Maribeth let that sink in. Someone being six on 9/11.
“When I started college, I switched back to Sunita. That was when I was a freshman. I’m a senior now.” She gave Todd a look.
“What can I say?” Todd said. “You’ve always been Sunny to me.” He paused. “Except when you’re PMSing.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said.
They pulled into the parking lot and exchanged cell phone numbers. (Maribeth had to look hers up; she had a hard time remembering anything lately.) They agreed to meet back at the car in a half hour.
The supermarket was the kind they had in Maribeth’s childhood suburb, with generously wide aisles—she’d have had no trouble angling a double stroller through here—selling everything from imported cheese to paperback novels.
Once inside, Todd and Sunita skipped left toward the produce aisle. Maribeth went right toward the refrigerated section. She vaguely knew what she was going to get, the same things she always got; she was a healthy eater, but when she reached for her favorite brand of yogurt, she did something she’d never done before: she looked at the label.
Eight grams of fat. Twenty-five percent of her recommended daily allowance.
That seemed like a lot, but yogurt was a high-protein item. Maybe that was just how it was with yogurt, like avocados, high-fat and healthy. For comparison, she picked up another brand. It had zero grams of fat.
She looked at the label on her yogurt. Was it full-fat yogurt? Had she been eating full-fat yogurt all this time? She scanned the package for the words full fat, or whole milk, some kind of ominous cigarette-label warning that the contents might cause death. But she found nothing like that. The label only said it was French.
Jesus Christ. She was an educated woman. She’d worked at magazines that ran countless stories about fat. And she’d been eating yogurt with eight grams of it!
She put the yogurt back and looked for a replacement. There were dozens of varieties lined up in the cooler like Rockettes. Nonfat. Low-fat. Greek. Probiotic. Soy. Maybe she should become vegan. Wasn’t that what Bill Clinton had done after his bypass surgery?
Skipping the yogurts, she moved the cart a few feet to the milk and butter section. Butter was out, obviously. But what about margarine? Wait. Didn’t margarine give rats cancer? Which was better? Heart attack or cancer?
She looked at milk, which she hardly used, only in cereal and for coffee. She generally just pilfered the twins’ whole milk or used half and half for coffee. Once again, she read the labels. Half and half: one tablespoon, two grams of fat. Whole milk, not much better. In the course of a day, she probably had four cups of coffee (already too much, she knew) and that was four tablespoons of half and half. Eight grams of fat. That plus a yogurt was half her daily allowance.
She careened her still-empty cart toward the safe haven of the bread and cereal aisle and grabbed some granola, another of her go-to foods. Then she checked that label. Twenty-five grams of sugar per serving. She compared it to Cocoa Krispies. They had less sugar. Than granola. Crunchy hippie hairy-armpit granola. And added sugars, she now knew, increased your risk of heart disease.
Vegetables! Vegetables were safe. Five servings a day, raw was better, juicing was cheating. She knew all this now. And kale! Kale was the wonder drug. And blueberries. Full of antioxidants. Why hadn’t she been gorging on kale and blueberries every day instead of full-fat yogurt?
By the time Todd texted her Ready? her basket contained a sad constellation of kale, almonds, and coffee, and she was on the verge of a full-scale meltdown.
She felt so caught out. She’d thought she’d done everything right. She’d spent her entire life making lists, following through, keeping everything in check, all to make sure this kind of thing would never happen.
And look where it had gotten her. Just fucking look.
19
Maribeth had packed only three changes of clothing, and after a week in Pittsburgh, she realized this would not do if she was going to stay any longer. She went to the Family Dollar and bought underwear and socks and then to a thrift shop right down the block from her apartment for a few pairs of jeans, some sweaters, and a pair of boots because the forecast was already predicting snow. She didn’t bother looking for gems among the junk, though once upon a time, she and Elizabeth had been championship thrifters, combing through consignment stores, digging out Prada and Versace at Banana Republic prices. Of course now, Elizabeth bought Prada at Prada prices and Maribeth bought Banana Republic at Banana Republic prices. Or at least she had before she’d started shopping at the Family Dollar.
When she was finished, she had a solid, if unglamorous, wardrobe, large enough to last her several months. A passive decision that seemed to belie her rationale for leaving. Because she was no longer feeling sick. She could now climb a flight of stairs without resting. She could shower without feeling lightheaded. She had begun to walk further afield, locating other important things in her neighborhood: a coffee shop, a greengrocer, a secondhand bookstore. And yet, she had just bought enough clothes to get her through the fall.
She had written two more letters to the twins, but when she went to the library, intending to transcribe and e-mail them to Jason to pass on, she had not been able to do it.
She thought of the only other time she’d been away, when her father had had his stroke. Every time she’d called home, the twins had cried. Jason had said they’d been fine until she rang, reminding them she wasn’t there. Maybe writing them would only remind them she was away. Maybe it would only make it worse.
So instead of e-mailing them, she’d bought a yellow legal pad and continued writing letters as the woman on a business trip:
Dear Oscar and Liv,
It’s supposed to snow tonight. Not much. Not enough to stick, but they say it’ll be the first snow of the season.
She wondered if it would snow back in New York, as well, and if so, would anyone else know about their custom of going out to the fancy candy store for the six-dollar hot chocolates to commemorate the occasion?
She didn’t ask this, though. It wasn’t what the woman on a business trip would ask. Instead, after her weather report, she turned back to the memories of the twins, as she had in her earlier letters.
I don’t know if you remember this but last January there was a huge blizzard. They canceled school and I stayed home from work. The streets were empty and so we were walking down the middle of Church Street, because there was no traffic. Liv, you were running ahead and jumping into the drifts, squealing with delight. Oscar, you were a little more cautious, and you kept calling: “Yiv, Yiv, wait up Oskie. Wait up Oskie!”
Liv, Oscar, wait up Mommy.
20
When Maribeth arrived for her second appointment with Dr. Grant, she found that the price had dropped.
“Seventy-five dollars,” Louise said.
“I thought it was one-fifty,” Maribeth said.
“For a preliminary. This is the follow-up.”
“Is that like a special cash price?”
Louise made a noncommittal mmm, mmm sound, and Maribeth started to worry. Last month she’d edited a round-up of celeb-spa secrets in which more than a few of the pedicures had cost seventy-five dollars. What doctor charged so little? Maybe an internist at an inner-city clinic but who had ever heard of bargain-basement cardiology? There were no other patients in the waiting room this week, nor had there been any the last time.
You chose him, she reminded herself as Louise wrote out the receipt.
Louise ushered her into the examination room. There was no gown. “Don’t you want me to change?” Maribeth asked.
“No need,” Louise said.
Maribeth had to wonder if they’d run out of money for gowns.
Dr. Grant came in almost immediately. On a few occasions, Maribeth had seen Dr. Sterling without his lab coat but he’d always seemed like a doctor: all bowtie and bromides. Even with his lab coat on, Dr. Grant did not, although there was nothing particularly unprofes
sional about his appearance, except perhaps for the jeans. And his handsomeness. Were doctors allowed to look like George Clooney if they weren’t playing doctors on TV shows?
He listened to Maribeth’s heart and lungs, hooked her up to the EKG monitor. He checked her vitals. “You’ve lost some weight, but otherwise, all looks good. Why don’t you come back to my office to chat?”
She knew from experience that invitations to talk in doctors’ private quarters were never a good sign. It was from his inner sanctum that Dr. Simon, their IVF doctor, had always relayed the bad news that the pregnancies had not taken. Though Maribeth had always known. She could tell by the scans.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Dr. Grant.
“Nothing. I’ll meet you in a second. Would you like some tea?”
“No.” It came out gruff. She tried again. “No thank you.”
Alone in his office, she took the opportunity to snoop. There were diplomas on the wall from Northwestern Medical School and one documenting a cardiac fellowship at the University of Pittsburgh. Which was reassuring. He hadn’t gotten a degree from some Phoenix University type place.
On the bookshelf were several pink breast cancer ribbons, and on his desk a framed picture of a young, smiling, light-skinned African American woman in a canoe. His daughter? Or maybe his wife. Given his age and profession, she’d be wife number two. The trophy wife.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Maribeth turned around guiltily as Dr. Grant strode in holding a mug of tea in both hands, a gesture that was oddly monkish. “I get cranky if I don’t have my four o’clock pick-me-up.” He nodded to the two chairs opposite his desk. She sat in one, he the other.
“What’s wrong?” Maribeth asked again.
He set his mug down on a coaster and, still smiling, asked, “Why do you seem like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?”
Seriously? What was it about men and shoe metaphors?
“A heart attack at forty-four,” she said. “An arterial puncture during a stent procedure. Double bypass. You’ll excuse me if I’ve become watchful for falling footwear.”
She waited for him to say the usual doctorly things. How it wasn’t worth getting upset about, how stress only made it worse, how she’d been through the brunt of it. But instead, he just said, “Yes, I can see why you might be.”
“Because I certainly wasn’t watchful before. I didn’t even know I was having a heart attack,” she said. “I thought it was bad Chinese food.”
He blew on his tea. Maribeth could smell the bergamot. Earl Grey. “That’s not uncommon.”
“Really? So everyone blames the Kung Pao chicken?”
“Sweet and sour pork gets a worse rap.”
“If you eat sweet and sour pork, it’s your own fault.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Read the fine print. It’s in the menu.”
He laughed.
The ensuing rush felt not unlike finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket. It had been such a long time since she’d made someone laugh.
“If it makes you feel better,” Dr. Grant went on, “women in particular often mistake heart attacks for intestinal gas.”
“No sentence with the phrase ‘intestinal gas’ will ever make me feel better,” she said.
He laughed again. And Maribeth remembered. She used to be funny. At work, she’d been known for her wit, at least until she started at Frap and one too many of her comments had landed with a thud. She recalled one staff meeting early on, discussing some vein-bulgingly thin actress who’d bragged in the cover story about her penchant for “eating like a pig,” and Maribeth had remarked something about how this must be the mystical air-eating pig, cousin to the flying one. Elizabeth had offered a tight smile, but not her usual guffaw. The rest of the editors had looked horrified.
As Dr. Grant laughed, Maribeth did, too. It hurt, but only a little.
“How about this,” Dr. Grant said. “Heart disease with an onset in the midforties and no other risk factors is most likely a result of familial hyperlipidemia. You probably inherited this. So cut the Kung Pao chicken a little slack.”
It was just like one of her jokes at Frap. Thud. It deadened the room.
“I only say that because if it’s hereditary . . .” He reached for her file, opened to her family history. Registered that it was blank. “Huh.”
“I’m adopted,” she said, trying so very hard to make it sound casual. “So even if I wanted to blame my mother, I can’t.”
“Or your father. Heart disease doesn’t discriminate.”
“How progressive of it.” She stopped. “Progressive. Ha. Get it?”
This time, no one laughed.
“You know nothing of your biological family?” he asked.
“No.” There was a sour taste on her tongue. How had they gotten here? From quips about Chinese food to this?
“Have you thought to look?” He held up his hands as if to fend off an attack. “I don’t mean to get personal but you’re not the first patient who has found themselves in such a situation. A health crisis is often a catalyst for seeking more information.”
“I’ve had enough drama. I’m not interested in digging up any more.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not my business,” he said.
“No,” she said testily. “It’s not.”
IT WAS A lie, of course.
Not the part about not wanting drama. But the part about not looking. The day before she had gone to the library and finally worked up the nerve to go online, not to check e-mail but to search BurghBirthParents.org, a site she had discovered when the twins were born. She had not gotten any further than the homepage, full of testimonials from adoptees and birth parents who had been reunited. But she suspected she would. Why else had she come here?
21
Maribeth had not seen much of her neighbors since the disastrous trip to the supermarket. When they’d all met up at the checkout line Todd had frowned at her sad basket of surrender goods. “You could’ve got that at the ShurSave.”
At the Asian grocery store, she had elected to remain in the car. She did not want to risk another panic attack. It was only after Todd and Sunita had left her there that she realized how provincial—or worse, racist—she might seem. On the ride home, they spoke among themselves, while Maribeth sat silent in the backseat. She had not made a good first impression.
But then she received a text from Todd, saying he would have the car again Wednesday and did she want to go shopping.
Yes! she texted back. This time, she would be prepared. At the library, she had looked at a few cookbooks. She now knew what she should be eating. Fish. Lean meats. Tofu. Beans. Pasta. Eggs (whites only). Leafy greens and rich-colored berries. And nonfat yogurt.
They met at five. “You can sit up front. Sunny’s at a movie with ‘friends,’ ” Todd said, making air quotes.
As they drove, Todd was silent, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers.
“Everything okay?” Maribeth asked.
“Fine,” he said. “She gave me a list but I told her we wouldn’t go to the Asian store, not if she’s going to flake. I’m not her errand boy.” He snorted. “She thinks she’s learning to cook but, oh, god, I’d rather eat dirt.”
“I see,” Maribeth said.
“The only thing she does worse than cooking is cleaning. You should see her room. It’s a disaster.” He made a hard right onto Liberty. “I’m only living with her as a favor to her parents.”
“Really?” Maribeth said.
“Her dad got transferred to India last year and he wanted Sunny to live in the dorms but she refused. So I was the compromise. Her family’s known me forever and I might be a guy but I’m gay so I’m safe. Now I’m stuck with her.”
He said all this with such eye-rolling nonchalance that Maribeth understood the source of the blustering. Every relationship, no matter how equitable-seeming, had someone who had more power, more charisma, more something. It was
hard to be the beta.
“I had a friend like that once,” Maribeth said.
“A slob?”
“Not a slob. Just, you know, someone I was really close to. We even lived together.”
“Did it suck?”
They exchanged a look then, fleeting but telling. “No. It was pretty wonderful actually.”
Todd seemed to deflate. He stopped pounding the steering wheel and slumped in his seat. Then in a different, quieter voice he said, “The truth is, the only thing I don’t love about living with Sunny is knowing that one day I won’t.”
Maribeth touched him lightly on the shoulder.
“Though she really can’t cook,” he added.
22
Dear Oscar and Liv,
Today I saw a one-man band on the street. One person was playing the banjo, harmonica, and drums all at the same time. You’d think he would sound horrible, but he sounded amazing. I stayed outside to listen to him until I couldn’t feel my toes anymore and then I put two five-dollar bills in his basket, one from each of you.
It made me think about you two and the songs you sometimes make up. Remember the one about the rats? It’s my favorite. I think it went like this.
Some people like dogs
Some people like cats
Some people even like mice
But no one likes a rat.
Jason had recorded the song, calling it a proto–human rights anthem, and Maribeth had it on her phone. She wished she had a copy of it now. Not only to hear their warbly little voices (even if Liv’s was stridently off-key) but also because it seemed to offer a reassuring kind of proof. Oscar played his one chord on the guitar; Liv made up charming rhyming verses. The musicality from Jason. The wordsmithing from her.
She wondered if when the twins got older they would see it that way. If they’d look at her and Jason, or at each other, glimpsing where they’d come from, where they might be going, and see it as a comfort. Or as a curse.