Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  I decide pictures really are worth a thousand words, so I pull up her photo page first. In the previous-future, she had a million shots of holidays and playdates and birthdays and other toddler-related firsts. I was always very careful not to “like” it when she’d post a photo with a caption such as “Bobby Junior’s first bite of sweet potatoes!” showing a kid smeared with orange goo, because A) gross, and B) I saw no reason to encourage her to share more of the same. You’ve seen one toddler in the bath, you’ve seen ’em all. Plus, if she puts up kid pics, someone else will think it’s fine to put up kid pics; then everyone puts up kid pics and it’s suddenly anarchy. There should be a whole Facebook for people who don’t have children, much like there should be child-free restaurants. Ooh, or airlines! Seriously, how much would nonbreeders pay to ensure a screaming-baby-free flight? A lot, I’d imagine. I could publicize the shit out of any place that barred children and—

  Ahem.

  Anyway.

  I still see a bunch of kid pictures on here, but it looks like they all belong to her brother, which is confirmed by her Number One Aunt T-shirt she’s sporting in this shot from the Lincoln Park Zoo. Okay, so she has no children herself, but at least she’s an aunt, right? That’s kind of the same, except your house stays clean and you don’t get hideous stretch marks.

  So . . . her future is definitely different now, but am I to blame? It’s not as though I forced her to work for me, like, held her at gunpoint or anything. She made the choice that ultimately took her out of the situation where she’d meet Bobby. That’s not my fault . . . right?

  I dig deeper into her profile. I click over to her wall. Looks like she’s “in a relationship” with someone named Emcee Peere of Chicago. Sounds like a swarthy club promoter, but hopefully he makes her happy. Seriously? Whew! For a second I worried she was alone with a bunch of cats in her altered life. Let’s have a look-see at Mr. Peere. I click and land on the MCPR Chicago page.

  Oh. Pun on being married to her job. That’s not cute.

  I can’t believe she’s not married, or at least dating someone. She’s a total catch! Now I’m really distressed—am I such a hard-ass that she feels like she’s married to her job? Or is she married to her job because there’s not a lot of stuff, like a husband and family, filling out the rest of her life? Beads of sweat break out over my lip as I begin to panic, so I try to talk myself down.

  Nicole is upbeat and positive and happy, and she’s in control of her own destiny, not me.

  I’m sure her life is fulfilling and I’m just being silly.

  While I peruse her page a new post appears in her timeline, and it’s a shot of a black-and-white cat with a little spot over his lip that makes him look like Hitler. The caption reads, “Mr. Muffin—the number one man in my life!”

  Well, fuck me sideways.

  I tab through page after page of Nicole’s life and I find more of the same. There’s Nicole at an office party; there she is at a client event; there she is in another city on MCPR business. How’s she supposed to meet anyone when she spends all of her time in an office and an industry that’s comprised almost entirely of chicks and gay guys? More important, am I to blame?

  What do I do here?

  What’s my obligation?

  Am I supposed to fix this?

  Do I try to help her meet someone?

  Deva, these aren’t ripples in time; they’re tidal waves.

  * * *

  “All set!” It’s noon and I’m waiting by the elevator as planned. Nicole sashays up to me in her swingy jacket and grabs me for a quick hug. “I’m so excited! We never have the chance to just hang out and talk! What are you in the mood for, sushi or salad?”

  I realize that future me is all trim and toned and healthy, but I haven’t quite gotten over my recent discovery of how comfort food reduces stress, and trust me, I’m stressed right now. Trying to figure out if I screwed up my best friend’s life is definitely ratcheting up my anxiety level, so the last thing I want is lettuce or raw fish. I’m going to broach some heavy subjects at lunch, so I need to be girded by as many fat grams and calories as possible.

  “What about Prosecco?” I suggest, thinking about the wonderful Italian place in River North. “I’m buying.”

  Come on. It’s the least I can do. Hey, bestie, sorry I altered your fate—have some bruschetta on me!

  “Sounds fabulous. We haven’t had carbs in ages. Want to cab it or shall I drive?” Nicole asks.

  I’m probably going to need a cocktail, particularly if I determine that I laid ruin to her life. “Let’s take a taxi,” I suggest.

  Upon arrival, we both order glasses of wine and peruse the menu. Such is my state that I pretty much want to order one of everything. I want steamed mussels and clams tossed in saffron cream sauce with chunks of pane italiano to sop up the drippings. I want burrata, the mozzarella that’s so fresh that it’s semisolid, and I want to pair it with salty prosciutto. Oh, or carpaccio so rare that it’s still a little blue. I’m in the mood for pasta with truffle oil and asparagus, and I want to wash it all down with something bubbly, because maybe food will tamp down my guilt.

  What I don’t want is to have this conversation, but after Nicole saved my (chewy, smoky) bacon from the fire today, I feel like I have no other choice.

  We order our first course—avocado and poached lobster salad—and I broach the subject. “Some meeting today, right? How much did you hate the kid?”

  “Charlotte? She was adorable!” Nicole protests.

  “Were we in the same room?” Charlotte, or rather ChaCha, was many things . . . but adorable? No. “Did you not witness her breaking wind and then fanning said fart toward Seraphina to determine if she could ‘smell the Chipotle in it’? Not adorable.”

  For the record, I was also not charmed when she burped the alphabet (at Tawny’s behest), blew her nose on her manager’s napkin before tossing it back on the table, or called me “what’s-her-tits.”

  “Aw, Liss, she’s sweet underneath it all, just a little misguided. Right now the whole world is bending over backward for her and that has an impact, especially at her age. I’m sure fame took her by surprise, and as she gets used to it, she’ll settle down.”

  So Nicole’s Team Charlotte even without knowing how linked they were in the previous iteration of our lives? Super.

  “Besides,” she continues, “I think Tawny’s overzealous, not evil. I saw women like her all the time when I was teaching. They didn’t achieve what they wanted in their own lives, so they placed the burden of success on their children. There’s a lot of stage moms out there, and not just for those trying to get their kids into the entertainment business. Sometimes they’re just as bad about sports and academics. Like, remember that Texas cheerleading mom who hired a hit man to kill another cheerleader’s mom so her daughter’s rival would drop out of the competition?”

  I nod. Back in the day, Mamma was all, “A li’l extreme, but I lahk her style.”

  Nicole nibbled a piece of lobster before blotting her lips with a linen napkin. “Certainly Tawny’s not that intense, but the thought process is the same, all about advancing her kid. Time after time, I’ve seen moms so intent on making their children well-rounded that they’d drag the poor things to jujitsu followed by Mandarin lessons in between soccer, gymnastics, cello, and Irish dancing and then not understand why Junior didn’t have time to get his math assignment done. I’d tell them, ‘Give him a break; he’s seven!’”

  I pick at a piece of bread, smearing it with an olive tapenade. “Would the moms listen to you?”

  “Once in a while yes, most often no. Charlotte’s stepmom’s no different from most. A bit more colorful, perhaps, but ultimately I feel like she’s trying to balance her own need for approval with what makes Charlotte happy.”

  “You’re a frigging saint.”

  Nicole simply shrugs in return.

  “How would you do it?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to look her in the eye for this, so I pay clos
e attention to the patterns I’m tracing on the tablecloth.

  Nicole sets down her fork and leans forward. “Do what, exactly?”

  “Go about the whole being-a-parent thing. I mean, you never went that route, so maybe it’s not important to you?”

  Please say it’s not, please say it’s not, please say it’s not.

  “Funny you should mention that.” Except, judging from Nicole’s expression, it’s far from funny. “I had a doctor’s appointment last week. I’d missed my last couple of periods and I was hoping for good news.”

  “Wait, I thought you weren’t seeing anyone seriously right now.” So now Facebook is a lie, too? Great.

  “I’m not. I . . . tried artificial insemination. I’ve been trying to get pregnant ever since my thirty-fifth birthday.”

  Did I know this? I’m not sure if I was supposed to know this, but I keep my yap shut as she continues. “Thirty-five. That’s supposed to be the age you reach when you’re more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack than to get married and have a family. I didn’t mention it because if it worked, then it would be obvious soon enough. And if it didn’t, then no one would pity me. I missed a couple of periods and I wasn’t feeling well, so I made an appointment with my ob-gyn.”

  I brace myself in my seat, because I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.

  Tears begin to brim in Nicole’s eyes. “But I’m not having a baby. No, I’m not. Nor will I. According to Dr. Bates, I’ve hit menopause and I’ve stopped producing eggs.”

  “How can that be? You’re still way young! People have babies well into their forties! I know, because I bump into them in the Lincoln Park Whole Foods all the time.” And how bossy are they, all gray haired and self-important, stocking up on organic vegetables. Hey! Look at me! I don’t buy shit with preservatives! Like that’ll make a difference when their baby’s in college and they’re wearing white shoes and eating dinner at three thirty p.m. But I stop myself from saying all this, because I fear it may not be helpful. Instead, I say, “What’s going on?”

  “I guess I just won the genetic lottery,” she replies with an uncharacteristically bitter laugh. “Dr. Bates says this can happen in women with a genetic predisposition, especially if they’re particularly athletic and have a low body weight. So, I’ve been hyperconscious about my health my whole life. I run five miles every day, and I’ve minded each bite I’ve taken since I was fifteen, and because of that, I can’t have a baby. It’s just . . . so unfair. I thought I had time. I thought I did everything right and yet I feel like I’m destined to spend my life surrounded by cats.” Nicole dabs at her eyes with her napkin and exhales deeply. “But what am I going to do? It’s not like I can change the past.”

  I fold my napkin and place it on the table, suddenly bereft of appetite. “Yeah,” I echo, “no one can change the past.”

  Nicole, what have I done?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rhymes with “Bedazzled”

  I change the subject away from what might have been, and Nicole’s mood lifts. She seems okay with the concept of adopting from somewhere third-worldy, so maybe saving some poor kid from a warlord or tainted water or banana spider bite or something is really her destiny?

  And maybe she’s actually superhappy and feels bummed only when she dwells on the negative? Stands to reason that setting myself up in the best life ever would really have been a good thing for Nicole, yes? (That would certainly make me feel better.)

  Once I grab a cab to go home, I text Deva.

  Me: need to talk! can u pick up?

  Deva: y and n. can text, not talk. on retreat in Maui—have taken bowel of silence

  Please let that be another autocorrect.

  Me: i may have wrecked Nicole’s life

  Deva: again?

  Me: no! 1st time! never wrecked her life before

  Me: possibly made it less pleasant

  Me: not wrecked

  Deva: oak tag—what harpooned?

  Me: she didn’t meet her husband because I changed past. waited 2 long to have kids & now can’t

  Me: can I travel back to 2004 & not hire her so she gets the guy & the kids & van?

  Deva: so sorry, sissy rodent. ink potion doesn’t work that way. only full resets possible. porthole very pacific—all or netting

  Me: shit. when will u be back?

  Deva: whenever shamwow says we’re dinner—maybe 2 tweaks

  Me: PLEASE call when you’re here

  Deva: a-hole

  Me: ?

  Deva: no! aloha!

  Me: aloha til then

  Even though Deva says there’s nothing I can do to specifically fix this situation, I’m not someone who takes no for an answer. Also, her texts are kind of a Mad Lib anyway, so who knows what she really meant? Perhaps there’s a way to make everything right without altering my superb present and we simply haven’t stumbled across it yet.

  At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

  At some point over our second bottle of pinot grigio, I had broached the subject of a class reunion. I assumed we hadn’t had one yet and turns out I was right. I thought doing so would be an excellent idea, partially because Nicole needs a project to distract herself, and partially because I want to verify that there aren’t any more surprises with my graduating class.

  (Not because I want to brag.)

  (Much.)

  (But seriously! My house is incredible! I know David Coverdale!)

  The more we talked (read: drank), the more excited we both were at the idea. Nicole called in a favor from a friend at the Drake and we found out about a last-minute cancellation on the Friday after Thanksgiving. As former class officers, we have the authority to unilaterally decide if there’s to be a reunion, so now it’s official. The reunion is on like Donkey Kong. Nicole went home to build a Facebook event page.

  Or possibly pass out.

  She wasn’t quite sure.

  When I arrive home from our long, liquid lunch, I’m struck again at the grandeur of my house as the cab pulls up to my address.

  “Nice place, lady,” the driver says.

  “I know, right?” I hand him a ten and tell him to keep the change.

  I stroll slowly to the front door, taking it all in. Every time I look around, I feel such a rush of pride. I can’t believe I ended up here; it’s beyond my wildest dreams. I let myself in and throw my Birkin (yep, still exciting! I have a Birkin, bitches!) on the counter and kick off my shoes. I go to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and, finding none, I opt for wine.

  “Duke? Duke! Where are you-ou-ou?” This place has a wicked echo because it’s so huge and open. I should probably buy more stuff to fill up the house. Not for me, of course. For sound absorption.

  Duke’s not on the first floor, so I assume he’s in his office. I climb the stairs and pad down the hallway. I don’t turn on the lights because there are a whole lot of complicated switches I’ve yet to figure out, and also, I might be a little drunk.

  I spy Duke alone in his office. He’s not on his computer or resting or listening to music or anything. He’s just sitting there, zoning out in front of his wall of old trophies and football pictures. Duke played college ball at Northern, but a torn rotator cuff ended any hopes he might have had at making a career of it after his junior year. I guess he was pretty broken up about the injury, but let’s be realistic—how many players have actually gone pro after graduating from Northern? I can tell you, because I looked it up—from the years 1992 to 2000, the NFL drafted exactly four guys from Northern. It’s not like he was coming out of a football powerhouse like USC or Ohio State. Even without the bum cuff, it’s not like he was going to be fitted for his Super Bowl ring anytime soon.

  You’d think he’d have been pleased when I informed him of those statistics—yay, me, for having shared interests!—but instead of discussing he decided to run on the treadmill for a really long time.

  Totally doesn’t matter, because he’s really the big winner in this
whole altered-destiny business. I mean, he doesn’t even have to work anymore. Who wouldn’t love that? Turns out I had him quit a few years ago when the demands of my business became too much. Now he lives a life of luxury and leisure, traveling with me and managing our household.

  “What’s up?” I ask, startling him. He jumps, which makes me jump and slosh a little of my wine. He clicks on the light at his desk and the room’s washed in a golden glow.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” He seems somber. What’s that about?

  I settle into the love seat in the corner of his office and lick the wine off the side of my glass. “Nice day? Mine was kind of all over the place. We have a new client—total train wreck of a tween pop star and her music is shit. Although given your taste you’d probably love her.”

  Duke’s passion for cheesy tunes has not abated since high school. A couple of days ago, I’m pretty sure I busted him watching a Jonas Brothers show, and I found a Hanson CD in his collection. MmmBarf. From what I’ve gleaned, everyone at the office still talks about how Duke lost his mind at the Backstreet Boys/NKOTB reunion show, which we attended only because MCPR worked with their promoter. Total fan boy. In the pictures, he was there in an original T-shirt from their Step by Step tour. Duke even knew—and thus performed—all the choreography for “Hangin’ Tough.” So glad I have no direct memory of that, because it gives me secondhand shame.