The Man of My Dreams

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  Yesterday at their last session, which Dr. Lewin let run over by an unprecedented eight minutes, Hannah wrote her a check that had two softly lit frolicking yellow Lab puppies superimposed on the “pay to the order of” section. “I know you probably don’t care,” Hannah said, “but I just want to say, obviously these aren’t my usual checks, and the reason I have them is I ran out of normal ones but there was no point in getting another whole set since I’ll be opening a new bank account in Chicago, so they just gave me a bunch of samples. See, they don’t have my address.” Hannah ripped the check from the book and held it out, and Dr. Lewin glanced at it for half a second before taking it. Then Hannah extended the whole book; now the check on top featured an orangutan with a forearm resting atop his head, his right armpit on full display. “Look,” Hannah said. “This one is even worse.”

  “Hannah.” Dr. Lewin stood, and her voice seemed to contain both fondness and a kind of warning. “I know you well enough to know you’d never order checks with furry animals on them.”

  Hannah stood, too. She should have brought Dr. Lewin a present of some sort, she thought. Did clients do that on bidding farewell? Fancy chocolates might have worked, or a geranium. “Thank you for meeting with me ever since I was a freshman in college,” Hannah said. This felt absurdly inadequate.

  “It was a privilege.” Dr. Lewin reached out and squeezed Hannah’s hand—more than a handshake, less than a hug. “I want you to take care of yourself, Hannah, and I want you to let me know how things turn out.”

  “I definitely will.” Hannah nodded several times before saying goodbye and turning to walk outside into the stifling heat, without her sweater.

  IT’S AFTER FOUR o’clock when Hannah says, “I kind of need to pee, so if you want to take one of the next few exits, that would be great.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t snack so much, you wouldn’t need to pee so often,” Allison says.

  It’s not untrue that Hannah has been snacking most of the afternoon, but that’s because Allison didn’t want to stop for lunch, after they already didn’t have breakfast. “Can’t you just buy something here?” Allison asked when they last got gas, so Hannah gathered up pretzels, caramel popcorn, and a little packet of cheese and crackers. The cheese was the texture of mud and came with a red plastic stick for spreading.

  “It’s not food that makes you pee,” Hannah says. “It’s drinks.”

  “It’s food, too,” Allison says, and before Hannah can respond, Allison adds, “This is a stupid conversation.”

  “Fine,” Hannah says, “but unless you want me to wet my pants, you have to stop.”

  At the gas station, Allison uses the bathroom after Hannah does (See, Hannah thinks, you needed to go, too), and when her sister emerges, Hannah says, “Want me to drive?” She hopes Allison will say no. Besides the unwieldiness of the truck, they’ve just passed signs for construction up ahead.

  “Sure,” Allison says. As she hands Hannah the keys, she says, “Watch the temperature gauge. If the traffic gets too slow, we should probably turn off the AC.”

  The worst part, as Hannah expected, is the lack of rearview visibility. The second worst part is sheer size. It has never occurred to her until now that whenever she sees one of these move-it-yourself trucks on the road, there’s a strong possibility that it’s being driven by someone as incompetent as she is. No matter who gets in front of her, she thinks, she’s definitely staying in the right-hand lane.

  Allison mashes up her sweatshirt and presses it against the window, then sets her head against it and closes her eyes. Thanks for the moral support, Hannah thinks, but after a few minutes, she’s glad her sister is asleep, or at least faking it; Hannah can get her bearings without an audience. The one good part of the truck is height. Really, way up here, how can anyone not start to feel superior to some little Honda?

  About forty-five minutes have passed, and Hannah has settled into the rhythm of the road (the first round of construction turned out not to be lengthy) when something—a thing that is brownish and has a tail, a neither large nor small thing—scurries in front of the truck. “Oh my God,” Hannah says aloud and then, almost immediately, she has run over it: a low bump under the left wheels. She brings her hand up to her mouth, making a fist in front of her lips. “Allison, are you awake?”

  Allison stirs. “Where are we?”

  “I think I just ran over a possum or a raccoon. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Just now you did?”

  “Should I turn around?”

  Allison sits up straighter. “You don’t do anything,” she says. “You keep driving.”

  “But what if it’s not fully dead? What if it’s suffering?”

  Allison shakes her head. “You still don’t do anything—it would be really unsafe. Have you never hit roadkill before?”

  “It’s not like I drive that much.”

  “Are you sure you even hit it? Did you see it in the rearview mirror?”

  “I hit it,” Hannah says.

  “Then don’t think about it.” Allison’s voice is nice but firm. “This happens all the time—did you see that deer on the median a couple hours ago? That was a lot worse than any possum.”

  “Have you ever hit something?”

  “I think so.” Allison yawns. “I actually don’t remember, which must mean I’m not as compassionate as you are.”

  “You’re the one who’s a vegetarian.”

  “Well, I’ve never eaten roadkill, if that’s what you’re asking. Really, Hannah, quit thinking about it. Do you want me to drive?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I promise it’s not a big deal. I bet the critter had a good life, and now it’s gone on to a better place.”

  They’re quiet—I’m sorry, possum, Hannah thinks—and then Allison says, “You know what I was kind of thinking about while I was asleep? Remember the Mexican restaurant we used to get that seven-layer salad from? Mom would pick it up for us if she and Dad were going to a dinner party or something, but actually in no way was it a salad—it was like sour cream on top of cheese on top of beef on top of guacamole.”

  At the same time, Hannah says, “Yeah, that was good,” and Allison says, “It’s amazing how unhealthily we ate when we were little.”

  “It did have lettuce,” Hannah says.

  “Barely. And that beef was nasty. I can’t believe I ever ate meat.” Allison and Sam now eat almost exclusively organic food, and this, Hannah realizes, must be the subtext of Allison’s comments—the miracle of her growing up to be such a wise and authentic person in spite of a childhood spent chowing on pesticides and hydrogenated oils. There are products Hannah didn’t even know you could buy organic versions of until she saw them in Allison and Sam’s apartment: ketchup, say, or pasta.

  “You know what you loved, though?” Hannah says. “That super-greasy pizza from the place on Lancaster Avenue.”

  “Oh, that place was the best. You’re right. And I was obsessed with the bread sticks—I thought they were really classy for some reason.”

  “It was the dipping sauce,” Hannah says. “Because Mom told us about fondue, remember? We thought we were like Parisians sitting in a bistro. So why were you in such a bad mood before?”

  “When was I in a bad mood?”

  “You mean besides for the last five hours?”

  “Hannah, you have to admit you could have been more responsible about getting directions to the hospital.”

  In Allison’s voice, Hannah can hear the bad mood again. She shouldn’t have brought it up, especially when she’s just pulled Allison back from the precipice of organic righteousness and into a reverie about the bleached carbs of their youth. “Aren’t you starving right now?” Hannah asks. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

  “I haven’t been that hungry,” Allison says, and for the first time, it occurs to Hannah that Allison could be upset about something having nothing to do with Hannah, that Allison’s foul humor could be more than sibling annoyance. Und
er stress—it’s inconceivable to Hannah—Allison loses her appetite.

  Hannah thinks of saying What’s wrong? Instead, she says, “There’s some popcorn left.” She gestures toward the seat between them.

  “I’m really not hungry. Besides, we’ll stop for dinner soon enough.” Allison yawns again. “Has anyone ever told you that you grip the wheel like a little old lady?”

  “You have.”

  “Well, you do. I should call you Esther. Or maybe Myrtle. I can see you as a Myrtle. ”

  Hannah glances across the seat. “Would it be rude,” she says, “if I told you I liked you better when you were asleep?”

  THAT NIGHT THEY stay at a motel outside Buffalo, Hannah’s treat, if a Days Inn in western New York can be considered a treat. Allison’s cell phone rings while they are watching television before bed. It is Sam. First he apparently holds up the phone to Isabel’s ear.

  “Mommy misses you so much, Izzie,” Allison says. “Mommy can’t wait to see you again.”

  Not for the first time, Hannah is struck by her sister’s generous and unself-conscious affection for her daughter. Clearly, Allison is a good mother and also, she is lucky. Has time ever elapsed between Allison being aware she wants something and the thing becoming hers? That she got married, and that she now has a child—it all seems like proof that Allison is loved, Allison’s life is proceeding apace. What Allison desires is normal and appropriate.

  After saying good night to Isabel, Allison says in her adult tone, “Yeah, just hold on a second.” She stands, walks into the bathroom, and closes the door. Does she think Hannah is going to eavesdrop? Besides the fact that eavesdropping is unavoidable, that is—does Allison think Hannah is still thirteen and infinitely titillated by everything her older sister does?

  The worst part is that Allison’s coyness makes Hannah curious; it brings out her inner thirteen-year-old. They’ve been watching a sitcom, and at the next commercial, Hannah mutes the television and lifts her head off the pillow. At first she can hear only voice, no distinct words, but there does seem to be an edge to Allison’s tone. Are they fighting? What would Allison and Sam fight about? Then, loudly and unmistakably, Allison says, “At some point I’m not sure it even matters if it’s true.” She pauses. “No. No. Sam, I’m not the one—” He must be interrupting her, and when she speaks again, it’s incomprehensible.

  The television show comes back on, which feels like a sign to Hannah to stop listening. She turns on the volume. Surely, after this, Allison will not pretend that nothing is wrong, but she stays on the phone for so long that Hannah falls asleep before her sister emerges from the bathroom.

  THEY’RE JUST WEST of South Bend, Indiana, and about to start their fourth round of twenty questions—a game they have not played, quite possibly, for twenty years—when Allison’s cell phone rings again. It is three o’clock, overcast but even hotter than yesterday, and Hannah is driving. She is trying to suppress a rising anxiety at the appearance of more and more signs for Chicago. Ninety-one miles, the last one said, and they’ve agreed they’ll switch places when they get to forty. They will drive straight to Hannah’s new apartment—which she rented sight unseen—unpack with Henry’s help, and return the moving truck tonight. Allison’s flight back to San Francisco is tomorrow afternoon.

  “Is it a woman?” Allison asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she famous?”

  “Yes,” Hannah says. “You can answer your phone, by the way.”

  “That’s all right. Is she an actress?”

  “No.”

  “Is she a politician?”

  “Not really, but I won’t count that one.”

  “That’s not fair. She either is or she isn’t.”

  “Then she’s not.”

  “Is she living?”

  “No. That was question five.”

  “Is she American?” Allison asks, and her cell phone starts ringing anew.

  “Yes. Really, answer it. I don’t mind.”

  Allison pulls the phone from her purse, looks at the ID on the screen, and puts the phone away.

  “Who is it?” Hannah says, and Allison ignores her.

  “Okay, so, female, dead, American, not a politician but sort of. Is it Harriet Tubman?”

  “You aren’t already pregnant again, are you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Should I take that as a no on Harriet?”

  “Is this about Sam’s brother being in love with you?” Hannah asks. “Is that what it is?”

  “The only person who ever thought Elliot was in love with me was you. He had a tiny crush on me before Sam and I got married, and that was years ago.”

  “Then did Sam cheat on you? If he did, I could maybe cut off his balls.”

  “That’s very sweet, Hannah. I’ll keep it in mind. Okay, I’ve got it—is it Amelia Earhart?”

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Why do you assume something is going on?”

  “Because I’m not a complete idiot. You never tell me anything. I’ll tell you something. You want to know the real reason I’m moving to Chicago? You know Henry, the guy who’s helping us unload the truck? I think he’s the love of my life.”

  Allison is quiet at first, and then she says, “You’re dating Fig’s ex-boyfriend?”

  Right—this is the reason Hannah shouldn’t try explaining herself to other people.

  “I’m not dating him,” Hannah says. “But we’re friends.”

  “You’re moving to a different state to live near a guy you’re not dating?”

  “Never mind,” Hannah says.

  “Have you told Mom?”

  “Have you told Mom you’re having marital problems?”

  Looking straight ahead, Allison says, “The family of one of the girls on Sam’s track team filed a complaint with the school, saying he made inappropriate remarks. Are you happy now?”

  “As in sexually inappropriate?”

  “Is there another kind?” Allison’s voice is sour. “He coached the seventh- and eighth-graders last spring, and they’re so hormone-crazy that they’re out of control. It’s different from when we were that age—these girls wear little sports bras and prance around in their little shorts and ask him all these questions about blow jobs, and then they say that he made them uncomfortable.”

  “What does the school think?”

  “They’re having meetings now to decide what’ll happen. He might have his coaching duties suspended for the fall, which is just ridiculous. He’s basically guilty until proven innocent.”

  “You’re not mad at him, though, are you?”

  “Well, I’m not thrilled by the situation. Do you smell a burning smell?”

  Hannah sniffs, then shakes her head. “Do you know the specifics of what they’re saying Sam said?”

  “The girls were pretending to be prostitutes or something, and he made a joke about them selling themselves in the Tenderloin.”

  “Yikes,” Hannah says.

  “Thank you, Hannah,” Allison snaps. “He used bad judgment. He’s not a pervert.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all. I know he’s not. You and Sam are the ideal couple—you’re Mr. and Mrs. Perfect.”

  “I’m sure our marriage counselor would be fascinated to hear you say that.”

  “Wait, you guys see a marriage counselor?”

  “We’ve been going to her since before we got engaged. She costs a fortune.”

  “You went to a marriage counselor before you were even married?”

  “She’s a couples therapist. Whatever. Honestly, Hannah, take your blinders off. Perfect couples don’t exist.”

  This reminds Hannah of some other conversation; what other conversation does it remind her of? Just as she remembers that it was Elizabeth who made similar remarks when Julia Roberts and Kiefer Sutherland canceled their wedding, just as Hannah is recalling sitting beside Elizabeth on her aunt’s front stoop in Pittsburgh twelve years ago—this is when All
ison says, “Jesus Christ, Hannah, there’s smoke coming out of the hood! Pull over!” As Hannah slows down and turns on the right blinker, Allison leans toward the steering wheel. “Look at the temperature gauge!” she says. “Didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on it?”

  The needle can go no higher; it is in the bright red zone. Also, the smoke is now billowing from the hood, and Hannah definitely can smell it—it smells like burnt seafood. When they are parked on the shoulder, Allison climbs out, and Hannah slides across the seat to get out from Allison’s side. They stand a few feet away from the hood, the afternoon’s humid air pressing against them, the cars whizzing by. “Should I pop it open?” Hannah asks, and Allison says, “The engine is overheating. You should wait for someone to get here.”

  After calling AAA—thank God Allison belongs, because Hannah doesn’t—Allison says, “You didn’t have the emergency brake on, did you?” Sweat has beaded above her upper lip.

  “Of course not. Why do you assume this was my fault?”

  “I’m not saying it was, but I do think it’s interesting that both the incidents of the trip so far have occurred while you’re driving.”

  “Allison, you bent over backward to tell me the roadkill thing happens all the time.”

  After a pause, Allison says, “This is absurd. We’re an hour from Chicago.”

  “Are you in a hurry? Were you hoping to go to a museum tonight?”

  “I was hoping not to get stuck in Nowhere, Indiana.”

  “It could just as easily have happened when you were driving,” Hannah says.