded so certain, Alice almost believed it.
Fresh tears pricked her eyes. “You should hate me right now, Nate. Why don’t you hate me for this?”
Nate was silent as his fingers kneaded hers. “I could never hate you, Ali. Yes, I’m pissed as hell.” He cleared his throat, his gaze focused on their entwined fingers. “Last night was the scariest moment of my life.”
“Mine too.” She nodded fervently as she said it, which increased her light-headedness and forced her to close her eyes again. “I’m going to get this thing out and then we can start trying again.” Time to pivot, Alice.
Nate let go of her hands, kneaded his neck as he stood. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
She sat up, too quickly, and had to place her hands behind her to anchor herself against the dizziness. “Why not? They said my ovary is totally fine. There’s no reason to think we—”
“That’s not what I meant, Ali.”
She tried to focus on him, but everything blurred around the edges, like she had put drops in her eyes. Her elbows quivered trying to hold her position on the couch and she let go, her body collapsing back to the sofa cushions.
“I think we should wait.” He puffed out his cheeks before exhaling forcefully. “Look, I’ve been an idiot. Pushing you, putting on too much pressure. It wasn’t fair. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
Alice’s sluggish brain worked hard, trying to comprehend his words. Nate took her pause as agreement.
“We’ll take a break,” he said, sitting beside her on the sofa. “We can do what we want in the house and you can finish your book and I can focus on my exam.” Nate rested his palms on either side of Alice’s body and smiled gently at his wife, who looked better than she had a few hours before but still not well. “Let’s not worry about the whole kid thing for now. And we’ll see where things are in a bit. Six months, maybe a year. Sound good?”
Alice was shocked, though unable to show it because her emotions were dampened by the medication. Twenty-four hours earlier her husband had been actively trying to get her pregnant—a plan he’d been steadfast about since they’d moved to Greenville. Could Nate really flip the switch that easily? Again, Alice sensed Nate was keeping something from her. The way she had been keeping things from him . . .
But too exhausted and muddled by the pain and medications to confront him, she replied, “Yeah. Okay.” She should have been relieved—wasn’t that precisely what she wanted? But she was troubled, mind spinning with her predictable husband’s sudden change of heart. What aren’t you telling me, Nate? Is this really about logistics and timing, or is it something else altogether?
33
Remember your most important job is to build up and maintain his ego (which gets bruised plenty in business). Morale is a woman’s business.
—Edward Podolsky, Sex Today in Wedded Life (1947)
Alice
AUGUST 15, 2018
The doorbell rang, and Alice, fresh from a bath, quickly slipped on her robe. “I’ll get it,” she shouted down the hall. Normally she would never answer the door with dripping hair and wearing only a bathrobe, but she was antsy. Nate had been hovering, checking on her pain every hour, setting timers for her medication, insisting she be quiet and still. His concern was thoughtful, but it made her restless.
“Stay put,” Nate replied, coming out of the bedroom. He had his phone to his ear, and he said, “Nice to talk with you too. Here she is,” before handing it to Alice.
“Who is it?”
“Your mom,” Nate whispered. Alice grumbled, in no mood to speak with Jaclyn. And it bugged her that Jaclyn had called Nate’s phone—there was a reason she hadn’t already answered her mom’s three calls. She scowled, holding the phone an arm’s length away, and Nate shrugged.
“She’s your mother, Ali.”
While he headed downstairs to answer the door, Alice reluctantly put the phone to her ear and sat on the top step. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks,” Alice said, shifting the towel so it wasn’t covering her ear. She peered down the stairs, but whoever had rung the bell hadn’t stepped inside. “How are you? How’s Steve’s shoulder?”
“We’re good; he’s good. Getting ready for our silent meditation retreat in the mountains next week. You and Nate should try this sometime. Maybe if you come for Thanksgiving, take a couple of extra days?”
“Um, maybe. But isn’t meditation always silent?” Alice sat on the top step, inspected her DIY painted toenails, which were in serious need of a new polish job. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a pedicure. Couldn’t.
“Yes, well, I suppose it is,” her mother replied. “But they do say—”
Nate laughed loudly, pulling Alice’s focus away from her mother, who was droning on about meditation. “Hey, Mom, can I call you back later? Someone’s at the door.”
“Of course, honey. I’m here all day, except for my yoga class at three. California time, so six your time.”
Alice took a deep breath in through her nose, her impatience growing.
“Remember, your body needs a lot of rest right now. And red clover tea is excellent for balancing your hormones. Want me to send you some?”
“Mom, I really have to go.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll call you before bed,” her mother said. “And I’ll pop some red clover tea in the mail.”
“Okay, bye,” Alice said, ending the call before she said, “Always with the goddamn tea!”
“What’s that?” Nate asked, at the bottom of the stairs. He held a tinfoil casserole tray in one hand, a bouquet of roses in the other, the stems wrapped in gold twine that Alice recognized as her neighbor’s signature decoration. “Sally just dropped off this chicken lasagna for dinner and some flowers.”
“You should have invited her in.” Alice came down the stairs, thinking a visit with Sally would be the best medicine right now.
“She was on her way out. Said she’d call you later.” Nate shifted the lasagna in his hands. “I’m going to stick this in the fridge and put these in water. Can I trust you to rest, or am I going to have to sit on you t
o make sure you do?” He smiled, but his tone—and suggestion—irritated Alice.
“I’m sick of resting, Nate. This is overkill. I’m fine.” Alice held out her hands. “Here, let me do it. You have work to do.” He relented, passing her the tinfoil tray and roses before heading back to the guest room.
After she put the lasagna in the fridge and the roses in a vase, Alice unwrapped her hair and tousled the wet strands, wishing she could just sit in the garden and have a cigarette. But obviously with Nate home that wasn’t an option—one more secret she was keeping from her husband. Sighing, she rummaged through the fridge, looking for a snack to distract her from her nicotine craving. They were down to the staples—milk, bread, one egg, a half-eaten jar of pickles, and three limp carrots. Alice would have to go shopping later, if Nate would let her leave the house.
She pulled the bread and milk out of the fridge and gathered up the other ingredients she needed for milk toast, a dish Nellie mentioned in in one of her letters as a go-to breakfast for Richard when he wasn’t feeling well. Though she’d initially thought it sounded disgusting (toast drenched in warm milk?), it had proven quite tasty. After she toasted the bread and heated the milk and vanilla until it simmered on the stovetop, she poured the near-scalded liquid over the chunks of toast and liberally sprinkled it all with cinnamon and sugar.
The kitchen smelled delicious, and Alice had just tucked into the milk toast when her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, expecting it was her mother again with another healing tea suggestion, and saw it was Bronwyn. They hadn’t properly spoken since she had called with news of her marriage—a couple of meaningless text exchanges—and Alice wasn’t sure when, or even if, Bronwyn might forgive her. She dropped her spoon into the bowl of milk toast and quickly answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ali. It’s Bronwyn.”
“Hey! How are you?” Alice was overeager, her words quick and enthusiastic.
“Good, yeah. Everything’s going well. But are you okay? Nate said you were in the hospital?”
“You talked to Nate?” Alice was surprised—Nate hadn’t mentioned it.
“Um, yeah. He had a couple of questions for Darren,” she said casually. But before Alice could ask what sort of questions, and when they’d talked, Bronwyn continued. “So, what happened?”
“Apparently a very pissed-off ovarian cyst is what happened,” Alice replied. She gave a few more details, and Bronwyn responded with appropriate concern. Alice couldn’t tell if Bronwyn was feigning ignorance or not—maybe Nate hadn’t told her the whole story.
“Yikes. Are you feeling better now?” Bronwyn asked.
“Seem to be.” There was a pause, neither woman speaking. “So, how are you doing?” Bronwyn had already answered with a nondescriptive “good,” but Alice was desperate to keep her on the phone. If she ever needed her best friend, it was now.
“Busy, but great. Thanks,” Bronwyn replied. Another pause.
Alice waited a beat longer, then said, “Are we okay?”
Bronwyn sighed lightly, and Alice bit her lip, fighting back tears. “We’re okay, Ali.” It was an olive branch, and Alice clutched at it with both hands.
“I hope you know how sorry I am about the other day. I am happy for you and Darren. I’m just an asshole. It’s that simple.”
“You are sort of an asshole,” Bronwyn said, and then she laughed. Alice was relieved. “But I’m kind of an asshole too. I should have told you when it was happening. Before it happened, actually. Even though I didn’t really know what was happening until it happened, you know? But you’re my best friend and I should have told you. I’m sorry, Ali.”
“It’s okay. But next time I expect a call before you get to Elvis’s chapel, okay?”
“Shut up, you jerk. There isn’t going to be a next time.” Alice hoped that was true. “Anyway, Darren and I want to have a party, to celebrate. Can you help me plan it? I’m so swamped right now I barely have time to breathe.”
“Absolutely. Whatever you need,” Alice replied, feeling the creep of envy, imagining Bronwyn’s demanding but gratifying schedule. The opposite of her own. “What’s your timing?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know. Just meeting Darren for lunch, so I’ll text you some details later, okay?”
“Sounds good. Say hi to him for me.”
“Will do,” Bronwyn said. “And no more hospital trips, lady. I think you aged Nate about a decade.” Alice cringed, her guilt blooming. “He’s pretty worried about you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
A pause, then: “Listen, are you sure you’re fine?”
“Ahhh, I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Alice said, giving an exaggerated groan. “I’m okay. Ovary too. No permanent damage.”
“I didn’t mean with your ovary, Ali.” Bronwyn’s tone was gentle but pointed, and Alice suddenly understood: Nate had told Bronwyn everything, including what caused the cyst to grow and burst. She felt exposed, and stupid for assuming otherwise. Also, she couldn’t explain why had she taken things so far, even to Bronwyn, who probably understood her better than anyone. What did it say about her, and her marriage, that she hadn’t simply been honest with Nate from the beginning?
“I’m here if you want to talk, okay?”
Alice considered whether perhaps Nate had put Bronwyn up to this call.
“Yeah. Thanks.” But she couldn’t talk to Bronwyn about this now—Nate had beaten her to it. No matter how she spun it, she would forever be the wife who went to extraordinary, secretive (and some might say irrational) lengths to avoid getting pregnant with her husband.
“I mean it, Ali. Anything, anytime. Well, except right this second because I have to meet my husband for lunch. Still getting used to calling him that.”
“Off you go, you lovesick newlywed. We’ll chat later.” Alice kept her tone light, even though her stomach felt like it was filled with cement.
“Bye. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Alice said, just as Nate came into the kitchen.
“Who was that?”
Alice pushed a piece of sopping toast around her bowl. “My mom.”
“Again? What was it this time?”
“She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving. In California.”
“Hmm. Maybe we should go. Could be fun.” Nate shrugged, then took a fork from the drawer and speared a piece of toast in Alice’s bowl. “This stuff is addictive.”
“Have the rest. I’m not that hungry.” Alice frowned, pushing it toward him.
“You feeling okay?”
“Perfect,” she said, smiling for good measure. She had been lying a lot recently, and it was becoming disturbingly easy to do so.
34
Nellie
SEPTEMBER 9, 1956
Lemon Lavender Muffins
2 cups flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 beaten eggs
1 cup sweet milk
3 tablespoons honey
3 tablespoons melted butter, cooled
Zest from a lemon
2 teaspoons lavender buds
Sift flour and mix with baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Combine eggs, sweet milk, honey, and butter. Make a well in center of flour mixture and pour in milk mixture. Mix quickly, but not until smooth (mixture should be lumpy). Grate lemon zest into mixture, and add dried lavender. Stir to combine. Fill greased muffin tins until two-thirds full. Bake in hot oven (375°F) for 20 to 25 minutes.
Nellie crushed and sprinkled the dried lavender buds into the bowl with her fingers, stirring with a wooden spoon to make sure the flavor would be well balanced throughout. The lavender was meant to be subtle, marrying well with the tart lemon rind, all without being overpowering. Therefore, precis
ion was imperative, or else the muffins would taste like the perfumed satchels Nellie kept in her chest of drawers. She was baking for Martha’s baby shower, which wasn’t until later in the afternoon, but Nellie had started first thing—right after Richard left for work—so they’d be cooled in time.
Nellie didn’t make these lavender muffins often, as they brought forth memories of her mother in better days, which was difficult. Yet, it remained one of her favorite recipes. Lemon the flavor of sunshine, and lavender, a most powerful herb. It symbolized feminine beauty and grace, and Nellie could think of nothing better with which to celebrate Martha’s recent delivery.
Martha had confessed, when Nellie called to congratulate her on little Bobby, that she felt like an old, broken-down vessel beyond repair. “Dan hasn’t touched me in so long, Nellie. And I can’t say I blame him! Everything is just so . . . so lumpy.” She had burst into tears, Bobby crying equally hard in the background, and Nellie had done her best to reassure Martha that she was a beautiful woman. Motherhood has made that only more true, Nellie soothed. After hanging up with Martha, Nellie thought about the upcoming shower, and lavender immediately came to mind. Poor Martha needed those muffins as much as she needed a good night’s sleep, along with a husband who appreciated the sacrifices she had made.
Nostalgia flooded her as she gave the mixture a few more stirs, noting the small clumps that were not to be smoothed out, before she filled the muffin tins. Nellie had made these muffins more times than she could count in the years she lived with Elsie, as it was also one of her mother’s favorite recipes. Elsie was forever reminding Nellie about the lumps, and Nellie smiled as she remembered her mother’s predictable, “Don’t overmix, Nell-girl. Too many stirs and we’ll have to throw it out with the burrs!”