Toby laughs. “Ha! Gross! Like the lady who got cut by the trimmers!” He bounces in his seat, making them all bounce a little.
Gina sighs and smiles at Toby, her eyes shining.
Toby says, “Hey, we didn’t study!”
“Next Saturday,” Ted says. “I’ll come over and help you.”
“I have a quiz on Thursday.” Anxiety makes Toby stand up in the booth.
“All right,” Ted says, “I’ll be there Wednesday, at five o’clock.”
“Can you show me how to do the shot then?” Gina asks Ted.
Toby rolls his eyes. “Mom. It is so easy.”
They polish off their steak, burgers, and salads and order the strawberry shortcake. As the restaurant slowly fills with families sitting down to dinner, Ted is struck by the realization that he is happy.
After Toby showers and climbs into bed, Ted busts out the Matchbox cars—a big assorted case like a giant box of chocolates—and sets them on Toby’s lap.
Toby pouts at the cars. “Those are for, like, first-graders,” he says, pushing the box down the bedspread.
“Toby!” Gina scolds.
“Sorry.” Toby collapses against the pillows.
“And look.” Ted pulls the Game Boy game from behind his back.
Toby sits up. “Wow! I so wanted that one!” He pounds his covers with his fists, then gives Ted a high five. “Thank you!”
Ted looks to Gina, who’s leaning in Toby’s doorway. Her expression is somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Ted should have asked her about the game first. Gina is forever battling with Toby to cut down on his “screen time”—all those hours spent playing computer games and watching TV.
“Now, you can only play this after you finish your homework,” he tells Toby.
“Okay,” Toby agrees, ripping open the shrink wrap.
Gina smiles weakly. Ted pats Toby’s head and steps out of the room to give the two of them privacy.
He stands in the entryway by the front door, jingling his keys in his pocket, hoping this suggests his intention to leave soon. The truth is, he doesn’t want to return to that cavernously dark condo.
“Cup of tea?” Gina asks softly as she pulls Toby’s door shut.
Ted lets go of the keys in his pocket. “Sure.”
They sit at opposite ends of the couch, sipping Mint Medley.
Gina stares into the empty fireplace as though there’s really a fire. “Does Elinor know you’re tutoring Toby?”
“No.” The edge of the mug burns Ted’s lip.
“Ted, you can’t lie to her.” Gina firmly sets down her cup on the glass end table, the noise startling Ted. “An omission is a lie.”
“I moved out.” Ted reties his sneaker to buy time. Why the hell can’t he talk to women? “Of the house.”
Gina studies her feet, which are propped up on the coffee table. “You guys trying to work it out? Seeing the marriage counselor?”
“No. Not now. She won’t go with me.”
Gina’s shoulders drop. “Does Toby know?”
“Know . . . ?”
“That you’re not living with Elinor.”
“No.”
“Good. Please don’t tell him.” She sighs, crosses her legs into the lotus position. “I don’t want him getting his hopes up about . . . anything.”
“Okay.”
After a long pause, Ted says, “I’m sorry about the computer game. I should have asked you first.”
Gina nods. “I’m trying to get him to cut back.”
“You know, for some kids it just doesn’t come naturally to be athletic and outdoorsy. When I played football in high school, I saw parents pressure their kids to be better athletes. Maybe you don’t have to push Toby to play out—”
“Thanks for the parenting advice, Dr. Mackey.” Ted hasn’t heard this sarcasm in Gina’s voice before. “Maybe I don’t need you to point out what a crappy parent I am. Maybe I already know.”
“Gina, no. Oh, my God.” Ted moves closer to her on the couch. “You’re a great parent. I’m sorry. I’m being a busybody.”
She scoots away, hugging her waist.
“People who don’t have kids always think they’d do a better job of managing yours. If that were my kid, blah, blah, blah.”
“I didn’t mean to be sanctimonious.”
“Of course, you and Elinor would make great parents. That’s the irony, isn’t it? The educated people with the great jobs can’t have kids, while we lousy parents are reproducing like rabbits. Why do people like me get to have the babies, anyway?” She turns to Ted, flipping her bangs out of her eyes. “Because we had them, that’s why! I got pregnant, and it was an accident, but I had my baby. I didn’t have a yuppie plan for having kids. I didn’t wait until a baby fit into my life. While you were picking out your heated bathroom tiles, I had my baby. And you want to get all over my butt because I’m not perfect.”
“I—” Ted stammers. He didn’t mean to be a blowhard asshole, but she could cut him a little slack. “Gina, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant at all. I guess I was just thinking aloud, really. Realizing what it must be like for Toby not to be as athletic as you. You’re a great mom.”
“No, I’m not.” She massages her temples.
“Maybe I’m a jerk.” Ted moves closer to Gina. He takes her hand in his and massages it, rubbing each of her long fingers. “But I don’t have heated floor tiles.” He nudges her, trying to get her to laugh.
Gina reaches for a Kleenex. “One of my clients does.” She blows her nose quietly. “She did IVF, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Ted repeats.
Gina shrugs. She turns his arm over and runs her fingers up the inside of Ted’s elbow, sending a shock of pleasure from his scalp down his spine. As he relaxes he feels like he’s sinking between the couch’s slick leather cushions. He reaches out and clutches Gina’s forearm. It is a clumsy gesture—like grabbing onto someone when you’re trying to climb out of a boat. While he’s been trying to cheer her up, he has the distinct sensation of Gina pulling him up. That’s what she’s done for him for months now. Pulled him up out of his miserable state of self-loathing, his self-absorbed despair. And now all he’s done is make her feel bad about herself as a parent.
Gina closes her eyes. “You’re not a jerk. Life would be much easier if you were.”
They end up in the walk-in closet in Gina’s bedroom, which is one more closed door away from Toby’s room. Ted lays Gina on her back, shoving aside her many pairs of sneakers and grabbing some kind of sweatshirt to make a pillow under her head. He pulls the tie of her wraparound skirt with the one firm tug it takes to get the thing undone. Then he slides his hands up the smooth insides of her legs. He pulls off her underwear and throws it over his shoulder, making her giggle. Then he pushes himself inside her, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her China Rain perfume. Gina kneads his back—a touch that is more loving and therapeutic than the desperate throes of their earlier lovemaking. Ted lifts his head to look at her. Stripes of yellow light shine through the slats in the closet across her face. Her green eyes are half closed. As he dips his face back into her hair, his self-loathing gives way to soaking heat and ecstasy.
As Ted drives home later that night, a light rain makes the streets shine. He creeps along, dreading his dark apartment. Although he’s not a religious man, he suddenly has the urge to pray. He’s not sure what for. While he respects other people’s faith, he’s never chosen a religion of his own. Funny, he and Elinor visited churches and cathedrals almost daily while traveling through Europe. They both loved the architecture and the pageantry and the music, the organ chords rumbling through their bones. “We heathens can’t get enough of these cathedrals,” Elinor laughed. He misses her. How can he want Gina so much and miss his wife? His foot hovers between the brakes and the gas. He isn’t driving or stopping or pulling over. He’s drifting.
A swirl of red and blue lights appears in his rearview mirror. A police car. Of course. It
probably looks like he’s drunk. He pulls over. The cop shines his traffic light into the passenger’s side of the window.
“Anything wrong?”
“No, Officer.”
“You’re drifting and hugging the bicycle lane.”
“I just have a lot on my mind. I’ll pay better attention.” Hugging the bicycle lane. He’d like to do just that. Get out and curl up in the street spooning the solid white line.
“Been drinking?”
Ted shakes his head. “Nothing but tea for the past three hours.”
“Would you step out of the car, please?”
Ted gets out and dutifully performs the sobriety test tricks—counting backward from one hundred, then touching each of his fingers to his thumb. As he’s demonstrating that he can walk a straight line, a car pulls up and stops at the light. Through the rain-speckled window, Ted recognizes his patient Rolf Andersson, an old Swedish whip of a man who’s prone to calluses. He mouths the words, Dr. Mackey! Then looks away.
If you’re going to have a midlife crisis, you should have it in style. There should be a Dodge Viper, trips to a tanning booth. It should not involve a sobriety test in the rain in front of FedEx Kinko’s, overwhelmed by the urge to pee from too much herbal tea, your patient spotting you and turning away with shame.
“Okay,” the cop says sternly. “You’re good to go.” Ted climbs back into the car and fastens his seat belt. The officer pats the car door. “But keep your eyes on the road. You’d be surprised how many accidents result from people just not paying attention.”
8
Hermione hadn’t planned on slitting her wrists at the baby shower. But a combination of things got to her. The crescendo of trilling flutes on the Vivaldi CD; the raspberry sherbet breaking into bubblegum globs in the punch; the quiche, with its strings of cheese that hung like rubber bands from one woman’s chin; the Awwwwwws! and Cutes! echoing through the living room as the baby gifts were opened. As the circle of women fawned over the onesies and diaper bags, Hermione hovered by the buffet table, sawing at her wrist with a sterling-silver pie spatula. Of course, it wasn’t sharp enough to do any damage. Perhaps she could stab herself with a dessert fork. Drown herself facedown in the punch? Or stop going to baby showers. Yes, that is what she would do. She would just send gifts and cards from now on. Even better, she’d order the gifts online, so she didn’t have to go to Toys “R” Us or Baby Gap. Her women friends didn’t need her at these parties, on the brink of tears, her crazy sadness wafting through the room.
“Whatcha writing?”
Elinor looks up from her spiral notebook to see Kat standing beside her on the lawn under the shade of the oak tree. She bends forward to rest her hands on her knees, panting and grimacing, out of breath from her morning run.
“I was just opening the mail from yesterday and I got this shower invitation. I’m writing a sort of reply.” Elinor closes her notebook. When she goes back inside, she’ll call the hostess with her regrets.
“Showers are the worst.” Kat collapses on the blanket and pours herself coffee from the carafe. Her legs are long and tan from running and swimming. Elinor’s always admired her athleticism and low-maintenance prettiness—her small, pointed features and black hair cut short like a boy’s.
“Doesn’t anyone just lie on the ground and look up at the sky anymore?” Elinor asks, stretching out on her back, resting her head on her balled-up sweatshirt. Rabbity white clouds blow by overhead as though on a conveyor belt, breaking into clumps and wisps.
“You make a lovely lawn ornament.” Kat may be the kindest friend Elinor’s ever had. Your neighbor goes off the deep end and camps out under a tree in her yard. Do you tell her she’s off nut? No, you sit under the tree with her. They meet under the oak every morning now, after Kat’s taken her kids to school. If it’s raining, they talk on the phone, conducting their conversation through their dining room windows while holding up visual aids. (Do you think I can wear this coat with this dress? Let me see, turn around.) Kat calls it dining-room-window videoconferencing.
“All I do is lie down, and the neighborhood thinks I’ve had a stroke,” Elinor says, admiring how the oak leaves make a lacy green pattern against the sky.
“This tree needs a name.” Kat squints up at the branches. “Stella, maybe.”
“I think it’s a he.”
“A he-tree?”
“Warren,” Elinor decides, reaching out to touch the rough silvery gray bark. As she traces a splotch of lichen it crumbles into dust on her fingertips.
“Warren,” Kat repeats. “Your new man?”
“He’s there for me.”
“My friend Elinor is dating a tree,” Kat announces.
Elinor pounds her fist into the cushiony grass. “Ted’s dating a ten-year-old? Fine. I’m dating a tree.”
“He is a tree of few words. The strong, silent type.”
“That’s right. We don’t have to talk about everything. We don’t have to dissect our relationship like it’s a frog in biology class.”
Kat sighs. “I want to be supportive, but I’m sad that you guys are throwing in the towel. I can see how much Ted still loves you.”
Elinor sits up too fast, making her dizzy. “But it’s a relief to stop trying to fix everything. Like I’ve stopped banging my head against the wall.”
Kat nods, doesn’t say anything more. She’s about to lean back against the tree’s trunk when Elinor spots a long dribble of molasses-colored sap in the grooves of the bark. “Careful, what’s that?”
They bend forward to examine the goop. A string of tiny brown beetles marches up alongside it.
Elinor grabs a rock and squashes as many of the bugs as she can. “That better be symbiotic!”
Kat tugs off her running shoe and helps smack the beetles, which scurry in all directions. “I need to bake and decorate thirty cupcakes by noon,” she says, whapping her shoe harder.
“What about Safeway?”
“You’re supposed to bake them yourself.” She throws her sneaker in the grass.
“Says who?” Elinor throws the rock after the sneaker, turning away from the beetles.
“The Mommy Police. If you work full-time, you can buy Safeway cupcakes. If you’re a stay-at-home mom, you’re supposed to bake and decorate them.” Kat lies on her back, balancing her mug on her sternum. “Of course, there are mothers who work full-time and bake. Unlike me, they probably know the difference between cake flour and flour flour.”
“If you cracked their heads open you’d find wires inside,” Elinor says. She can’t imagine bringing a baby home from the hospital, let alone ever having a child old enough for elementary school and cupcakes. She throws another rock, this time so hard that her shoulder burns from the exertion. “Gina would definitely make her cupcakes from scratch.” An ant approaches her on the blanket. She smashes it with her thumb. “With whole ground flaxseed flour.”
“The kids would retch.” Kat frowns. “Hey, now I think you’re banging your head against the wall.”
Elinor knocks her head against the tree trunk. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Bark pierces her forehead. She rubs the spot. “Can’t I just rant for a minute?”
“Of course.”
During their couples therapy sessions, Elinor withheld her Gina criticisms from Ted and the counselor. She didn’t want to let the jealousy boil over in front of them. It felt so unattractive. She wanted to be above all that. Composed. Classy.
“I think she’s into Buddhism. She tried to get me to read this Buddhist book as part of her approach to ‘walking away from food.’”
Kat wrinkles her nose.
“She’s this cute tie-dyed hippie chick.” Elinor feels her voice speed up. She’s on her knees now, pointing a finger in the air. “Right. Nama-fucking-ste! You’re a health nut, but you smoke pot—”
“She does?”
“When I asked Ted how it all started, he said that’s what led them to having sex the first time. What led them to smoke pot
? I wonder. You go to a personal trainer so you can get stoned?” Elinor pauses. “Actually, that doesn’t sound bad.” She sits back on her heels. “Anyway. So she’s a Buddhist, but she sleeps with married men. I hate these second-generation hippie wannabes. She’s not old enough to be a hippie! Buddhism and pot and infidelity. What a hypocrite! A hippiecrit!”
“Oh, El.” Kat snorts with laughter. “See? That’s what Ted adores about you.”
“Maybe that’s how she could rationalize screwing my husband—she doesn’t have attachments. Not to Krispy Kreme or her married clients.”
Elinor curls her chest over her knees, rolling herself into a ball and turning her head to rest her temple against the scratchy army blanket. “I’d make a terrible Buddhist. I get attached to everything. Even this tree.”
Elinor feels Kat’s hands knead her shoulders, her fingers a little sticky from juice boxes.
“You know what you need? A trip to the spa!”
Elinor sits up, untangling a leaf from her hair. “I hate the spa. Those whispery, drippy ladies. Lying in the dark and listening to that stupid new age music with the electronic seagulls.” She gathers the coffee cups and spoons onto a tray. “Have you ever noticed that that music never goes anywhere? It has no beginning, middle, or end. It’s the musical equivalent of an unmade bed. It drives me crazy.”
“But the hot stone—”
“And they’re always trying to sell you those expensive damn creams when you’re on your way out. Eighty dollars an ounce for Australian kangaroo sperm facial scrub or whatever. There’s always the teeniest dig at your self-esteem that goes with the sales pitch. ‘Oh! You could be pretty, if you just bought this obscenely overpriced snake oil. A salt rub.’ No thanks; salt in the wound.”
The look on Kat’s face is somewhere between frustrated and hurt.
Elinor squeezes her hand. “Oh, sorry. See what my husband doesn’t love about me?” Elinor picks up the tray and stands. “Let’s go grab a beer and shoot some pool. My treat.”