Happy and You Know It

by Laura Hankin

  After showering, the women went their separate ways for much of the afternoon, Ellie and Meredith going off to an energy-healing workshop, Gwen deciding to listen to her audiobook by the fireplace (“I don’t think I’ve finished a book in months,” she said to them apologetically. “I need this.”), Whitney, Amara, and Claire taking a guided walk along the property with one of the nature specialists.

  They all met back for a workshop entitled “Visualizing Your Intentions: Dreams into Action.” A workshop leader instructed them to gather in a circle. Claire sat down next to Amara and looked around the room. It was very beige.

  “You should’ve seen Meredith in that energy-healing workshop! She got fiery,” Ellie was saying to Whitney as the other attendees—a retired couple in matching athleisure, a middle-aged mother and her college-bound daughter—trickled in.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Meredith said, blushing. “He was just talking about how crystals were the best way to heal childhood trauma and I was like, ‘Helloooo. I trained for years in cognitive-behavioral therapy, so I beg to differ.’”

  “It was awesome,” Ellie said.

  The workshop leader clasped his hands and cleared his throat to begin the session. “It’s springtime,” he said, “the time of revitalization and new life, time for us to set aside self-doubt, self-sabotage, and our false obligations. We are responsible for what we manifest here on planet Earth.” Claire and Amara looked at each other, and Amara gave the subtlest of eye rolls. “Let’s go around the room and state our intentions, through saying, ‘This year I will . . .’ I’ll start. This year I will live my truth as a nurturer by adopting a dog.”

  “Ooh!” said Ellie. “This year, I will run a half marathon.”

  “That’s a really good one,” Meredith said. “This year I will look into going back to work again.” She smiled her unrestrained grin and looked around the circle for approval, but Ellie turned to her, knitting her brow.

  “What?” Ellie asked.

  “Very part-time,” Meredith said.

  “How long have you been thinking about this without telling me?” Ellie asked, hurt in her voice, and Meredith reddened.

  “I mean, not that long—”

  “Let’s remember that we are on a collective journey right now and save our personal conversations for later,” the workshop leader said as Ellie folded her arms across her chest. “Next member of the circle?”

  “Well,” Gwen said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “this year I will make more room for romance in my marriage.”

  Whitney blinked. “Hmm,” she said. “This year I will be the best mother I can be.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Gwen said. “Add that to mine too.”

  They all turned to Amara, the next one in the circle, who shifted in her seat. “I don’t know. I suppose my goal is to stay sane.”

  “Remember to phrase it as ‘This year I will . . . ,’” the workshop leader said.

  “This year I will stay sane,” Amara said, her tone exceedingly dry.

  On Claire’s turn, she cleared her throat and said the only thing she could think of that was both vague and true enough to share in this room full of her employers. “This year I will take better care of myself.” Whitney flashed her a supportive smile as the circle moved on to the retired couple, so it seemed like she’d done okay.

  The workshop leader had them close their eyes and visualize themselves achieving their goals, then handed them each a piece of paper on which they were supposed to write out concrete steps they were going to take. Only drink 4 nights a week, Claire wrote slowly, then scratched out the “4” and wrote “5” instead. She shot a look at Amara, who was chewing on her lower lip, her forehead furrowed as if she were troubled by something.

  By the time the workshop was over, Claire was starving. The moms and Claire headed toward the dining room in a flock, like migrating birds. Ellie linked her arm in Gwen’s and power-walked them down the hallway, chatting loudly with Gwen about her resolution to put the spark back into her marriage. Meredith hung back, fiddling with a strand of her hair.

  “You okay?” Claire asked her quietly.

  “Yeah, totally!” Meredith said, flashing an unconvincing smile.

  “Okay,” Claire said.

  Meredith took a breath as if to say something, then waved her hand. She walked a few steps before stopping and turning to Claire, agitated. “I didn’t mean to drop the work thing on her in front of everyone. I haven’t even thought about it that much! It’s just that it was at the top of my mind after that energy-healing workshop.”

  Claire nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense—”

  “And it’s not like I’d be deserting her. It would only be, like, ten hours a week!” They crossed the threshold into the dining room, where Ellie had already settled herself at the table between Whitney and Gwen. Meredith exhaled. “Whatever. I probably won’t do it anyway. But she doesn’t have to be a jerk about it.” She marched to an empty seat on Gwen’s other side and promptly began studying her menu.

  The young waiter filling water glasses at their table held out Claire’s seat for her. You don’t have to do that, she wanted to whisper to him. I serve these women, just like you! But that didn’t feel wholly true anymore. So she just thanked him and opened her menu, scanning the options, from fire-roasted eggplant to Chilean sea bass to lamb tagine with quinoa. Each item had a string of numbers listed underneath. She assumed they were prices at first glance, but upon a closer look, she saw that they were actually a list of the calories, the grams of fat, and the amount of sodium in each dish.

  Claire leaned over to Amara. “Wait. Where are the prices?”

  “Oh, food is included,” Amara said back.

  “Like, as much as we want?”

  Amara nodded. Fuck yes, this place was all-inclusive! And yet it wasn’t called “all-inclusive”—a term that conjured up sweaty tourists gorging themselves on guacamole at the Club Med buffet, not the delicate plate of marinated raw scallops the waiter laid before Claire as her starting course. Claire stared at the glistening little circles, sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and splashes of olive oil, a plate so beautifully arranged it looked like a work of art. Then she dug on in.

  “Gwen, no phones at the table!” Ellie said.

  “Sorry,” Gwen said, looking up. “I just wanted to check in on the kids.”

  “Good point,” Whitney said, and in a synchronized motion, the moms all pulled out their phones, reading the text messages they found there with various exasperated sighs (“I walked Greg through the grocery list before I left,” Meredith said, “and he still sent me five questions about olive oil.”), typing out I love yous with private smiles on their faces, showing one another pictures that husbands had sent over of their children doing adorable things.

  “Claire, when are you going to have babies?” Ellie asked. Five curious heads leaned forward and stared at Claire as if she were a zoo animal or an emissary from some nation of young, free-spirited aliens.

  Claire swallowed her scallop. “I think I’m more of a cool-aunt type.” Sure, being around their babies all the time had caused the occasional twinge of longing in her ovaries, but it had also hammered home how much fucking work it all was. She still didn’t trust herself.

  “Oh, you’ll change your mind,” Gwen said, “when you meet the right person.”

  “Yeah,” Ellie said. “I was really into my single life, back when I was in law school and I dated all these guys who were just disgustingly immature. Like, peeing into bottles they kept beside the couch because they didn’t want to get up to go to the bathroom. So I was, like, ‘Ugh, no way I can procreate. Men are all children themselves.’ But then I met John, and I just knew. You just have to find your John.” Claire caught a glimpse of Meredith rolling her eyes.

  “Stop being so smug,” Amara said. “Maybe Claire won’t change her mind. Not
every woman has to be a breeder to have an interesting life.”

  “Ooh, look,” Whitney said, quickly. “Our main courses are coming!”

  * * *

  —

  That night, back in the room, Claire lay on her bed, wearing the Sycamore House bathrobe she’d found in the closet, with a mug of peppermint tea she’d made from the room’s tea-and-coffee supply. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a more comfortable mattress,” she said to Whitney as Ellie’s and Meredith’s muffled, strained voices floated in from the room next door. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Of course!” Whitney said, finishing up an aggressive moisturizing routine. “My one complaint is that I wish they had a spa. I haven’t gotten a massage in forever. It’s amazing how carrying a baby around all the time can ruin your back.” She put down her lotion and leaned against the wall, trying to get at a stubborn knot in her shoulder, then jokingly shook her fist up at the heavens. “Damn you, Hope!”

  Claire laughed, and Whitney paused, then perched herself next to Claire on the bed, sitting cross-legged, as if they were just two girls at a sleepover, which, in a way, they were. “I do hope we didn’t make you feel uncomfortable about having kids at dinner.”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Claire said.

  “Okay, good. Because obviously it’s not the right choice for everyone. And even if you decide it is the right choice for you eventually, you’ve got so much time. You’re, what, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Claire said.

  Whitney reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume! Twenty- eight is still so young—”

  “Whitney,” Claire said, amused, as next door, Ellie’s and Meredith’s voices grew less agitated and melted into laughter, all seemingly right in their world again. “It’s fine.” Seeing Whitney flustered, so defenseless in her silk pajamas and night cream, put Claire at ease. “I just don’t know if I’m cut out to be a mom.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t exactly have the best example growing up.”

  “In what way?” Whitney asked. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t mind,” Claire said, putting her mug of tea down on the bedside table. “I grew up in this megachurch town, and my mom and I had a fine enough relationship when I was little. But then my cousin Thea, who was basically my mom’s second daughter—you e-mailed with her about the playgroup job on the Harvard list; she’s a kick-ass lawyer now—she came out. Or I guess she was forced out, ’cause her parents walked in on her with a girl.”

  “I imagine,” Whitney said, “that didn’t go over well in a megachurch town?”

  “Bingo,” Claire said, remembering the look on Thea’s face when she’d burst into Claire’s kitchen that day. Thea was emphatically not a crier (even when she’d sprained her wrist bike riding with Claire, she’d simply bitten down hard on her lip and told Claire to bike back home for help), but in the kitchen, she’d been blinking faster and swallowing harder than Claire had ever seen her do before.

  “My parents found out I like girls,” Thea had said, squaring her shoulders defiantly. “And before you say anything about it being wrong or bad, you should know that I think that’s bullshit.”

  “But . . . but I thought you had a crush on Justin Timberlake,” Claire had said, trying to wrap her head around a new truth.

  “Claire,” Thea had replied. “Come on.”

  In the warmth of their hotel room, light-years away from that Ohio evening, Claire looked at Whitney. “Her parents were going to kick her out of the house unless she went to one of those ‘pray the gay away’ camps.” Whitney shuddered, and Claire nodded. “Yeah, exactly. And I promised her that she could come live with us. I mean, she was over at our house all the time. My mom loved her, and I was sure my mom would be able to convince my dad. Thea thought my mom would say no because she didn’t want her to corrupt me.” Claire rolled her eyes. “To turn me gay or something. But Thea was wrong.” Whitney leaned forward, as innocent and trusting in a mother’s love as Claire had been back then. “My mom said no, because she didn’t want to look bad in the eyes of the church.”

  “Oh, no,” Whitney said, reaching out for Claire’s hand and holding it, her palm soft and warm.

  “Oh, yeah. Thank God, Thea is the most resourceful person I know and managed to couch-hop her way to Harvard. And obviously this was way shittier for her than it was for me. But it was this lightbulb moment when I realized how selfish my mom was, and that if I ever did something that didn’t toe the party line, she’d choose the church over me too. It was more important for her to keep up appearances there than to do right by the people she loved.” Claire shrugged. “So, I can’t help thinking that if I ever had a kid, I’d probably still care more about myself and screw them up like she screwed me up.”

  “Oh, Claire,” Whitney said, putting her arms around her and pulling her into a hug, with such kindness in her voice that Claire envied Future Hope for all the times she’d get to go to Whitney for comfort. Sure, Whitney could go overboard on the self-care, but Hope would never have to doubt her mom’s devotion. Claire’s disappointment in her own mother was something she thought she’d come to terms with long ago, but now, in Whitney’s arms, a lump rose in her throat.

  “When I look at you, I don’t see a screwup,” Whitney said, stroking Claire’s hair. Then Whitney pulled back, putting her hands on either side of Claire’s face, looking her right in the eye. “I think you have such a huge capacity for love.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said. She kind of wanted to cry, so she laughed instead. “Ugh, you’re so good at this mothering thing!”

  Whitney laughed too. “I try,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, they packed up their luggage with a new comfort between the two of them, exchanging jokes about how Whitney had drooled on her pillow, how Claire had slept curled into the tiniest ball. Then, when Whitney went to the bathroom, Claire grabbed all the fancy tea bags their hotel room had been stocked with and shoved them into her backpack. She had to go back to reality, but she could take a little bit of this weekend with her.

  Chapter 17

  Amara wheeled her suitcase into the Sycamore House lobby behind Gwen. When they’d gotten back to their room last night, Amara had steeled herself for an emotional heart-to-heart about Christopher, but Gwen had simply kept listening to her audiobook, teary-eyed, and then gone to bed at nine P.M. Well, it would be nice to get a good night of sleep for once, Amara had thought, switching off her own light. Then she’d lain awake for an hour, thinking about that stupid intentions workshop they’d done and how she’d lied. When that crunchy manifestation leader had made them close their eyes and visualize their goals, she hadn’t seen herself staying sane. She’d seen herself getting her financial house in order.

  Now, as the other women filed into the lobby, Vicki floating in from God knows where, Gwen pulled out her Sycamore House booklet. “I think we have time to squeeze in one more activity before we head back to the city,” she said.

  Claire and Whitney walked into the room, laughing. “Like a cute little tennis ball,” Whitney was saying. Amara stared at the two of them chumming it up and gritted her teeth. Oh, Lord, was she jealous? She made her way to Claire as Ellie and Gwen began to debate an abs workout versus an acupuncture workshop.

  “I need a break from all this healthy shit,” she whispered. “Take a walk with me?”

  “Yes, please,” Claire said, and they snuck out the side door, down some stone steps, and into the trees.

  “How was your Whitney time?” Amara asked.

  “It was really nice, actually,” Claire said.

  Amara put her hands on her hips. “Don’t let her steal you away from me!”

  “I’ll try, but it’s not easy, being so popular,” Claire said, fluffing her hair jokingly.

  They traversed
the property, passing the budding flowers that the nature specialist had told them all about the day before, the dew on the grass soaking their sneakers. Everything was so quiet here—no jackhammers, no honking taxis, no wailing babies. Sort of eerie, actually.

  “All right, so,” Amara said. Her voice came out oddly formal, and she cleared her throat. “Hypothetically speaking, do you think there’s ever a way to do a wife-bonus situation that isn’t horribly unfeminist and regressive?”

  Claire glanced at her sideways. “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, her words coming out slow and carefully chosen, “that’s a tough one. Is the hypothetical husband putting all the money he earns into a shared bank account that the hypothetical wife can access anytime?”

  “Cutting the hypothetical crap, Daniel puts the vast majority of what he earns into a shared bank account, and then a tiny percentage into his own private account, just like what I was doing when I was working. But then I stopped working without fully consulting him and ever since then the financial situation has been all kinds of messed up. And there are times when a lady wants to make a purchase without having to justify it in the joint account, you know?”

  “Mm,” Claire said. “Like all your porn.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to him about all this?” Claire asked, as they walked past a burbling creek. “He seems like a good, understanding guy, from all you’ve told me.”