Driving Lessons

by Zoe Fishman

  “I am, actually.”

  “You want to hit a drive-through or somethin’?”

  “A drive-through?”

  “Yeah. Don’t tell me you’re not familiar with the concept.”

  “No, of course I am. I just—okay, I’ll drive. How far away is it?”

  “There’s a McDonald’s up the street.”

  “Any lane changes involved?”

  “There doesn’t have to be.”

  I considered the offer.

  “French fries?” Ray prodded. “A chocolate milkshake, maybe?”

  “Vanilla.”

  11

  I’m headed to Brooklyn. Fort Greene,” I said as the beleaguered cabbie hoisted my suitcase into his trunk and grunted in response.

  I slammed my door and we were off, another yellow fish swimming upstream. As I rolled my window down, I breathed in the warm, dirty, thick-with-exhaust air happily. I was home. How could we have left this? I wondered, even as my excitement quickly turned to nausea. My driver was weaving in and out of traffic like the needle of a lie detector test. A bus roared past, blasting its horn and cloaking my face in soot. Window, up. I called Josh.

  “Hey, New York,” he answered. “You get in all right?”

  “Oh yeah, fine. Flight was a piece of cake. Now of course I’m in traffic.”

  “Of course. You feeling carsick?”

  “Yeah. How’s Farmwood?”

  “Same as you left it. I have class in a minute.”

  “Nice. You miss me yet?”

  “Of course I miss you. Are you in love with New York again?”

  “No. Not yet, at least.”

  “Good. Listen, call me later. I have to go.”

  I hung up and gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline, which was just beginning to come into view. Building upon building, one on top of the other, the next one more imposing than the last. Energy radiated from the island in shimmering waves and my pulse quickened as I remembered the city’s constant hum. Was I in love with it again? Maybe. I felt more alive than I had in months. Then again, I was watching it all go by from the inside of a cab. Out in the wild—that was a different story.

  As we drove through Brooklyn, my heart swelled. People of all colors and shapes walking along the grimy sidewalks; corner bodegas selling everything under the sun; coffee shops and designer clothing boutiques nestled in between barbershops and tiny Caribbean food outposts; street construction and jackhammers at every other intersection. Home.

  We pulled up to Mona’s brownstone and suddenly, there I was, alone on the sidewalk with a giant suitcase, a fistful of cash and a best friend on the other side of the door who had cancer. “Best friend” and “cancer” should never coexist in the same sentence, but here, they did. A window creaked open and Mona peered down at me.

  “I know you’re not expecting me to help you with your bags.” A broad smile lit up her face, but even from this distance I could see how tired her brown eyes were. Do not cry, I reminded myself.

  “Please, I got this.”

  I struggled up the stairs, scraping a significant amount of skin off my denim-coated left shin in the process. At the top finally, I dropped my bags and wiped the flop sweat from my brow.

  “I take it you’re not working out in Farmwood?” asked Mona, opening the door to my disheveled self.

  “Oh, look who’s the wise guy.” I met her gaze and, of course, began to cry. “Oh God, I’m s-s-s-sorryyy,” I blubbered. “Ignore me.”

  “It’s okay, Sar.” Mona hugged me. “I cry all the time too. Let’s not pretend this doesn’t suck, okay? That would just make everything worse.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I sniffled. “I’m pulling it together.”

  “Don’t even think about wiping your nose on my shirt.”

  “How did you know?”

  “When you’re friends with somebody for this long, you just know.” She wiggled out of my embrace and held me at arm’s length. “You look the same.”

  “So do you. I can’t believe it.”

  “I know, right? The one chance I have in my life to be legitimately skinny, and nothing. It fucking figures.”

  “Mona, you don’t have to be a comedian with me, you know.”

  “I know that, dummy. But I am seriously pissed about the weight-loss thing. People expect collarbones and hip divots when you tell them you have cancer, and here I am, looking healthy as a goddamn horse.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Let’s talk about it inside. I’ll pour you a glass of rosé.”

  “That works.”

  So, how are you feeling?” I asked, sitting cross-legged beside Mona on the couch, wine in hand.

  “I feel okay, I guess. Tired, though. It’s so strange. It’s like I know the cancer is there, eating away at my uterus or whatever the hell it’s doing, but since I don’t feel anything, there are moments when I just forget.”

  “Like when?”

  “You know, just everyday moments. Like waiting forever for the subway and cursing out the transit authority in my head like I did every day of my life before I found out I had cancer. Or ordering in sushi. You know, that moment when the buzzer rings and you get so excited that you don’t know what to do with yourself?”

  “Of course, the Where’s my purse, where’s my wallet, do I have enough for a tip? dance. I invented that.”

  “Remember that time the Thai delivery guy urinated on my welcome mat because we gave him a crappy tip?” Mona asked.

  “Oh my God, I do. Wait, did he really do that or were we just really stoned?”

  “We were really stoned, but yes, he did do that. One cannot conjure up the smell of urine.”

  “That’s true.” I took a sip of my wine. “So sometimes you forget?”

  “Yes, but only for a moment or two. Then I remember again, and it makes me really sad. I know I’m supposed to feel lucky that they caught the cancer early enough to stop it in its tracks, but it’s hard to. I’m losing my chance to have kids.”

  “But you can adopt?”

  “If one more person tells me that I can adopt in an attempt to make me feel better I think I’ll scream.”

  “Sorry. I just, I’m not sure I know what to say about any of this, Mona. All I want to do is make this better for you, make this not be happening.”

  “I know, Sarah. But it is happening, you know? And you’re here to help me deal in the aftermath. That’s huge. Just treat me like you always have treated me, please.”

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe a little bit nicer.” She paused to take her own sip. “Okay, a lot nicer.”

  “Mona, what was it like finding out?”

  “That I had cancer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was the scariest moment of my life. All of it was the scariest moment of my life—the spotting, the colposcopy, the phone call asking me to come in.”

  “I can’t imagine what it felt like to answer that phone call.”

  “I hope you never have to.”

  “You never want to hear ‘Please come in’ from your doctor,” I added. “Mona, were you all by yourself? Through all of this?”

  “For the most part, yeah. My friend Angela picked me up from the doctor’s office and off the floor on a couple of occasions.”

  “Angela.” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I haven’t been here for you, Mona.”

  “Sarah, come on. Enough already. You’re here now. Want some chips or something? I’m ravenous.” She got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen.

  “I’ll never say no to chips.”

  I stretched out my legs on the couch, digging my feet into the warm cushion she had left behind. Mona’s phone rang and I closed my eyes as she spoke softly in the next room. Mona. Talking to her felt so comfortable, like slipping your favorite T-shirt over your head after a day bound in work wear. If I lost her, I didn’t know wh
at I would do. A lump grew in my throat.

  “Here we go,” she announced, walking in with a tray of refreshments. Bending over, she plunged a chip into some hummus before sitting down.

  “So, something has come up.” She chewed vigorously as her eyes danced.

  “What do you mean?” I leaned over the cutting board to slice a piece from a gooey slab of cheese, but its odor made me gag involuntarily. I sat back, surprised. I hoped I wasn’t getting sick. What kind of nurse would that make me? I swallowed, composing myself.

  “I’m going to be having sex tonight,” Mona said, “and I would like it to be here.”

  “Get out!” I replied, the shock of her statement trumping my intestinal anxiety.

  “You get out.”

  “Wait, is that safe?”

  “Sarah, cancer is not a sexually transmitted disease.”

  “I know that, but energy-wise—you’re okay?”

  “Who am I, Sting? We’re talking fifteen minutes, tops. I’m okay.”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Do you remember Nate?”

  I cocked my head quizzically as I grabbed a chip, cataloging her conquests in my mind “Nate . . .”

  “We called him ‘Where’s Waldo’ because he always wore that stupid striped sweater?”

  “Yes! Of course! Where’s Waldo! Wait, where is Waldo? He’s back?”

  “I ran into him about a month and a half ago on the subway, and he gave me a call shortly thereafter.”

  “Just as you were getting diagnosed?”

  “Yeah. Perfect timing, right?”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, because I was so out of sorts. Normal me would have hemmed and hawed about whether or not to return his phone call, you know?” I nodded. “Cancer me was like, screw it. Carpe diem, sweater or no sweater. After all, who knows if sex will be the same after the hysterectomy? Emotionally, it certainly won’t be, that’s for sure.”

  “So it’s a sex thing with Nate?”

  “For the most part.”

  “Does he know about your cancer?”

  “Sarah, whispering the word ‘cancer’ does not make it not exist.”

  “Sorry.” I had morphed into my great-aunt Estelle. She couldn’t not whisper the words “cancer” or “black.”

  “I’m not fooling myself into thinking that he’s going to stick around after the fact. I mean, who would? We’re just sleeping together.”

  “Any guy would, Mona, if it was you.”

  “You’re sweet, Sarah, but let’s get real. It’s not going to be pretty after Wednesday.”

  “That’s why I’m here. So what does he say about it? Was it awkward to bring up?”

  “Ugh, I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m trying to set the mood, not kill it.” She stood up, avoiding my gaze. “And I love you, but seriously, I need you to take a hike tonight.”

  “For real? Like for the entire night?”

  “For real. Think of my uterus, Sarah. It’s her last hurrah.”

  “Fine. But where am I supposed to go?”

  “What about Kate and Ben’s place?”

  “Shit, I was supposed to call them from the airport this morning. I knew I forgot something.”

  “The baby is here now, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s a little over a month old, I think. Franklin.”

  “Franklin?”

  “Yeah, I like it. What, you don’t?”

  “I bet they’re super-adamant that no one calls him Frank, too. How are they doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. Exhausted.” I felt uncomfortable talking about babies with Mona. I could tell she did too. “Anyway, I’m sure it will be fine to stay with them. Maybe they could use an extra hand.”

  “I’m sure.” She took a big sip of her wine. “So, are you going to call them?”

  “Wow, you really want me out of here.”

  “It’s an unusual situation.”

  “I’ll say. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else’s uterus but yours. Pour me a glass of water, please, and I’ll make the call.”

  “You got it.”

  Wow, he is so small.”

  I knelt in front of Franklin, who was sleeping in what appeared to be an infant chaise lounge in the living room. He was the tiniest human I had ever seen. “How old is he now?”

  “Five weeks,” answered Kate, who was sprawled on the couch.

  “Five weeks,” I repeated. “Does it feel like five years?”

  “It feels like thirty-five years and five minutes at the same time, somehow.” She sat up. “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “Seven.”

  “Yes! Time for Mommy’s Percocet.”

  “Are you still in pain?”

  “No. Well yeah, but that’s not what the Percocet is for. It’s my happy pill.” She got up. “And don’t ask me if it’s okay for Franklin. The doctor prescribed it to me.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you that, Kate, I swear. Whatever gets you through the day. Or night, rather.”

  “Thanks. Sorry to be so defensive,” she called over her shoulder as she jogged down the hall to her bedroom. A drawer opened and shut and then she made her way back. “Ben is such a pain in the ass about it. He gives me these judgmental eyes whenever I take one. You have no idea how annoying it is.”

  “I can imagine. Josh gives me those same eyes when I eat Oreos for breakfast.” I stood up. “You mind if I grab a beer?”

  “Not at all. Sorry I’m such a terrible hostess, Sar.”

  “Kate, please. We’re family. I’m so sorry for my last-minute invasion. I want to help in any way I can, so just say the word. Diapers, bottles, whatever.”

  As I offered my services, I uttered a silent prayer that Kate did not, in fact, need help with any of those things. I hadn’t a clue. I opened my bottle and faced her. She was sprawled out again, this time with her eyes closed and a bemused expression on her face.

  “Hey, Kate, you okay?”

  She opened one eye. “So good. Just waiting for the happy bubbles to begin frothing.” She closed it again. “Please don’t sweat the guest thing. It’s nice to see another adult here. Makes me feel almost normal again. Almost. Let me tell you something. I love that little baby more than anything in the world, but this is the hardest job I have ever had.”

  Kate ran a catering company that she had built from scratch and now served what seemed to be every hipster wedding in the tristate area. She knew about hard work. I looked at Franklin again, who continued to doze peacefully, his tiny, sneaker-sock-clad feet crossed at the ankles.

  “And apparently, this is the easy part. At least that’s what all of my friends say.”

  “Wow. That’s a sobering thought.”

  “Sarah, do I look like shit?”

  “No way! You look great,” I replied.

  I had just told a lie. She did look pretty banged up. Beyond the general mushiness—after all, where did that extra skin go?—it was the circles under her eyes and the layer of gray film that appeared to enshroud her that were the most jarring. Bottom line, her appearance was certainly not doing anything to push me into the pro-having-a-baby camp.

  “Really? I don’t look like the grim reaper?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel better. By the way, are you guys trying?”

  “To have a baby?”

  “No, to look like shit. Yes, to have a baby.”

  “Sort of.” In his seat, Franklin began to move his limbs slowly, as though trapped in a Jell-O mold.

  “Looks like the little man is waking up,” said Kate. She sat up slowly and took a deep breath. “What do you mean, sort of? You’re off birth control but not peeing on sticks yet or anything?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Hi, baby,” she whispered, kneeling to unbuckle Franklin from his chair. He opened his eyes and stared at her coolly. “Hello,” she repeated, bringing him into her chest. I couldn’t get over how impossibly small he looke
d. Like a deflated football. “Do you mind if I breast-feed him now?”

  “Are you kidding? This is your house.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I feel like I have to ask. Less and less as time goes by, though. Can you hold him for a second while I get situated?” She handed him to me and I froze, holding him by his armpits like a wet puppy. I looked around for help, but Kate was busy arranging a plethora of pillows around her. Slowly, I brought him into me.

  “Do I hold him like this?” I asked. “Is this okay?”

  “Is he breathing?” Kate did not look up from settling herself into the nest she had amassed.

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’s fine.”

  I looked down into his face. Murky eyes with no discernible color, tiny eyebrows, a nose that turned up slightly and the pinkest lips I had ever seen. In my arms he felt like one of those baby dolls with a plastic head, hands, and feet and nothing but stuffed cotton everywhere in between.

  “Hello,” I whispered.

  “How do you like his receding hairline?” asked Kate, finally situated.

  “I guess we know what he’ll look like at forty,” I answered. I handed him gingerly to her, realizing that both of her enormous breasts were exposed, her nipples like mauve dinner plates. I tried to avert my eyes.

  “Yeah, he has Ben’s bald spot and everything. I guess that’s hereditary.” I watched her breast practically swallow Franklin’s head whole and had to check that my mouth wasn’t hanging open in disbelief. He latched on and sucked hungrily.

  “Crazy, right?” She looked at me and then back down again. I nodded. “Getting this to work was almost as painful as the birth. And I went natural.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. They don’t tell you that breast-feeding can be difficult at first in your birthing class. Or anywhere, for that matter. They make it seem like a goddamn Summer’s Eve ad or something—all Vaseline-smeared lenses and rose-colored twilight—but let me tell you, getting the hang of this is hell on wheels.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. But worth it, eventually. At least that’s what my mom friends say. I’m almost out of the woods, but it’s still not a walk in the park.”

  “Huh.” Part of me was intrigued and part of me would rather have been anywhere else.