I'm So Happy for You

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  Even so, she felt hurt. She couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t deny it, either. She’d wanted to be the one to tell Adam the news. She didn’t necessarily like the idea of her husband and Daphne having an independent friendship, either. It made her feel excluded. Which, in turn, made her want to exclude Adam. “Listen, I’ve got another call,” she told him. “Can I call you back later?”

  “You sure you’re okay?” asked Adam, sounding unconvinced. “You’re not mad I talked to Daphne, are you?”

  “Why would I be mad?” said Wendy.

  “I mean, she said you were the one who gave her my cell number.”

  “It’s fine. Really. But I have to go.”

  • • •

  Wendy woke up the next morning feeling even more disoriented than she had the day before. In the subway to the city, she searched her brain for someone who would remind her who and where she was.

  She landed on Sara Denato, reasoning that Sara, on account of her perpetual engagement, had the most incentive to find Daphne’s news as upsetting as Wendy did. That said, spreading happy gossip wasn’t like spreading gossip-gossip, Wendy told herself. Arriving at the office—and her conscience clear—she typed the following email:

  In case you haven’t already heard…

  DAPHNE IS GETTING MARRIED!!!! (Yes, to Federal Prosecutor Man.) Also, did I mention they met FORTY-ONE DAYS AGO?? (Insane, I know.) XXW

  Sara immediately wrote back:

  Okay, I officially want to kill myself. It took me and Dolph forty-one days just to decide on a regular night for couples counseling—Mondays. Wow are we going to have a lot to talk about at our session tonight.…

  Wendy felt better. Meanwhile, Sara must have emailed the news to Paige. That or Paige had already heard, maybe even before Wendy had. When Daphne and Wendy had been on the phone the night before, Wendy had assumed that she was the first among their mutual friends to learn the Big News. After the following email arrived, however, Wendy couldn’t be sure:

  Wendy,

  My concerns about the celerity of the engagement notwithstanding—never mind my feelings on marriage generally!—should you and I (as Daphne’s closest friends) be throwing her an engagement party? Just a thought. Also, I should admit that my thoughts ran to a joint engagement party / fund-raiser for Doctors Without Borders, the latter being, to my understanding, Daphne’s favorite cause. Please let me know your feelings on such.

  Paige

  Wendy was in no particular hurry to renew email contact with Paige. But she was equally wary of getting sucked into cohosting an engagement party with her. There was little doubt in Wendy’s mind that such an event would quickly turn into an opportunity for Paige to guilt her into spending hundreds of dollars she didn’t have, not only on medical help for victims of natural disasters, but on needlessly fancy party provisions, from monogrammed cocktail napkins to artisan-ally produced aged sheep’s milk cheese from a monastery in the French Pyrénées. The list of demands would surely begin small and expand from there. At the same time, Wendy was concerned about appearing unsupportive of Daphne (and as cheap as she actually was).

  Just then, a solution sprang into Wendy’s head. She called back Daphne. “I meant to ask you on the phone before,” Wendy began without introduction. “Do you want to go out for a celebratory drink tonight after work?” No doubt Daphne would be busy, just as she always was, Wendy thought. But at least now she could say she’d asked. (At least now she could tell Paige that she and Daphne were already busy making plans to celebrate.)

  To Wendy’s surprise, however, Daphne was both free and willing: “That’s so beyond sweet of you!” she declared. “Let’s see. I have therapy at five thirty. Then Snugs and I are having dinner at Babbo, but our reservation isn’t until eight forty-five. Do you want to meet at seven fifteen, or something?”

  The two women made plans to meet at a café/bar on Sixth Avenue. Wendy was then able to email Paige back:

  Hi Paige. An interesting suggestion. I promise to give it some thought. In the meantime, am taking D out tonight to celebrate. Will be in touch, Wendy

  That evening, as Wendy made her way up the avenue, she realized she was actually looking forward to seeing Daphne. It had been a long day at the office, and—it occurred suddenly to Wendy—she and Daphne hadn’t gotten together on their own in weeks and weeks, and really not since Daphne had started dating Jonathan. Pulling open the door to the café, Wendy vowed to herself that she wouldn’t mention the fact that Daphne and Adam were in regular touch. What was the point? It would only make her look insecure. She’d wait for Daphne to bring the matter up first, or she wouldn’t discuss it at all.

  To Wendy’s surprise, Daphne was already there, seated at the bar, her BlackBerry pressed to her ear. As Wendy approached, Daphne raised her free palm in a gesture that seemed simultaneously designed to acknowledge Wendy’s presence and beg her patience. Yet Daphne took her time getting off the phone. “Wait, you’re joking!” she went on. And “Oh, my god.… Well, did you tell him to mind his own fucking business?… I’m sorry, that’s just ridiculous.… I’m sure.… But listen, Wendy’s here. I should go.… Yeah, that’s true.… No… I didn’t say that!… Well, whatever you want to do… I mean, you could.… No, I totally agree.… Okay, love you.” (Presumably, it was Jonathan.) Finally, Daphne set her BlackBerry down on the bar and looked up at Wendy, now seated on the stool next to her, pretending to examine a cuticle. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” Daphne began.

  Maybe it was strange to feel intimidated by someone you’d known for fifteen-plus years. Then again, Wendy had never seen Daphne look as “done” as she looked that night. She was wearing knee-high black suede boots and a close-fitting, black and white, botanical-print dress cinched at the waist with a black patent leather belt. She was also sporting a four-carat emerald-cut yellow diamond embellished with bilateral diamond baguettes—a ring so massive and effulgent that everything around it seemed dull, including Wendy. She couldn’t think what to say except—as Daphne thrust her knuckle under Wendy’s nose—“Wow. It’s beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Daphne. “I still can’t believe Jonathan picked it out himself.”

  Wendy glanced from Daphne’s cynosure to the plain hammered silver band she wore on her own fourth finger. (Adam’s freshman-year roommate ran a silversmith shop in Putney, Vermont.) When she and Adam had gotten engaged, they’d been in agreement that diamond mining was a nasty, exploitative business, the products of which it was immoral to buy or wear. Even antique diamonds, their crimes now relegated to history, had seemed beyond redemption. Now Wendy couldn’t help but feel that she’d missed out on some elemental experience. “So, should we order drinks?” she said.

  “Let’s,” said Daphne.…

  “So, what have you been up to?” Daphne asked after they’d requested two mimosas. “I haven’t seen you in, like, a thousand years!”

  “You know, working, wasting time, still not getting pregnant while Adam’s away all the time,” Wendy told her.

  “Sweetie!!!!!” Daphne tilted her head the way she always did.

  Somehow, this time, Wendy felt repelled by Daphne’s sympathy. “But let’s not talk about me,” she said quickly. “I want to hear more about the new Mrs. Sonnenberg!”

  Daphne smiled sheepishly. “To be honest, I never thought I was the type to change my last name. But Daphne Sonnenberg does sound kind of cool. Doesn’t it?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Very classy,” said Wendy, who had never considered taking her husband’s name. “But, then, so is Daphne Uberoff.”

  “I guess I was also thinking that if we have kids, it’s easier for everyone if the parents have the same name, you know?”

  “That’s true,” said Wendy, shifting in her seat.

  Their drinks arrived. Wendy raised her champagne glass into the air and said, “Well, cheers. To you and Jonathan.”

  “You’re the best friend a girl could have.” Daphne held her own glass aloft to meet Wendy’s. “But
wait”—again the nose curled up—“we’re not girls anymore, are we? Tell me the truth. Are we really old?”

  “We’re not that old,” Wendy assured them both, before guzzling half her mimosa in a single gulp.

  “Too old to wear white at a wedding?”

  “Why not? It’s your wedding. But wait, are you guys already planning?”

  Daphne tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and smiled again. “Well, we’ve talked about a few ideas. Jonathan’s family belongs to Temple Emanu-El, which is right near the Pierre. But I don’t know—I was thinking something more low-key than that. I mean, it’s not like I’m a virgin of eighteen!” She laughed. “Anyway, it probably won’t be for a while. I mean, we only met six weeks ago.” She laughed again. Wendy was reassured to hear that Daphne was at least cognizant of the minuscule amount of time that had elapsed since she and Jonathan had met. But could she really be considering a synagogue wedding? “Meanwhile, you’re the only one of us who’s been married,” Daphne continued. “So tell me what it’s like.” She leaned forward on her bar stool, her grin leering, her long black legs flapping beneath her like a scuba diver’s fins. “Do married people still have sex? I mean, for fun?”

  For a split second, Wendy found herself wondering if Adam had complained to Daphne during one of their phone calls about his and Wendy’s lack of a spontaneous sex life. Wendy had friends with whom she talked about sex, sometimes graphically—Maura, for instance. (Deprivation seemed to make the subject that much more interesting to her.) But for whatever reason, Daphne had never been one of them. For all of Daphne’s public displays of emotion, there was a way in which she kept her private life off-limits. Wendy supposed she ought to seize the opening. In light of the trouble she was having conceiving, however, she couldn’t help but find Daphne’s question tactless.

  But then, it was Daphne’s special night, Wendy reflected, and therefore not the right time to be raising petty objections. “Sometimes,” she replied, trying to match Daphne’s light tone. “Though, to be honest, not that often.” Adam was right, Wendy thought: she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Speaking of my conjugal partner, I hear you and Adam have been talking about medical care for his father?”

  Daphne touched Wendy’s sleeve. “I just have to say, you have the greatest husband in the world. I mean, he loves his dad so much. It’s so touching to watch. Anyway”—she sighed—“I’ve been trying to help him out where I can. Sometimes I think it just helps to talk, you know? I mean, I remember when my mother got sick. It was so surreal. Like you just can’t believe that these towering giants who raised you are suddenly so weak and helpless!”

  “I’m sure,” Wendy said. But she wasn’t sure at all, maybe never would be. Judy Murman had always seemed less like a towering anything than a tetchy child. “By the way, on an unrelated topic, I love your dress,” Wendy went on. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Oh, god—this?!” Daphne lifted the extra fabric on her hip as if Wendy had been admiring an old dishrag. “I got it, like, a million years ago at some Catherine Malandrino sample sale.”

  “Huh.” Wendy filed away the information in case, at some later point, she wanted to emulate the effect. It was by studying Daphne that Wendy had always figured out what cut of jeans to wear, what color lip gloss, and whether to go with silver or gold jewelry (and how much). Yet Wendy lacked both the money and the motivation to be as stylish as Daphne was. (Somewhere deep down, Wendy thought she was above fashion—or was she too far beneath it ever to get a foothold?)

  “Anyway,” Daphne said, sighing again as she scooped an enormous banana-shaped buttery-leather handbag off the floor—no doubt another back-of-the-closet find, Wendy thought, “I should really get going.”

  Wendy glanced at her watch: it was only 7:58. Had Daphne’s Lateness Problem expanded to include a Leaving Early Problem, too? And how soon before she didn’t appear at all? “I thought your reservation wasn’t until eight forty-five,” Wendy said, feeling hurt.

  She felt relieved, too. At the sight of Daphne seated at the bar forty-five minutes before, a part of Wendy had worried that they’d run out of things to talk about; moreover, that at some point along the way, she and Daphne had lost the thread that had always sustained their conversations.

  Daphne scrunched up her face apologetically. “I’m so sorry. It’s actually at eight fifteen. I didn’t realize.” She touched Wendy’s arm again. “Do you want to leave with me or—I know how you sometimes get freaked out sitting alone.” What was Daphne trying to imply?

  “It’s fine,” Wendy told her. “Go ahead. I’m going to finish my drink.” She saw Daphne glance at her empty glass. “I mean, I might order another one,” Wendy said, embarrassed to have been caught in a lie.

  “Oh! Well, it was great to see you. And thank you so much for the mimosa. It was beyond delicious.” Daphne kissed Wendy in the vicinity of both cheeks. Then she sashayed from the room, her ponytail swinging like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

  At the very least, Daphne could have offered to pay for her drink, Wendy thought as she watched the door close behind her. Wendy would have said no. At least, she liked to think she would have said no. Though, in truth, having just borne witness to the small fortune encapsulated on the fourth finger of Daphne’s left hand, Wendy might have let her leave the tip.

  Later that night, back home in Brooklyn, Wendy recalled suddenly that it was her mother’s sixty-fifth birthday the next day. She went online and ordered a bouquet of roses, dahlias, and chrysanthemums with the cheesy yet somehow convincing name “Thinking of You.” It was no lie: Wendy thought often of her mother. Some of those thoughts were negative, of course. But mostly she thought it was a shame they didn’t get along.

  She arrived at work the next morning to find a blinking red light on her phone. She hit the “voice mail” button and punched in her password. The first message was from Judy, thanking Wendy for thinking of her. “At the moment, I’m thinking I’m very old,” she said. Wendy winced. Even though she didn’t particularly like her mother, she hated to think of her as sad.

  The second message was from Adam, asking her to call him as soon as possible. Wendy couldn’t tell if the news was good or bad, and she dialed his number with trepidation.

  When Adam answered, he started talking so fast that at first, Wendy didn’t understand him. She had to ask him to slow down. “Sorry,” he said. He sounded out of breath. “My dad! He woke up this morning! The nurse was changing his catheter bag, and his eyes suddenly opened. Then he started moving his hands. The doctors are saying they’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “Oh, Potato, that’s wonderful!” said Wendy. She hadn’t heard her husband sound so happy in months, maybe years. She was happy, too. Happy for Adam. Happy for Ron and Phyllis. Happy for herself. She didn’t have to be all grown up yet, after all. Maybe Adam could come home now. And maybe now he’d finally realize how precious life was, Wendy thought—how precarious, too—and try harder to make things happen in his own.

  “I just can’t believe it,” he said. “I mean, he’s not talking much yet, but when I went in there this morning, I swear he looked right at me and said, ‘Lazy ass.’ My mother was screaming so loudly the nurses had to come in and ask her to quiet down.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Wendy, with a shudder of recognition.

  On Saturday, Wendy caught the 11:00 AM Acela to Boston. Adam picked her up at the station, and they drove straight to Mass General.

  Ron didn’t say anything to her, but, this time, his eyes seemed to follow her as she made her way to his bedside. Phyllis sat beaming at her husband’s side, his hand in hers, muttering, “It’s a miracle,” over and over again. Wendy thought of the otherwise forgotten holiday weekend when she’d walked into the Schwartzes’ kitchen in search of orange juice and, to her embarrassment and awe, found her in-laws making out against the dishwasher.

  Not surprisingly, for the rest of the weekend, high spirits abounded in the Schwartz household. Wendy
and Adam even had sex in Adam’s childhood bedroom, which had been converted only partially into a guest room. (His high school wrestling trophies still occupied the top shelf of the bookcase; Vonnegut paperbacks and SAT prep books filled the lower levels.) It was only day eight of Wendy’s cycle. So it probably wasn’t good for much, she figured. But it was nice to feel close again.

  It was also nice to feel Adam’s arms around her naked back.

  At the end of the weekend, Adam followed Wendy down to Brooklyn. He said he had some business to take care of in New York. Wendy couldn’t imagine what kind of business that was. But she didn’t want to pry or to put him on the defensive. So she didn’t ask him to elaborate. The plan was that the two of them would drive back up to Newton on Thursday morning in a rental car in time for Thanksgiving dinner.

  Wendy had been away from their apartment for only two days, but she found waiting for them an unusually tall stack of mail. As she climbed the stairs, three steps behind Adam and Polly, she leafed through the pile. Since it was nearing Christmas, there were catalogues galore—one from a wine lovers’ club, another from a purveyor of holiday decorations, yet another from Macy’s announcing a “mattress event” (whatever that was; Wendy was fairly sure she’d never participated in one). To her exasperation, there was also another issue of The New Yorker. Wendy prided herself on not missing an issue, though she was currently five behind.

  To her even greater distress, there was also a bill from Visa.

  While Wendy waited for Adam to unlock the door, she debated whether to open the envelope now or to delay the unpleasantness for another time. The balance was nearing ten thousand dollars. The previous month, the finance charge alone had topped two hundred bucks. Wendy didn’t see how they were ever going to pay it all back. She couldn’t understand how their debt had grown so large, either, and she instinctively blamed Adam for its accretion. True, in late August, she’d spent a few thousand dollars on a new computer, but that had been a necessity, in addition to a tax write-off. (An electrical storm had blown out the hard drive of her old desktop.) As for her new Marc Jacobs peacoat and Sigerson Morrison boots, she’d felt guilty and terrible for weeks after buying them but had justified both purchases on the grounds that having quit therapy, she was saving them nearly six hundred bucks a month. What’s more, having grown up with a single mother who couldn’t afford to buy her designer clothes, Wendy felt she deserved them—even as she proudly regarded herself as antimaterialistic.