I'm So Happy for You (22 page)

She also felt hurt by how long it had taken Daphne to tell her the news. By “wedding and everything,” Daphne seemed to be
implying that she’d been too busy planning the Big Day to find time to inform Wendy. But in the space of twenty-three weeks
had Daphne really not identified a single free moment? Wendy suspected that Daphne’s silence had mostly to do with her not
wanting anyone to think that Jonathan was only marrying her because he had to. But even if he was, after all that she and
Wendy had been through together, could Daphne really be concerned about keeping up appearances in front of her?

Or was Wendy being punished for speaking out of turn—not just at the wedding? Wendy thought guiltily of the many catty conversations
and exchanges she’d had over the years about Daphne with their mutual friends, some under the guise of concern, others blatantly
bitchy. Had something Wendy had said gotten back to Daphne?

Or might there have been a charitable motive behind the delay? Maybe Daphne had put off telling Wendy because she’d known
the news would only upset and frustrate her further. Which, of course, it had. Not only was Wendy still not pregnant, but
the now almost ritualized disappointment that accompanied the sanguineous arrival of her menstrual period each month had taken
all the romance out of the venture. Now it was just a science experiment that never worked. Now Wendy and Adam hardly ever
had sex anymore, not even during the right time of the month. And on the few occasions they did, he just lay there on his
back or side, letting Wendy do all the work.

Wendy was entertaining the distasteful idea that in the intervening weeks Daphne had confided in another, better friend (Paige?
Sara?), when Adam appeared in the doorway. “What’s up with you?” he said.

“Nothing,” Wendy said as neutrally as she could. She knew how crazy it drove him when she got morose over their reproductive
problems.

“Nothing?” he asked, cockeyed. “You just felt like climbing into bed at three in the afternoon and staring at the wall?”

Wendy didn’t answer.

“Don’t tell me you got your period again,” he said.

He never knew when to let her be
, Wendy thought. She felt as if the two of them were trapped on some transatlantic flight that was stuck on the tarmac, going
nowhere yet unable to separate, trapped between two time zones, one already in the past, the other still in the future. “I
didn’t get my period,” she told him. “Okay?” Wendy knew as soon as she’d said it that she should have kept her mouth shut.
Her voice had grown shaky. Adam was bound to notice. He noticed everything.

“Well, then, another of your thirty-five-year-old women friends is pregnant—who is it now?” he asked.

“Daphne,” said Wendy, swallowing hard.

“Oh, Christ!” said Adam, sounding suddenly distressed himself. “I knew this was going to happen.” Knew
what
was going to happen? That Daphne would get pregnant? That Wendy would be upset when she heard the news? His meaning unclear,
he shook his head and walked out of the room.

The sky was the same color as the ever-growing mountain of newspapers in the hallway outside Wendy and Adam’s apartment, waiting
to be recycled. In short, it wasn’t much of a day for a walk in the park. Plus, the park wasn’t even nearby anymore. So Wendy,
desperate to clear her head, took the subway to the Brooklyn Museum.

Walking through the Ancient Egyptian wing, contemplating the blank stares of the mummy cases and pharaoh statuary, she wondered
if being in a bad mood was a modern invention. After all, here lay dead people who, judging from the facial expressions of
their sculptural stand-ins, seemed completely fine, even mellow, about the biggest tragedy of all: their own mortality. And
what if it turned out that all the skeptics were wrong, and you really did get to go somewhere new and exciting when you died?
Cheered by this possibility, Wendy composed a reply email to Daphne with the goal of sounding gracious and supportive. Upon
her arrival home, she typed it up:

D, Pregnant? What??? Thrilled for you, of course. That’s great news. Can’t believe you’re gonna be a momma. When is baby due?
Please send my regards/congrats to Jonathan, as well.
Xxoo W

Fake excitement. Fake casualness. Fake, fake, fake. That was what had become of their friendship, Wendy thought as she clicked
“send.” But what other choice did she have? Getting along in the world seemed to require the endless peddling of palaver:
of “You look great” and “Have a nice day” and “I’m so happy for you.” It was like air. Or food. Or shelter. No one could get
on without it. Yet no one meant a word of it. Or did they? Were other people simply bigger-hearted than Wendy was? And was
it even possible to be happy for someone else’s success when you hadn’t achieved it yourself?

That night, Wendy discovered she was fast approaching her fertile peak. She wished her ovaries had chosen another time to
release their inmate. But since they hadn’t, she was determined to regain Adam’s affections—even though the two had barely
spoken since the morning, Wendy’s frustration with biology seemingly deadlocked with his frustration with her. Or was there
another explanation? Adam was already in bed, reading the 1974 true crime bestseller about the Charles Manson murders,
Helter Skelter,
his body turned toward the door. Wendy curled up against his back and slid an arm around his waist. But he made no acknowledgment
of her presence, not even after she let her hand slip below his navel.

It was only after she began to burrow her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts that he finally spoke. “What—are
you ovulating?” he said.

“Why does it matter?” said Wendy, wincing, even as she continued to prod.

“Why does it matter?” Adam laughed as he repeated her question. Then he rolled onto his back, forcing Wendy’s right hand into
retreat. “Because it’s the only thing that matters to you anymore. I’m just incidental to the whole process.”

“That’s not true,” she said.

“Of course it’s true. It’s the only time of the month you want to do it. God forbid you were ever just ‘in the mood.’ ” His
book now resting on his chest, Adam made quotes in the air.

The charge wounded Wendy, not only because she wanted to believe she was the kind of person who would never have married someone
who used air quotes, but because to articulate their lack of a spontaneous sex life was to make it real and therefore of consequence.
(It was easier to pretend that it wasn’t.) “Well, look who’s talking!” she cried. “You never want to do it, either.”

“Well, then, we’re even,” said Adam.

“I’m in the mood now,” said Wendy.

“Well, I’m not—sorry.” Adam rolled back over onto his side and reopened his book.

But she was ovulating, damn it! And it only happened twelve or thirteen times a year. Why couldn’t he understand that time
was of the essence? That time was running out? Again, Wendy pressed up against her husband. For several minutes, they lay
together like that, him reading and her waiting. And waiting some more. But for how much longer? She felt suddenly frantic
and about to burst through her skin with her frustrated desires. Reproductive? Sexual? Material? She could no longer differentiate
between the three. All she knew was that she wanted and wasn’t getting. She could feel Adam’s toes pressing conciliatorily
into her own, but she quickly moved them away. She wasn’t ready to make up. Besides, it wasn’t his feet she needed. Believing
in that moment that a surprise attack was her best strategy, Wendy disappeared under the covers.

But Adam was prepared. He had his defenses up, his anti-artillery loaded and cocked. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” he bellowed while pushing
her face away from his crotch. “HAVE YOU GONE INSANE?” He scooted over to the edge of the bed.

Wendy emerged from beneath the covers equally livid. That Adam would dare withhold from her! He was her husband, damn it!
(Sperm, she felt, was the least he owed her; he wasn’t good for much else these days.) “FINE!” she yelled. “IF YOU DON’T WANT
TO HAVE A BABY—FINE!” She felt humiliated, too—humiliated and, at the same time, fascinated by her humiliation: when had she
become this terrifying succubus?

“YOU’RE RIGHT,” Adam yelled back. “I DON’T WANT TO HAVE A BABY. I’M SICK OF THE WHOLE GODDAMN SUBJECT.” He beat his chest
like Tarzan. “I want to be appreciated for being me. You treat me like I’m a stud farm—not a human being.”

“That’s not true!” Wendy protested.

“That’s how it feels!”

“I’m frustrated.”

“Life is frustrating.”

“It’s been a year and a half and I’m still not pregnant.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you or me. It just hasn’t happened yet. Why can’t you live with that?”

“Why does everything get to be your decision?”

“My decision?” Adam scoffed. “Last time I checked, you were the one forcing us to have sex on a schedule.”

“I feel like a failure,” Wendy told him. “You can’t understand that.”

“A failure? You mean, if you were a better person, you’d be pregnant by now? It’s not a reflection of your character that
you’re not pregnant yet.”

“It feels like one. It’s all I think about.” Wendy had never heard herself sound so pathetic. At the same time, it came as
a relief to admit, finally, to the lack of poetry—or politics—in her head.

“Well, maybe you should go back to therapy,” said Adam.

“We can’t afford it,” said Wendy. “Because you don’t work.”

“Oh, now you want me to pay for your therapy?!”

“No, I want you to help pay for our
life!
” Wendy also felt relieved to be admitting to her discontent over her husband’s chronic unemployment—relieved and riled and
depressed.

Adam shook his head contemptuously. Then he rolled back onto his side, flipped off his reading light, and pulled the covers
over his shoulders and neck, victorious in his celibacy—at least for the moment.

“Did I tell you I’m going to this prenatal yoga class every Saturday?” Daphne was saying to Wendy over the phone a few days
later. “It’s a total nightmare. I can’t even do downward-facing dog!”

“It takes a lot of arm strength,” said Wendy.

“Also, do you know what Kegels are?” Daphne went on. “The teacher is, like,
obsessed
with them. She’s like”—Daphne made her voice unpleasantly nasal—“People, if there’s one thing you, take away from this class—please,
I’m begging you—practice your Kegels: in the subway, waiting in line at the post office, on hold with your medical insurer.
Whenever you find yourself with five minutes to spare, take the time to work your vaginal muscles. You won’t regret it. Imagine
you’re in an elevator. First stop—the pelvic floor.” Daphne reclaimed her normal speaking voice. “Of course, I can’t even
do one. You’re supposed to hold your muscles down there tight for, like, five beats and then release them again—apparently
so you won’t pee all over yourself every time you sneeze. Whatever. I’ll just wear diapers if I have to.”

“Oh, please,” said Wendy, who—was this terrible?—didn’t mind the idea of Daphne’s being incontinent. “I’m sure she’s exaggerating.”

“Maybe. Anyway, the only part of the class I can deal with is at the end, when you get to doze off under one of those Peruvian
blankets while they play that hippie flute music with the tweeting birds. To be honest, the blankets smell like BO—clearly,
no one’s ever washed them—but by that point, I’m so exhausted I don’t even care. Though I could do without that bullshit at
the very end where you have to sit with your hands pressed together in prayer and everyone mutters ‘Numismaya’—or whatever
it is—in those really sanctimonious voices—”

“I think it’s
Namaste,
” interjected Wendy.

“Whatever. It sounds like some special branch of stamp collecting.” Daphne snorted at her joke. “Anyway, I swear I always
leave there feeling like I’ve accidentally joined some brainwashed cult. It’s why I’ve always hated yoga.”

“I know what you mean,” said Wendy, who, although she’d attended plenty of yoga classes in her lifetime, suspected that she
didn’t, had no idea, might never.

•  •  •

(L
ATE
J
UNE
)

Adam had tried to discourage Wendy from throwing a baby shower for Daphne. “You’re just going to get all depressed and upset
and tell me everyone has a baby or is pregnant but you,” he’d told her, his voice a mix of anger and exasperation.

What he couldn’t understand was that it was the right thing to do—the kind of thing you did for your oldest friend who was
seven and a half months pregnant with her first child, even if it meant showing off both your shabby apartment and your barren
womb. Because not to do so would have felt like an admission of defeat. And because playing host was still preferable to having
to attend someone else’s shower for Daphne as a mere guest.

The buzzer began to ring at twenty to three. Sara arrived first, followed by Jenny Kenar, Audrey Lennon, Pamela, Gretchen,
Jenn Gilmore, Courtney Kleesak, Hannah Dingo, and a woman Wendy didn’t recognize (Daphne’s cousin Alyssa?). All of them were
accompanied by progeny under the age of four, most of them already born and squalling, a few in utero and still silent. The
majority of the women harked back to Daphne’s college days. Prior to Daphne’s wedding, Wendy hadn’t seen some of them in fifteen
years. In several cases (Courtney Kleesak and Jenny Gilmore, in particular), Wendy would have been happy to extend that number
to thirty. But that afternoon she was committed to being a model hostess. “So great to see you!” she greeted her friends and
enemies alike. And “Hello there, little guy!” And “You can put your presents in that pile in the living room.” And “You can
leave your stroller in the hall, if you want—whatever’s easier for you.”

Adam had gone to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets play the Phillies.

Polly was spending the afternoon with a neighbor because Daphne had announced that she’d developed an early-midlife allergy
to dogs.

Assuming Paige wasn’t on her way—to Wendy’s surprise, there was no sign of her—Daphne was, of course, the last to arrive.
She was dressed for the occasion in a red-and-white paisley-printed wrap dress, all the better to show off her perfectly compact
bump. “Ohmygod, all my favorite people in one room!” she cried, in an almost plaintive tone, at the sight of her ten best
friends fanned out across the foyer. “Thank you all so much for being here. And Wen, it was so sweet of you to throw me a
party. I’m forever in your debt.” She embraced Wendy.