“Well, you still look like a Greek god,” Elinor says to Ted. “You been working out?”
“Playing soccer with a group of guys.”
“And sleeping with Gina?”
Ted nods, bowing his head. While he’s not sure what he and Elinor should do, he knows the one thing he must do and that’s be honest with her. “You going to sleep with your tree man? Tarzan?”
“How’s work?” Elinor changes the subject.
Ted looks out the window. Everyone he sees on the sidewalk seems so filled with purpose. They all seem to have a plan for the day. “Fine,” he finally answers. “How’s the sabbatical going?”
“Fine. Unnerving. It’s like a holiday—you feel like it should be optimally spent. Like everything should be great.”
“Yeah.”
They sit quietly. If it had been a year or so ago, they’d both be reading. Elinor would have her New Yorker and Ted would have his sports section and they would stop to read things aloud to each other and trade bites of whatever they were eating with their coffee.
“Maybe we should get, you know, legally separated,” Elinor says. “I know a lawyer who we could work with together. We could do mediation.” She gently touches Ted’s chin, turns his face toward hers. Her expression is kind, questioning. “The same lawyer represents both sides. The goal is to stay out of court and negotiate a noncombative settlement agreement.” Now her words sound rehearsed. As though she practiced in the car on the way over, too. Still, she sounds tentative, uncertain, as though she’s as doubtful as Ted.
“If we do it, that would be the way to go,” Ted says. “I don’t want to shell out a bunch of money to lawyers who will just make things ugly.” He isn’t interested in fighting over their stuff—over money or property. He and Elinor never fought over the things that they had. They fought over the things they couldn’t have, or lost—children, sex, passion.
“Okay,” Elinor says softly. “I can call the guy.”
What a bizarrely civilized conversation. It makes Ted want to tip over the little marble table. Here they are, creating clear-cut boundaries. Exactly what Ted wanted, or thought he wanted, when he was at Gina’s house. Now he’s not sure what he wants. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too. He wants Gina to bake the cake and Elinor to frost it, and he wants to eat it somewhere over the rainbow, where ice cream never melts. What a numskull.
Elinor reaches across the table and touches his hand. The pads of her small fingers are soft. “What do you think?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Whatever you think. Whatever you want to do.”
Elinor takes her hand away. “Don’t make me decide.”
“Okay,” Ted agrees. But he can’t think of anything else to say.
“I’ll call him.” Elinor pushes her chair away from the table. “I’ll set up a meeting for us.”
Jesus. They’re always having a meeting with somebody. Doctors, specialists, the marriage counselor, now a lawyer. Maybe their marriage is beyond hope.
Elinor crushes her empty paper cup in her hands.
“You don’t want to put a hundred-dollar tree in a ten-dollar hole,” Noah says, standing on the edge of his shovel to dig deeper into the ground to plant the new ginkgo in Elinor’s yard. “That’s what I always tell my guys.” He explains that the ginkgo should be planted at least six feet from where Warren’s stump was ground and dug out. “Any of the oak’s remaining roots will eat away at the nitrogen in the soil here, so we want to give this guy a fresh start. I’ll add a fertilizer.”
“Thanks,” Elinor says. It’s Saturday, Noah’s day off, and they’re supposedly planting the tree together, but really she’s just standing around admiring Noah’s back. His shoulders are wide and straight across, unlike Ted’s, which slope downward from his neck. It’s not that one physique is better looking than the other; they’re just different, and different is nice. Noah goes on about how ginkgoes are originally from China and you can find them at Buddhist temples all over Asia. They were introduced to the West when some Dutch traveling guy fell in love with the trees and brought the seeds back to the Netherlands.
“Wow.” Elinor feels a little too pressured to like this ginkgo. While she loves being outside, she doesn’t love all trees and shrubbery, just the way you don’t love all people.
After Noah finishes the hole, Elinor helps him amend the soil, digging in Clay Buster with a rake. Finally, they tip the ginkgo from its bucket and drop it into the ground. After Noah covers the roots with dirt, he kneels and uses three fingers to make a circular trough around the tree to catch water. Elinor likes how he doesn’t mind running his bare fingers through the earth.
When they’re finished, they drive up to Skyline Boulevard and go for a long hike. Panting from the incline, slippery with sweat, Elinor gets a rush of first-date arousal when they stop for a break and Noah pins her against a tree for a long kiss. Everything about Noah is different from Ted—his height and build, his mustache, his baldness. Touching him gives her the same rush of energy she gets while traveling in a foreign country.
She finds the hiking trails sexy, sort of like in high school, when she and Tim Currington used to cut French class and sneak down to the reservoir to drink Colt 45 out of cans and skinny-dip. “Soup du jour!” they’d scream as they leapt from a high rock into the cold water below. After swimming, they’d wrap themselves in towels they’d swiped from the gym and practice French-kissing as their “homework.”
On their fourth date—dinner fixed by Noah at his house—Elinor hopes they’ll sleep together. Getting ready at home, she takes a long shower and smooths on lotion, relieved by the fact that a stomach flu has flattened her belly. She’s not sure if it’s nerves or a bug, but she’s been nauseated and throwing up for three days. She hopes she isn’t contagious, and Noah doesn’t cook anything too spicy.
As Noah chops onions, Elinor sits at the island in his kitchen and watches. She offers to help, but he insists that she relax and drink a glass of wine.
“You know the ginkgo species is believed to be at least two hundred million years old,” he says, peeling open a box of mushrooms. “One of its nicknames is the survivor. The Chinese have used the leaves for thousands of years for all kinds of ailments.”
“Really?” Elinor wishes she enjoyed her conversations with Noah as much as she likes making out with him. His love of nature is endearing, and, she hates to admit it, a little dull. He’s never heard of any of the books she’s read, and he thinks Monty Python is a guy. Does Ted have more in common with Gina? For the first time, she suspects that Ted has something deeper with Gina. She pushes her wine aside, sipping at her water, which is easier on the stomach.
Noah slices the mushrooms while ranting about Silicon Valley people who buy houses and rip out the landscaping just because they can afford to. “It’s like I live here now, so I’ve got to spray and mark my territory.” He pounds his chest and bellows, then shakes his head with disbelief as he continues chopping. “This one couple tore out these beautiful ceanothus bushes, which take a long time to get established. You know the ones with the really vibrant blue flowers in spring?” He throws onions and mushrooms sizzling into a frying pan.
“I think so.” Elinor’s not sure about the blue flowers. The smell of the cooking food repels her.
After dinner, they sink into the sofa in front of Noah’s fireplace. His house smells earthy and masculine—like leather and saddle soap and coffee grounds.
“Nothing that’s fun is good for you anymore,” Noah says, sulking at the Duraflame log on the grate. “I love a real roaring, crackling wood fire, but, man, are they bad for the environment.”
The bitterness in Noah’s voice reminds Elinor of herself. This might be what she and Noah have most in common: glumness. They’re the sort of people who could let a Duraflame log get them down. And if they ever wound up as a couple, they’d spiral into a glass-half-empty state of perpetual gloom and doom.
“There are a few fun things left,” Elinor m
urmurs, scooting closer to Noah and reaching for his belt loops. She licks the bristly underside of his mustache, surprised when the narcotic high of kissing a new person still hits her. She tries to remember when this euphoria wore off with Ted. According to how she’s come to understand marriage, it doesn’t wear off; it becomes something better, deeper, more meaningful. But really, it feels like a drug that stops working with time. Then you find yourself actually reading those magazine articles in line at the supermarket on how to spice up your sex life, grateful that the person in front of you has a cart piled high so you can make your way through the ten tips, even though you already know what they are.
“Woman,” Noah growls. “In my cave. Garrrrr. Good.” One thing he isn’t glum about is fooling around. He has a cheerful aggressiveness that Elinor welcomes. He hauls her off the couch and carries her to his bedroom, flopping her onto her back on the bed. As he pins her arms over her head, he burrows his face under her shirt, his rough mustache scratching her belly like a loofah.
The sex is all different and all good and leaves Elinor somehow energized and exhausted at the same time. Afterward, as Noah rolls over to curl his arm around Elinor’s waist, the TV clicks on.
“I rolled over on the remote!” Noah laughs.
Bugs Bunny tiptoes through a dark and stormy night toward a haunted castle. Elinor sits up. “Oh, leave it!” It’s her favorite cartoon—the one with the Peter Lorre mad scientist and the heart-shaped red-haired monster in high-top sneakers. She leans back against the pillows, resting against Noah’s bare shoulder. Noah cocks his head and smiles down at her, his scalp shining in the blue light from the TV. He looks at her as though she’s a rare species of tree he’s delighted to see, but doesn’t quite understand.
“Don’t you love this one?” Elinor asks him.
Noah isn’t laughing. “You’re a kid at heart,” he says, bemused.
“Not really.” Elinor points to the TV. “This is a classic.” Bugs Bunny distracts the shag-carpet monster by chatting him up over a manicure, dunking his claws into soapy water, which just kills Elinor.
Noah nods and smiles mildly. “If you say so.”
He doesn’t love this cartoon? Can you be physically attracted to someone who doesn’t love Bugs Bunny and the red-haired monster? Is it easier for men to sleep with women with whom they have nothing in common?
Suddenly Elinor can’t debate the topic any longer. Mushrooms, onions, and risotto are boiling up into the back of her throat, and she has to leap out of bed into the bathroom to throw up.
On his way into work in the morning, Ted calls Gina. It’s only Thursday and he doesn’t want to wait until Tuesday to spend the evening with her and Toby. He misses them—particularly Gina’s brightness. Somehow she always says things that are helpful to him. She’s as smart as any therapist. Even the sound of her voice is soothing. Ted’s relieved that he misses more than just sex with Gina. He misses her smile and smell and everything.
“Hi,” he says when she picks up.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. He must sound urgent, desperate.
“Nothing.” Ted hates to talk on the phone while driving. It’s a carelessness he rarely succumbs to. But he’s got to get to the office and he wants to know when he can see Gina.
“Listen, about Thursdays. I’d like to see you guys then.” He lifts his foot off the gas, realizing that he’s driving too fast as he approaches an intersection. “I want to see more of you. I’m not reconciling with Elinor. She’s calling a lawyer. We’re getting . . .” The words stick in his throat. “Legally separated.”
“Okay,” Gina says with hesitation.
“Can I take you guys out for dinner tonight?”
“No. I have a . . . I have plans tonight. How about tomorrow, Friday?”
“Plans? With who?” Ted clears his throat, trying to keep calm. “Whom?”
“Barry, he’s taking me to a show.”
Of course. Slick, Daddy Warbucks. “Friday, then.” A weekend night. That’s when real couples go out. “You pick the restaurant.”
“I can get a sitter,” Gina offers.
“Great! A real date.” Tuesdays, and Thursdays and Fridays. Soon Barry’s Jaguar-driving ass will be out of the picture. “Great,” Ted repeats. “Hey, I miss you. Heck, I need you.”
“Plenty of people need me,” Gina says flatly. “My clients need me. My son needs me. Shane needs me.”
Ted is surprised by her tone. But of course the last thing she probably wants is another person who needs her. She wants someone who loves her. Yet Ted can’t utter these words. “Okay, then,” he says. “See you Friday.”
A painful silence buzzes on the phone line.
13
The second pink line. For two years Elinor hoped for it, wished for it on every shooting star in the sky and dandelion seed blown into the wind. Now the line stares up at her from a home pregnancy test stick balanced on a square of toilet paper at the edge of the bathroom sink. Of course. She doesn’t have the stomach flu. Her period is ten days late, but she supposed that could be perimenopause. Your cycles become irregular. She attributed the overwhelming urge for afternoon naps to depression. Meanwhile, she was afraid her period would come just in time for her date with Noah. Typical. Always worrying about the exact wrong thing.
She washes her hands and dries them on her pajama bottoms, never taking her eyes off the little window on the stick. The second pink line is fainter than the first, which always appears as soon as you pee, to show that you’ve hit your target or have a pulse or something—Elinor’s not sure what. For two years, the window taunted her: empty, empty, empty. She thought of the second pink line as the ultimate symbol of femininity. The lack of it as the ultimate sign of failure. Sometimes she’d root through the garbage an hour after the test, to check again. Other months she’d sit in the bedroom and make Ted look.
Elinor flips down the lid on the toilet and sits, giddy and dizzy. This couldn’t have come at a worse time and she couldn’t care less. A son or daughter is in the room with her. A baby! Ted’s baby. She’s certainly not pregnant from sleeping with Noah for the first time last night. (God, she’s a terrible mother already. Climbing into bed with a strange man before she’s even separated from her baby’s father.) She thinks backward and arrives at the night she and Ted last had sex—after he found her sleeping under the oak tree. It was crazy to sleep in the front yard, but she felt the need to do things differently from then on—to make a real departure from her old life. As she recalls the sweetness of their lovemaking that evening, Elinor feels a rush of tenderness for Ted. This affection is calmer than passion, saner, perhaps easier to maintain. As she stands, a wave of nausea rises from her knees up into the back of her throat again. She lifts the toilet lid and sits beside it on the floor.
She needs to talk to Ted. They have to figure out what to do, particularly about the appointment she’s made for them with the mediation attorney. When Elinor first tried to call the lawyer, a spasm seized her hand, and she was unable to punch in all of the numbers. Dee-dee-dee! the phone scolded as she paused. She clicked the thing off to think a minute. Meeting with the lawyer didn’t necessarily mean they were getting divorced. They would just find out what a legal separation entailed—what their options were. In law school, she’d never paid attention to the details of divorce law, which seemed so adversarial. Finally, she made the appointment. As soon as she can drag herself out of this bathroom, she’ll cancel it.
Elinor hoists herself up from the toilet and turns on the shower. She and Ted could separate, and the baby could live with her. They’d have joint custody. Maybe that would be too hard for Ted. Could they just be roommates? She peels off her pajama bottoms and tank top, and climbs under the warm water. As she soaps up, her breasts are tender. She lowers her head and succumbs to an even stronger wave of nausea. Maybe she’s foolish to be so optimistic—to think she and Ted can make this work. Positive thoughts, she tells herself, drawing in a deep, cleansing breath of steam. S
he’ll think positive thoughts from now on. Quit swearing. Only buy organic produce. Dig out the folic acid tablets. Turn down the car stereo and switch over to Mozart.
Toweling off and brushing her teeth, Elinor looks at the stick again. The second pink line is fuzzy, but definitely there. She dresses in a skirt, T-shirt, and sandals, shaking out her wet hair. How will she tell Ted? The news is too tremendous for a phone call at work. She’ll call and invite him to dinner—tell him she has good news to share. Nausea gurgles in her throat again as she contemplates grilling him a steak with hollandaise. She won’t try to fix a fancy dinner. Thanks to Gina, queen of the homemade meals, Elinor has developed an irrational fear of cooking for her husband. Instead she’ll grab cold salads from the deli and they’ll have a picnic in the park—just like the old days when they used to meet after work.
The smell of an overripe banana in the kitchen brings back the watery sick feeling. Elinor vomits into the sink, rinses everything away with water from the tap, and collapses on a counter stool. She dials Kat’s cell phone.
“You sound out of breath,” Kat says.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Wha—? Oh my God!” She pauses. “Who?”
“Ted.” Elinor’s surprised by the realization that she would be happy either way. It always seemed important to marry her true love and have a baby at the right time. But now she’d be happy if she were pregnant with the UPS guy’s baby.
“Oh, El.”
“I can’t stop barfing.” Panic seizes her. The baby needs nutrients. What if she miscarries again?
“You need to eat.”
“Then I’ll throw up.”