“Hey, guys.” Eli greeted them at the door. “Be prepared: There’s nothing like an impending storm to whip Annie up into a party-planning frenzy.”
“What he means is, welcome to our Hurricane Sandy bash!” Annie spun around to model her dress, which featured Dorothy and the rest of the cast of The Wizard of Oz being lifted away in a tornado. “I know it’s the wrong natural disaster, but it’s all I had.”
“Shoot, I left my flood-themed ball gown at home,” Emma said.
“And my blizzard bow tie is still at the cleaners,” said Nick, kissing Annie hello.
“Damn it, guys, you’re always letting me down.” Annie ushered them inside. “Anyway, I got The Ice Storm plus Twister, both the movie and game. And I made a hurricane!” No wonder “Blowin’ in the Wind” was playing; Annie usually couldn’t stand Bob Dylan.
Also weird was the thought of playing Twister as a foursome, especially if they were going to see a movie about swingers and key parties. Emma glanced at Nick, who met her gaze with a your-friend-is-batshit look. “You mentioned drinks?” he said to Eli.
“Follow me, my man,” said Eli.
Although Nick probably wouldn’t have wanted her to, as soon as he and Eli were out of earshot, Emma couldn’t help dishing to Annie about their dramatic night in court. Which is why, when the guys returned from the kitchen, they found the girls hysterical over Emma’s terrible impression of Luis trying not to lose his temper before the judge.
“Let’s just hope the judge found him as laughable as we did,” Nick said, handing Emma a cherry-red drink.
“It’s so obvious you’ll win,” said Annie. “How about I throw you a victory party? I could serve appetizers on little scales, you know, like the scales of justice.”
“Yep,” said Nick. “And we could get a piñata that looked like Luis and wear blindfolds like Lady Justice and take turns hitting at it. We’d have to fill his head with some really shitty candy. Or better yet, just hot air.”
Annie pursed her lips, like maybe this didn’t sound like the best idea. After a moment she seemed to realize he was kidding. “You’re full of hot air.”
Emma kissed Nick’s cheek. “Thanks for putting up with my need for revenge.”
After the entirety of Twister, the movie, and two Hurricane cocktails apiece, the rain still hadn’t started, but the wind had grown powerful. Emma thought of Genevieve, who, despite being in a supposedly safe area of the city, might’ve been all by herself. She texted her: Are you OK? Wanna come hunker down with us at Annie’s?
Gen texted back: Thx I’m good. Watching My-so-called-life marathon, then hitting the sack. XO. That sounded lovely to Emma, but still she hoped Gen’s roommates weren’t all off at their boyfriends’ places.
“This storm better not be a big letdown,” said Annie. “Ems, remember our adventure during Hurricane Bob?”
“You mean, sleeping on smelly cots and eating stale bologna sandwiches? Quite an adventure.” Two decades later, the debacle was still branded in Emma’s memory.
“Yeah, and my mom went up to the cook and asked if they had anything without pig products, remember? He thought she was totally nutso.”
“To be fair, we were sharing a shelter with all those patients from the local mental hospital. Your mom could’ve been one of them.” Emma explained to Nick: “The summer before fourth grade, or maybe fifth, Mrs. Blum took us on a trip to Plimoth Plantation.”
“For some reason,” Annie said, “it’s pretty much a requirement for kids who grow up in the Northeast to go witness pilgrims make artisanal pots and churn butter and stuff.”
“Very Brooklyn Flea Market,” said Eli. “The original hipsters, these ten-year-old girls.”
“Anyway,” said Annie, “then Hurricane Bob hit, and the B and B where we were staying had to be evacuated. It was too dangerous to drive home, so we were shipped over to this awful shelter. This one creepy old dude kept asking if we needed private tutoring since we were probably missing school. I mean, it was the middle of August.”
“God, I had nightmares about that guy for weeks afterward,” said Emma.
“What a blast we had. It was all-you-could-drink soda—someone had donated, like, a warehouse full of Coke—and we got to stay up until midnight.”
“Yeah, because the people all around us were crying and moaning in their sleep. It was not a blast.” Emma remembered how, when they were finally cleared to leave, Annie and her mom had spent the whole drive home recounting all of the colorful details of the weekend, while she’d sat in the backseat quietly trying not to throw up. Back home, when Emma had complained that they’d never gotten to see the pilgrim village, her mother had responded, “Yeah, but you got something even better—a real adventure. And now you’re a hurricane expert!” It was exciting to be called an expert in anything by her mom, but Emma had wanted some comfort after the trip’s trauma. And in the coming weeks, when she’d woken up at all hours from nightmares of howling wind through her windows, she’d felt too ashamed to seek out her mom. In the two decades since, Emma had had several opportunities to return to Cape Cod, but she’d always made excuses not to.
“We must’ve filled out three full books of Mad Libs in that shelter,” Annie said.
“You two haven’t really matured much since then, huh?” said Eli. “Emma, Annie told me you helped her write her wedding vows, Mad Libs–style.”
Emma was thankful for the change of subject. “Well, in the end Annie pulled through like a champ, no Mad Libs needed.”
“Pretty much anything great I’ve done is because of Ems,” said Annie. “I never thanked you for that poem, by the way.” Right, the poem she’d recited at her ceremony.
“Emma wrote that?” Eli asked.
“No, dummy. Edith Wharton, whom Ems worships. It’s, like, her favorite poem.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Eli said.
“Look, if it was wedding-appropriate to recite a commercial jingle, I would’ve been golden. But love poems? No way. So it’s a good thing I have a bestie with such sophisticated sensibilities to help me out in a time of need.” This was the reason Emma had put up with Annie for so many years; even when she pulled a stunt like stealing the poem Emma would’ve liked to recite one day at her own wedding, she always apologized with grace and panache, making Emma feel like the world’s best person.
“I was happy to help.” And just like that, Emma revised her memory of standing by as maid of honor fuming to standing by feeling thrilled for her friend. “More drinks?”
“I’ll help you,” Annie said. In the kitchen she measured out the juices and grenadine into four glasses, and then Emma began splashing them with rum. When she reached the fourth glass, Annie held a hand over it. Emma gave her a puzzled look.
“So I went to the doctor like you insisted,” Annie said, her eyes going glassy with tears, and Emma knew right away what was coming. Her stomach was already swishy with drink and nerves about the storm, but the understanding of what was about to be revealed hit Emma’s gut like a whirlpool. “I’m pregnant.”
Emma clutched at Annie and hooked her chin over her friend’s shoulder. It was a gut reaction that seemed appropriate no matter what Annie’s state of mind. Plus, it conveniently hid Emma’s panic. Her mind hummed in shock, and whatever expression she wore, she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to mask it.
Emma felt Annie trembling against her. What was her friend thinking? she wondered. They’d never even talked about pregnancy, motherhood, the whole shebang—at least, not in any serious way. She considered how impossible it was that Annie’s stomach, pressed against her own, was now home to a tiny growing creature, a speck of a future person now literally coming between them; the last thought barely flickered in her consciousness before Emma banished it. Of course she’d already partly known, and so had Annie—Annie, who was usually a total hypochondriac, running to the doctor at the slightest sign of a cough, and who’d been so flippant about her imagined African parasite. Annie, who was a
pro at anything she put her mind to, in this case denial.
“I’m so sorry, Ems.” Annie was now crying.
“Sorry? What do you mean, sorry?”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you before. I was so scared, and … I don’t know.”
“Shh.” Emma stroked her friend’s curls. “So was this, um, planned?”
Annie shrugged. “Eli was pushing for it even before we got married, and I knew it took my mom more than a year to get pregnant with me. So I figured it wouldn’t happen right away. I mean, we were sleeping in tents in Africa, un-showered, and wearing pleated khakis, for God’s sake—we only had sex, like, twice.” She nuzzled her head back into Emma’s neck. “Ems, I’m not ready for this. I’m completely terrified.”
“Hey, I’m sure everyone’s scared when they first get pregnant. You’ll be a great mom.” She stared at Annie’s stomach; the Tin Man smiled stupidly back at her. Together she and Annie had spent the better part of two decades doing crunches and planks and a hundred other trendy workouts with the goal of attaining flat abs; now Annie’s stomach would go a different direction, growing and distending to create new life.
“Please don’t tell Nick, okay? Eli doesn’t know I’m telling you. He wants to wait until twelve weeks to share the news, but I can’t keep a secret from you or my mom.”
“Of course.” Emma framed Annie’s face with her hands. “And listen, as soon as you pop that thing out, we’ll get the guys to babysit and you and I will go out on the town for a big old glass of wine, same as always.”
Emma barely paid attention to The Ice Storm. She couldn’t help thinking how her friendship with Annie was now stamped with an expiration date. They’d still hang out once Annie became a mom, but it wouldn’t be at all the same.
By midnight the rain had started up, and Eli suggested they strap on boots and go for a walk. “We might be stuck inside for who knows how long.” Emma wasn’t in the mood, so she stayed behind, carrying Annie’s laptop into the guest room. Sprawled out on the bed, she was intent on visiting celebrity gossip sites and turning off her brain.
Emma quickly tired of the vapid news bytes, and logged onto her e-mail. Her brother had written detailing the predicted storm damage in her neighborhood and asking if she was okay and whether she’d evacuated; Emma replied that she and Nick were safe and bunking at Annie’s. She jotted off a similar note to her parents. In her work in-box, among the Helli cancelations, Emma was surprised to see a message from Dylan York; after he’d fled in fury from her office the previous week she’d assumed she’d never hear from him again. The subject line was Suck it! and the e-mail’s body featured only a photo of Dylan’s fist, middle finger raised, in front of an application to what Emma assumed was Columbia. “Oy vey.” She clicked Delete. A note from Sophia invited Emma and her “beau” to come stay with her on higher ground for the hurricane; also, she wrote, she was halfway through her application to the University of Madrid program, Emma’s dad was hilarious, and she was looking forward to meeting him in person. Emma considered replying that she was cabbing up to Sophia’s place stat, but then she reminded herself that the girl was a client, not a friend.
What happened next was one of those things that seemed insignificant at the time, almost laughably so in retrospect. Yet, that small moment, a single click, would set in motion a series of revelations, which would each etch themselves permanently into Emma’s mind. It must have been a preference setting, the cartoon red flag that popped up on Annie’s computer dashboard. Emma didn’t think of herself as a snoop. When she’d heard stories of girls ransacking boyfriends’ pants pockets or browser histories, she’d always felt shocked and a little disgusted, like where was the trust, and why would you want to expose yourself to every little thing about your partner anyway? But when the flag began waving and then flashing from the bottom of the screen, Emma couldn’t help but click. Up sprang Annie’s e-mail, the first subject line practically shouting: We’re pregnant!!! The message was to Annie’s mother. With little hesitation, Emma opened it.
Hey, Mom … I mean, Grandma (!): It’s true! Eli, the little rascal, knocked me up on our honeymoon and we could not be more THRILLED that we’re gonna become Mommy and Daddy! YAY!!! Love you and talk soon! Hi to Dad!—A.
Emma was paralyzed. The exclamation points danced before her eyes. Maybe Annie was playing up her excitement for her mom’s benefit. Even still, there was no denying that Annie had been faking it earlier, putting on an act about how distressed she was just to make Emma feel better, her poor, pathetic, unmarried and childless friend. Emma wanted to crumple up from sadness. In their decades of friendship, she’d never known her best friend to lie to her. Also she was furious. How childish for Annie to pull this kind of stunt—and if it hadn’t been for Emma, she never would’ve gone to the doctor in the first place! If she couldn’t even take care of herself, how was she going to care for an infant? Sure, she could throw some brilliant baby shower with the perfect appetizers and the best party games, but what about when it came to actually bearing responsibility for a human life? The diaper changing and the middle-of-the-night feedings? Knowing Annie, she’d probably just farm it all out to some high-end nanny—probably a couple of them—and of course she could, thanks to Eli’s bottomless bank account.
Emma was still stewing in a swamp of anger and self-pity when she heard the faint chime of a text on Nick’s phone—he must’ve forgotten it, or maybe he’d left it behind, hoping to preserve its battery life. Thinking back on the moment, Emma wasn’t clear about her state of mind or motivations: Had she been worried about the hurricane and the possibility of an emergency, of someone needing to get in touch? Or, reeling with hurt and mistrust over Annie’s e-mail, did she feel entitled to invade her boyfriend’s privacy, to check up on his loyalty, too? Or, had she simply not been thinking and acted on impulse? It was a hard thing to piece together and pinpoint in retrospect. In any case, in fewer than ten seconds Emma had swiped open Nick’s phone and read the text: I hope you & Emma are OK. I’m scared up here. Wish I had company ;) The sender tag read, Genevieve.
Emma stared in a stupor, blinking at the screen. After a while the message became gibberish, a pile-up of letters in haphazard order, plus that moronic emoji. She didn’t even know Nick had Gen’s number.
After one minute or ten, it occurred to Emma to scroll up. She was more curious than angry—there must’ve been an innocent explanation, since surely if her friend were coming on to her boyfriend via text message she wouldn’t have included Emma’s own name a mere sentence away from her flirtation. Then, in reverse order, Emma found herself uncovering what had apparently been an ongoing conversation. First, another stupid wink from Genevieve. This was a relief—although it revealed a side of her friend that Emma didn’t know existed. (Gen never would’ve communicated to her in smiley faces.) Emma figured Nick would find it ridiculous, too. But the previous message, this one from Nick, made Emma newly nervous: Of course. Lips sealed. Before that, from Gen, But totally a mistake. Pleeeease don’t tell Emma. No need to hurt her. Emma felt her lungs contract; she was having trouble getting breath through. From Nick, one of those emojis of a kissy pout. This, from the Nick she knew? Emma began panicking, scrolling up with a numb thumb. Gen: Although it was fun … Nick: Forgotten. (Even your honey lips.) This stabbed at Emma. She pressed together her own lips, bare and chapped, taking in the cheesiness she couldn’t imagine her boyfriend capable of. It seemed a mercy that there was only one more missive, this one from Gen: I’m so sorry about today, no idea what I was thinking. Let’s forget it ever happened.
Rain pounded like fists against the windows, and Emma felt suddenly unsafe. She yearned to flee, to dash out of the building and into the fresh-aired storm, to run free into the night, far from her loved ones’ deceit, and from her own fear.
But she didn’t. Instead, she stayed very still, moving not a muscle, feeling her feet on the ground to reassure herself that it was still there beneath her. It was the weak part of her winning out, the
part that insisted on staying dry and warm, in a familiar place, and close to the people she knew and loved best, however vile and deceptive she’d just discovered them to be. So although Emma felt as if the storm had already ripped through the walls and swept her up in a ferocious gust, that the wild wind was now inside of her, whipping through her veins and blowing apart everything she’d known mere minutes ago, there she sat on the edge of the bed, quiet and still and perfectly postured. Someone happening upon her at that moment might have believed her to be at peace.
Chapter 25
Emma was still sitting in a stupor, head roaring with wind and not much else, when she heard the front door creak open. “Yoo-hoo, Ems, where are you? We found an open deli and we got your favorite—Swedish Fish!”
“In the guest room,” she called out, trying to sound casual and despising herself for it. “Just a minute.”
“Hey.” Annie appeared in the doorway.
“Hey.” Emma was pathetic, she knew, feeling as though she had to act breezy—why?—because giving in to her true feelings, all the rage and turmoil, felt too dangerous and unwieldy, because expressing these things would make her look like a fool. “I’m just answering some e-mail.”
“Cool. It’s like the surface of the moon out there, totally deserted. It’s really creepy. So, are you up for another movie? The Day After Tomorrow’s on demand.”
“Nah, I think I’ll turn in for the night. I’m exhausted.”
“Okay. Love you, Ems.” Yeah, right.
“You too. Good night.” Emma felt her insides crinkle.
If We Lived Here Page 25