This Is How It Happened (10 page)

A week after the big investor meeting, I found the pill bottle. In the bathroom, in a side pocket of his dop kit. I was looking for a condom. We usually didn’t use them because Carlton hated the way they felt.

“Don’t make me bag it,” he’d say, flashing me his sexiest grin.

But tonight was different. I was in the dangerous part of the month and—as much as Carlton professed his control—the rhythm method seemed risky.

I wasn’t a candidate for birth control because of a hormone problem I’d had since childhood. So I did what every good Italian Catholic woman does.

I prayed. And counted the days, keeping a meticulous calendar of every time I thought I could possibly be ovulating. In the fifteen years since I’d started having sex, it had somehow, miraculously, worked.

Heather told me I was “playing with fire.”

“You should make Carlton wear one Every Single Time,” she said. “He’ll get used to it.”

But I didn’t listen. I wanted him to feel good. I wanted sex between us to be natural. And besides, ripping open a condom always seemed to be a bit of a buzz kill.

No matter how creative I got—extra sensitive, glow-in-the-dark, lambskin, and the occasional French tickler, Carlton still acted as though I’d dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

He suffered through it, sure. And he’d smile when I’d make jokes. Trying to find humor in the situation. Lighten the mood, as they say.

“Look out, babe! I think this thing is trying to suffocate you,” I’d say, as I fumbled around. Trying to unroll it. My hands nervous and slippery.

The moment we finished, he’d tear it off, throw it on the floor, a look of disdain on his face.

I always—always picked it up. Wrapped it in toilet paper. Threw it away. It was the least I could do, I figured. After all, he was the one making all the compromises.

So, finding the condom box empty, and knowing Carlton was on his way home, I began a frantic search. For an errant condom. The one that got away.

I dug through every drawer in the bathroom.

A-ha! I thought, flicking my finger in the air. Carlton’s dop kit. Under the sink.

The pill bottle was one I’d never seen before.

It said:
Carlton Connors. Take one in the morning. With food
. I checked the date on the bottle. Hmm. Two weeks ago. Carlton never told me he went to the doctor.

Just then, Carlton walked in the door.

I held up the bottle. “What’s this? What’s Valtrixo?” I asked, reading the name off the prescription.

His face turned a shade of crimson I’d never seen before.

“I love you,” he said, immediately.

“Oh…Kay,” I replied.

“Seriously, babe? What’s this for? Jock itch? Hemorrhoids?” I giggled and covered my mouth with my hand. “I think it’s cute you’re embarrassed,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.

He grabbed my shoulders and steered me over to the bed. “Sit,” he said.

I was suddenly nervous.

This was no jock itch.

“What is it, Carlton?” I asked, almost in a whisper.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, Maddy.”

“What? Ohmigod, Carlton. What!”

He stood up and began pacing the bedroom. “You’re going to be mad, but I want you to hear me out. First things first, I want you to know I love you. I want us to get married.” He swung around, knelt down on his knees, grabbed both my hands, and kissed them. First one. Then the other.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to leave me.”

I sit on the bed, still as a statue. Carlton is on his knees, on the floor in front of me. I wait for the bomb to drop.

He stares past me. “After Megan and I got divorced, I was in a state of confusion. Depressed, you know. So I went out with the guys a lot. To different bars. To Vegas. We all got hammered. And I had a few girls…” he trails off. “I don’t even remember most of their names, Maddy.”

“Nice,” I say.

Carlton takes my hand and kisses my ring finger. He notices I’m not wearing the Juliet ring.

“Where’s your ring?”

“You wanted me to take it off before the investor meeting, remember?” I say, in a caustic voice.

Carlton rushes into the bathroom, spots the ring on the counter, and comes back into the bedroom. He kneels down on one knee and pushes the ring back on my finger.

“Tell me more,” I say.

Carlton stays on his knee. He doesn’t look at me. “There was this one girl,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I found some pills in her medicine cabinet but it was too late. I’d already been infected.”

“Infected?” I pull my hands away. Carlton looks up at me, a wounded dog.

God, he’s gorgeous
, I think. I don’t want to think this way, but with him staring up at me with his movie star eyes, I can’t help myself.

Carlton runs his hand through his hair. “Genital herpes. It’s not that serious, Maddy. Sixty percent of American men and women in our age group have it.”

“And you’ve got it?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Yeah.”

“We’ve been having unprotected sex, Carlton! We LIVE together! When were you planning to tell me?”

“I’ve been careful, Maddy. You’ve got to understand. Whenever I’ve had a flare-up, I haven’t slept with you. I check myself every day. In the shower. Scouts Honor.” He raises his hand, like a boy scout taking an oath.

“I swear to you, Maddy. I would never, EVER put you at risk.”

“But you did put me at risk, Carlton. No matter how careful you were!”

“If you don’t have any symptoms, you probably haven’t been infected,” he says.

“Probably?” I stand from the bed, abruptly, and pace the room. “First you leave me high and dry in the investor meeting. You completely accept the fact that your father basically robbed me of any power in Organics 4 Kids—my idea!—and now—this!”

I stare into Carlton’s eyes and see that they’re surprisingly moist.

“Maddy, I’m going to marry you. And you’ll get a huge share of the company, no matter what my father says about it. I promise you.” Carlton lowers his voice. “Please understand that the reason I didn’t tell you about the herpes is because I love you so much. I didn’t want to risk losing you.” He kisses my ring. “Forever, my Juliet,” he says, softly.

I push past him and march into the living room. Clutching a pillow and blanket under my arm.

He follows after me. “Don’t sleep on the couch,” he says.

But it’s too late.

I’m already pulling out the mattress.

Heather has invited me over for the Big Day. The “unveiling of the nursery,” as she calls it. I swing by with an early baby gift. Something I bought from the Internet. Now that I’m officially an Internet warrior, whatever that means.

It’s a Hanukah bear with a little wood Dreidel around its neck. I got it off a website called “OyToys For Jewish Joys.”

Heather rips the bear out of the gift bag and literally squeals. “Oh my Gaaahh, Maddy! I absolutely One Hundred Percent Adore It!”

She cradles the bear in her arms, like a child herself, and nuzzles it against her chin. “Let’s show Michael!” she says, leading me from the kitchen to the living room. Heather calls it the “sitting room,” but it’s nothing fancy. It’s just a plain ol’ comfortable television room filled with the typical starter-marriage furniture. Mismatched stuff that looks like it came from Pottery Barn or IKEA. Heather’s decorated as best she could with a few lamps and throw pillows to make everything nice and cozy. Her piece de resistance is an antique prayer rug she brought back from her summer in the Middle East. But this doesn’t compare to Michael’s finishing touch—a gigantic, 60-inch, big-screen plasma TV that barely fits in the room. Michael calls it “his baby.”

I see him sitting on the couch, a bucket of popcorn in his lap.

Heather says, “Look at this adorable little Hanukah bear Maddy gave us!”

“Cute,” Michael says, staring at the TV. He points to his movie-theater-sized screen. I can see Julia Roberts. An almost life-sized Julia Roberts onscreen.

Julia says, “They’re called boobs, Ed.”

“They’re called boobs, Ed!” Michael squeals, hooting, and honking, and slapping his knee like a hillbilly.

Heather turns to me and rolls her eyes. “He’s watching
Erin Brockovitch
. AGAIN!” She sighs and pats Michael’s head as we breeze by. “Some husbands dream of speedboats and swimsuit models. My husband dreams of medical malpractice.”

“McDonald’s coffee,” Michael corrects her.

Heather turns to me. “You know the big lawsuit where McDonald’s was serving its coffee too hot?”

I nod. Sometimes Heather and Michael do this jive where they both talk at the same time. Finish each other’s sentences, that type of thing. They start to do this now. Talking over each other. Something about McDonald’s coffee.

Michael swings around and flings a piece of popcorn in Heather’s direction. It hits her shoulder and falls to the floor.

“Mature,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’ll pick it up,” he drawls in his fake Southern accent. “Don’t git your knickers in a twist, darlin’.”

“What about the McDonald’s case?” I ask, because I know Michael wants to tell me. He likes to be the center of attention, which is why he loves standing up in front of the jury box and telling twelve fine citizens of Travis County what’s what.

Michael says, “Well, Maddy, if you must know, I dreamt of that woman calling me and telling me she burned herself because the coffee was too damn hot—And in my dream, I say, ‘well, where’d ya get the coffee?’ And she says, ‘McDonald’s.’”

“You should have heard him moaning in his sleep,” Heather says.

“Yeah,” Michael says, “Can you imagine the lawyer that got to sue Mickey D’s? I bet he smiled his way to the bank,” he says, with his Southern drawl.

Michael turns back to the TV. “You know. Julia Roberts is one hot tamale in this movie,” he says.

Heather tosses some popcorn kernels on the floor near Michael and stomps on them. I hear the kernels crunch under her sandal.

“That’s not nice,” Michael drawls. But even as he says it, he looks up at his wife and smiles.

I look at Heather with her supermodel face.
I guess a man will forgive anything with a face like that
, I think. Heather is a real knockout. She’s got the body of a young Twiggy or Kate Moss, and a face that makes most red-blooded American men do a double take. When I’m with her, I’m the invisible friend.

Heather leads me into the new nursery.

“Ta-da!” she says, flicking the light on. “Well,” she says, swinging her arms out like a game show hostess again, “What do you think?”

I look around. At the walls painted a soft, robin’s egg blue. At the white crib in the corner. At the miniature Alexander Calder mobile hanging over the crib from the newly painted white ceiling.

Armed only with a paintbrush and a shoestring budget, I see Heather’s done a tremendous job.

“Wow,” I say. “Make that double wow.”

“You like it?”

“Did you hand-paint all these little bears?”

“Stencils,” Heather says.

“You’re going to be one terrific mom.”

Heather smiles at me, beatifically.

Saint Heather.

“I may not be the brains of this family,” she says, “but at least I’ve got an eye for color.”

“Hey. Stop selling yourself short in the brains department,” I say.

Heather always does this. And it gets annoying. My best friend may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but she’s certainly not dumb. And I think having a heart of gold counts for something. Not to mention her looks. A girl as beautiful as Heather could probably get away with being a bitch. But Heather is a “pure soul,” as my brother likes to say.

Heather looks around the room, admiring her handiwork. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, flicking off the light. She motions for me to follow her. “C’mon. Let’s give Michael some more grief,” she says.

“Gladly.”

Heather waltzes into the living room, grabs the bucket of popcorn, and dumps the entire thing over Michael’s head.

“Hey!” he says, jumping up. He grabs my pregnant girlfriend, lifts her off the ground, and tosses her softly on the couch. “Looks like someone needs a spankin’!” he says, as he gently manhandles her.

“Michael stop!” Heather shrieks and begins giggling uncontrollably as Michael turns her over in his lap and begins patting her bottom.

“Who’s been a bad girl?” Michael asks.

(Oh Lord. I guess this is their idea of foreplay.)

“I was just leaving,” I say, letting myself out the door.

“Bye, Maddy!” Heather and Michael both shout, in unison.

I tread out to my car, haul myself into the driver’s seat, and slam the door.

I drive slowly, wishing there was someplace else to go. Like maybe a movie. But I’ve seen everything worth seeing. Plus a few not worth seeing.

I drive in silence and try not to think the unthinkable. The “maybe Carlton will come to his senses and come crawling back to me” thought. I picture him on my doorstep, on his knees, the Juliet ring in his hand.

“Marry me, Maddy,” he says. When I say yes, Carlton stands, and proceeds to strangle me.

Such are my dreams. Every single night.

Which is why I really don’t know why I’m pulling into my garage right now. I mean, it’s not even dark yet. And I’m already dreading going to sleep.

I ease the car inside, put it in park, and just sit.

Hmm. How long does it take this carbon monoxide thing to work, I wonder? Punching a button on my dashboard, I watch in the rearview as the garage door closes down behind me.

The engine is still running. I unlock my seatbelt. Could I kill myself in a matter of minutes? Hours? How long does it take? I crack open a window and let the engine idle.

I could probably sit here for days and it wouldn’t matter. And then I suddenly remember what I learned from the carbon monoxide websites…

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. The odorless, colorless, poisonous gas attacks before you even know what’s happening.

The next thing I know, someone is shaking me.

“Jesus, Maddy! Are you trying to kill yourself?” I crack open my eyes and see a vision in pink. It’s Heather. And she’s wearing a pink jogging suit.

“You can’t kill yourself before my baby shower! I need you!” she screeches.

“Huh? What happened?” I ask, and my voice is dry, clogged.

Heather jerks open the driver’s side door and pulls me out of the car. My head is pounding like someone’s got a jackhammer to my ear.

“You’re asleep in your car! In the garage. And the car is running!” Heather shouts. Her voice sounds far away. “I’m taking you to the emergency room!”

I’m confused. Groggy. And I’ve apparently almost gassed myself to death.

“You left in such a rush, you left your purse at our house,” Heather says, her voice in a panic. “Oh my God! I never should’ve finished watching
Erin Brockovitch
!”

I swing my legs out of the driver’s seat. Try to stand. I see the garage door is up. Michael is standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Looking really pissed.

“We saw the light on in the garage,” he announces. “It’s a good thing Heather knows where your extra key is hidden.”

“I—I’m sorry?” I say, and my voice is hoarse.

“I told my wife if the fumes didn’t kill ya, I was gonna do it,” Michael says. He’s looking at me the way he does sometimes. Not mean. Just pissed.

“I think we should call an ambulance,” Heather says. I watch as she rummages in her purse for a cell phone.

“Water,” I croak. “No ambulance.”

Michael disappears and returns with a bottle of mineral water. “Drink,” he says.

I drink the water, quickly. Too quickly. Suddenly I feel the signal. The gurgling in my belly. I rush to my front yard and vomit on the sidewalk.

Michael doesn’t say a word. He grabs my garden hose and washes the puke into the street. Then he picks up his cell phone.

“No! I’m begging you! No ambulance. My health insurance has lapsed!”

Michael holds up his finger to shut me up.

“Hey Dad. Sorry to bother you so late,” he says. “I’ve got a question about carbon monoxide poisoning.” Michael turns his back to me and I hear him speaking to his father in a hushed tone.

His dad is a doctor, which comes in handy. So Michael’s done this routine before. Calling his dad when I thought I had a mole that looked like skin cancer. And the time when Heather thought she had Lyme disease because she was feeling “extra tired” that week.

Dr. Wasserstein calls us the “Hypochondriackers.”

I flop down onto the ground and clutch my stomach. Heather sits next to me and rubs my back. Gently. Like the extra nice person that she is.

“What’s happened to you, Maddy?” she asks, in a soft voice. “You were always so positive about everything. Remember when I was stressed out about getting pregnant? You’re the one who assured me it would all be okay. You always told me to
leap before I looked
, remember?”

I nod and stare down at the grass. “Maybe you shouldn’t have listened.”

“Nonsense,” Heather says.

Michael hands me the phone.

“Talk to my dad,” he orders me.

I shake my head no, but he opens my hand and slaps the phone into my palm.

“Dr. Wasserstein?” I ask, and my voice sounds meek.

“Do you have a headache, Maddy?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Is your vision impaired?”

I squint my eyes and look at Heather. She still looks pink. But it’s not blurry pink. It’s just pink pink.

“No.”

“Okay, I think you’ve been exposed to an elevated level of carbon monoxide. But I don’t think you need an ambulance. However, if you start experiencing irregular breathing, dizziness, fainting—any severe symptoms—then I want you to call 911. And then call me on my cell. Michael will give you the number.”

“Thanks Dr. Wasserstein,” I say, and I sound like I’m a kid, again.

“In the meantime, Madeline, I think you should see a therapist.”

“I’ll consider it,” I say.

“You know, I could put you on suicide watch.”

I laugh into the phone. But then I realize Dr. Wasserstein isn’t joking. Is that what everyone thinks? That I’m trying to kill myself?

Well, what were you doing?
a voice in my head asks.

“It’s not what you think,” I say in a cool-as-cucumber voice. My head is ringing, my ears are popping and I think I’m going to throw up again. But I’ve got to save face here.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dr. Wasserstein says. “Just remember, Madeline, my door is always open.”

“Thanks.”

I pass the phone back to Michael. Heather turns to me and says, “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

“Tryin’ to steal my wife,” Michael says, shaking his head. He’s not mad anymore. I can see it in his eyes. He’s back to his old whimsical self. If anything, Michael probably finds this mildly amusing.

“It’s okay, guys. I’m just going to bed,” I say. I hoist myself off the ground and brush off my jeans. “Thanks for bringing over my purse. You’re a lifesaver,” I say.

Heather says, “No problem.”

Michael says, “Lifesaver! Ha! I get it.”

We all have a good laugh, Michael orders a cheese pizza, and we sit around my kitchen till the wee hours talking about old times. So the night doesn’t end up sucking after all.

God, the lengths I have to go.