Happy and You Know It

by Laura Hankin

  “Or, worse, infect us with her bad mothering, with her bad life,” Amara said. “I feel so sad for her child—if she’d stayed married and stayed here in New York, that boy would have gone to fantastic schools, had all the opportunities, lived a charmed life. Instead, Joanna’s fighting for child support and desperately trying to prove she’s stable enough to hang on to custody of him. And he was already a difficult kid, even without all this. Oh, I can’t think about it anymore.” She shook her head. “What about you? Give me your gossip. Do you think we’re terrible rich ladies who should go back to work? Who do you hate?”

  “None of you! I’ve actually . . . I’ve really appreciated how warm you all have been to me, treating me like a real person and not just the hired help,” Claire said. “I wasn’t necessarily expecting it, but I really liked you all, almost immediately. Well, except there’s this one mom who totally scared the shit out of me for the first few weeks there.”

  “Ah, yes,” Amara said. “Sorry about that.”

  “Everything’s . . . okay, right?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah,” Amara said. Claire hesitated, like she wanted to ask something further—something about what Amara had been doing in Whitney’s office that day, something Amara did not want to talk about with anyone. So Amara put down her beer and scanned the room. “Hypothetical: one person, in this bar right now. You get to go home with him. Or her?”

  “Mmm, him. Tried the her once, and it was fine, but probably more of a ‘fuck you’ to my megachurch than anything else.”

  “You’re a megachurch baby? We are absolutely circling back to that,” Amara said as Claire squinted, scanning the bar and concentrating hard.

  “Oh, him,” Claire said, then pointed at a bearded man standing at the bar with a bespectacled friend. He happened to look over as she pointed. “Shit!” Claire said, and she and Amara collapsed into laughter. “I’m pretty smooth. What about you? Or am I not allowed to ask that, since you’re married?”

  “Oh, Daniel and I decided a long time ago to acknowledge that, even though we plan on spending the rest of our lives together, we’re still going to find other people sexy. Looking is fine. Touching is not. Unless it’s Idris Elba for me, or Charlize Theron for him. Those, we’re allowed.” She looked around. “Ah, I don’t know. Beardo’s friend is attractive enough, I suppose.” Claire nodded in agreement. “Now no more drinks for me, or I will be very unhappy at playgroup tomorrow. I’m going to close out.”

  Claire pulled some cash out of her wallet, but Amara waved it away and walked to the bar. The list of drinks was far longer than she’d expected, so she gave the bartender her Visa debit card, the one that went to her own private checking account. When she and Daniel had gotten married, they’d merged almost all of their finances. But she’d kept this account, because it was the smart thing to do. Always have a little money of your own, her parents had told her. You never know what life will hand you.

  Someone jostled her as she waited for the bartender to come back with her receipt. “Watch it, jackass!” she said, a pang rising up in her at how long it had been since she’d had the pleasure of yelling at a jerk at a bar. That was one of the strangest things about motherhood. You could love your baby to pieces, be thankful every day for his ten tiny toes and his piercing wail and his all-consuming existence, and yet still mourn the life you’d had before. And somehow it wasn’t cool to say that, to treat the birth of a baby as the death of something else. You had to be all joy, all gratitude. But she missed Sundays alone in her apartment, listening to music. She missed cherishing a cup of coffee, sipping it slowly all the way down to its dregs. She missed going out like this with a friend, letting the night take her where it wanted. All this had disappeared, and she’d never gotten the chance to properly grieve.

  The bartender reappeared, a frown on his face, holding her card in the air. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s not working. I think it might be maxed out?”

  Fuck. Fuck. It was the stupid TrueMommy. She had used this card sparingly in the past, when she felt a little embarrassed about, for example, how much she had spent on the leather jacket she was currently wearing. She always put a bit of her salary into the account too, so it was fine. But now that she was unemployed, more and more purchases made her a little embarrassed, and shelling out a thousand dollars a month for specialty vitamins hadn’t helped the matter at all. Lord, she was an idiot.

  Okay, she’d just have to stop taking the TrueMommy supplements while she figured something out. No big deal. Except so many days she barely felt like she was holding herself together as it was. And the vitamins, crazy as it sounded, did make her feel healthier, more energetic, more able to deal with Charlie’s moods than before, when she’d been constantly discombobulated. She’d been sucked in by those stupid wellness claims on the label. She’d bought in hook, line, and sinker, and now she couldn’t give them up.

  So she’d just tell Daniel that they were important to her and ask if they could pay for them out of their joint account. And then her lovely, kind, ever-so-slightly uptight and morally superior husband would hear the price tag and think she was insane. “Are you kidding me?” he’d say. “Mari, you’re getting taken for a ride!” With Daniel, everyone was getting taken for a ride—his parents when the guys who came to mow their lawn up-charged them, people who shopped at stores where yoga pants cost more than fifty dollars, and sometimes when his latent socialist streak came out, everyone in a capitalist society. She hated when he turned “You’re getting taken for a ride” on her, as if he always had all the answers.

  Fuck fuck, indeed. She handed the bartender the card linked to their joint account instead. “This one should work,” she said as another option for what to do about her current financial mess floated into her head. All that option would require was a complete and utter refutation of her principles. “And actually, can I get another shot of whiskey?”

  She tossed it back quickly, then tried to shake herself out of the funk. Her eyes lit on Claire moving through the bar toward her, gloriously unencumbered. Free. Apparently, Amara wasn’t the only one who found Claire glorious as she moved. The bearded man Claire had pointed to before approached them, friend in tow. “We’re taking bets,” Beardo said. “I think you were pointing at me because you think I’m a movie star in disguise.”

  “And I think it’s because you were trying to find the doofiest guy in the bar,” Glasses said.

  “You’re both wrong,” Claire said.

  “We’re witches, and we were looking for our next human sacrifice,” Amara said.

  “Don’t worry,” Claire said. “We decided to go with someone else instead.”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” said Glasses. “Stay for one more, on us.”

  Amara looked at Claire, who raised an eyebrow. “Oh, all right,” Amara said.

  The four of them flirted about nothing, the kind of conversation that seemed witty at the time, but wouldn’t be memorable in the morning. At some point, the person manning the playlist at the bar switched over to “Shout,” and they all began to dance, throwing their arms up in the air, and bending down to the ground. Next came Whitney Houston, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”

  Glasses took Amara’s hand and twirled her when the chorus started, catching her around the waist. “You’re really beautiful,” he yelled in her ear.

  In her twenties, she would’ve grabbed him and kissed him. They would’ve made out right there in the mass of other bodies, maybe snuck into the bathroom and done more.

  But now she disentangled herself. She was playing at living her old life, but she could only glide on its surface for so long. This man’s handsome young face was no match for Daniel’s, with his wrinkles and his exasperation, even though Amara was having all sorts of feelings about Daniel right now. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m going home to my husband.”

  Claire and the bearded man were pressed up against
each other, throwing their heads back and singing. Amara tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, you walking pheromone, I’m heading home. You should stay, though.”

  “What?” Claire said, pulling away from her dance partner. “No. I came with you. I’ll leave with you.”

  “Oh, come on. Go enjoy yourself. Make that hypothetical into a reality. I’m probably just going home to bed anyway. I’m old.”

  “Stop that. Just give me a second,” Claire said. Claire whispered something to the bearded man and bit down on his earlobe so quickly, Amara thought maybe she’d imagined it. Then she turned and grabbed her jacket. “Okay, let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  The sounds of the bar followed them out into the cold spring air. Down the block, they came upon a fresh wall of posters announcing Vagabond’s new tour, with the two lead singers staring soulfully into each other’s eyes.

  “Ugh,” Claire said. “It’s everywhere.”

  Amara knew exactly how Claire felt. Even now, every time she saw an ad for Staying Up Late with Nick Tannenbaum, she wanted to punch something, hard. A thought struck her, and she rummaged around in her purse, among the receipts and the mints and her organizer. She was pretty sure she had exactly what she needed somewhere in the muck of her bag.

  Her fingers closed around a Sharpie. Perfect.

  Chapter 14

  After this, Claire was going to stop showing up to playgroup hungover. At least this time, she wasn’t alone in her nasty headache. She caught Amara’s eye during “The Hokey Pokey,” and Amara winked, then winced.

  “Keep a lookout,” Amara had said last night, right before charging up to the bank of Vagabond posters and scribbling all over them with a kind of drunken, demented glee. She drew little devil horns on Marcus and a word bubble coming out of his mouth reading, “I’m an asshole, and my penis smells like mold.” Claire had watched first in shock, and then in stitches of laughter, as Amara had kept going, filling poster upon poster with blacked-out teeth and creative, filthy insults.

  Sure, it was completely immature. But it was also the first time that Claire had been able to look at something related to Vagabond and laugh about it.

  Watching this Upper East Side stay-at-home mom graffiti posters like she was a rebellious teenager had brought on a particular, confusing infatuation. Claire hadn’t wanted to say good night. She’d wished she could invite Amara back to her place for an old-fashioned sleepover like in middle school, to stay up all night with her laughing and talking about everything, and okay, sure, maybe practicing kissing. Despite her hangover, Claire had power-walked to playgroup, eager to be in the same room as Amara again.

  Perhaps dancing “The Hokey Pokey” had been a little ambitious, movement-wise. Now seemed like a good time to sit down and sing some peaceful, quiet songs. She’d bought some sparkly egg shakers on Gwen’s advice (“When my elder daughter, Rosie, was in playgroup, the kids loved egg shakers!”), and she pulled one out of her bag as she sat, then shook it above her guitar. She tried to catch Gwen’s eye to get a smile of approval, but Gwen was looking a little distracted today, her reserved-but-typically-constant smile just an occasional flicker.

  Charlie, that tiny monster, reached out and grabbed at her guitar strings, clamping onto them with his strong fists. “Whoa, bud,” she said. “Gentle.” She tried to pry his fingers off before he snapped a string, but he was surprisingly strong and persistent. She peeled one of his hands off a lower string only for him to brace himself on her arm, rise up to standing with a gurgle, and grab a higher string. Why wasn’t Amara doing anything to stop him? Claire looked toward her for some assistance, but Amara was staring at her baby, her eyes wide and shining.

  “Oh. Oh, my God,” Amara whispered.

  “He did it,” Whitney said in a similarly awed tone.

  And then Amara was up off the ground, lunging forward, swooping Charlie up into her arms and whirling around the room with him. “You little bastard,” she shouted, peppering him with kisses. “You did it! You brilliant, brilliant boy.” She looked at all the women and said, half laughing, half crying, “He can pull himself up!”

  A sense of rapture overtook the room. Meredith and Ellie reached for each other’s hands as Meredith wiped a tear from her eye. Even Vicki paused in her breastfeeding and gave a little hum of approval. It felt like church, church at its best moments, with the Baby Jesus swapped out for the Baby Charlie. They were worshipping something miraculous, something holy.

  “I’m going to see if we have any champagne,” Whitney said, standing up.

  Amara pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed a number as she bounced Charlie on her hip. Charlie looked around at all the women cooing at him that he was a strong, brave boy, and began to frown, overwhelmed. “Daniel, answer the phone! Ah, you’re working!” Amara said. “But he did it, Danny. He stood up! Oh, thank the Lord. I love you. Call me back!”

  A faint pop sounded from the direction of the kitchen, and moments later, Whitney reappeared, carrying a tray crowded with champagne flutes, which she passed out to all of them, Claire included.

  The women all held their glasses out toward one another. “To Charlie,” Whitney said. “Soon he’s going to be running all over the place, and Amara will be wishing she could go back to the days when he couldn’t stand.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Amara said as all the other women chorused, “To Charlie.” The clink of glass rang out, and Claire took a sip. This was the good stuff. She’d never had champagne this nice.

  The women all continued to sip and reminisce and see if they could coax Charlie to stand again by holding up those egg shakers. Nobody said anything about Claire leaving, so she just stayed, pulled into their warm, joyful conversation, sitting next to Amara and feeling the happiness and relief radiating from her.

  “This is such perfect timing with the retreat coming up,” Whitney said to Amara. “Now, when we go, you can just relax and not worry about a thing.”

  “That’s going to be so nice,” Amara said, then turned to Claire. “Whitney gave us a group wellness retreat for Christmas.”

  “Sycamore House!” Ellie cried. “I cannot freaking wait.”

  “She texts me pictures from their website like every hour,” Meredith said.

  “Were you ever able to get them to change the size of the package?” Gwen asked Whitney quietly. “You know, after Joanna . . .” Whitney shook her head, a brief grimace contorting her features. Amara nudged her leg against Claire’s, as if to say, See? The bogeyman!

  “We could always invite a husband along,” Meredith said.

  “No way,” Ellie said. “It’s their turn to take care of the babies and see how we feel all the time. Although I’m honestly a little worried that John might forget Mason at the playground.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Gwen said, and Ellie raised an eyebrow.

  “So now you’re going to tell us that handsome Christopher is amazing with kids too?” She waggled her eyebrow up and down in a faux-lascivious way. “Does he have any flaws? I mean, I guess if he wanted to come on the wellness retreat . . .”

  “Claire!” Whitney said, leaning toward her so intently that Claire startled, convinced that Whitney had realized she’d overstayed her playgroup welcome and was about to kick her out. “You should come!”

  “What?” Claire said.

  “We have this extra spot, and it would be so fun to have you take it,” Whitney said, warming to the idea. “It’s already all paid for. Consider it a belated Christmas present.”

  Claire wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. She did not belong on some fancy wellness retreat, not with these women. She turned to Amara for confirmation, but Amara looked back at her with excitement.

  “You should absolutely come,” Amara said.

  “I mean,” Claire said, “are you sure?”

  “You have to come, Clair
e,” Meredith said. “They’ve got amazing yoga classes, food, these gorgeous hiking trails!”

  “The only issue is that they don’t allow alcohol,” Ellie said. “But it’s only, like, one night.”

  “It would be far more fun than having our stuffy old husbands along,” Amara said.

  “Um, okay!” Claire said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Thanks!”

  Whitney cheered, and poured her more champagne.

  “One of us,” Ellie chanted. “We’ll have you taking TrueMommy and doing cleanses in no time.”

  A strangled noise escaped from Gwen, and they all looked over right as her face crumpled into sobs. The others exchanged glances, confused, and then Whitney knelt down beside her.

  “What is it, Gwen?” she asked, gingerly, as if Gwen were a wounded animal.

  “It’s nothing,” Gwen said, even as her shoulders shook.

  “Was it because I called our husbands stuffy and old?” Amara asked. “I didn’t mean your husband, specifically.”

  Gwen’s pale face had gone splotchy. She bit her lip, hesitating. “I think Christopher’s having an affair,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  Whitney’s blood got hot, and bile rose in her throat. She was so full of disgust at herself that there was no room for anything else inside her body—no heart, certainly, and no brain either.

  “Wait. What?” Meredith asked.

  “Oh, Gwen,” Amara said, sinking down on the other side of her and grabbing her hand. “Fuck him.”

  “Please, don’t say that word around the babies,” Gwen said. “But thank you.”

  “What . . . what makes you think that?” Whitney asked.

  Gwen sighed, a rattling sound that traveled the length of her body. “He smells different sometimes,” she said. “Too clean. Normally I can smell the office on him. The coffee he’s had during the day, all of that. But a few times over the past couple weeks, it’s as if he’s taken a shower before coming home.”