I'm So Happy for You (27 page)

Wendy had been holding in her tears for more than an hour when she finally closed the door to her apartment behind her. The
place was stiflingly hot, but she barely noticed. She threw herself facedown on the bed and wept. When she’d exhausted her
supply of tears, she splashed cool water on her face, made coffee (the thought of food disgusted her), and tried to think
rationally about her next move. But she couldn’t come up with anything. The future stretched out before her like a giant question
mark laid flat and crushed.

All she could see in her mind’s eye was Daphne: her delicately chewed nails, her long sinewy thighs, her pert little breasts,
her pale and lovely face. She heard her giggling, too, as she roughed up Adam’s hair, then her quiet moans beneath him, as
he thrust himself inside her with everything he had (and everything he’d kept from Wendy); then, after the act, the two of
them talking about her in the slow drawl of the faux-concerned. “I just feel so baaaaaaaaad,” Daphne would say, head tilted
per usual. “I mean, Wendy’s a really, really old friend of mine.”

“Hey—listen—it’s no one’s fault,” Adam would reassure her in a soft voice, while tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“I mean, this whole thing took us by surprise. Neither of us was looking for it. It just happened. And it’s bigger than both
of us. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.” He’d grab her by the forearms. “Daphne. Look at me. I’m in love with you.”

Wendy knew that, if Paige was to be believed, it was Adam who had broken his vows and therefore Adam who had ultimately betrayed
her. Yet as the afternoon progressed, Wendy couldn’t help but feel that it was Daphne who deserved the brunt of her rage—Daphne
who was carrying
her
child and had therefore robbed her of something sacred, Daphne whose very existence felt like an insult. (As the afternoon
progressed, doubt regarding Paige’s story fell away.)

At the same time, Wendy felt a driving need to confront Daphne in person—to hear her admit to her crimes and beg for Wendy’s
forgiveness, and also to tell Daphne what she really thought of her (and what she now wished she’d said to her at the shower).
That wasn’t all. Wendy had never been involved in a physical altercation in her life, but now she imagined punching Daphne
in the face, knocking her to the ground, making her bleed—just as Wendy had been bleeding, month after month after month.
Daphne had always been the drama queen. Now it was Wendy’s turn. She felt like a teakettle approaching boiling point. She
grabbed her keys, wallet, and sunglasses off the kitchen countertop. Then, for the second time that afternoon, she headed
out.

The temperature had cooled, but the stairwell to the subway still stank of piss. “Spare a quarter?” asked the same homeless
man who Wendy used to see in the 9th Street station. For a brief moment, she imagined he’d followed her there. And that he
knew everything—where she was headed and why. Generally speaking, Wendy was too cheap to give money to beggars. But that afternoon,
paranoia trumped parsimony. She stuffed a dollar into the man’s cup. “God bless you,” he muttered. Wendy kept walking.

As the R train crept along its route, she rehearsed her lines: “You’re a deceitful, conniving
predator
who can’t be happy unless you’ve ruined someone else’s life.…”

Daphne and Jonathan’s mansion was apparently all “done.” The windows had been cleaned; the work permit notice had been removed.
The flowerpot at the top of the stoop overflowed with impatiens and vinca, the latter cascading down the side of the pot like
tears down a cheek. Climbing the stoop, Wendy was beset with a familiar sense of discomfort. As if she didn’t belong there
or anywhere else. But those were her old fears talking, Wendy told herself. She’d earned the right to go anywhere she wanted.
It was Daphne who had trespassed.

She rang the bell and waited. She half-expected Adam to come to the door in his boxers, saying, “Oh, hey, Pope, what’s up?
Daf and I are just eating some take-out, if you want to join us.…” But no one answered. She rang again. Still there was no
answer. Wendy idly turned the knob. To her surprise, the door clicked open.

Stepping inside, she was reminded of how magnificent the house was. The hallway had been painted a beautiful shade of robin’s
egg blue, the plasterwork trim a creamy white. To the left of the parlor doors a pewter vase filled with lush violet hydrangea
blossoms sat atop an ebonized wood console. The polished mahogany banister glistened in the late-afternoon light. “Daphne!
It’s Wendy,” she yelled in a voice that sounded hoarse and unfamiliar to her. Who had she become? Wendy wondered. “I’d like
to talk to you.” But there was no answer. It struck Wendy how quiet the house was. Her heart thumping, she climbed the stairs
to the second floor. Every few steps, she paused to listen for signs of life. Still she heard nothing.

Arriving on the second-floor landing, Wendy noticed that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. Her heart beating even faster,
she peeked inside. A pristine white spread lay smoothed over the four corners of Daphne and Jonathan’s gleaming sleigh bed.
Against the headboard, propped up in descending order like the animals on Noah’s ark, was a procession of fluffy white pillows.
To the right of the bed, pale yellow taffeta curtains pooled on honey-colored wide plank floors. To the left was a cherrywood
dresser topped with wedding and family photos in sterling silver frames. All the people in the pictures looked so elegant
and peaceful, Wendy thought, with admiration and fury.

Just then, she made out the muted rush of a running faucet. Her heart began to race. “Daphne!” she called. But again, there
was no answer. She walked down the hall and tapped on the door behind which the noise seemed to be coming from. Receiving
no reply, she slowly turned the knob.

It was the most sumptuous bathroom Wendy had ever seen. At the far end was a porcelain bathtub with claw feet; to the right,
an all-glass shower stall with a marble interior; to the left were matching marble his-and-hers sinks with polished nickel
legs and hardware. A steady stream of water poured out of the far one. On the white tiled floor between the sinks lay the
most beautiful fixture of all: Daphne.

Her jaw was slack, her eyes were closed, her hair was everywhere. Her pregnant belly, its navel stretched flat, poked out
of an old lace camisole top. Her head rested on one bare, outstretched arm. A small orange plastic vial with a white label
had rolled under the sink closest to her head, its cap and contents missing. “Oh, my god,” Wendy said, gasping. The original
Valley Girl standard had finally met its match. “Oh, my god,” she said again, all her old fears about Daphne finally confirmed—now
that Wendy no longer cared.

But why now? Had Daphne’s conscience acted up? Had she told Jonathan that the baby wasn’t his? Had he told her to get out?
And what did Adam have to do with any of it? (Why wasn’t he here by her side?) Wendy bent down and felt for Daphne’s pulse.
She was alive. But for how much longer?

Wendy knew she had to think fast. But her brain was pulling her in two directions. She figured she could tiptoe back down
the hall and stairs and close the door behind her most likely without anyone having seen her come in and without anyone ever
knowing she’d been there (and with Daphne getting the punishment she deserved, the punishment she’d willed on herself ). How
much easier life would be if Daphne was dead, Wendy thought. Adam would be too devastated and ashamed to attend the funeral,
but Wendy would sit politely in the back row. Everyone would agree it was a terrible tragedy. Wendy would have her husband
back.

Only, what about the baby—the baby who Wendy wanted not to exist but who, in that moment, she couldn’t help but think deserved
a better fate than to die at the hands of its own maker, a prisoner of its own invention? And what about Daphne herself? Did
her crime really deserve death? And would Wendy be able to live with herself if she left Daphne there to drift away? For almost
sixteen years, Wendy had played the role of Daphne’s protector. Could she really abandon that role now—now that Daphne was
actually in need?

And yet, what had Daphne ever done for her? Wendy thought. Gotten her into a few exclusive parties. Filled the silence with
her tireless chatter, her incessant use of the word
beyond
. Provided a distraction from Wendy’s own problems—until Daphne became her biggest problem of all. Then again, until Daphne,
Wendy had never really been close to anyone—not in the way she’d been close to Daphne. Daphne had always been so self-obsessed
that, in some strange way, she’d taught Wendy what it meant to love.

Daphne also had an uncanny way of making Wendy feel empty and hopeless inside.

Every muscle in her body wanted to run. Instead, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.…

After Wendy hung up, she knelt on the floor beside Daphne—held her hand and smoothed the hair off her forehead and told her
she was going to be okay. And wondered how she could possibly be rooting for the woman she hated more than anyone else on
earth to pull through. Maybe it was because, lying there, Daphne had never looked so dull, really—and so human after all.

EMS arrived six minutes later, complete with wailing sirens. Wendy ran to the front door. Brawny men in blue shirts were striding
up the staircase, two steps at a time, when Jonathan appeared. “What the hell is going on?!” he said, his eyes shifting from
Wendy to the men.

It was the only time she’d ever seen him looking undone. One of his shirttails was untucked. His eyes were red. Was it possible
he’d been crying? Drinking? It also struck Wendy that Jonathan had never looked so handsome. “Daphne’s sick,” she said.

“What?!” he said, racing up the stairs.

From downstairs, Wendy could hear him moaning, “Daphne. Daphne. What have you done?”

Jonathan didn’t ask Wendy to ride in the ambulance with him, but he didn’t object, either, when she climbed in next to him.
She felt it was the right thing to do, the kind of thing you did for your oldest friend in the event of her overdosing on
tranquilizers while eight and a half months pregnant with your husband’s child. She was also curious: to know what had precipitated
Daphne’s suicide attempt, and what had happened between her and Adam, and if she and her baby were going to live. Wendy was
worried, too—not just about Daphne, but that the answers she sought would be buried with Daphne and her unborn child.

Long Island College Hospital was at the end of the next block, so the trip there took less than two minutes. The ambulance
arrived at the emergency entrance, and a second crew whisked away Daphne’s gurney, leaving Wendy and Jonathan to join the
throngs of the worried, bored, and suffering. LICH wasn’t one of the fancy New York hospitals—there were no soaring marble
lobbies, no wings named after Wall Street moguls—but the emergency room had a partial view of the skyline and a fresh coat
of paint. Children fidgeted. Adults talked on phones or paced. Others held bandages to their heads. Wendy and Jonathan sat
down next to each other in the least-populated corner of the room. She longed to ask him what he knew, but she didn’t have
the nerve, couldn’t find the right opening. An hour went by. Or maybe it was two. It was Jonathan who finally broke the silence.
(Maybe he got curious, too.) “I thought you and Daphne didn’t speak anymore,” he said.

“We hadn’t been,” Wendy told him. “But I came over to make up.” Who was to say it hadn’t been her intention all along?

“Interesting timing,” said Jonathan.

“She told you about the baby, didn’t she?” said Wendy, unable to stop herself, her heart in her throat.

“Yeah, she told me,” he said.

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where the father is?” It was now after eight and—it occurred suddenly to Wendy—she
still hadn’t heard a word from Adam.

“I don’t give a
fuck
where he is,” declared Jonathan. “The guy is a scumbag.”

“At least you’re not married to him,” Wendy said with a laugh.

“What?” said Jonathan, his chiseled face twisted.

“We
are
talking about my husband, right?”

Jonathan let out a scalding laugh of his own. “No, that would be Mitchell Kroker Reporting Live from the Fucking Capital.”

Wendy felt her stomach falling out of her body. “Mitch is the father?”

“Some kind of reunion deal. Maybe because we’d just gotten engaged. Had to go fuck things up, you know?” Jonathan shook his
head in anger and bewilderment.

Wendy had never felt so relieved. Or so confused. Or like a bigger fool. How could she have gotten things so wrong? Was the
world that much of a tease? Were we all stumbling around like Plato’s cave dwellers, mistakenly believing that the sun rose
this morning, when it had actually imploded a hundred million years before? “I’m so sorry,” she began—just as a harried-looking
doctor appeared before them.

“Are you the family of Daphne Sonnenberg?” she asked.

“I’m her husband,” said Jonathan, standing up. Wendy stood up, too.

“She’s going to be okay,” said the woman.

Receiving this latest dramatic dispatch from Daphne-ville, Jonathan collapsed against Wendy and began silently to sob. He
smelled like lavender and scotch. For a brief moment, Wendy imagined having sex with him, being his wife, padding around their
Cobble Hill brownstone in shearling slippers, her hair pulled up in a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Then she recalled
his comment about the Palestinians’ being nomads and doubted that their marriage would work. “But we’re not sure about the
baby yet,” the doctor went on. “She’ll be going in for a cesarean in a few minutes.” She turned to Jonathan. “If you’d like
to be there with her—”

“That’s okay,” he said, pulling away from Wendy, his palm raised. “I’ll wait here.”

“I’m happy to go in with her,” said Wendy, glancing from Jonathan to the doctor and back again.

“Whatever you want,” he said, shrugging.

In fact, it was precisely what Wendy wanted. Maybe she was hoping to become a hero in Daphne’s mind and compensate for what
she’d done at her baby shower. Or maybe she just wanted to be the first of Daphne’s friends to hear the “real story.” (Wendy’s
personal investment aside, there had never been gossip quite like this, at least not in their shared social circle; under
different circumstances, Wendy would already have been excited to tell Adam.) Or maybe, despite everything, Wendy still felt
responsible for solving Daphne’s problems.