Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  “You better stop that before we get home,” he said. “The kids think you were on vacation.”

  Her sobs intensified. Her whole body was shaking, and she was gasping for air, barely breathing between bursts of crying. He had to stop the car, and wait for her to calm down. It took forever. He was worried about the children being home alone. He didn’t know anybody who would watch them. That woman, Josephine, had been borderline rude to him the other day, when he had once again gone over to ask if she knew anything about Maria. He could tell that she thought he was some kind of monster.

  Driving Maria home that night, he felt both guilt and anger. He wondered why she had come back. Had she realized that she was making a mistake, or was it that she had not been able to cope on her own? He didn’t ever ask her. But it keeps haunting him to this day.

  He felt like a prison warden bringing a fugitive back to the prison. Was that how she felt? Was she simply there because she had no recourse, because she had no other place to go, and no way out? He could not bare the thought of her being miserable, yet being forced to stay with him for lack of other options. He could hardly bring himself to touch her after that. Two years later, when she asked him to move out of their bedroom, he was angry, yet relieved.

  Victor pours out the rest of his coffee. He’s had enough. He stubs out his cigarette into the dirty cup. It still hurts to think of her attempt to leave him. And the way she snuck out this morning, as if trying, once again, to escape, reminds him of it.

  Damn woman! He furiously rips the sheets off the bed. He calls a cleaning service. In a city like New York, you can get anything any time, even the day after Thanksgiving. Once he gets off the phone he feels better. He’ll go out for lunch, then maybe go to a bar while they are cleaning.

  His cellphone rings while he’s enjoying a juicy burger and a paper. For a second, despite himself, he hopes it’s Maria. But it’s Monica. He forgot all about her. There is no excuse for his rudeness, his lack of any consideration in abandoning her at a party without even telling her he was going.

  “What happened to you last night, Victor?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I had to talk to that woman. She is the mother of my children, and I have to get along with her, for the sake of Alex and Lili.”

  On the other end of the line, Monica is quiet. He wonders if she’s finally had enough.

  “How about I call you later, and we make dinner plans?” he asks.

  After a long pause, she says:

  “That would be nice.” He’s relieved. She’s letting him off the hook easy, and he doesn’t deserve it. But he’s glad.

  21

  Flowers and Babies

  The Saturday after Thanksgiving, Maria goes to work, as planned. Eating her lunch in the break room, she feels it’s finally time to turn on her cellphone. Victor must have left several messages by now. With a trembling finger, she presses the ‘on’ button. The butterflies in her stomach bat their colorful wings. The phone greets her with its customary little tune. She holds her breath, tries to ignore the pounding of her heart. There are no new messages. Irritated, she shakes the phone. Is something wrong with it, maybe? She turns it off, then on again. She waits, dread building up inside her. She calls voicemail again. No new messages. He hasn’t called. He simply hasn’t. She resists the urge to throw her stupid phone against the wall. She wishes she had not turned it on yet. She wishes she could still bask in the sweet hopefulness that there would be a message.

  Her appetite for her sandwich is gone. Why has he not called? Did it really not mean anything to him? Or is he maybe nervous, just like her, unsure of what to do or what to say? Is he regretting their night together? Or maybe he did call but didn’t leave a message. It was probably him calling the other morning, when she turned her phone off. She hates herself now for not picking up. But she hates him even more for not leaving a fucking message. It would be so much easier for her then. She’d know. She’d be able to tell from the tone of his voice, and she could prepare herself before talking to him. Angry, she stuffs her sandwich into the nearest garbage can.

  She washes her hands, and inadvertently sees her face in the mirror. Although she didn’t sleep well, she looks good. Her beauty saddens her. What is the point of being beautiful if all she has is emptiness in her life? What is the point, if he really doesn’t care, if even a night of unbridled passion doesn’t move him, if he can touch her, hold her, have her, then go on with his life, indifferent?

  She chases these thoughts away. If she were not at work, she’d splash cold water on her face. She’s angry for giving Victor so much power, for even for a second trying to assess her own worth through his eyes. She’s a strong independent woman. Why on earth would she want to be beautiful just for his sake?

  She decides to go back to work before her break is over.

  The difference between the break room and the first floor of the department store never ceases to amaze her. It’s like she’s been in another world, a dark, and slightly dirty one, lacking shine and luster, and now she’s stepping back into the light. She loves the commotion of the store, the customers wandering in an out, the saleswomen in their black coats, trying to lure people into buying things that look and smell enticing, the counters containing overpriced goods, the natural flower arrangements, the music. It’s Christmas music right now, not exactly her favorite. It annoys her that they turned it on immediately after Thanksgiving, and it annoys her that overnight silver reindeer and shiny white fir trees replaced the cornhusks and pumpkins and turkeys. What a big circus one has to put up with, just to make a living!

  But in a way it’s cheerful, and at least there’s always something new. As she’s walking towards her counter, taking in the glitter and commotion of the store, she wills herself to enjoy the empty retail glamour. Then, suddenly, she stops dead in her tracks. She cannot believe her eyes! There, by her workstation, is the biggest bouquet of yellow roses she has ever seen. Her hand instinctively goes to her mouth, but is not able to cover her oversized smile. He sent her flowers! She cannot believe it! He actually does care! And he does want her back!

  She summons all her willpower to make herself walk slowly, and demurely, towards her beautiful yellow roses. She doesn’t want people at work knowing her business. But she cannot stop herself from giggling like a schoolgirl. The butterflies in her stomach are now dancing an elaborate dance, their colorful wings drawing magical circles, whole rainbows of excitement. He actually sent her flowers! It’s so romantic that it almost makes her cry. That’s why he didn’t call. It wasn’t good enough, just calling. He wanted to make a real gesture. He does in fact appreciate her. He clearly still has feelings for her.

  She slowly approaches the flowers. They are beautiful, like anything Victor would pick. What could be lovelier than yellow roses? She’s close enough to smell them, close enough to touch their velvet petals. Excitement courses through every inch of her body. She feels like singing. He actually sent her flowers!

  Her co-worker, Tanya, comes over to gush over the roses as well.

  “Aren’t they beautiful, Maria? Aren’t they amazing?”

  Maria smiles, but she doesn’t like Tanya getting so close to her roses. She has to fight the urge to remove the young woman’s hand from one of the flowers. This girl should have better things to do than to mess with other people’s things.

  But then her eyes fall on the card lying on the counter. Her smile freezes.

  “Ray got them for me, girl!” Tanya brags, glowing. “You know, I think I’m gonna marry this boy! I just feel it!”

  “Well, good luck to you!” Maria says, and turns away. She unlocks the drawer where she keeps the most expensive gloves. She’s going to rearrange them. Finest leather, lined with 100% cashmere. People pay hundreds of dollars for theses. She, of course, could never afford them, but she can touch them anytime, for free. She slides her hand over the soft leather. She closes her eyes, willing herself to enjoy this small treat. Leather smells better than roses anyway.
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br />   Ten days later, Maria still hasn’t heard from Victor. By now it’s clear that she will not. She’s determined not to feel sad, abandoned, or sorry for herself. It’s hard, because everything reminds her of him. Her own body, which she cannot escape, which she carries with her everywhere she goes, which she tries uselessly to evade in her sleep, reminds her of him. She cannot stand, sit, walk, or lie down, without being aware of it, her own body, aging, yet still beautiful, the body he touched, the body that wanted him, the body that is missing his.

  She tries to distract herself by reading. But her favorite pastime has now become a chore. She sits in her empty bed, turning the pages absently, realizing she has completely lost track of what she’s reading. Her eyes are on the page, but her mind wanders. For all their comfort and loyalty in the past, books are refusing to offer an escape. They bore her to tears, and in her boredom she feels lonely and dejected.

  Frustrated, she sits up in her empty bed, and finds herself staring at the phone with a longing that hurts and humiliates her. How awfully pathetic she is! She knows that there’s no way she can make that stupid phone ring. She knows that staring at it will only make her more aware of its silence. He’s not going to call her. He really doesn’t care.

  One night, after staring at the stupid phone for fifteen minutes, she considers calling him. But to say what? And how ridiculous she would seem! He has a life. He’s probably busy, with the store, with his friends, with that beautiful younger woman, Monica. She thinks of the two of them in bed together, and it’s too painful to bear. It makes her sick with envy. It physically hurts. She tries, instead, to imagine them fighting, to imagine Monica angry after he left her at that party. But it’s no good. Invariably, she thinks of them making up, and then again, she pictures Victor in bed with his lover. His estranged wife is probably the last thing on his mind.

  The thought that Victor has a life, while she doesn’t, bothers her more than usual. She’s taken note of it before, with some bitterness, and the occasional pang of regret. But overall she was aware that solitude was her own choice, a luxury, something she was lucky to have. These days, however, she wonders if she has sentenced herself to loneliness forever. To boredom, frustration, and despair.

  Maybe it’s her punishment for the bad things she’s done. Doesn’t she deserve, after all, to end up alone and bitter? What did she expect when she left her husband? What did she think would happen when she kicked him out of this very bed, and even worse, out of this very house?

  She stands up, walks to the bathroom, and splashes cold water on her face. She cannot allow herself to think this way. She will not allow herself to feel lonely and deserted. She will not wallow in guilt. She needs to stop thinking she deserves this. She needs to find a path to forgiveness. She’ll try to find a path back to herself.

  But then she walks back to her bed, the bed she used to share with Victor years ago, and her eyes fill with tears. To think that he was here, in this very room. And that she slept besides him. Every night. And that invariably their bodies drifted towards each other, reached for each other in the dark. They made love so often, even when they were mad. She took comfort in it, for years. Things might be bad, but we still want each other, we’re part of each other, it’s a miracle, and a mystery. Later, she saw it for what it was, a habit, nothing more. Like breathing. He reached for her at night, just like he reached for his cigarettes over coffee in the morning. His tenderness meant nothing. It was like rings of smoke.

  But she still had a chance back then. She could at least still try to win him back. She could at least still hope. Every night was a new opportunity to get back his love, his forgiveness. And fool that she was, she gave up, threw it away! Wasn’t it so much easier back then, when years apart had not petrified him towards her? Wasn’t it easier when he was still hers, at least physically, than now, when she sits alone, in her empty bed, waiting for the phone to ring, knowing full well that he’s with another woman?

  It’s hardest at night, when there is no one to distract her from her thoughts. When she’s lying in bed and cannot help but remember his touch, the feel of his body on top of her, inside her. There are specific gestures she remembers, stray acts of tenderness thrown into the rawness of pure lust. His hand, his lips, shockingly gentle at times, as if he really still loved her, just a little. Those are the memories that torture her the most. Sometimes, when she’s halfway between sleep and waking she almost believes that those caresses meant something. She lies to herself. She drifts to sleep aching with hope. She dreams that he that he misses her too, that he will call. She has imaginary conversations with him, in her sleep. But then she wakes up, heavy with disappointment, trapped in the same body, carrying those same memories. As sleep drifts from her eyelashes, her dreams give way to cruel daylight. She has to give up hope.

  At work it’s easier to distract herself. She arranges and rearranges the scarves, wallets, and gloves. She delights in the secret pleasure of touching and smelling the expensive leather. She dresses nicely, smiles brightly, and tries to lure over customers. She tries to have long conversations with them, pushing herself to be more outgoing. She tells herself that she’s beautiful, independent, and after all a resourceful woman. She has skills, even in dealing with people. Who would have thought?

  On December fifteenth Maria decides to go see a doctor. She asks Mădă for a recommendation, and brushes off her unwelcome questions by pretending to have an important call on the other line.

  Sitting on the examining table, in her paper gown, she feels naked and vulnerable. Like a child, she clings to a faint and rather absurd hope. Victor has not called. It’s as if she never spent that night with him. But telling the nurse about it makes it real again.

  That in itself is reason enough to put herself through a humiliating medical exam, instead of just buying one of those stupid tests they sell in drugstores. Funny, how a woman who used to crave seclusion and discretion, is now so desperate to talk to a stranger about her private life.

  She feels frail and delicate, as if she were really sick. The nurse in front of her seems kind. And she is indeed giving her attention, offering care. Maria swallows back tears. When was the last time someone took care of her?

  She decides to allow herself whatever she’s feeling. Like a sick child, she lets herself cry in front of the nurse. Isn’t she a patient after all? Of course, what she has is not a disease, or at least it’s not considered a disease by most of mankind (and even womankind). But she feels that it should be rightfully labeled as such. I’m ill, she thinks. I’m suffering from pregnancy. A dreadful illness. A cruel epidemic.

  The nurse pats her shoulder in a maternal gesture, and Maria realizes just how much she’s been missing a mother’s touch. She hasn’t seen her mother since 1989. They don’t even talk on the phone much. It’s fair to say they’ve never been that close. Is she herself headed in that same direction with L?

  “Now, now, honey,” the nurse says, patting her back, trying to comfort her. Maria continues sobbing, relishing the other woman’s touch. She congratulates herself for having listened to Mădă’s advice, and asked for a nurse practitioner instead of a doctor.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and sobs a few more times. “This is hard for me. I didn’t think I would be in this situation at my age. And… my husband and I are actually separated.” She cannot believe she’s emptying her soul in front of a complete stranger. But it feels good. It’s actually the most hopeful she’s felt in weeks. Maybe that’s why people pay so much money for therapy.

  “Now, you do know, you might actually not be pregnant,” the nurse says. “You know this could be menopause. Or your period could just be late, for various reasons.”

  Maria nods, sobbing again. She thought of those possibilities herself. At first she was really scared, waking up in a cold sweat one night, realizing that her period was late, remembering that they used no protection, absolutely nothing. Even teenagers know better. One day the smell of leather started making her sick.
She got scared, terrified in fact, and then angry. But in a weird irrational way she felt hopeful, excited.

  It’s crazy, since she didn’t want to have either of her children. In fact, with her earlier pregnancies, she was terrified of the little creature growing inside her, and of the horror of having to give birth to it. Why would she want to be pregnant now, at her age? Why would she want to be saddled again, now when she’s finally free?

  She recalls each of the times she was pregnant. Her ignorant and superficial joy at being pregnant with Lili, fueled idiotically by everybody’s enthusiasm. Her absolute terror at the thought of giving birth again, when she was pregnant with Alex. And then of course, that third, nameless baby, the baby that brought nothing but sadness and trouble.

  It was one of the bitter ironies of her family’s last-minute flight from communism, that in America, where birth control was legal, she managed to get pregnant again.

  She remembers going to see a doctor shortly after her arrival. Vica, Mrs. Grecu’s sister, offered to take her. She didn’t like Vica, but she agreed to go with her. The doctor prescribed her the pill, something she had been dreaming of since giving birth to Lili. It was a humiliating visit, with Vica serving as translator. Maria was a private person and received an old-fashioned education. She was mortified at the thought of anybody coming with her, but, given the way she was raised, it seemed more acceptable to bring a woman, even one she didn’t like, than to involve her husband in such ‘female business.’ The doctor’s visit was expensive. This was shocking to Maria, who was used to free health care. Vica mocked her, saying she really had a lot to learn about life in America. Maria still remembers how the comment, coming at a time when she felt so down anyway, hurt her more than it should have. It was one of those little acts of meanness she was never able to forget. She went out of her way to avoid Vica after that, and Vica, of course, labeled her an ungrateful bitch.