“Well, it’s already done. One less thing, right?”
“Right. Thank you, Jenna.”
“So, I don’t technically need to be anywhere until after lunch.” Jenna slung her arm around Nora’s neck. “I say, cheese, bread, tons of butter, and a dedicated Teen Mom 2 binge. And before you say another word, you should know that I make a mean grilled cheese—with sliced tomato.” She started nodding, her eyes closed and grin stretched.
Even though she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the tub, Nora knew she had no choice but to consent to Jenna’s plan. “Okay, Callaway. Sounds good.”
“Cool. Now, while I get started”—she grabbed the neatly folded apron from the counter—“you work on finding me one of those lux, baller robes. I want to look like a cloud, too, goddammit.”
Nora smiled. “I’ll get one for you. We have a couple by the guest room.”
Jenna dragged the apron over herself and started wildly opening drawers, cupboards, the pantry, the fridge, gathering her tools and product. “Perf,” she said, without looking up.
Nora felt the knot in between her shoulder blades loosen as she watched the top of her friend’s head teeter about, perusing the knife block. They didn’t get the chance to do this often enough, just hang out, stowed away, carefree and cheese-ready. They especially didn’t do it at the penthouse. Jenna said she didn’t like feeling like she was encroaching on Fisher’s space, but really she was too concerned about one of Fisher’s rich cronies—or worse, his “snotty hottie” younger brothers—popping in and catching her unawares. Nora walked down the hall to the closet just outside her favorite bathroom. She dipped her head in to spy on Jenna’s cleanup work. Not bad, she thought, and continued on to the linen closet.
A careless tug at the extra robe caused it to tumble off the hanger and slump down to the floor. Nora bent down to grab it and her eye landed on the box peeking out from beneath its dusty quilt. She glanced behind her before sliding the box out farther from under its cloak and carefully lifted the lid. Her hands went straight to the twin stacks of cards, all of them from her mother. Some wished her Happy Birthday, while others sent Christmas and Easter greetings complete with dramatic script font, crucifixes, bright sunbeams through clouds, and various white, luminous, praying hands. Nora’s mother didn’t have the means to give her daughter gifts with the desired brands and logos emblazoned upon them. Instead of money, the woman opted to invest her time in searching out the just-right card to give her daughter. She would often start looking for it a month or more before the holiday (and her only child’s birthday was long considered one). While out on her weekly market runs, Nora’s mother would build in extra time for the Hallmark store in the strip mall by the pharmacy. It was important, she said, to let those you love know it, to get the words out any way you can, even if they rhyme and someone else wrote them for you.
“Give me my flowers while I yet live, so that I can see the beauty that they bring,” Nora’s mother would sing in a slow, low, sweet hum. It was a line from a gospel tune by Rev. James Cleveland, a favorite, and one that her mother believed in so deeply that she told Nora—in her hoarse voice soaked in sick—to never bring any flowers to the grave awaiting her. “It’s in the shadows,” her mother had said, in those last days, “but I am not afraid. The Lord, He will comfort me. And He will watch over you, too, sweet girl. He will. That’s why I know I can close my eyes now.” She had reached up for Nora’s wet face, patting it the way she used to when Nora was a child and scared to sleep in her bed alone. “ ‘Trust in Him, with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding,’ Proverbs says, ‘in all your ways submit to Him, and he will make your paths straight.’ ”
This was one of the last things Nora’s mother said to her while she was still lucid. It always angered Nora that it was a Bible quote and not something that she could actually hold on to. The Bible, God, prayer, those were her mother’s underpinnings, and Nora had no faith in any of it. She believed that people were just people, not blessed or holy or trying to do unto others as they would have done unto themselves. There was no Golden Rule. How you are, how you behave and treat people, how you move through this life rests on one belief: that you’re the good guy. It’s the guiding principle. Relying on it absolves you from any responsibility for cut corners, deceit, wickedness, or corruption. It’s the sponge that cleans everything up.
“I don’t believe this horseshit!” Jenna said.
Nora, startled, tossed the cards back into the box and shoved it under the quilt. She hopped up and turned around with the robe dragging by her leg. Jenna sounded a lot closer than she actually was. “Wh-what?”
Jenna held up Nora’s iPad, pointing at the screen turned out toward Nora, her mouth ajar. “This is complete and total bullshit.”
Nora’s mind raced. Had she stupidly left something on the counter from the night before? Were there traces of the past—his obituary onscreen—forgotten out in the open for Jenna to find? It all sounded ludicrous, but the thoughts kept coming. It was Dawn. It was her fault. She reignited Nora’s panic, and anything seemed possible. Nora even started looking for ways out, both physical and otherwise. She kept her eyes trained on Jenna and stayed ready to move when she moved.
Jenna shook the thin tablet again, angling it toward Nora. “It’s over,” she said, incredulous. “The marriage I got ordained for and officiated a couple months back—Abigail and Brandon? They split already! Can you believe that shit?” She turned the iPad back around and looked at the screen and, with a raised brow, added, “Actually, they weren’t legit married all the way . . . because of some sorted mish-mosh, I didn’t get around to filing the marriage license at town hall.” Nora’s eyes went wide. “Well, it was Connecticut and I was out of sorts the morning after . . . and also totally boinking the best man. I swear I left that place with a giant, gross hickey and a raging UTI. Awful.” She rested Nora’s iPad back on the side counter.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What? I was out of my element. I’m a city girl, Nor.”
“Jesus, Jenna. I thought something real happened.”
“Uh, these two people who professed their amazing love for each other in front of three hundred and fifty of their nearest and dearest, after five years together, split up only ten days after their wedding. That all sounds pretty fucking real to me, friend. And, and, and”—Jenna held up both hands in the air as if under arrest—“I’m only finding out about this implosion now, a full two months after the wedding.” She chuckled and dropped her arms, crossing them over her propped-up chest. “They should really be sending a thank-you note. They probably don’t even have to tangle up with annulment headaches because of me.”
Nora turned up her lip and frowned. “Why would you even tell me this?”
“Because you’re a nosy bitch like me, and you like to see reality TV shit play out in real life?” It was Jenna’s turn to have her face streaked with outrage. “Why wouldn’t I tell you this?”
“Because I’m about to get married. Why tell me about someone’s whole life blowing up right after they get married.”
Jenna’s mouth slid into a grin and her frown lines smoothed out. “Sweetie. There’s nothing even remotely the same about those two assholes and you and Fish. Abbie was cheating on that dude for, like, eight months. He was fixin’ to have kids right away and she wanted to wait three years. She was hoping to move to Rhode Island closer to her parents and Brandon plans on dying in that townhouse on the Upper West Side.” Jenna moved closer to Nora, smiled, and held her head to the side. “They were not made for each other,” she chuckled. “Not even a little bit. Honey, you and Fisher have nothing to worry about. It’s rock solid with you two. Those are facts. And facts are what?”
Nora shook her head.
“Friendly, sweetie.” Jenna grabbed Nora’s shoulders and shimmied them. “Facts are friendly. So, lighten up. You are making yourself crazy for nothing.”
Jenna smiled at her. Nora sent a s
trained one back.
“Sorry, I just—”
“Nope, no more sorrys,” Jenna said, tugging at the sash on Nora’s robe, making it tighter. “It’s all about cheese right now, okay? We don’t have all day, and I need to see what hot garbage these Teen Moms are getting into.”
Nora handed her the extra robe. “I think you’ll need this.”
“Hell, yes. And I’m taking off my bra, too. You’ve been warned.”
“Brace yourself, is what you mean.”
“Oh, you’re so deep in the jealous, blondie. So deep.”
Arm in arm, they walked back to the kitchen to gather their lukewarm grilled cheese sandwiches and then trickled over to the soft gray couches parked in front of the flat-screen. Laughter flowed and Nora willed her mind to remain focused and wrapped up in the moment, no matter how hard the outside world poked and taunted her.
CHAPTER 9
The doctor’s head bobbed between Nora’s open legs propped up in stirrups. “So, how you feeling about the wedding—hang on. Just scooch your bottom down a smidge more for me, please.” Her already high-pitched, baby voice was brighter, more cheerful.
Nora did as told, rolling her eyes at the awkward sounds: the crinkle of the paper under her, the clank of the exam table’s metal parts as she shifted, the squish of the doctor’s lubed-up glove entering her. Small price, she told herself, as she did every time she went to her gynecologist.
As much as she cringed at the experience of being probed under unkind, daytime lighting, Nora liked feeling reassured that everything down there was working according to plan. She had started using an IUD almost on the day she turned twenty-one. It took her a few tries to find a gynecologist who was okay with this, but then she landed in Dr. Fiona Mulligan’s tony Upper West Side practice and her wish was granted. Nora had read all the research she could dig up and liked the fact that the IUD was twenty times more effective than the pill. Plus, she always thought the pill was way too risky anyway. If you forgot to take it one day or if you vomited it up along with your ridiculous amounts of alcohol and cheap, undercooked seafood, then you could be staring down the barrel of pregnancy test pee stick. But more than the chance of getting pregnant, it was how the pill left the maybe-baby window open that truly rankled her. Nora did not want children. Ever. With the IUD, she felt more in control of making sure she stayed child-free. She didn’t have to think about it or, moreover, talk about it.
After her first full-weekend sleepover at Fisher’s penthouse, he started buzzing around the subject of birth control over coffee, likely because he didn’t spy her popping the pill at any point during their three-day sequestered sex adventure. He continued with condoms until it was clear that they were getting serious. That’s when the topics of marriage and kids (and those wretched condoms) were broached, and Fisher asked her plainly if she would consider going on the pill.
“I don’t need to,” she told him, startled by her own voice. And then, like an unruly belch, more words came tumbling out of her mouth, “Because I can’t have children.” She didn’t pause to take a breath or a beat. She was in it now and made the quick choice to keep going. “It’s my ovaries. Something called PC—”
“PCOS. Right,” he interrupted. “I’m so sorry, Mack. I’m an idiot for pushing you on this. I’m sorry.” Fisher’s face had dropped by that point and he looked over at Nora with concern before reaching for her hand. She didn’t realize then how much Fisher knew about medicine. Owing to his work with the family’s institute, he seemed to know a touch about most everything. This made Nora drill down and arm herself with as much research and information about polycystic ovary syndrome as possible. She never wanted to be caught knowing less about her own body—or feigned syndrome—than he did. That she was outright lying to this man didn’t perturb her as much—not then, anyway.
“So, are you excited, nervous, or just ready to be done with the whole thing?” Dr. Mulligan continued.
“Definitely the latter,” Nora said with a long sigh.
“That was me, too,” Dr. Mulligan said. “Just give me the ring, sign the paper, and let’s get on with our lives, right? Granted, that was twenty-one years and three kids ago, but that anxious feeling—Jesus Murphy—that was pretty awful.” She kept trying to meet Nora’s eyes, make it seem as though the two were just catching up after randomly running into each other at a stoplight in midtown. Her efforts were not appreciated. When it came to bedside manner, Nora preferred something a little more distant and perfunctory from her doctors.
“Pretty much,” Nora said, counting down the minutes until it was over.
Finally, the doctor popped up from her rolling stool, peeled off her gloves, and was at the sink vigorously washing her hands, all in one smooth move. “Everything looks great,” she said, ripping two stiff-looking paper-towel sheets from the dispenser. “Why don’t you get dressed and come chat with me in my office about”—she smiled and winked—“what you want to do next.”
Nora didn’t scramble to get dressed as usual. She didn’t move, and instead sat listening as the hum of the overhead lights grew louder. She looked down at her dangling feet, pointing her toes and relaxing them and over again, taking the moment of relative quiet to gather her thoughts. Nora knew what she wanted to happen when she went into Dr. Mulligan’s office to chat, but she also knew what was likely going to happen: nothing. Just more stale quotes from the This Is a Serious Decision book served up to her like they’re fresh and unfamiliar. It was the wink. It gave it all away.
Nora wanted to stop using the IUD. Although she had only recently stopped worrying about Fisher one day feeling the device’s strings during sex, the bigger reason for this change was that she wanted something more permanent: tubal ligation. She’d wanted this since the age of twelve, when her first period came and her mother chirped, “You’re an official woman, Rah-Rah.” As the mother went on to halfheartedly explain the reason for her “monthlies,” the idea of pregnancy and children only filled young Nora with more dread. Creating a tiny being and subjecting it to even a thin slice of what Nora knew the world could offer, it all felt cold and cruel. Might as well toss the weak thing into a pack of wolves, she thought back then.
She still does.
But now, there’s also more. Nora would have no guarantees about how her baby would come out looking—carved from alabaster or teak? Would it have her light freckles, her good golden hair, her green eyes, or would it strike back to some long-ago generation from her mother’s side with skin the color of a nutmeg seed and a nappy head? She could never know those answers. The one thing she did know was: that baby would be the truth. The risk was far too great. No children ever, that was her only assurance. But each gynecologist she went to asking to have her tubes tied only saw this girl in her twenties standing before them clutching a limp belief, a basic know-nothing who thinks she doesn’t want to experience the joys of being a mother. She was met with an immediate no along with one or more of the following reasons:
You’re too young.
You may want children down the line.
When you get married, you’ll change your mind.
What if your husband wants kids?
(The last one came from the only male OB/GYN Nora went to—a referral she received at a cocktail party. She never went back to him.)
Before Nora could settle into the office chair, Dr. Mulligan started up. “All right. So, now, the wedding’s just weeks away, right? Do you want to talk about scheduling an early removal of the IUD? It’s a very simple procedure, exactly like a regular pelvic exam. I’ll insert the speculum so I can locate the IUD strings. Then, I just tug on them”—she held her hand up by her face and pulled slightly, as if holding thread—“which effectively pulls the IUD out of your cervix, and we’re done. I’d recommend taking some ibuprofen for any cramping that might occur. But even that’s fairly light, not unlike regular menstrual cramps. Nothing to worry about.” She smiled and reclined in her chair. “Or maybe you want to continue with it, an
d you come see me when you’re back from your honeymoon.” Another wink.
Everything about the doctor annoyed Nora: from the way she was leaning back and her beaming face to her baby voice and chipped nail polish. It was too casual and knowing and wrong. Nora sat up straight and let her eyes rest on the doctor’s wide face for a breath past what was comfortable. “Actually, yes, I do want the IUD taken out.” She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes ever slightly, enough to bring a chill to the cramped room. “And then I want my tubes tied once it’s removed.”
Dr. Mulligan brought herself to sit upright, shifting in her seat. “Now, Nora, again, I really have to caution you—”
“No, you don’t. With all due respect, Dr. Mulligan, you’ve gone over this with me a few times now and my mind has not changed. I still have no interest in becoming pregnant, giving birth, or being a mother. This was the case when I was single. And it’s still how I feel, staunchly so, now that I’m engaged and about to be married. I’ve always felt this way—never once a doubt.”
“It’s irreversible, though, Nora.”
“If this is a litigious concern, I will sign any and all legal forms saying that I am fully aware of the permanence of the procedure and understand the risks of the surgery.”
The doctor let out a deep, loud sigh and kept her head down, her eyes trained on the open folder atop her desk. “This is what I can do . . . Give me a couple weeks, let me talk to the other doctors here at the practice, and I’ll call you myself to let you know where we landed on this.”
Have You Met Nora? Page 12