How Lucky You Are (9781455518548)

by Kusek Lewis, Kristyn

  “We need another minute.” I smile at the waiter, who rolls his eyes and shuffles away.

  “What’s the story on the guy who’s going to run against him?” Amy says.

  Kate sighs. “Well, there’s still the primary,” she explains, seeming annoyed that she has to. “Brendan’s the Republican nominee—no one is running against him in the primary. There are two Democrats who still need to fight it out, but one is almost definitely going to be the one who’s going to run against Brendan.”

  “Right,” Amy says. “So who’s the guy? I’ve seen his picture in the paper—short, skinny, bald. That guy, right?”

  “John Tookin.” I say his name like it’s a punch line. “He’s a nut job. As Larry says, he makes Ross Perot look as steady as that pilot who landed the plane on the Hudson.”

  “Ugh.” Kate makes a face like she’s just bitten down on a lemon. “Tookin’s a moron. He’s way too liberal for Virginia.”

  “So what does all of this mean? Is Brendan freaking out?” I say.

  “Well, actually.” Kate runs her index finger along the rim of her wineglass. She leans in and lowers her voice. “It probably means that Brendan’s going to start thinking about something bigger after the governorship.”

  “Bigger?” Amy leans into the table. “What could be bigger?”

  I lean in, too.

  “They’re talking about the presidency,” Kate says. She tosses it out like it’s nothing; like Brendan is a carpet salesman and she’s just said that he’s thinking about transferring to the Omaha office. She reaches for the bread basket.

  “Wait, president?” Amy says, handing it to her. “You mean, like…oh my God.”

  My eyes may as well have just popped out of my head on cartoon springs. I am far too shocked to try to pretend to be excited about this. If there is one thing I know about Kate, it is that she doesn’t want to be the First Lady of the United States any more than she wants to pick up trash on the side of the interstate. It is one thing for her to be the First Lady of Virginia, a position that is prestigious but not all that visible, but quite another for her to pretend to be interested enough in our country’s welfare that she’d devote her entire life to it.

  Kate shrugs. “It’s the next step.”

  “Have you talked about this before? I mean, that’s huge,” I say. “Like the biggest job on earth.”

  I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “What’s there to talk about?” she huffs. She bites into her roll like she’s an animal taking off the head of her prey. “He’s going to do it no matter what I think,” she says through her full mouth.

  Amy looks at me, her mouth a perfect O. This is one of those moments that happen very occasionally when I realize that Amy still sometimes gets starry-eyed over Kate. I guess I know Kate too well to be awed by any of it. In fact, when I see Berkshire paraphernalia around town—signs in storefront windows, bumper stickers on cars in the Safeway parking lot—it takes a moment for it to register that those things refer to my Brendan and Kate, the same people whose dog I watch when they’re on vacation.

  But, Jesus, First Lady? Kate? My mind flashes back to the last Inauguration Day, watching the Obamas walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. I can’t visualize my best friend doing that any more than I can imagine myself. I picture her in the private residence later that night, whining to Brendan: Goddammit! My fucking feet are killing me! Why the hell did you make me do that? Or on the cover of Parade magazine, a headline running across her photo about…what? What would her cause be? She’s always been full of opinions, but I’ve never known her to feel passionately about any social cause, period.

  Our food arrives and I dig into my manicotti, my imagination wandering toward five years from now: Kate, helming the East Wing, and me…what? Teaching again? Working in someone else’s restaurant?

  Although, I reason, maybe if the bakery flops she can get me a job as the president’s personal pastry chef.

  But I know Kate. I know her better than Brendan does. There is no way that she can go through with a presidential campaign, I think, sliding the shaker of red pepper flakes across the table toward her because I know she wants it.

  “You haven’t really said anything,” she says, taking it from me.

  “What?” I sit up taller and fake a grin.

  “You look a little”—she narrows her eyes at me—“peeved.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess I’m just wondering whether you and Brendan have really talked about this. And how does his whole ‘wanting kids’ thing fit into it?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She slurps up a forkful of linguine with clam sauce. “Of course we’ve talked about it. This was always part of the plan,” she says. “Waverly, it’s just the natural way things are going to go with his career. It’s like getting a promotion; that’s all.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” I blurt. “Your husband will be the leader of the free world. You will be the fucking First Lady of the United States of America. Think about it: Nancy Reagan, Barbara Bush, Hillary Clint—”

  “Stop right there,” Kate says, putting her hand out and nearly knocking over Amy’s wineglass in the process. Amy reaches and grabs it with both hands before it topples over. “Why are you acting like this?” Kate whines. “I thought you’d be excited for me.”

  I take a deep breath and soften my voice. “Kate, of course I want to be excited about this, but think about it: You’d lose any shred of privacy you have left, and I know how much you hate the attention now.” Despite what she says, I actually think that she doesn’t mind it so much. How could she? Her press, so far, has never been anything but positive. “Can you imagine what it would be like? The magazine articles, the talk on the cable news channels, the criticism.”

  “I can handle it, Waverly. I’ve handled it my whole life.”

  She has a point.

  “Not like this, though,” I say. “This is different. You know how harsh the press can be. They’d dig into everything—your past, Brendan’s past, your marriage.”

  “Our closets are skeleton-free.” Kate puts down her fork. “And my marriage is fine.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “What?” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Our last conversation didn’t make it sound like everything in your marriage is fine.”

  “Oh God. Really, Waverly? The stuff I said at my house the other night? Or in Florida, after a gallon of margaritas? The kid thing, not that it’s any of your business, is a nonissue. It’s not happening. Brendan and I are two people in the midst of a major political campaign. I’d say that we’re doing better than most,” Kate says. “Frankly, it’s something that you know nothing about.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to fight with her, too, not with everything going on with Amy and me hardly speaking to Larry. “Listen, I just want you to be happy,” I say. “I remember how you used to talk growing up—you didn’t want the charity circuit, the party pictures in the Washingtonian, the mentions in ‘Reliable Source.’ You wanted to run off to Spain and marry a bullfighter.”

  “Hey, what can I say? I wanted an Ernest Hemingway novel, I got C-SPAN.” She laughs.

  “Well, it would be exciting, that’s for sure,” Amy chimes in, obviously trying to put an end to our squabbling. “I mean, Christmas at the White House, the Easter Egg Hunt. I love the Easter Egg Hunt.”

  “Yeah, it would be something,” Kate says. She looks at me for a fleeting moment, but I can’t read her expression. Shit, now I’ve blown it with her, too.

  “So is this guy ever going to come check on us?” she says. “I need another glass of wine.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After dinner, Kate rushes off, explaining that she has to get up early to go to Charlottesville for a fund-raising barbecue. “Do you want to stay and have one more drink?” Amy asks.

  I check my watch. After our tiff at the bakery, Larry certainly won’t be eager to see me. “Su
re, why not?”

  We move to the back corner of the restaurant, sliding our tin containers of leftovers onto the heavily lacquered mahogany bar. A guy with a thin red mustache sits a few seats over, drinking an Amstel and talking to the bartender about the basketball game they’re airing.

  We order a wine for Amy and a water for me. I’d love another pinot but I can’t afford it, even after ordering the $9.99 special dinner. I sip my water. Amy fluffs her hair, checking out her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “So that’s some big news about Kate,” I start. I don’t quite know what to say to Amy, and I haven’t decided whether I should bring up the incident at her house again. The websites I’ve been reading suggest being direct yet supportive. Lately I feel like I’m failing at both.

  “I can’t believe it,” Amy says. “I know that Brendan has high aspirations but it’s just so surreal.”

  “I know.” I reach for a cocktail napkin and wipe up a wet spot on the bar. Force of habit. “I worry about them.”

  “The kid thing threw me for a loop,” she says. “But it sounds like Kate has everything under control.”

  “Yup, that’s Kate, always in control.”

  “She can handle anything, it seems.”

  I detect a sort of weary sarcasm in her voice, so I jump at the opportunity to find out where it’s coming from. “How are things going with Mike?” I say. “The last time we really talked, at the bakery, you said that things had been kind of distant?”

  “Waverly, things are so much better.” She reaches out and touches my arm for emphasis. “We went out to dinner last night, the three of us. I can’t remember the last time we did that. I really can’t believe it,” Amy says. “It feels like we’re dating again.”

  She seems to mean it, and I immediately feel a pang of guilt for the scenarios I’ve concocted in my head over the past few weeks. What is wrong with me? First, I decide that Amy is being cheated on. Next, her husband’s beating her. And tonight, I can’t be happy for Kate. I’m obviously the problem, and all of my judgy BS must have something to do with the fact that my life is the one that’s in shambles. I make an executive decision: I will just take what Amy and Kate give me at face value. No more worrying about them. No more imaginary disaster scenarios. They are competent grown women who are obviously handling their lives better than I can manage my own.

  I need to concentrate on solving my own problems instead of distracting myself by inventing them for my friends. Jesus, if I actually told Amy about what’s been going on in my head over the past week, she’d probably commit me immediately.

  “It’s good to see you happy,” I say.

  Amy smiles a half smile. “Yeah.” She starts to say something and then stops.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me,” I say.

  “It’s just the other day at the house. I was kind of a bitch. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” I say, relieved that she’s clearing the air. “It’s no big deal.” We’re like a couple making up after our first fight, all awkward and overapologetic, but at least it feels like things are normal again. Amy looks over at the basketball game on the television. Maybe I should just tell her, I think, watching her mutter encouragement to the players dribbling down the court on the screen. If I confess what I’ve been thinking, I can officially move on and never think of it again.

  “I have to tell you something.” I smile sheepishly. I can’t believe I’m going to admit this. The voice in the back of my head—the rational one that apparently hasn’t been affected by the glass of wine I’ve consumed—tells me to keep my mouth shut.

  “What?”

  “Oh God, never mind.” Idiot! What are you thinking?

  Amy laughs. “Just tell me. You have to now.” She’s still looking at the television. “Come on,” she whispers to the screen.

  “You won’t believe what I thought.” I wince.

  Amy looks at me and cocks her head like a puppy.

  “I’m embarrassed to even tell you,” I say, putting my hands to my face. “It’s so stupid.”

  “Waverly!” Amy says. “Just tell me!”

  “Promise me you won’t get angry.”

  Amy smirks. “Come on,” she says. “Out with it.”

  I purse my lips and consider her. I’m backed into a corner now. “Actually, it’s kind of funny,” I say, knowing that it isn’t at all but that saying so might soften what I am about to admit. “After I came over that day and saw that you were limping, I thought that maybe…”

  Amy takes a sip of her wine. I reach across the bar for my water and follow suit.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you! It’s so insane!” I backtrack. “Please just change the subject.”

  “Dammit to hell, Waverly, come on,” Amy says, grinning.

  I lean toward her, keeping my eyes pinned on her lap because I certainly can’t look at her face when I tell her this. “I thought that maybe Mike had done that to you, to your back,” I say, spitting it out as quickly as I can. “I mean, how stupid is that?”

  Amy straightens up. “That is kind of crazy,” she sputters, then raises her glass to her mouth again.

  “Oh no,” I say. Her mouth has formed a thin line. Her eyebrows have developed corners. “I’ve offended you. I know that it was so stupid. I never should have even said anything. I’m embarrassed now.” I want to crawl under the bar, to press my cheek against the dusty, sticky, crumb-covered floor until I disappear into it.

  “It’s okay,” Amy says.

  I can tell that it isn’t. “Oh God, Amy. I’m so sorry. I know that Mike would never—”

  “No, it’s—” She sucks in her bottom lip.

  I pinch a handful of my hair and start to chew on it.

  “Waverly, it’s okay,” Amy says. “Actually…”

  When her eyes meet mine, she doesn’t have to say another word.

  I stop chewing. My eyes widen.

  Amy nods.

  “Wait,” I say. “Amy?”

  She mouths, “You were right.”

  “Amy?” I lean into her. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you saw what you think you saw,” she says. She reaches across the bar for a cocktail napkin and dabs at her eyes. “It really started just after Emma was born, but it’s okay now.”

  She looks over her shoulder at the bartender, who is still engrossed in sports talk with the other customer, and then she leans her elbow onto the bar, puts her head in her hand, and starts talking.

  The first five years of their marriage were good. Sometimes even idyllic, like when he would surprise her with a phone call on a Friday afternoon, tell her to be ready by seven, and then whisk her off to a picnic on the National Mall. Sometimes things weren’t so good, particularly during his residency at Georgetown, when he would come home so exhausted that he could barely kiss her hello before collapsing into bed. But the occasional rough patch didn’t worry her. She’d witnessed her parents’ fights growing up and knew that no marriage was without its battle scars. Arguments were bound to happen. It didn’t mean that he didn’t love her.

  Mike had always been inordinately thoughtful, the kind of husband who not only remembered that she preferred tulips to roses but actually bought them for her. And, okay, sometimes this devotion could border on the extreme. More than once, back when she worked, she’d had to turn off her phone because he sometimes called repeatedly when he couldn’t immediately reach her, and the background noise of an incessantly ringing phone was not conducive to helping her teenaged students work through whatever college admissions problems or romance crises they were having. He could also be too heavily invested in what she wore—the first time they were invited to Kate’s parents’ legendary Christmas party, he’d made her return the first dress she bought for the occasion, stating that it was too revealing, when, for the record, it was a navy dress from Talbots, a store hardly known for its scandalous style. Thes
e sorts of things were frustrating, she says to me, hardly meeting my eyes as she talks, but they happened infrequently enough that she didn’t let them worry her. Then she got pregnant, and everything changed. “His attentiveness seemed to go into overdrive,” she says. “And then”—she turns to see whether anyone can overhear us—“it became something more.”

  At first, she loved the way that he coddled her. He tucked a pillow under her knees while she read Fit Pregnancy on the couch in the evenings after work. When she woke up nauseous, he brought her a stack of saltines and a glass of ginger ale. As she tells me this, I remember it, and how she’d told me about what a good dad Mike would be if he treated their baby half as well as he treated her.

  By the end of her first trimester, she says, all of his attention was starting to make her feel smothered, like he didn’t trust that she was capable of carrying their child without his presiding over her every move. At doctors’ appointments, he’d stand over the nurse’s shoulder while she was weighed and had her blood pressure checked, meticulously recording the numbers in a notebook that he kept in his back pants pocket. By the fifth month, he’d convinced Amy to keep a food diary to make sure that she was getting all of the nutrients that the baby needed. Every day, she wrote down everything that she ate, along with the amounts and the time at which she’d eaten. It was a fastidious request, for sure, but she found herself not questioning him, dutifully filling in the information at the kitchen counter. “After all,” she says, “he’s the one with the medical degree. I wanted to do everything I could to have a healthy baby. At night, when he pored over the journal and remarked on the fact that I’d only had one serving of fruit, or that I could have had a glass of milk with breakfast, I just nodded quietly, trying to be a team player and reminding myself that he only had my best interests at heart.”

  But there was one Saturday afternoon during her eighth month when she splurged on a Big Mac and he flipped out. She’d seen him get really angry before—they’d had those atrocious, once-a-year-or-so throw downs that every marriage endures—but he’d never been like this. “I told myself that we were both just anxious about this major life change that we were about to undergo,” she says. “Plus, Mike had every reason to worry about becoming a parent. His own father had disappeared shortly after he was born and his mother only calls when she needs money. And Mike can be such a perfectionist. When he makes a mistake at work, it hangs over him for days, as if one tiny error could derail his entire career. But,” she says, tears welling in her eyes, “things just got worse after Emma arrived. I started to feel like I was living with a stranger. He had definitely shifted into some darker place, and each day it seemed like he sank deeper, moving further and further away from me.”