Ask Again Later Page 17

  I don’t remember much fighting. Except for one fight. It happened on Christmas Eve. I was probably four.

  My father had come home from work late. My mother called his office. She called his friends. She couldn’t track him down. She snapped at me. I remember thinking, at that young age, that my mother wasn’t worried—she was mad.

  Just before I went to bed, he arrived home. My mother met him at the apartment door. He greeted her with a huge smile and said he’d been out shopping all day—looking for the perfect gift, for the perfect wife.

  She opened a small box and pulled out a pearl and gold bracelet. She didn’t swoon, or melt. She looked at the bracelet, then looked at my father. She handed him the bracelet and said: “Take it back to whomever it belongs to.”

  He tried to convince her this bracelet was for her. She pointed to some dents in the gold.

  “I don’t know where you got this. I don’t know if I want to know where you got this. But this is not my bracelet!” she yelled.

  My mother was not a yeller. Not really, anyway. She could scream as good as the next mom. But mostly she bottled it up, and it came out at inappropriate times. This time, though, she couldn’t.

  I was afraid of Christmas after that. Worried what my father might drag home. Worried my mother wouldn’t save up her anger. That was the last Christmas we had as a family.

  The Heart

  UNTIL PERRY MENTIONED my father’s heart attack, I hadn’t given the specifics of it much thought. I was busy absorbing the shock that he was dead. It felt good at the funeral finally to have everyone’s pity and prayers. At last I was getting the sympathy I deserved when I was five years old and he left. I’ll admit, the condolences I received only left me wanting more.

  For months after he died I reread the sympathy cards. Printed proof of my loss, and that the world knew something had been taken from me.

  I have an urgent need to understand what actually happened inside of him, to him. Is the heart as unforgiving as a human? Does it turn on its master?

  It’s just a muscle the size of your fist, but it runs the whole show. It can pump a gallon and a half of blood per minute, while resting. The production requires the complete effort of the whole team. The atria, the aorta, the superior vena cava, the valves, the ventricles, the arteries—they’re all there, plugging away every day, all the time. No loafing. No time for hobbies. Or families. A thankless job. And it takes only one of them to go on strike to shut down the whole factory. Which one of them gave up, I wondered, on my dad? What part of me might quit first? Who would feel my loss the most?

  Christmas Tree Lights

  WE BUY THE TREE on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Madison. Some Boy Scouts are selling them. For five dollars they haul it home and into the apartment. It’s a very Norman Rockwell way to get a tree in New York City. Who delivers anything for five dollars?

  We have a large bread knife that we are using to shave the trunk of the tree so that it will fit into the stand. We take turns doing the sawing. Then hoist the tree into the stand, and slide it into the corner.

  “I know what you can get me for Christmas,” Sam says, breathing heavily.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You can get me someone to put the Christmas lights on the tree,” Sam says.

  “Chores? You want someone to do your chores for Christmas?” I ask. “And you want your gift before Christmas. That’s just not right.” Besides, I was envisioning something that could be wrapped up very nicely.

  “But it’s what I want,” Sam says. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Gotta be something,” Sam says.

  Well, sure. There’s always something. It’s just a question of whether you have the courage to say the something.

  “So, what do you want?” Sam asks.

  “A baby,” I say.

  “A baby?” Sam says. “I thought you were going to say jewelry.”

  Leather Coat Christmas

  I SPEND VERY LITTLE time thinking about the perfect gift for Sam. Instead, I believe the perfect gift will appear, and by doing so will obviously present itself as the right choice. By December 23, that does not happen. I experience some panic. Should I have planned something weeks ago while planning was still a possibility?

  I go to Bergdorf’s to find something overpriced to prove my love. What is the perfect gift for the person who makes me believe, really believe, that it’s possible to work through things? That leaving is the last resort, not the first? I want to give him something big and unnecessary to properly thank him. So I buy him, of all things, a leather coat.

  On Christmas Eve, he opens some champagne. Builds a fire. We’re opening some gifts. He’s more of a suede coat guy—but I don’t realize this until he’s about to open the leather coat. And then, too late, it seems so obviously wrong for him.

  He unwraps the box. Opens it and holds up the coat. He’s stumped.

  “A leather coat?” Sam says.

  “I’m taking it back,” I say.

  “I’ll be a tough guy in this, huh?” Sam says.

  “Put it back in the box,” I say.

  “No, I’m a tough guy. I’m getting a tattoo. I’m a tough guy,” Sam says, walking around in the leather coat. “Look at me, I’m tough, I wear black leather. That can mean only one thing….”

  “You’re a tough guy?” I say.

  What is the right gift to properly thank someone for not running away, for not letting me run away? A gift certificate didn’t seem right, either.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I really did want to get you something you’d like.” I start to cry.

  “You’re such a baby,” Sam says, hugging me.

  Mainly, I’m crying out of embarrassment. The coat has epaulets! What was I thinking?

  “What do you say we go work on your gift, now?” Sam says.

  The Test

  I INTENTIONALLY WAIT until after Christmas to get my mammogram. Specifically, I wait until after Christmas—but before December 31. I’ve only canceled three appointments.

  I wait until after Christmas because I really love Christmas. And if I have breast cancer, Christmas will be ruined. I reason that if I have breast cancer, I want to learn this after Christmas, but before New Year’s. Because if I learn this before New Year’s, my resolution will be to kick cancer’s ass. I will have a plan. A plan equals success. If I learn this after New Year’s, it will seem too late, somehow. I will sink into a deep depression and have to wait a year to start my plan of attack.

  Waiting for a ghost that may never come is exhausting, and has taken more of a toll on me than I realized.

  The doctor, recommended months ago by Mom’s oncologist, has a way of making me feel that things are fine. More than fine. A-OK. He seems to know how fearful I am in spite of the fact that I’ve claimed not to be scared, says I should come to his office after I’m dressed. He wants to talk to me.

  He’s older than my father was. That’s how I think of men now. Older than my father, or younger than my father.

  “So, what are your plans?” Dr. A-OK asks.

  “I’m going to get lunch, and then head back to work,” I say. “On the other hand, I could have a complete mental breakdown. Do you have the results?”

  “Yes. You’re one hundred percent fine. But I thought now seemed like a good time to talk about your concerns,” Dr. A-OK says.

  “Yes, well, my mother had cancer, my grandmother had cancer—guess who’s next?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s important to be aware of that history. It’s no guarantee you’ll get cancer, though. It means you’re at an increased risk. Both your mother and your grandmother are still living, right? And that’s good news. Even if they weren’t living, I’d just encourage you to test when you’re younger instead of waiting until you’re thirty-eight or forty—and you’ve done that,” he says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “Are you planning to have children?” Dr. A-OK asks.
/>   “Yes,” I say.

  “So let me lay out the options,” he says.

  “I have options?” I say. That had not occurred to me.

  “There usually are,” he says. “Depending on your level of anxiety about history repeating itself…you could continue with regular mammograms; have one just before you plan your pregnancy so that you won’t go more than a year between tests. Continue self-exams. When you’re finished having children, consider having the nodes removed,” he says.

  It all sounds so easy. So relaxing. He makes it sound like a nonemergency…I could have a facial, get my nodes removed, and then have a spa lunch.

  I ask him the question to which I want the answer, but never thought I’d ask.

  “When will I know that I’m safe?” I ask. “If I don’t have it at forty, am I safe, or fifty, or sixty? At what point do I relax?”

  “You relax now,” he says. “You don’t have cancer now. All you have is an increased risk.”

  The conversations that I’m the most afraid to have are the ones I most need to have. They almost always come as a relief. I’ve danced around these questions my entire life, avoiding relief.

  Nick & Toni’s

  WE’RE AT NICK & TONI’S sitting in the corner. We drove to East Hampton at the last minute to get here in time for dinner. It was as if we both knew we had to choose the perfect backdrop for the most important conversation we might ever have.

  Sam orders what he always orders here—the elaborate pasta dish with the egg on top of it. He doesn’t even look at the menu anymore. What’s the point when reliable perfection has been achieved?

  “I got a call from Susanna,” Sam says.

  “Oh,” I say. “How’s Chicago?”

  I liked Susanna. We spoke a few times after she left Sam. The conversations were short and I had the impression she was gauging my interest in her complaints about Sam. Was she anticipating that I’d defend him? The way lawyers do? Or the way couples do? I stopped returning her calls.

  “She sounds good. She said she’d heard about me and you,” Sam says.

  I was never really sure what to say to Sam about Susanna. They seemed really well suited until they split up. Then they seemed so obviously terribly matched I was surprised they ever got married.

  “Were you in love with her when she left?” I ask.

  “No,” Sam says.

  “Why did you stay married?” I ask.

  He sits for a while.

  “Honestly, it seemed easier than getting divorced,” Sam says.

  “Easier how?” I ask.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous,” Sam says. “It’s not rational. I didn’t want to be a divorced guy. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to decide who gets the blender or the china. We were pretty good at living separate lives together.”

  “I can remember driving home from the Hamptons that day, when your ankle was broken and Susanna had left,” I say. “It was such a relief to me that you were in the middle of a divorce because it seemed like I might have time to figure out how to handle a relationship. Buy some how-to books, or something. It was as if I wasn’t quite sure I knew how to love someone even though I’d told other men I loved them.”

  “I don’t think I need to hear about you telling other men you love them,” Sam says, smiling. “Telling me would be good enough.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  It was nearly a year of having relationships carried out in parallel with my father and Sam and my shrink. Eventually the training wheels have to come off and it’s always a surprise when you find you don’t need them.

  Deep-Fried Pizza

  I’D PLANNED AN elaborate dinner. I was going to replicate something I’d seen in the Times food section. Succulent duck with figs and port wine. The kind of recipe everyone longs to make but never does. I bought the ingredients. Who knew there was more than one kind of fig? But life crept in and I never quite got to it, and then I heard Sam’s key in the door.

  I had envisioned a scenario where he walks into the apartment, smells this great meal, and starts to believe I’m getting my act together. I’m not sure how I concocted this flawed equation.

  “I didn’t make dinner…. I told you I’d make a special dinner, and I didn’t make anything,” I say.

  He kisses me. “Let’s go out,” Sam says.

  I want to stay in. I’ve been working late interviewing receptionist candidates. Replacing one’s self is no small feat. I didn’t make it to the grocery store this week. I look in the freezer. Sam hangs up his coat.

  “Would you eat French bread pizza?” I say. I don’t mention how long it’s been in the freezer.

  He’s in the other room still wearing his suit. He claims a suit is what he is most comfortable in, and he does seem to spend a lot of time lingering in it.

  “Sure. What is deep-fried pizza?” Sam says.

  “Deep-fried pizza?” I repeat. “I said…I said French bread pizza…but you were willing to eat deep-fried pizza? You have the absolute best attitude of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s just food,” Sam says.

  “Deep-fried pizza is attempted murder,” I say. “You’re right, let’s go out.”

  We walk to Sushi of Gari. Over sake at the crowded counter, Sam starts cleaning out his pockets. He lines his stuff up on the counter. Change. A paper clip. A mint. A ring.

  “So, what do you say? Will you marry me?” Sam asks.

  Congratulations

  I WALK INTO Paul’s waiting room and someone is in my seat. Slight panic. My seat is taken! There are five seats—only one is taken. The one I usually sit in. Eventually, I do sit. I sit in another seat.

  I wait for Paul. He’ll either open his office door and nod me in, or he’ll enter through the main door, giving me pause to wonder where he’s been previously. Men’s room? House call? Lunch date? Slept in this morning? Once, I imagined an elaborate scenario that had him swimming laps first thing in the morning. This is the only way I could explain to myself why he would have wet hair at my ten A.M. appointment. Certainly, he didn’t sleep until nine and then shower and dash to his office. He was too ideal to be late. Or to be the sort to sleep until nine.

  Paul opens the door. He smiles. I stand up and walk into his office.

  I go back to my favorite diversions. Arranging books on his shelf, staring at the trees outside. But the diversions don’t work as well as they used to.

  “I’m getting married,” I say.

  “Congratulations,” Paul says.

  “Do you think you’ll ever get remarried?” I ask.

  “No,” Paul says.

  “I knew it!” I say. “I knew you were divorced when you stopped wearing your ring and that you just didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Once you get the bit in your mouth,” Paul says.

  “Okay, I’m deciding whether I should ignore the fact that you just called me a horse,” I say. “Or focus on how I think you’ve been lying about being married.”

  All sorts of things are occurring to me. For the most part I’m thinking that when I get married it may be time to leave my shrink. My father’s diligent understudy. Breaking up is never easy. And because it’s never easy he’s already slinging mud and comparing me to a horse!

  “I think you might miss me if I weren’t coming here anymore,” I say.

  “What made you think of that?” Paul asks.

  “I was thinking about what being married might mean,” I say. “It would probably mean leaving therapy at some point, don’t you think?”

  “Would it?” Paul says.

  “Yes,” I say. In Central Park there is a kite stuck high up in a tree. The kite looks brand new.

  “I’d miss you,” I say.

  “What would you miss?” Paul asks.

  “I don’t know. The time,” I say.

  We sit in silence for a while.

  “Yeah, it’s time,” Paul says.

  I stand up. I’m walking toward the door.

  �
��Again, congratulations, Emily,” Paul says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We sit in silence for the next thirty minutes.

  Bride of Phil

  WE ARE HAVING BRUNCH. Me, Mom, and Phil. They are a pair now. I’m the reason we have to wait for a table for four because we no longer fit at a deuce. There’s no seeing Mom without seeing Phil. My popularity is on the decline. No more last-minute urgent phone calls about a spa day I have to attend, or a breakfast I need to be ready for in thirty minutes.

  “We have some news,” Mom says.

  I get a pit in my stomach. One of them must have cancer again. Which one? Let it be Phil. Let it be Phil. I know, I know, that’s just terrible. Please, for the love of God, let it be Phil.

  “We’re getting married,” Phil says. “It’s going to be an extravaganza.”

  “In three to six months,” my mom says.

  Phil was originally given three to six months to live. It’s their magically morbid joke.

  “Why wait the traditional one year?” Phil asks.

  “I can’t think of a single reason,” I say “It will be a momentous occasion,” Phil says.

  “And I know exactly what I want my dress to look like,” Mom says. “I want it to be just like Tara’s, but instead of white, I’d like it to be lilac. And I’ll use better-quality fabrics, of course.”

  “Who’s Tara?” I ask.

  “Who’s Tara?” Mom says, her eyes rolling. “Tara from The Passionate & the Youthful. You remember her wedding! We watched it over and over again.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. It was a three-ring circus of a wedding. We recorded it, and even when we viewed it a second and third time, we cried at their I dos. We were so grateful for any outlet for our emotions at that time. “But you’re skipping the headgear, right?”

  “Undecided,” Mom says.

  I want to scream at the top of my lungs: What the hell do you see in each other?