The Cast

by Amy Blumenfeld

  “Bring it on!” I said. For twenty minutes, I waited for Holly to start lecturing or interrogating me as she plied me with a smorgasbord of baked goods. Tarts, pies, cookies, and breads were lined up on the counter, each one more mouthwatering than the next. I stood there, nibbling away, wondering when she would start in on me—but she never did.

  “Thank you,” I said, wiping my lips. Though I suspected she interpreted this as gratitude for her pastries, I hoped she could sense my appreciation for her mercy as well.

  “Thank you! You’re my guinea pig,” she said cheerfully, and then suddenly winced and leaned against the edge of the granite counter.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, stepping toward her. She nodded as she exhaled slowly through her mouth. “Here,” I said, running to the dining area and dragging a chair to the center of the kitchen. I held her elbow, eased her into a seated position, and then grabbed a throw pillow from the living room sofa to place behind her back. I could feel the sweat begin to bead on my forehead as I handed her a glass of water. I didn’t want anything going awry on my watch. “You want me to wake Adam?” I asked, dabbing sweat from my upper lip. “I should probably wake him, right? He’d want to know. I mean, I’d want to know. I’m gonna wake him. Okay?” I was babbling nervously.

  “It’s okay, really. Let him sleep,” she whispered, as she stroked her belly. “I’m still a few weeks away from delivery. Don’t worry. They’re just Braxton-Hicks—practice contractions. They’ll pass in a minute or two.”

  The pain seemed to be subsiding as quickly as it had come on.

  “So, uh, how’s the bakery biz?” I asked.

  “Forget about me, Nolan,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  Shit. “Oh, I’m fine,” I said. I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms across my chest.

  She raised her eyebrows and looked up at me from her chair.

  “Listen, go lie down. Take care of yourself. You have enough going on right now; you don’t need to stay up and try to make me feel better.”

  “But I want to,” she said kindly. “Becca’s my friend, but you’re my friend, too.”

  For a solid minute, we sat in silence as I gathered my thoughts. Part of me yearned to remain quiet and keep the anger, confusion, and fear to myself. I didn’t want to talk about my problems. On the other hand, never had I felt such a sense of impending eruption.

  “I feel like everything I do and say is wrong, even if I don’t intend it to be,” I finally said. “Like no matter what, I come off sounding like an asshole.”

  “You’re not an asshole,” she said.

  “I feel like I am. Becca deserves to have people support and empower her, not confuse and frustrate her. She’s like a freakin’ rock, resilient as hell. And I’m the jerk who’s bringing her down, unintentionally fucking with her mind and weakening her at a time when she needs to stay strong—and all because I won’t lie. I have to tell her how I truly feel. But what do you do when honesty and supporting the person you love contradict each other?”

  “Have you told her all of this?”

  “We’re too far gone. The damage is done. Honestly, at this point I think she deserves someone way better than me.”

  “So, what’s holding you back?” Holly asked.

  “Holding me back from what?”

  “From being that person. The one you think is better than you?”

  I shrugged. “From the moment we met, I have been loyal, devoted, and committed to this relationship. Honesty has been our bedrock. I’m not going to change that now. How can I not be truthful about my feelings to the person I love the most, especially during a moment of crisis? I don’t know if this proves that I’m shallow, or an ass, or what—all I know is that I thought I could handle this, but now I’m not so sure. She deserves someone who can. She deserves a better”—I cleared my throat—“a better man.”

  A wave of nausea came over me as I realized that I’d failed to be the man my wife needed and merited.

  “Nolan,” Holly said, “through all of this fertility crap Adam and I have been dealing with, you two were my inspiration. When we had no control over all those failed IVF treatments, do you know what I thought of?”

  I shook my head.

  “I thought of Becca in that hospital room when we were kids, fighting such a valiant battle; you and Emma were her ultimate prizes.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, but—”

  “You know what else I thought about?” she asked, cutting me off. “I thought about how the two of you weathered that surrogacy process, and all the stresses that came with it, with such grace. You kept your priorities in focus and made it through. Stronger for it, I might add.”

  “I know, but honestly, this feels different. I don’t know how to handle this,” I said, feeling my throat tighten.

  “Why?” she asked, adjusting her position in the chair.

  My eyes stung, and I glared at the counter. I noticed a water ring and began rubbing it out with my thumb.

  “Why is this different?” she asked again.

  “Because,” I said, “I’m fucking scared!”

  I looked up to gauge her reaction, and she nodded sympathetically.

  “I don’t know how to do this . . . this illness thing,” I said. “I naively assumed it was all in the past. I swear, I believed all those caveats about long-term repercussions were the equivalent of fine-print legal warnings that you acknowledge but know are improbable. I was sure that part of her life was over—like cancer was Act One and I arrived at intermission, in time for the uplifting Act Two. But what if there is no happy ending?” My voice cracked. “What if she dies? Holly, what am I going to do if she dies? How am I going to raise Emma as a single dad?”

  “She’s going to be okay.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said reproachfully. Tears stung my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but they spilled onto my cheek. I ripped a paper towel off the roll beside the sink and dried them.

  “No, I don’t,” she said somberly. “It’s a legitimate concern. I think about it, too. We all do. I mean, look at us: Seth, Lex, Jordana, and me. We’re up here on this particular weekend, of this particular year, for a reason. You think I’d schlep my pregnant, hemorrhoidal tuchas up here for anyone else? It’s because the four of us were collateral damage then and still are now. In some way, shrapnel from the explosion of Becca’s illness hit all of us. Hard. It was horrible. Seeing her that sick robbed each of us of our childhood innocence. There was no blissful ignorance after we presented her with that tape in the hospital. We thought it was our goodbye, and that we were sending her along to the next life with a smile on her face. The concept of ‘young and immortal’ completely flew out the window for us. We were all permanently scarred. Honestly, I don’t think Jordana has ever recovered.”

  I looked away. It was hard to listen to this. Of course I had heard the stories over the years, and they’d always saddened me. I couldn’t be more proud of my wife’s strength and fortitude, but I often cringed when anyone reminisced about that time. Envisioning the hospital room and picturing her friends and family at her bedside made me feel useless and peripheral, despite my status as her husband.

  And then, improbably, Holly said, “Welcome.”

  “Welcome? To what?”

  “The Cast. The story line may be different, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are also a victim of what happened all those years ago. You got hit, too. Think of it this way: you’re just one of those stars who arrived in a later season. It’s like we’re the originals—Gilda, Jane, Lorraine, and Bill Murray—and you’re, I don’t know, Steve Martin? Mike Myers?”

  I chuckled. “Jimmy Fallon?”

  “Perfect. Jimmy Fallon it is,” Holly said. “The point is that you’re not alone, Nolan. We’re always going to be here. Season after season. We’re like the cast that never retires.”

  “Great!” I moaned sarcastically, and rolled my eyes.

  “All right. I’m gonna tr
y to get some sleep. Doubt it will work, but I’m gonna try.” She reached for the edge of the counter and pulled herself to her feet.

  After Holly waddled down the hall and closed her bedroom door, I wiped up the crumbs we had sprinkled across the island and washed the empty soup bowls Becca and I had left in the sink.

  When I returned the soup spoons to their proper spots, I accidentally opened a kitchen drawer that did not contain utensils. As it shut in slow, “soft-close” motion, I noticed an old VHS tape, a DVD, and an envelope with Becca’s name, held together by a rubber band.

  Though I knew no one was awake, I looked over my shoulder as I carefully removed the items from the drawer. Both the VHS tape and the DVD were labeled with the initials BNL. The envelope with her name across the front was sealed, but I knew it was from Jordana, since her return address was embossed on the stationery. Normally, I wouldn’t invade Jordana’s privacy, but I felt compelled to snoop.

  I cracked the bedroom door where Becca was sleeping, grabbed my messenger bag, and crept back to the great room to unpack my laptop on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. I inserted the DVD, plugged in my earbuds, propped myself up on the throw pillows, and lay back with the computer on my belly.

  As soon as the DVD began, with its vintage picture quality and elongated shot of a pilling couch in a wood-paneled basement, I knew immediately that this was a copy of the original Becca Night Live that Jordana had told me she’d made in advance of the reunion.

  I had seen Becca Night Live only once—that July Fourth in her studio apartment when we had just started dating. My take-away back then was that it was just a bunch of silly skits performed by some goofball friends who were undoubtedly devoted to, and beloved by, her. But now I knew the people those kids had grown into. Now, the sight of a pudgy, adolescent Seth stuffing his gray sweatshirt with toilet paper rolls for muscles was side-splitting, as was the discovery that he had been one of those kids whose saliva gathered in little pools at the corners of this mouth when he spoke. And watching Lex sing Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” bedecked in hot-pink lace, bangs sprayed several inches above her forehead, was not only entertaining but enlightening—her edge and sass were detectable even then.

  When the novelty of witnessing everyone circa early 1990s wore off, I began to see new subtleties. I noticed Jordana sulking in the corner unless she thought she was on camera, in which case she suddenly turned on and lit up with an ersatz grin. I saw Lex clearly take on the role of the upbeat leader wanting to direct and organize. And then there was Holly, smiling warmly throughout the ninety-minute production, her sweetness as palpable as it was now.

  When Becca shared the video with me in college, I viewed it as a relic from my girlfriend’s past. It was touching, but only marginally more meaningful than if she had shown me her childhood soccer trophies or pictures from a junior high school yearbook. But knowing what I knew now—how draining and scary it had been for her friends to deliver that tape to her hospital room, how transformative and indelible the experience of buoying her spirits had been for all of them—I saw that the video was much more than a bunch of kids goofing around with a Sony Handycam.

  I watched the whole thing, including every last handwritten credit that scrolled by. At the very end, someone put the cap on the lens but neglected to turn off the camera. I could hear The Cast shuffle away, and then, once they were out of earshot, the sound of a man’s voice became clear. I turned up the volume and felt certain it was Mr. Lefkowitz.

  “I can’t bear to watch them filming down there,” he said.

  “I’ve cried nearly every day since that child was diagnosed,” I heard Mrs. Lefkowitz say. “I don’t know how Arlene and Jerry do it.”

  And that’s how the video ended. I shut the laptop, placed the DVD, cassette, and envelope back in the kitchen drawer, and checked on Becca in the bedroom. It was 3:00 a.m. She was sound asleep. I crawled into bed and spooned against my wife’s back.

  “I love you,” I whispered into her hair, the way we often did with Emma when she was curled up with her blanket and we wanted to breathe her in but not wake her. And, just like her daughter, Becca remained still. Though I had seen her sleep soundly countless times, in that moment I was overcome with a profound and unsettling sense of loneliness. I missed my wife desperately. I missed us.

  How did her family do it? I wondered, thinking back to Mrs. Lefkowitz’s voice at the end of the tape. In all the years I had known my in-laws, we had never discussed their experience. I never asked, and they never volunteered. The topic of Becca’s illness was hardly taboo, but when it was raised, it was usually as a reference point—an era in their family’s history known as When Becca Was Sick.

  Too wired to sleep, I crept out of bed and retreated to the living room couch. I grabbed a newspaper from the stack in the wicker basket beside the suede sofa and opened up to the “Hunt” column in the New York Times Real Estate section. Like addicts, week after week Becca and I turned excitedly to it to see how people navigated their search for the ideal home. Would a gorgeous facade reveal a total shithole? Would prospective buyers jump on a sun-flooded, “mint-condition” apartment despite the four-floor walk-up and vents that wafted in Chinese takeout from the restaurant downstairs? It didn’t make a difference whose quest was featured; it was the process of getting to the finish line that fascinated us. It was a quintessential study in human nature and decision making. Anyone could dream, but no one got it all. There was always a compromise, a perpetual give and take. And it was interesting to see where and how people drew their lines.

  About a paragraph into a story about a couple getting priced out of Brooklyn and settling for a more affordable space on the West Side, I could no longer concentrate. The apartment was next to our favorite playground, and it reminded me of Emma. I wished my phone were working so I could pull up some of our home movies. Those videos were priceless and always ignited a flutter in my heart, a tear in my eye, or a snort of laughter. Just a couple of minutes could cure any ailment. And then it occurred to me. All this time I had been searching for an intervention—a purple road map from Harold, or restorative nourishment from my mother. But maybe I didn’t need any of that. Maybe Holly was right—it was my season to join The Cast.

  Chapter 17: Holly

  “Adam,” I said, with as much control as I could muster while digging my nails into the side of the mattress. In through the nose, out through the mouth, I reminded myself. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was 5:00 a.m. Just breathe. “Adam,” I said again, more loudly this time. “Wake up!”

  My husband’s head shot off the pillow like a bullet, lifting his torso ninety degrees into a seated position.

  “What? What is it?” he gasped, vigorously rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Is it the baby? Is it time?” he asked, panic spreading across his face. Adam had always been a fairly laid-back guy—a biblical scholar and frustrated drummer who was perfectly content with a day job as the delivery guy for his wife’s bakery. But when I became pregnant, a switch flipped. At first I found his new, protective nature charming. But as the due date approached and his anxiety grew, he became almost overbearing. He jumped out of bed and changed his clothes so quickly, I would have guessed he’d run practice drills.

  “I don’t know if this is labor, but we should get to a hospital to make sure,” I said slowly, hoping my enunciation would allay his tattered nerves. I refrained from explaining that a trip to the ER had been the recommendation of my ob-gyn, whom I’d just called because I was experiencing some mild but unusual cramping. I thought for sure the doctor would downplay it. But then he asked me when I had last felt the baby move. I said I couldn’t recall. I told him that I’d been distracted in the Berkshires and not as observant as usual. The double entendre of that statement hit me as soon as it left my mouth.

  After tenderly easing me onto my feet, Adam threw my purse over his shoulder, grabbed his wallet, keys, and Tehillim (book of psalms), and guided me o
ut of the bedroom, his hand on my lower back. We walked through the quiet great room, dimly lit by the early stages of sunrise, as well as by tiny pendant lights dangling over the kitchen island. As our footsteps sounded across the plank floors, Jordana spun around at the kitchen sink.

  “Hey, what are you guys doing up so early?” she asked, wiping her hands on her sweatpants. She had already set the table for brunch and was in the middle of arranging a fruit platter. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s probably just gas,” I said, forcing a smile and trying to avoid drama. But while I spoke, I was clutching my belly. Everything in me wanted to hold on to this pregnancy and suppress the nightmare of a stillbirth—a scenario that had taken my mind hostage since that phone call thirty minutes earlier.

  “You’re not going home, are you?” Jordana asked endearingly, her hand on her chest.

  “No,” I said. “We’re just going to the nearest hospital.”

  Jordana didn’t even let my words settle before she reacted. “I’m driving you,” she said, already sliding into her Birkenstocks. “The closest hospital is easily a half-hour away. Let’s go.”

  “No, Jordana. Thank you, but you have all these guests. Please. Stay here and—” A mild cramp hit. I winced and squeezed Adam’s forearm.

  “We need to leave right now,” Adam said urgently. “Yes, please, J, will you drive us?”

  Even in pain, I was a wee bit peeved by his use of J, but I was also enormously grateful he’d said yes.

  Jordana plucked her keys from a dish by the front door. The three of us piled into her Range Rover. I sat in the fully reclined front passenger seat, Adam in the back, hovering above my face like a drone. He’d stroke my hair and I’d swat him away, too uncomfortable to be touched. He’d apologize, I’d apologize. He’d touch me again, I’d swat his hand away, again. This cycle continued for the thirty-minute ride until we pulled up to the Berkshire Medical Center.