Jason threw up his hands and went back inside as Ariel chanted, “Fuck alone! Fuck alone!”
Jason
Jason sat at the bar, drinking something called a Beijing Blue out of a giant plastic goblet haphazardly decorated with twirly straws, fruit slices and paper umbrellas. He sipped on his drink as he watched the women walk by. Many of them were in their thirties and forties, some leading small children whose faces were smeared with teriyaki sauce.
He saw a slender blonde woman in a pair of beige cropped pants. She looked a little like Christina from behind. The woman turned around and smiled at him. She must have sensed he was staring at her. He was officially the creepy guy drinking alone at a family restaurant. He rubbed his forehead and sighed.
Lauren came back into the restaurant with Ariel on her hip. She brought him to the back room and sent him in to sit with Matt, then walked back over to the bar and sat down next to Jason.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“No shit. In front of Ariel? That’s unlike you.”
She looked around, then turned back to him. “You have to promise not to tell anyone this.”
“Okay.”
“I cheated on Matt,” she said, massaging her temples and closing her eyes. “It wasn’t the first time, but for some reason, I just feel horrible. Worse than usual.”
Jason couldn’t help but smile. “This is amazing!”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m trying to confide in you.”
“Yeah, I know. But I mean, come on. You’re so holier-than-thou about relationships, you have to at least appreciate how tasty this is for me to hear. How were you able to cheat on Matt and then yell at me for cheating on Christina?” He tried to keep his voice down, but this was too juicy. He saw a middle-aged couple a few seats away from him staring.
“It’s different for men,” she said, lowering her voice. “Women haven’t been taught to treat men as objects. Men who cheat don’t view women as people. But women who cheat—I mean, we always do it for a reason.”
“There’s no good reason for cheating.”
“Are you kidding? You cheated on Christina. You’re admitting you never had a good reason?”
Jason sighed. “Of course I never had a good reason. I’m not the type of guy that should be married. Too selfish to give myself to another person.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Hey, don’t be an ass. You’re no better. Where did you even cheat on him? And with who?”
“A bartender at some bar during the bachelorette party. And...it was in the men’s bathroom.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“So what should I do?”
“Leave him. Do him a favor. Don’t turn him into Dad.”
Emily
“You know, you can get more than just coconut soup,” David said to Emily. “You weigh about ninety pounds.”
“One hundred and thirty two,” said Emily. Her stomach gurgled. She was hungry, but she saw that one of the waitresses had a cold sore and she didn’t want to risk it. She hadn’t even seen the people working in the kitchen. What if one of them had leprosy? Or that disease that turned a Bangladeshi man into a tree, which she kept seeing every time she watched TLC?
Steven rose and clinked his fork against his glass. “It has fallen to me to make the first toast of the evening. Emily, I love you very much, and I’m so happy for both you and David. Such an occasion is too momentous for mere words to do it justice, but poetry, I believe, can rise to the occasion.” He paused, waiting for a laugh that didn’t come. “Anyway, I’ll be reading an ancient poem by the Chinggisid prince Tsogtu. I don’t want to bore you about Tsogtu, but he was a great poet. I wrote one of my better-known articles about him. There is only one way to properly honor Tsogtu’s poetry: to read it as it was meant to be read, in its original language.”
He cleared his throat, and then began to recite the poem in Mongolian. He made a mistake after the first few lines, which forced him to start again from the beginning. After what felt like an hour, he nodded, adding, “I love you, Emily,” and sat down.
“Thank you, Steven, that was riveting,” Marla said, raising her glass. “Nobody here can deny that Emily has struggled more than your average young woman. I still recall the day that an ambulance arrived at our house after ten-year-old Emily was convinced that my husband ate a rotten sausage and needed to have his stomach pumped. And I’ll never forget the time that a thirteen-year-old Emily—deeply afflicted with body dysmorphic disorder but profoundly intelligent—wrote a manifesto inspired by Martin Luther, detailing the ninety-five reasons she believed I should buy her a nose job and breast implants. I never thought that any man would be able to handle Emily as David has. David is a man of character—the only man who ever dated Emily and didn’t break up with her within six months. If David can see Emily at her worst and love her no matter what he sees her say and do, I’m confident that their marriage is one that will last into Sheol and beyond.”
“What’s that?” David whispered to Emily.
“The Jewish afterlife,” she said. “She doesn’t believe in it.”
* * *
Emily woke up at three in the morning with a pain in her right calf. Or was it an ache? After years of Googling symptoms, she had yet to figure out the difference between the two. Muscle aches were painful, and this sensation was like that, but deeper. It was below the muscles. Nerves? What was below the muscles? Veins? Veins. Deep vein thrombosis.
She was used to her fears being unfounded, like the time she worried she had MS after her arm fell asleep from carrying a large bag of groceries, or the time she thought she had melanoma when she actually had a pimple, but this was different. This time she was in pain. And as for her risk factors, she had two: she recently took a long flight, and she was pregnant. She had been on birth control during her pregnancy too—that would be double estrogen, which would double the risk—right? How could she not have known this? Why hadn’t she done something? Was there anything she could do? It was the silent killer, after all. Silent killers were never truly that preventable. She breathed in and felt a stabbing pain in her chest, similar to the pain in her leg. It had spread to her lungs. She would be dead within an hour.
“David,” she whispered. She nudged his arm and he woke up. His hair was sweaty and messy. He squinted.
“What?”
“My leg is killing me. It’s deep vein thrombosis. I’ve read about it and that’s definitely what it is. And now I have chest pain. I need to go to the ER.”
“It’ll pass, Em. This is another one of your...things.”
“No, I really need to go. Come with me, babe. I can’t do this alone.”
“You want me to drive you to the ER at three in the morning because your leg hurts?”
“It’s deep vein thrombosis! And now it’s a pulmonary embolism.”
“I remember last time you freaked out about this. This only happens to old people. You’re fine.”
“And women on estrogen! And sometimes for no reason at all!”
“It’s so rare. I don’t know anyone it’s happened to.”
“You’re about to.”
Emily heard footsteps. Lauren peeked in, wearing a big T-shirt and a pair of men’s boxers.
“What’s going on? I heard yelling.”
“I am having a health emergency.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! My leg is throbbing like crazy and I’m having chest pains. I’m having a pulmonary embolism. I could die any second. What is wrong with both of you?”
Lauren exchanged glances with David, then looked back at Emily. “This is unhealthy,” she said.
“No shit. It’s the silent killer!”
“I mean your mental illness.”
“So people with mental illness never also get pulmonary embolisms? You so
und like Mom.”
Lauren turned to David. “We should probably take her to the ER just in case. If she doesn’t figure out what this is, just imagine what a shit show tomorrow is going to be.”
“It’ll be a bigger shit show if I’m dead,” Emily said.
David lifted himself from his butt doughnut and groggily limped out of bed. Jason appeared at the door. “Why’s everybody up?”
“I’m dying,” Emily said.
“What the fuck?”
“She thinks she’s having a pulmonary embolism,” Lauren said. “It’s probably one of her usual delusions, but we’re taking her to the hospital just in case.”
“Fuck, for real?” Jason looked borderline concerned, which was validating for Emily to see, but also a little worrisome. She almost preferred it when people said she was crazy. At this point, any reaction any person could have would have upset her on some level.
“Yes, for real,” Lauren said. “But like I said, she’s probably fine. Don’t you remember the phantom appendicitis of Christmas ’99?”
“Good memory,” Jason said. “I’ll come with you guys anyway.”
* * *
On the way to the hospital, Emily firmly pressed her hand into her chest and breathed in and out.
“It’s probably just muscle tension,” David said.
“How soon would you remarry if I died tonight?” Her eyes were welling up.
“Why would I dignify that question? You’re not dying!”
“David, let it go,” Lauren said. “Em, how do you feel?”
“Like I’m happy that at least in my final hour, I’m around the people I love.” Emily sniffled.
* * *
“Hi, I think I may be having a pulmonary embolism,” she said to the ER receptionist, a fiftysomething South Asian woman wearing pink scrubs with Care Bears on them. She gave Emily a suspicious look. Emily had a history of arousing the skepticism of medical professionals with her self-diagnoses. Memorably, she had once told a therapist that she was concerned about developing Cotard’s Delusion, a mental illness that causes someone to think they’re dead despite being alive.
“Are you a nurse?” Emily followed up.
“I just check you in. Can I have your insurance card and ID?”
She handed them over. “This is an emergency, right? So I’m technically covered even though I have a shit HMO that shouldn’t even be legal?”
The receptionist ignored her question. “Have you been to West Africa recently?”
“No! I’m not here for Ebola, I’m here for a pulmonary embolism! How long will this take?” She knew she sounded rude, but she didn’t care. She was dying!
The woman began typing Emily’s information, seemingly in slow motion. Emily looked around the waiting room. A young woman wearing big earmuffs was curled into the fetal position on two chairs arranged to form a makeshift bed.
“Why don’t you go sit down?” David rubbed her back. “This is just your anxiety. Take some deep breaths. Lauren will handle the insurance stuff.”
Almost as soon as she sat down, a nurse called for her. He was in his early sixties, and looked like a washed-up English rock star, with an earring in his left ear, square black glasses and a fringe of frizzy white hair encircling an otherwise bald head. She would not have thought he was a nurse if it hadn’t been for his scrubs. For a moment, she wondered if he was a domestic terrorist posing as a nurse, part of a larger plot to sabotage the nation’s health-care system. That would happen to her—it was so typical.
Emily and David followed him to an examination room. He took her blood pressure.
“Can you tell if I’m having a pulmonary embolism?”
“What are your symptoms?”
“My chest hurts when I breathe, on my right side, and my leg is throbbing.”
He nodded. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“How long do I have?”
“How long?”
“Before I die?”
David shook his head and stared at the ground.
The nurse gave her a patronizing look. “Judging by your age, probably fifty, sixty years. Although by the time you get older, who knows what advancements will be made in the medical field?”
“I mean before the pulmonary embolism kills me.”
“I don’t think you have that. You’re able to speak just fine, and you don’t seem to be short of breath. Just in case, though, let’s get you an EKG.” He extended a ruddy hand with tattooed crosses on the knuckles and helped her stand up.
She lay on an examination table with electrodes taped to her skin. As the test began, Emily saw her heartbeat represented on a scrolling piece of paper unfurling from the machine. She saw a lot of harsh, sharp lines. That looked scary. The doctor, a petite redheaded woman with glasses who appeared no older than twenty-five, read the results. This woman terrified Emily for two reasons: if she was really so young, how could she be trusted to do this right? And if she wasn’t that young, why the hell wasn’t Emily aging as well as she was?
“Your heartbeat is normal,” she said. “You clearly don’t have a pulmonary embolism.”
“Thank goodness,” she said. “Can I go home?” She saw David’s face light up.
“No, we should do an X-ray,” the doctor said, in a monotone voice, her eyes glued to her clipboard. “You said you were experiencing chest pains.”
“What else could I have?”
“Oh, I don’t want to scare you. But chest pains could be anything. The heart, obviously. But also the lungs. Pneumonia, bronchitis, abscess, lung puncture, lung cancer...” For a second, she reminded Emily of a young female version of her father. Had Steven impregnated some other woman twenty-odd years ago to create this one-note, emotionless woman? Maybe that was what spurred on the affair with Abe. Emily shook the thought out of her head.
“This is insane,” David said. “She obviously doesn’t have any of that stuff. This whole thing is psychosomatic.”
“Let’s order an X-ray just to be safe,” the doctor said, looking at her chart. “Okay, date of birth?”
“February 15, 1990.”
“Can you repeat that for me? Ninety?”
“Yes, I fucking know I look older than my age—I said it right.”
“Emily, calm down,” David said.
The doctor seemed unfazed. “I’m surprised. I assumed you were in college. When was your last chest X-ray?”
“Gosh. I can’t remember. Do I really look like I’m in college?”
“Last February,” David offered. He looked at her. “When you thought you had myocarditis, remember?”
“Oh, right.” She turned back to the doctor. “Seriously though, did someone tell you to say that?”
“No. Are you on any medication?” She adjusted her glasses.
“Benadryl, when I fly. And I’m not flying now, obviously, so nothing.”
“What about your birth control pills?” David asked.
Emily’s throat tightened. “Oh, right. Um, birth control pills.”
“That takes care of my next question,” she said. “But I have to ask anyway: Are you pregnant?”
Emily felt her throat tighten. She looked at David, and then she had to look away.
DAY 7
Emily
WHEN SHE WAS LITTLE, Emily liked to dream about her wedding day. She always imagined her dress as a bright white lacy number with pastel rainbow-colored bows and big puffed sleeves, like those Velcro-fastened gowns her Barbies wore. She would have flower girls and bridesmaids in the double digits, wearing dresses the color of Easter eggs. The groom would be built like one of Jason’s G.I. Joes but with neatly coiffed blond hair and blue eyes. He would wear a baby blue tuxedo with a pink flower on it. The cake would have ten tiers, icing roses and a bride and groom on top.
What she
hadn’t imagined was that she would wake up on the morning of her wedding without her groom in bed next to her, and with no idea where he was.
It had been a long ride home from the emergency room. David had glumly gotten into bed with her and said that he’d talk about it in the morning. Now it was morning and he was gone.
Emily found Marla in the kitchen making coffee, wearing a sheer beige kimono over a pair of linen pants that could have passed for breezy beachwear or pajamas.
“Have you seen David?” Emily asked.
“He went out.” She motioned toward the door.
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“No.”
“Oh, great.”
Marla opened a container of yogurt. “What are you having a fit about?”
“Mom, it’s my wedding day and I don’t know where the groom is. I think I’m allowed to be upset.”
Marla shook her head. “So I guess today’s all about you, isn’t it? I’m starting to wonder if you inherited some narcissistic traits from my mother.”
“I’m Elsa!” Ariel shouted.
“No, you’re not!” Mia shouted. “I’m Elsa!”
The kids started wrestling on the nursery carpet. Jason and Lauren sprung to attention to separate them.
“Mia, stop!” Jason said. “Don’t pull your cousin’s hair!”
“It’s a wig!” Mia said as she tugged on Ariel’s hair. “He’s a boy.”
“Boys have long hair sometimes, Mia,” Lauren said calmly. “Ariel, set boundaries. Tell her that contact is not something you consent to.”
“I don’t consent to this,” Ariel said. Mia didn’t seem to understand. She kept pulling his hair. Ariel pushed her and she fell backward. Mia paused for a moment, then cried hysterically once she realized everyone was looking at her.
Emily appeared in the doorway. “Guys, I need your help.”
Jason picked up Mia. “What’s up?”
“I can’t find David, and Mom is acting like a complete cunt.”
“Are we going to Cunt today?” Ariel asked, jumping up and down.
“No. I’m talking to Auntie Emily.” Lauren turned back to Emily. “Go on.”
Family and Other Catastrophes Page 25
