I'm So Happy for You

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “What?!” screeched Phyllis, sounding, in truth, not entirely unhappy at the possibility.

  “I don’t have any proof,” said Wendy, realizing that, for better or worse, she only had one mother after all.

  “Well, Wendy, you’ve left me thoroughly shaken!” declared Phyllis.

  “I’m sorry,” said Wendy, her eyes again filling with tears—this time at the thought that she was losing everyone who’d ever cared about her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry for you, too. I just don’t know what to believe right now.”

  “To be honest, I don’t, either.”

  “If you hear from Adam before we do, will you please tell him to call home?” asked Phyllis.

  “Of course,” said Wendy.

  She must have been gripping the phone too tightly. Her hand and ear were aching when she hung up.

  • • •

  By coincidence, Wendy found herself standing in front of the old dive where she and Adam had had their wedding party almost five years before. She walked in and took a seat at the bar. At the very least, the place presented respite from the sun; it was so dark in there that it might as well have been nighttime. Wendy ordered a screwdriver—it seemed like the kind of drink you ordered when your marriage was uncovered to be a sham—and looked around her. A handful of winos sat slumped over their stools, their creased faces obscured in shadow. One glanced curiously in her direction but, to her relief, said nothing.

  As Wendy waited for her drink, she caught sight of the booth where she and Adam had huddled into the early hours of that night. Its vinyl upholstery was peeling. The wood table was all scratched up. It was a far cry from the Prospect Park boathouse. Even so, Wendy recalled the evening as being romantic in its own way, romantic because she and Adam had held hands beneath the table as they waited for the songs to play whose identifying letters and number they’d punched into the jukebox—back when songs meant everything, were more important than money or status, summed up their shared ironic take on the world as an exercise in futility, if occasionally an amusing, bittersweet one. Now Wendy wasn’t sure what—or whom—to believe.

  If Paige was to be trusted, there was a way in which Wendy felt flattered to think that Beautiful Daphne Sonnenberg née Uberoff found her husband that desirable and had gone to such lengths to disguise the fact. It meant that on some level, Daphne must have been jealous of Wendy, a novel and delicious concept. Wendy also found it titillating to imagine herself embroiled in such High Drama: who would have thought that Boring Reliable Wendy Murman would ever occupy one of the points in a love triangle? The spurned woman as opposed to the “other woman,” but still. A player. A leading character.

  But it was not a play. That was the problem. It was real life. Just as, if Paige was to be believed, there was real life—flesh, blood, toenails, eyeballs—growing inside Daphne; real life that derived its genetic coding from Adam, life that should have been growing inside Wendy. It was this part of the story that she found intolerable: not just the vile image of Daphne opening her legs to a heaving, overly grateful Adam (so Wendy imagined), but the fact that a human being was to be born whom Wendy would be unable to hate, since babies were by nature innocent, none of them having asked to be put here, yet who would serve as an endless, agonizing reminder of Adam and Daphne’s betrayal—a reminder that in all likelihood would outlive Wendy. The earth didn’t seem large enough to accommodate both of them.

  At the same time, Wendy remained in doubt regarding the veracity of Paige’s story. Even if Adam had been secretly pining for Daphne all these years, Wendy still had trouble imagining that Daphne felt the same way about him. She tried to avail herself of the notion that Adam was virile or dynamic in some way she’d never noticed—or had stopped noticing, this many years into marriage—but she wasn’t convinced. Adam’s attributes aside, he was still short and unemployed, and Daphne had always favored tall guys with fancy careers—even if, admittedly, she had a soft spot for married men.

  But how, then, to explain Daphne’s movie treatment? And now Adam’s disappearance? There were too many coincidences, and all of them led to one shocking conclusion. As Wendy exited the bar, she called Adam’s phone yet again. He still wasn’t picking up.

  Wendy had been holding in her tears for more than an hour when she finally closed the door to her apartment behind her. The place was stiflingly hot, but she barely noticed. She threw herself facedown on the bed and wept. When she’d exhausted her supply of tears, she splashed cool water on her face, made coffee (the thought of food disgusted her), and tried to think rationally about her next move. But she couldn’t come up with anything. The future stretched out before her like a giant question mark laid flat and crushed.

  All she could see in her mind’s eye was Daphne: her delicately chewed nails, her long sinewy thighs, her pert little breasts, her pale and lovely face. She heard her giggling, too, as she roughed up Adam’s hair, then her quiet moans beneath him, as he thrust himself inside her with everything he had (and everything he’d kept from Wendy); then, after the act, the two of them talking about her in the slow drawl of the faux-concerned. “I just feel so baaaaaaaaad,” Daphne would say, head tilted per usual. “I mean, Wendy’s a really, really old friend of mine.”

  “Hey—listen—it’s no one’s fault,” Adam would reassure her in a soft voice, while tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I mean, this whole thing took us by surprise. Neither of us was looking for it. It just happened. And it’s bigger than both of us. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.” He’d grab her by the forearms. “Daphne. Look at me. I’m in love with you.”

  Wendy knew that, if Paige was to be believed, it was Adam who had broken his vows and therefore Adam who had ultimately betrayed her. Yet as the afternoon progressed, Wendy couldn’t help but feel that it was Daphne who deserved the brunt of her rage—Daphne who was carrying her child and had therefore robbed her of something sacred, Daphne whose very existence felt like an insult. (As the afternoon progressed, doubt regarding Paige’s story fell away.)

  At the same time, Wendy felt a driving need to confront Daphne in person—to hear her admit to her crimes and beg for Wendy’s forgiveness, and also to tell Daphne what she really thought of her (and what she now wished she’d said to her at the shower). That wasn’t all. Wendy had never been involved in a physical altercation in her life, but now she imagined punching Daphne in the face, knocking her to the ground, making her bleed—just as Wendy had been bleeding, month after month after month. Daphne had always been the drama queen. Now it was Wendy’s turn. She felt like a teakettle approaching boiling point. She grabbed her keys, wallet, and sunglasses off the kitchen countertop. Then, for the second time that afternoon, she headed out.

  The temperature had cooled, but the stairwell to the subway still stank of piss. “Spare a quarter?” asked the same homeless man who Wendy used to see in the 9th Street station. For a brief moment, she imagined he’d followed her there. And that he knew everything—where she was headed and why. Generally speaking, Wendy was too cheap to give money to beggars. But that afternoon, paranoia trumped parsimony. She stuffed a dollar into the man’s cup. “God bless you,” he muttered. Wendy kept walking.

  As the R train crept along its route, she rehearsed her lines: “You’re a deceitful, conniving predator who can’t be happy unless you’ve ruined someone else’s life.…”

  Daphne and Jonathan’s mansion was apparently all “done.” The windows had been cleaned; the work permit notice had been removed. The flowerpot at the top of the stoop overflowed with impatiens and vinca, the latter cascading down the side of the pot like tears down a cheek. Climbing the stoop, Wendy was beset with a familiar sense of discomfort. As if she didn’t belong there or anywhere else. But those were her old fears talking, Wendy told herself. She’d earned the right to go anywhere she wanted. It was Daphne who had trespassed.

  She rang the bell and waited. She half-expected Adam to come to
the door in his boxers, saying, “Oh, hey, Pope, what’s up? Daf and I are just eating some take-out, if you want to join us.…” But no one answered. She rang again. Still there was no answer. Wendy idly turned the knob. To her surprise, the door clicked open.

  Stepping inside, she was reminded of how magnificent the house was. The hallway had been painted a beautiful shade of robin’s egg blue, the plasterwork trim a creamy white. To the left of the parlor doors a pewter vase filled with lush violet hydrangea blossoms sat atop an ebonized wood console. The polished mahogany banister glistened in the late-afternoon light. “Daphne! It’s Wendy,” she yelled in a voice that sounded hoarse and unfamiliar to her. Who had she become? Wendy wondered. “I’d like to talk to you.” But there was no answer. It struck Wendy how quiet the house was. Her heart thumping, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Every few steps, she paused to listen for signs of life. Still she heard nothing.

  Arriving on the second-floor landing, Wendy noticed that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. Her heart beating even faster, she peeked inside. A pristine white spread lay smoothed over the four corners of Daphne and Jonathan’s gleaming sleigh bed. Against the headboard, propped up in descending order like the animals on Noah’s ark, was a procession of fluffy white pillows. To the right of the bed, pale yellow taffeta curtains pooled on honey-colored wide plank floors. To the left was a cherrywood dresser topped with wedding and family photos in sterling silver frames. All the people in the pictures looked so elegant and peaceful, Wendy thought, with admiration and fury.

  Just then, she made out the muted rush of a running faucet. Her heart began to race. “Daphne!” she called. But again, there was no answer. She walked down the hall and tapped on the door behind which the noise seemed to be coming from. Receiving no reply, she slowly turned the knob.

  It was the most sumptuous bathroom Wendy had ever seen. At the far end was a porcelain bathtub with claw feet; to the right, an all-glass shower stall with a marble interior; to the left were matching marble his-and-hers sinks with polished nickel legs and hardware. A steady stream of water poured out of the far one. On the white tiled floor between the sinks lay the most beautiful fixture of all: Daphne.

  Her jaw was slack, her eyes were closed, her hair was everywhere. Her pregnant belly, its navel stretched flat, poked out of an old lace camisole top. Her head rested on one bare, outstretched arm. A small orange plastic vial with a white label had rolled under the sink closest to her head, its cap and contents missing. “Oh, my god,” Wendy said, gasping. The original Valley Girl standard had finally met its match. “Oh, my god,” she said again, all her old fears about Daphne finally confirmed—now that Wendy no longer cared.

  But why now? Had Daphne’s conscience acted up? Had she told Jonathan that the baby wasn’t his? Had he told her to get out? And what did Adam have to do with any of it? (Why wasn’t he here by her side?) Wendy bent down and felt for Daphne’s pulse. She was alive. But for how much longer?

  Wendy knew she had to think fast. But her brain was pulling her in two directions. She figured she could tiptoe back down the hall and stairs and close the door behind her most likely without anyone having seen her come in and without anyone ever knowing she’d been there (and with Daphne getting the punishment she deserved, the punishment she’d willed on herself ). How much easier life would be if Daphne was dead, Wendy thought. Adam would be too devastated and ashamed to attend the funeral, but Wendy would sit politely in the back row. Everyone would agree it was a terrible tragedy. Wendy would have her husband back.

  Only, what about the baby—the baby who Wendy wanted not to exist but who, in that moment, she couldn’t help but think deserved a better fate than to die at the hands of its own maker, a prisoner of its own invention? And what about Daphne herself? Did her crime really deserve death? And would Wendy be able to live with herself if she left Daphne there to drift away? For almost sixteen years, Wendy had played the role of Daphne’s protector. Could she really abandon that role now—now that Daphne was actually in need?

  And yet, what had Daphne ever done for her? Wendy thought. Gotten her into a few exclusive parties. Filled the silence with her tireless chatter, her incessant use of the word beyond. Provided a distraction from Wendy’s own problems—until Daphne became her biggest problem of all. Then again, until Daphne, Wendy had never really been close to anyone—not in the way she’d been close to Daphne. Daphne had always been so self-obsessed that, in some strange way, she’d taught Wendy what it meant to love.

  Daphne also had an uncanny way of making Wendy feel empty and hopeless inside.

  Every muscle in her body wanted to run. Instead, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.…

  After Wendy hung up, she knelt on the floor beside Daphne—held her hand and smoothed the hair off her forehead and told her she was going to be okay. And wondered how she could possibly be rooting for the woman she hated more than anyone else on earth to pull through. Maybe it was because, lying there, Daphne had never looked so dull, really—and so human after all.

  EMS arrived six minutes later, complete with wailing sirens. Wendy ran to the front door. Brawny men in blue shirts were striding up the staircase, two steps at a time, when Jonathan appeared. “What the hell is going on?!” he said, his eyes shifting from Wendy to the men.

  It was the only time she’d ever seen him looking undone. One of his shirttails was untucked. His eyes were red. Was it possible he’d been crying? Drinking? It also struck Wendy that Jonathan had never looked so handsome. “Daphne’s sick,” she said.

  “What?!” he said, racing up the stairs.

  From downstairs, Wendy could hear him moaning, “Daphne. Daphne. What have you done?”

  Jonathan didn’t ask Wendy to ride in the ambulance with him, but he didn’t object, either, when she climbed in next to him. She felt it was the right thing to do, the kind of thing you did for your oldest friend in the event of her overdosing on tranquilizers while eight and a half months pregnant with your husband’s child. She was also curious: to know what had precipitated Daphne’s suicide attempt, and what had happened between her and Adam, and if she and her baby were going to live. Wendy was worried, too—not just about Daphne, but that the answers she sought would be buried with Daphne and her unborn child.

  Long Island College Hospital was at the end of the next block, so the trip there took less than two minutes. The ambulance arrived at the emergency entrance, and a second crew whisked away Daphne’s gurney, leaving Wendy and Jonathan to join the throngs of the worried, bored, and suffering. LICH wasn’t one of the fancy New York hospitals—there were no soaring marble lobbies, no wings named after Wall Street moguls—but the emergency room had a partial view of the skyline and a fresh coat of paint. Children fidgeted. Adults talked on phones or paced. Others held bandages to their heads. Wendy and Jonathan sat down next to each other in the least-populated corner of the room. She longed to ask him what he knew, but she didn’t have the nerve, couldn’t find the right opening. An hour went by. Or maybe it was two. It was Jonathan who finally broke the silence. (Maybe he got curious, too.) “I thought you and Daphne didn’t speak anymore,” he said.

  “We hadn’t been,” Wendy told him. “But I came over to make up.” Who was to say it hadn’t been her intention all along?

  “Interesting timing,” said Jonathan.

  “She told you about the baby, didn’t she?” said Wendy, unable to stop herself, her heart in her throat.

  “Yeah, she told me,” he said.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where the father is?” It was now after eight and—it occurred suddenly to Wendy—she still hadn’t heard a word from Adam.

  “I don’t give a fuck where he is,” declared Jonathan. “The guy is a scumbag.”

  “At least you’re not married to him,” Wendy said with a laugh.

  “What?” said Jonathan, his chiseled face twisted.

  “We are talking about my husband, right?”

  Jonatha
n let out a scalding laugh of his own. “No, that would be Mitchell Kroker Reporting Live from the Fucking Capital.”

  Wendy felt her stomach falling out of her body. “Mitch is the father?”

  “Some kind of reunion deal. Maybe because we’d just gotten engaged. Had to go fuck things up, you know?” Jonathan shook his head in anger and bewilderment.

  Wendy had never felt so relieved. Or so confused. Or like a bigger fool. How could she have gotten things so wrong? Was the world that much of a tease? Were we all stumbling around like Plato’s cave dwellers, mistakenly believing that the sun rose this morning, when it had actually imploded a hundred million years before? “I’m so sorry,” she began—just as a harried-looking doctor appeared before them.

  “Are you the family of Daphne Sonnenberg?” she asked.

  “I’m her husband,” said Jonathan, standing up. Wendy stood up, too.

  “She’s going to be okay,” said the woman.

  Receiving this latest dramatic dispatch from Daphne-ville, Jonathan collapsed against Wendy and began silently to sob. He smelled like lavender and scotch. For a brief moment, Wendy imagined having sex with him, being his wife, padding around their Cobble Hill brownstone in shearling slippers, her hair pulled up in a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Then she recalled his comment about the Palestinians’ being nomads and doubted that their marriage would work. “But we’re not sure about the baby yet,” the doctor went on. “She’ll be going in for a cesarean in a few minutes.” She turned to Jonathan. “If you’d like to be there with her—”

  “That’s okay,” he said, pulling away from Wendy, his palm raised. “I’ll wait here.”

  “I’m happy to go in with her,” said Wendy, glancing from Jonathan to the doctor and back again.

  “Whatever you want,” he said, shrugging.

  In fact, it was precisely what Wendy wanted. Maybe she was hoping to become a hero in Daphne’s mind and compensate for what she’d done at her baby shower. Or maybe she just wanted to be the first of Daphne’s friends to hear the “real story.” (Wendy’s personal investment aside, there had never been gossip quite like this, at least not in their shared social circle; under different circumstances, Wendy would already have been excited to tell Adam.) Or maybe, despite everything, Wendy still felt responsible for solving Daphne’s problems.