by Emily Giffin
“Oh,” I said, thinking that an older doctor would be able to come up with a better answer than that one. Or even a younger doctor who was less attractive. Ugly girls had more time to study in medical school. I bet Jan finished at the bottom of her class. I bet she wouldn’t even be sitting here today but for her surgeon boyfriend. “I see.”
“So,” Jan said briskly. “I’d like to run through your medical history, ask you some questions.”
“Sure,” I said, catching Marcus examining Jan’s toned left thigh.
I glared at him as Jan launched into her Q&A. She asked me my age (I was glad to say twenty-nine and not thirty), all about my medical history, what medications I was taking, and a bunch of questions about my lifestyle: how often I drank, exercised, whether I smoked, all about my diet, etc. After she had my life story fully recorded, she looked up, a smile plastered on her heavily made-up face.
“So, how have you been feeling?” Jan asked. “Any symptoms? Nausea?”
“My breasts are a little sore,” I said.
Marcus looked embarrassed, so I added a gratuitous, “When he touches them.”
Jan nodded earnestly. Marcus cringed.
I kept going. “And they’re a little bigger, fuller…And the areolae are darker…. But other than that, I feel exactly the same. And my weight is the same,” I said proudly.
“Well, you’re only about five and a half weeks pregnant, so it would be a little early for weight gain,” Jan said. “Although you might notice an increase in your appetite if you haven’t already.”
“Nope,” I said proudly. “And I don’t plan on being one of those chowhound pregnant women. I’m sure you see plenty of those.”
Jan nodded again, making a note on my chart. Then she announced that we were ready for the physical examination.
“Should I go?” Marcus asked.
“You’re fine to stay,” Jan said.
“Told ya,” I said to him. And then to Jan, “He feels all awkward.”
“Well, he shouldn’t. It’s great that he’s so involved.”
“Yeah—we’re not married yet,” I said. “But he’s still very into it.”
Jan smiled and told me to change into the gown on the table, she’d be right back. As soon as she left, I asked Marcus if he thought our doctor was pretty.
“She’s all right,” he said. “Cute, I guess.”
“How old would you say she is?”
“Twenty-eight?” he asked.
“Am I prettier?”
“Yes, Darce. You’re prettier.”
“Will I still be prettier when I’m twenty pounds heavier?”
“Yes,” he said, but without much conviction.
Jan returned right as I was getting settled on the table. She took my blood pressure and then examined my heart, breasts, and lungs. “Now I’m going to examine your cervix.”
“Does that confirm the pregnancy?”
“Well, we’re going to give you a blood and urine test for that, but yes, this will give us further information about the approximate age of the pregnancy, as well as help us assess the size and shape of your pelvis.”
I nodded.
“Now, just relax,” Jan said.
I let my knees fall apart. “No problem,” I said, looking past her at Marcus, who was clearly pretending that he was somewhere else.
After the physical examination was complete, I dressed, went to the bathroom, and peed into a cup, got my blood drawn in a small lab, and returned to the exam room, where Jan told me she’d be in touch with the results of my blood work.
“In the meantime, Darcy, I’m going to give you a prescription for prenatal vitamins. They contain folic acid. It is extremely important for your baby’s spinal cord development. You’re going to want to take them on a full stomach.” She wrote out the prescription in uncharacteristically neat handwriting for a doctor (another bad sign—real doctors should be messy) and handed it to me. “So congratulations to both of you. We’ll see you in another four weeks for your first ultrasound.”
Marcus and I shook Jan’s hand and then headed off to Duane Reade to fill my prescription. For some reason, I remember that five-block walk well. It was a brilliant fall day—brisk but sunny, the sky bright blue and filled with cotton-candy clouds. I remember cinching my blue suede trench coat around my still tiny waist and skipping a few steps, feeling little-girl happy. As we waited at a crosswalk, Marcus took my hand without being prompted and smiled at me. That smile of his is frozen in my mind. It was warm and generous and sincere. It was the kind of smile a man gives you when he’s happy to be with you, happy to be marrying you, happy that you are pregnant with his child.
Eleven
My apartment’s contents hadn’t been too depleted when Dex moved out, but he had taken our kitchen table, two lamps, and a dresser. I was thrilled to see them all go, especially the rustic pine table that looked as if it belonged in an Amish home. I planned on going for a sleeker, more contemporary look that would complement the slick high-rise apartment with a view that Marcus and I would purchase together. Good riddance to Dexter’s traditional taste, his insistence on prewar buildings long on charm and short on closet space.
So about two weeks after what would have been my wedding day, I dragged Marcus on a furniture-shopping expedition. We took the subway uptown to Fifty-ninth and Lex and walked over to Crate and Barrel on Madison Avenue. As we pushed open the glass doors, I felt a surprising wave of sadness, remembering my last visit to the store, when Dex and I had registered for wedding gifts. I shared the memory with Marcus, who had developed a pat response to such recollections.
“Ahh. The good ol’ days,” he said, as he followed me to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, I admired an oblong cherry table with tapered legs. It was exactly what I had in mind for our table, but never imagined I would find it so easily. I swept my hand across the smooth surface. “This is perfect. Do you like it? What do you think? Picture it with upholstered chairs. Something in lime green, perhaps?”
Marcus shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good.” He was staring at something behind me. “Um, Darcy…Rachel and Dex are here,” he said in a tone that made me know it was not a joke.
“What?” I froze, and my heart stopped for several seconds. Then it began to race, beating faster than it does after a spinning class. “Where?” I whispered.
“At your nine o’clock. Over by that brown couch.”
I turned around slowly, cautiously. Sure enough, there to my left, less than thirty feet away, was the enemy, scrutinizing a chenille couch the color of baby poo. They both had the whole casual Saturday look going—jeans and tennis shoes. Dex had his standard Saturday gray Georgetown sweatshirt, and Rachel was wearing a navy blue BCBG sweater that I helped her pick out at Bloomingdale’s last year. The weekend before Dex had proposed, to be exact. A lifetime ago.
“Oh shit! How do I look?” I fumbled for the compact tucked into the side pocket of my Prada bag, and remembered that at the last minute I had removed it to add more blush and left it on Marcus’s coffee table. I had no mirror. Instead I had to rely on Marcus. “How’s my face?”
“You look fine,” Marcus said. His eyes darted back to Rachel and Dex.
“What do we do? Should we get out of here?” I said. My knees felt weak as I leaned on my prospective table. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Maybe we should go have a chat,” Marcus deadpanned. “It’d be the well-adjusted, mature thing to do.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t want to have a chat!”
Marcus shrugged. Dex had called Marcus a couple of days earlier to say “no hard feelings and congratulations on the baby.” They had both glossed over the details, neither of them uttering my name or Rachel’s. Marcus said the conversation was awkward, but had lasted fewer than three minutes. He said there was a tacit understanding that the friendship was over; even for guys, our situation was too much to get past.
“Okay, Darce. Let’s get outta here,” Marcus said. “I’m
not in the mood for a reunion either.” He pointed behind me at the staircase leading to the ground floor. We had an easy escape route. Clearly, we hadn’t been spotted yet. Dex and Rachel were cheerfully chatting away, completely oblivious to the furniture-shopping coincidence of the century.
I wanted to turn and walk down the stairs, but I couldn’t make myself go. It was like watching a gruesome scene in a scary movie. You don’t want to see the girl get decapitated, but somehow, you always part your fingers to sneak a peek. I hid behind a bookcase and pulled Marcus down next to me. We watched Rachel and Dex stand and wander over to another couch, slightly closer to us. This one was boxier than the first, and as far as I was concerned, the better choice. Dex studied it and then made a face. It was too modern for him. I translated what had just transpired for Marcus. “See, he doesn’t like clean lines. See?”
“Darcy, I don’t give a shit about the couch they buy.”
“They buy? You mean you think it’s a joint purchase?”
“They buy. He buys. She buys,” Marcus said, as if conjugating a verb in French class.
“Does she look good? Do they look happy?”
“Come on, Darce. Let’s just go,” he said.
I kept staring at them, my insides churning.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “Does she look prettier than usual? Thinner maybe?” We watched Rachel and Dex return to their boring, brown couch. She sat and reclined smugly. Then she looked up at Dex and said something. His back was to us, but I could see him nod, run his fingers along the back of the couch. Then he stooped to flip through a book of color swatches on a coffee table next to the couch.
“Do you think they’re moving in together?” I asked.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Did he say anything about that when you talked?”
He sighed. “I told you ten times every word of that conversation.”
“He’s just replacing our couch then, right? She’s just helping him, right?”
He sighed harder this time. “I don’t know, Darcy. Probably. Who cares?”
“Look. Don’t lose your patience with me, mister,” I said. “This is major.” I thrust a finger toward them and then studied Dex and Rachel more, taking in every little detail. Three weeks ago, they were the people that I knew the best. My best friend and my fiancé. Now they seemed like strangers or estranged loved ones whom I hadn’t heard from in years. As Rachel turned her head, I noticed that her hair was layered a bit at the bottom, a radical departure from her usual blunt ends.
“Do you like her hair like that?” I asked Marcus.
“Sure. It’s great,” he said dismissively.
I gave him a look that said, Wrong answer.
“Okay. It sucks. It’s hideous.”
“Come on. Look at it! Tell me your honest opinion!” I was feeling frantic, wishing that Claire were with me. She’d find something to criticize. Sneakers. Hair. Something.
Marcus thrust his hands in his pockets and glanced over at Rachel. “She looks the same to me.”
I shook my head. “No. They both look better than usual,” I said. “What is it? Is it just that some time has passed?”
Then, just as Dex sat down beside Rachel, it hit me. Dex was tanned. Even Rachel didn’t have her usual white glow. The realization slashed through my heart. They had gone to Hawaii together! I gasped. “Omigod. They’re tan. She went on my trip to Hawaii! She went on my honeymoon! Omigod. Omigod. I’m going to confront them!” You hear people say that rage can be blinding, and I learned at that moment that it was true. My vision became blurry as I took one step toward them.
Marcus grabbed my arm. “Darce—do not go over there. Let’s just leave. Now.”
“He told me he was going to eat those tickets! How dare she go on my honeymoon!” I was crying. A couple standing near our bookcase bunker looked at me, then over at Dex and Rachel.
“You told me he offered them to you,” Marcus said.
“That is totally beside the point! I wouldn’t have taken you to Hawaii!”
Marcus raised his eyebrows as if to consider this. “Yeah—that is kind of fucked up,” he conceded. “You have a point.”
“She went on my honeymoon! What kind of a psycho bitch goes on her friend’s honeymoon?” My voice was louder now.
“I’m leaving. Now.” He took the stairs, two at a time, and as I turned to follow him, I got one more sickening visual: Dex leaning down to kiss Rachel. On her lips. Tan, happy, smitten, kissing couch consumers.
My eyes filled with tears as I rushed down the stairs, past Marcus, past the barware, out the door to Madison Avenue.
“I know, honey,” Marcus said, when he caught up to me. For the first time, he seemed to have genuine empathy for my ordeal. “This has gotta be hard for you.”
His kindness made me sob harder. “I can’t believe she’d go to Hawaii,” I said, hyperventilating. “What kind of person does that? I hate her! I want her to die!”
“You don’t mean that,” Marcus said.
“Fine. Maybe not death. But I want her to get a bad case of cystic acne that Accutane won’t cure,” I said, thinking that incurable acne would actually be worse than death.
Marcus put his arm around me as we jaywalked across Sixtieth Street, narrowly escaping a delivery guy on a bike. “Just forget about them, Darce. What does it matter what they do?”
“It matters!” I sobbed, thinking that there was no way around it: Dex and Rachel were a couple. I couldn’t pretend otherwise. A wave of buyer’s remorse washed over me. For the first time, I started to wonder if I should have stayed with Dex—if only to keep this from happening with Rachel. When my affair with Marcus began, the grass seemed so much greener with him. But after watching my former fiancé furniture-shop, Dexter’s pastures seemed blissfully bucolic.
Marcus hailed a cab, and then helped me inside. I cried the whole way down Park Avenue, picturing Rachel and Dex in all of the scenes that I had studied from our honeymoon brochures: the two of them in a Jacuzzi sipping champagne…at a luau grinning over a roasted pig amid native dancers twirling flames…frolicking in turquoise water…having sex under a coconut tree.
I remembered saying to Dex that we were a better-looking couple than any of the featured honeymooners in those brochures. Dex had laughed and asked me how I got to be so modest.
“Can we go to Hawaii on our honeymoon?” I asked Marcus when we arrived back at his apartment.
“Whatever you want,” he said, sprawling on his bed. He motioned for me to join him.
“We should go somewhere even more exotic,” I said. “Dex picked Hawaii, and if you ask me, Hawaii is a trite choice.”
“Yeah,” he said, wearing his “I want sex” expression. “Everyone goes to Hawaii. Now c’mere.”
“Where will we go, then?” I asked Marcus as I reluctantly lay down next to him.
“Turkey. Greece. Bali. Fiji. Wherever you want.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling me on top of him.
“And can we get a new, big apartment?” I asked, looking around at his stark white walls, his overflowing closet, and his hulking stereo equipment belching wires all over the scratched parquet floors.
“Sure.”
I smiled a sad but hopeful smile.
“But in the meantime,” he said, “I know how to make you feel better.”
“Just one sec,” I said, as I picked up the cordless phone next to his bed.
Marcus sighed and gave me an exasperated look. “Who are you calling? Don’t you call them!”
“I’m not calling them. I’m over them,” I lied. “I’m calling Crate and Barrel. I want that table.”
Rachel may have stolen Dex and my trip to Hawaii, but I was sure as hell going to have a nicer table.
But even the table (which was in stock) and sex with Marcus (which was incredible) did nothing to repair my mood. I just couldn’t believe that Rachel and Dex were actually together—that their relationshi
p was real. Real enough to go shopping for couches together. Real enough to go to Hawaii.
And from that day forward, I was totally obsessed with Rachel and Dex. They were two people cut entirely from my life, yet from my perspective, the three of us had never been so inextricably and permanently bound together.
Twelve
Things only got worse when I turned thirty. I woke up on the morning of my birthday to my first dose of morning sickness. I was in bed with Marcus, on the side farthest from the bathroom, and barely made it over him to the toilet before I puked up the fajitas I had eaten for dinner the night before at Rosa Mexicano. I flushed, rinsed my mouth with Listerine, and brushed my teeth. Another wave overcame me and more red and yellow bits of pepper descended. I flushed, rinsed, brushed again. Then I collapsed onto the floor and moaned loudly, hoping that Marcus would wake up and come to my rescue. He didn’t.
I thought to myself that Dex would have heard me puking. He was a very light sleeper, but at the moment, I chalked it up to him having greater compassion. Maybe Marcus wasn’t nurturing enough for me. I moaned again, louder this time. When Marcus still didn’t stir, I picked myself up from the cold tile and returned to bed, whimpering, “Hold me.”
Marcus snored in response.
I nestled into the crevice between his arm and body and made some more needy sounds as I surveyed his clock. Seven thirty-three. The alarm was set for seven forty-five. I had twelve minutes before he officially wished me a happy birthday. I closed my eyes and wondered what Rachel and Dex were doing at that moment—and more important, what they were going to do about my birthday. This was their last chance, I had ranted to my mother and Marcus the night before. I wasn’t quite sure what I expected or wanted them to do—but a phone call or e-mail seemed a step in the right direction.
Surely Rachel and Dex had discussed the issue in recent days. My guess was that Dex voted to leave me alone, Rachel to call. “I’ve been celebrating her birthday for over twenty-five years,” she would say to Dex. “I just can’t blow this day off. I have to call her.” I could hear Dex saying back, “It’s for the best. I know it’s hard, but no good can come of it.” How long had they debated the point? Perhaps it had escalated into an argument, maybe even a permanent rift. Unfortunately, neither Dex nor Rachel was particularly stubborn or argumentative. Since they were both pleasers by nature, I was sure that they had a calm, reasoned conversation and came to a unanimous conclusion about how to approach the anniversary of my birth.