After reuniting the expectant parents, Wendy headed back to the bar. Scanning the wedding party as she waited to be served, she realized that Daphne and Jonathan had already left the premises—without saying good-bye. That was their right, she told herself. They had a honeymoon to get to. They couldn’t be expected to bid a special farewell to all ninety-two guests.
Gretchen appeared before Wendy at the same time as her Bud Lite.
“Sara just told me her big news,” said Wendy, assuming that Gretchen had already heard.
“Don’t be too jealous,” said Gretchen—to Wendy’s embarrassment. “Dolph still won’t marry her.”
“But he’ll have sex with her,” said Wendy. “Who knew?”
“Do you want to know a secret?” Gretchen lifted her Red Bull to her lips. “Rob and I have had sex exactly once since the twins were born.”
“How old are they again?”
“Eight months.”
“Once is better than never?”
“I guess.”
“But wait—didn’t you and Rob go on your honeymoon a few months ago?”
“I didn’t tell anyone at the time, but I ended up flying home early for work. Or actually, I flew to Geneva for a meeting. That was a fake tan.” Gretchen smiled guiltily.
“Hm,” said Wendy, trying not to sound shocked.
“Do you want to know another secret?” Gretchen leaned into Wendy’s ear. “I can’t stand Jonathan.”
“Here’s another secret—you’re not the only one,” Wendy muttered back.
“Honestly?” Gretchen continued. “When Daphne asked me to sign the katubah—which is also a joke, since I’ve been to synagogue, like, once in the past twenty years, but whatever, anyway—I almost said no. I mean, I seriously didn’t know if I wanted my name on that piece of paper. But what was I going to say?”
“I’m sure I would have done the same thing,” said Wendy, flinching yet again—this time to hear that Daphne had wanted Gretchen’s signature and not Wendy’s on the frameable parchment document that confirmed Daphne and Jonathan’s marriage under Jewish law.
“Oh, shit, I have to take this call—it’s Angelina Jolie en route to Namibia,” said Gretchen, pulling her headset out of her clutch and fastening it around her ear. “Gretchen Daubner, UNICEF,” she trumpeted on her way out to the balcony.
Every decent wedding can claim at least one scandal. On that score, Daphne and Jonathan’s nuptials failed to disappoint. At the end of the night, Steve the Wine Distributor had to be rescued off the lake, where he was discovered semi–passed out in a gondola alongside the scowling teenage cousin of Daphne’s who’d given Wendy a cigarette. Reportedly, both parties were half naked and too drunk to row back to shore.
Wendy left the party fairly inebriated herself, if still sober enough to recognize her bad mood. Her only solace was the thought that the tale of Steve and the Sullen Teen was so outrageous as to render her toast of less questionable taste.
Adam, on the other hand, seemed to think the evening had been a riot. “How funny was that gondola thing,” he chuckled in the car home.
“Really funny,” Wendy said blankly.
7.
DURING THE WEDDING, Wendy had noticed that Daphne looked slightly more filled out than her usual skeletal self. She’d chalked up the weight gain to Daphne’s having, for once, a reliable dinner partner. As Wendy learned in an email upon Daphne and Jonathan’s return from their honeymoon at the Four Seasons resort on the Caribbean island of Nevis, however, there was another explanation entirely:
W we’re back! Nevis beyond amazing and also really relaxing but first I’m so thrilled that you made it to our wedding I hope you and A had an okay time?? Also, your toast was beyond hilarious (God, was I really that needy a friend back in the day? Yikes)
Anyway I didn’t tell you earlier because of the wedding and everything else going on but—drum roll—I’m preggers!! (Twenty-four weeks on Thursday insane I know) Anyway can’t wait for you to join me in the motherhood mind f-ck (I know you’re going to get there soon if you haven’t already)
Meanwhile recently realized that I still haven’t seen your new place! (Pathetic I know) Let me know what your schedule looks like next week and we’ll make a date (while I still have the energy to haul my suddenly HUGE butt around ha) XXD
Wendy turned her gaze out the window, at the endless stream of cars on the Prospect Expressway. In that moment, it seemed to her that she was the only person in the world who wasn’t headed somewhere. She tried to recall Marcia’s words about all of us being on “his or her own journey.” But they sounded hollow—like so much self-help-book hokum. Besides, from what Wendy could tell, everyone was on the same journey: to the maternity ward at Methodist Hospital, if not Mount Sinai or St. Luke’s–Roosevelt. Wendy couldn’t walk outside her door anymore, not even on No Prospect Avenue, without being accosted by reproduction in action. Everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, there were double strollers and swollen bellies, snack catchers and sippy cups. People spoke of Calcutta as the epicenter of the overpopulation problem. As far as Wendy could tell, however, Brownstone Brooklyn was equally to blame.
But it wasn’t just that she felt left behind. It was that Wendy and Adam had been together for more than eight years—and trying to conceive for well over one—while Daphne and Jonathan had only just met. Wendy knew it wasn’t a race to the finish line. After all, wasn’t the finish line death? Yet she couldn’t help but feel that, considering how long she and Adam had been together, it had been their right—Wendy’s right—to go first.
And why did good things always seem to happen to the quicksilvers of this world? No doubt Daphne’s pregnancy had been some kind of “early accident.” Maybe the trick was to stop trying, Wendy thought. Only, once you’d started trying, how did you stop? Was it even possible to try not to try?
Wendy got up from her desk chair, walked the three steps necessary to reach her bed, and climbed under the covers. But even the sensation of warmth and enclosure failed to comfort her as it usually did. Her body had become her enemy. It seemed to be willfully defying her, laughing in the face of her designs for it. She thought of her early adolescence, when the sudden appearance of breasts and hair in strange places had made her feel similarly outraged.
She also felt hurt by how long it had taken Daphne to tell her the news. By “wedding and everything,” Daphne seemed to be implying that she’d been too busy planning the Big Day to find time to inform Wendy. But in the space of twenty-three weeks had Daphne really not identified a single free moment? Wendy suspected that Daphne’s silence had mostly to do with her not wanting anyone to think that Jonathan was only marrying her because he had to. But even if he was, after all that she and Wendy had been through together, could Daphne really be concerned about keeping up appearances in front of her?
Or was Wendy being punished for speaking out of turn—not just at the wedding? Wendy thought guiltily of the many catty conversations and exchanges she’d had over the years about Daphne with their mutual friends, some under the guise of concern, others blatantly bitchy. Had something Wendy had said gotten back to Daphne?
Or might there have been a charitable motive behind the delay? Maybe Daphne had put off telling Wendy because she’d known the news would only upset and frustrate her further. Which, of course, it had. Not only was Wendy still not pregnant, but the now almost ritualized disappointment that accompanied the sanguineous arrival of her menstrual period each month had taken all the romance out of the venture. Now it was just a science experiment that never worked. Now Wendy and Adam hardly ever had sex anymore, not even during the right time of the month. And on the few occasions they did, he just lay there on his back or side, letting Wendy do all the work.
Wendy was entertaining the distasteful idea that in the intervening weeks Daphne had confided in another, better friend (Paige? Sara?), when Adam appeared in the doorway. “What’s up with you?” he said.
“Nothing,” Wendy said as neutral
ly as she could. She knew how crazy it drove him when she got morose over their reproductive problems.
“Nothing?” he asked, cockeyed. “You just felt like climbing into bed at three in the afternoon and staring at the wall?”
Wendy didn’t answer.
“Don’t tell me you got your period again,” he said.
He never knew when to let her be, Wendy thought. She felt as if the two of them were trapped on some transatlantic flight that was stuck on the tarmac, going nowhere yet unable to separate, trapped between two time zones, one already in the past, the other still in the future. “I didn’t get my period,” she told him. “Okay?” Wendy knew as soon as she’d said it that she should have kept her mouth shut. Her voice had grown shaky. Adam was bound to notice. He noticed everything.
“Well, then, another of your thirty-five-year-old women friends is pregnant—who is it now?” he asked.
“Daphne,” said Wendy, swallowing hard.
“Oh, Christ!” said Adam, sounding suddenly distressed himself. “I knew this was going to happen.” Knew what was going to happen? That Daphne would get pregnant? That Wendy would be upset when she heard the news? His meaning unclear, he shook his head and walked out of the room.
The sky was the same color as the ever-growing mountain of newspapers in the hallway outside Wendy and Adam’s apartment, waiting to be recycled. In short, it wasn’t much of a day for a walk in the park. Plus, the park wasn’t even nearby anymore. So Wendy, desperate to clear her head, took the subway to the Brooklyn Museum.
Walking through the Ancient Egyptian wing, contemplating the blank stares of the mummy cases and pharaoh statuary, she wondered if being in a bad mood was a modern invention. After all, here lay dead people who, judging from the facial expressions of their sculptural standins, seemed completely fine, even mellow, about the biggest tragedy of all: their own mortality. And what if it turned out that all the skeptics were wrong, and you really did get to go somewhere new and exciting when you died? Cheered by this possibility, Wendy composed a reply email to Daphne with the goal of sounding gracious and supportive. Upon her arrival home, she typed it up:
D, Pregnant? What??? Thrilled for you, of course. That’s great news. Can’t believe you’re gonna be a momma. When is baby due? Please send my regards/congrats to Jonathan, as well.
Xxoo W
Fake excitement. Fake casualness. Fake, fake, fake. That was what had become of their friendship, Wendy thought as she clicked “send.” But what other choice did she have? Getting along in the world seemed to require the endless peddling of palaver: of “You look great” and “Have a nice day” and “I’m so happy for you.” It was like air. Or food. Or shelter. No one could get on without it. Yet no one meant a word of it. Or did they? Were other people simply bigger-hearted than Wendy was? And was it even possible to be happy for someone else’s success when you hadn’t achieved it yourself?
That night, Wendy discovered she was fast approaching her fertile peak. She wished her ovaries had chosen another time to release their inmate. But since they hadn’t, she was determined to regain Adam’s affections—even though the two had barely spoken since the morning, Wendy’s frustration with biology seemingly deadlocked with his frustration with her. Or was there another explanation? Adam was already in bed, reading the 1974 true crime bestseller about the Charles Manson murders, Helter Skelter, his body turned toward the door. Wendy curled up against his back and slid an arm around his waist. But he made no acknowledgment of her presence, not even after she let her hand slip below his navel.
It was only after she began to burrow her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts that he finally spoke. “What—are you ovulating?” he said.
“Why does it matter?” said Wendy, wincing, even as she continued to prod.
“Why does it matter?” Adam laughed as he repeated her question. Then he rolled onto his back, forcing Wendy’s right hand into retreat. “Because it’s the only thing that matters to you anymore. I’m just incidental to the whole process.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“Of course it’s true. It’s the only time of the month you want to do it. God forbid you were ever just ‘in the mood.’ ” His book now resting on his chest, Adam made quotes in the air.
The charge wounded Wendy, not only because she wanted to believe she was the kind of person who would never have married someone who used air quotes, but because to articulate their lack of a spontaneous sex life was to make it real and therefore of consequence. (It was easier to pretend that it wasn’t.) “Well, look who’s talking!” she cried. “You never want to do it, either.”
“Well, then, we’re even,” said Adam.
“I’m in the mood now,” said Wendy.
“Well, I’m not—sorry.” Adam rolled back over onto his side and reopened his book.
But she was ovulating, damn it! And it only happened twelve or thirteen times a year. Why couldn’t he understand that time was of the essence? That time was running out? Again, Wendy pressed up against her husband. For several minutes, they lay together like that, him reading and her waiting. And waiting some more. But for how much longer? She felt suddenly frantic and about to burst through her skin with her frustrated desires. Reproductive? Sexual? Material? She could no longer differentiate between the three. All she knew was that she wanted and wasn’t getting. She could feel Adam’s toes pressing conciliatorily into her own, but she quickly moved them away. She wasn’t ready to make up. Besides, it wasn’t his feet she needed. Believing in that moment that a surprise attack was her best strategy, Wendy disappeared under the covers.
But Adam was prepared. He had his defenses up, his anti-artillery loaded and cocked. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” he bellowed while pushing her face away from his crotch. “HAVE YOU GONE INSANE?” He scooted over to the edge of the bed.
Wendy emerged from beneath the covers equally livid. That Adam would dare withhold from her! He was her husband, damn it! (Sperm, she felt, was the least he owed her; he wasn’t good for much else these days.) “FINE!” she yelled. “IF YOU DON’T WANT TO HAVE A BABY—FINE!” She felt humiliated, too—humiliated and, at the same time, fascinated by her humiliation: when had she become this terrifying succubus?
“YOU’RE RIGHT,” Adam yelled back. “I DON’T WANT TO HAVE A BABY. I’M SICK OF THE WHOLE GODDAMN SUBJECT.” He beat his chest like Tarzan. “I want to be appreciated for being me. You treat me like I’m a stud farm—not a human being.”
“That’s not true!” Wendy protested.
“That’s how it feels!”
“I’m frustrated.”
“Life is frustrating.”
“It’s been a year and a half and I’m still not pregnant.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you or me. It just hasn’t happened yet. Why can’t you live with that?”
“Why does everything get to be your decision?”
“My decision?” Adam scoffed. “Last time I checked, you were the one forcing us to have sex on a schedule.”
“I feel like a failure,” Wendy told him. “You can’t understand that.”
“A failure? You mean, if you were a better person, you’d be pregnant by now? It’s not a reflection of your character that you’re not pregnant yet.”
“It feels like one. It’s all I think about.” Wendy had never heard herself sound so pathetic. At the same time, it came as a relief to admit, finally, to the lack of poetry—or politics—in her head.
“Well, maybe you should go back to therapy,” said Adam.
“We can’t afford it,” said Wendy. “Because you don’t work.”
“Oh, now you want me to pay for your therapy?!”
“No, I want you to help pay for our life!” Wendy also felt relieved to be admitting to her discontent over her husband’s chronic unemployment—relieved and riled and depressed.
Adam shook his head contemptuously. Then he rolled back onto his side, flipped off his reading light, and pulled the covers over hi
s shoulders and neck, victorious in his celibacy—at least for the moment.
“Did I tell you I’m going to this prenatal yoga class every Saturday?” Daphne was saying to Wendy over the phone a few days later. “It’s a total nightmare. I can’t even do downward-facing dog!”
“It takes a lot of arm strength,” said Wendy.
“Also, do you know what Kegels are?” Daphne went on. “The teacher is, like, obsessed with them. She’s like”—Daphne made her voice unpleasantly nasal—“People, if there’s one thing you, take away from this class—please, I’m begging you—practice your Kegels: in the subway, waiting in line at the post office, on hold with your medical insurer. Whenever you find yourself with five minutes to spare, take the time to work your vaginal muscles. You won’t regret it. Imagine you’re in an elevator. First stop—the pelvic floor.” Daphne reclaimed her normal speaking voice. “Of course, I can’t even do one. You’re supposed to hold your muscles down there tight for, like, five beats and then release them again—apparently so you won’t pee all over yourself every time you sneeze. Whatever. I’ll just wear diapers if I have to.”
“Oh, please,” said Wendy, who—was this terrible?—didn’t mind the idea of Daphne’s being incontinent. “I’m sure she’s exaggerating.”
“Maybe. Anyway, the only part of the class I can deal with is at the end, when you get to doze off under one of those Peruvian blankets while they play that hippie flute music with the tweeting birds. To be honest, the blankets smell like BO—clearly, no one’s ever washed them—but by that point, I’m so exhausted I don’t even care. Though I could do without that bullshit at the very end where you have to sit with your hands pressed together in prayer and everyone mutters ‘Numismaya’—or whatever it is—in those really sanctimonious voices—”
“I think it’s Namaste,” interjected Wendy.
“Whatever. It sounds like some special branch of stamp collecting.” Daphne snorted at her joke. “Anyway, I swear I always leave there feeling like I’ve accidentally joined some brainwashed cult. It’s why I’ve always hated yoga.”
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