I'm So Happy for You (13 page)

Maybe it was strange to feel intimidated by someone you’d known for fifteen-plus years. Then again, Wendy had never seen Daphne
look as “done” as she looked that night. She was wearing knee-high black suede boots and a close-fitting, black and white,
botanical-print dress cinched at the waist with a black patent leather belt. She was also sporting a four-carat emerald-cut
yellow diamond embellished with bilateral diamond baguettes—a ring so massive and effulgent that everything around it seemed
dull, including Wendy. She couldn’t think what to say except—as Daphne thrust her knuckle under Wendy’s nose—“Wow. It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” said Daphne. “I still can’t believe Jonathan picked it out himself.”

Wendy glanced from Daphne’s cynosure to the plain hammered silver band she wore on her own fourth finger. (Adam’s freshman-year
roommate ran a silversmith shop in Putney, Vermont.) When she and Adam had gotten engaged, they’d been in agreement that diamond
mining was a nasty, exploitative business, the products of which it was immoral to buy or wear. Even antique diamonds, their
crimes now relegated to history, had seemed beyond redemption. Now Wendy couldn’t help but feel that she’d missed out on some
elemental experience. “So, should we order drinks?” she said.

“Let’s,” said Daphne.…

“So, what have you been up to?” Daphne asked after they’d requested two mimosas. “I haven’t seen you in, like, a thousand
years!”

“You know, working, wasting time, still not getting pregnant while Adam’s away all the time,” Wendy told her.

“Sweetie!!!!!” Daphne tilted her head the way she always did.

Somehow, this time, Wendy felt repelled by Daphne’s sympathy. “But let’s not talk about me,” she said quickly. “I want to
hear more about the new Mrs. Sonnenberg!”

Daphne smiled sheepishly. “To be honest, I never thought I was the type to change my last name. But Daphne Sonnenberg
does
sound kind of cool. Doesn’t it?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Very classy,” said Wendy, who had never considered taking her husband’s name. “But, then, so is Daphne Uberoff.”

“I guess I was also thinking that if we have kids, it’s easier for everyone if the parents have the same name, you know?”

“That’s true,” said Wendy, shifting in her seat.

Their drinks arrived. Wendy raised her champagne glass into the air and said, “Well, cheers. To you and Jonathan.”

“You’re the best friend a girl could have.” Daphne held her own glass aloft to meet Wendy’s. “But wait”—again the nose curled
up—“we’re not girls anymore, are we? Tell me the truth. Are we really old?”

“We’re not that old,” Wendy assured them both, before guzzling half her mimosa in a single gulp.

“Too old to wear white at a wedding?”

“Why not? It’s your wedding. But wait, are you guys already planning?”

Daphne tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and smiled again. “Well, we’ve talked about a few ideas. Jonathan’s family belongs
to Temple Emanu-El, which is right near the Pierre. But I don’t know—I was thinking something more low-key than that. I mean,
it’s not like I’m a virgin of eighteen!” She laughed. “Anyway, it probably won’t be for a while. I mean, we only met six weeks
ago.” She laughed again. Wendy was reassured to hear that Daphne was at least cognizant of the minuscule amount of time that
had elapsed since she and Jonathan had met. But could she really be considering a synagogue wedding? “Meanwhile, you’re the
only one of us who’s been married,” Daphne continued. “So tell me what it’s like.” She leaned forward on her bar stool, her
grin leering, her long black legs flapping beneath her like a scuba diver’s fins. “Do married people still have sex? I mean,
for fun?”

For a split second, Wendy found herself wondering if Adam had complained to Daphne during one of their phone calls about his
and Wendy’s lack of a spontaneous sex life. Wendy had friends with whom she talked about sex, sometimes graphically—Maura,
for instance. (Deprivation seemed to make the subject that much more interesting to her.) But for whatever reason, Daphne
had never been one of them. For all of Daphne’s public displays of emotion, there was a way in which she kept her private
life off-limits. Wendy supposed she ought to seize the opening. In light of the trouble she was having conceiving, however,
she couldn’t help but find Daphne’s question tactless.

But then, it was Daphne’s special night, Wendy reflected, and therefore not the right time to be raising petty objections.
“Sometimes,” she replied, trying to match Daphne’s light tone. “Though, to be honest, not that often.” Adam was right, Wendy
thought: she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Speaking of my conjugal partner, I hear you and Adam have been talking about medical
care for his father?”

Daphne touched Wendy’s sleeve. “I just have to say, you have the greatest husband in the world. I mean, he loves his dad so
much. It’s so touching to watch. Anyway”—she sighed—“I’ve been trying to help him out where I can. Sometimes I think it just
helps to talk, you know? I mean, I remember when my mother got sick. It was so surreal. Like you just can’t believe that these
towering giants who raised you are suddenly so weak and helpless!”

“I’m sure,” Wendy said. But she wasn’t sure at all, maybe never would be. Judy Murman had always seemed less like a towering
anything than a tetchy child. “By the way, on an unrelated topic, I love your dress,” Wendy went on. “Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, god—
this?!
” Daphne lifted the extra fabric on her hip as if Wendy had been admiring an old dishrag. “I got it, like, a million years
ago at some Catherine Malandrino sample sale.”

“Huh.” Wendy filed away the information in case, at some later point, she wanted to emulate the effect. It was by studying
Daphne that Wendy had always figured out what cut of jeans to wear, what color lip gloss, and whether to go with silver or
gold jewelry (and how much). Yet Wendy lacked both the money and the motivation to be as stylish as Daphne was. (Somewhere
deep down, Wendy thought she was above fashion—or was she too far beneath it ever to get a foothold?)

“Anyway,” Daphne said, sighing again as she scooped an enormous banana-shaped buttery-leather handbag off the floor—no doubt
another back-of-the-closet find, Wendy thought, “I should really get going.”

Wendy glanced at her watch: it was only 7:58. Had Daphne’s Lateness Problem expanded to include a Leaving Early Problem, too?
And how soon before she didn’t appear at all? “I thought your reservation wasn’t until eight forty-five,” Wendy said, feeling
hurt.

She felt relieved, too. At the sight of Daphne seated at the bar forty-five minutes before, a part of Wendy had worried that
they’d run out of things to talk about; moreover, that at some point along the way, she and Daphne had lost the thread that
had always sustained their conversations.

Daphne scrunched up her face apologetically. “I’m so sorry. It’s actually at eight fifteen. I didn’t realize.” She touched
Wendy’s arm again. “Do you want to leave with me or—I know how you sometimes get freaked out sitting alone.” What was Daphne
trying to imply?

“It’s fine,” Wendy told her. “Go ahead. I’m going to finish my drink.” She saw Daphne glance at her empty glass. “I mean,
I might order another one,” Wendy said, embarrassed to have been caught in a lie.

“Oh! Well, it was great to see you. And thank you
so
much for the mimosa. It was beyond delicious.” Daphne kissed Wendy in the vicinity of both cheeks. Then she sashayed from
the room, her ponytail swinging like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

At the very least, Daphne could have
offered
to pay for her drink, Wendy thought as she watched the door close behind her. Wendy would have said no. At least, she liked
to think she would have said no. Though, in truth, having just borne witness to the small fortune encapsulated on the fourth
finger of Daphne’s left hand, Wendy might have let her leave the tip.

Later that night, back home in Brooklyn, Wendy recalled suddenly that it was her mother’s sixty-fifth birthday the next day.
She went online and ordered a bouquet of roses, dahlias, and chrysanthemums with the cheesy yet somehow convincing name “Thinking
of You.” It was no lie: Wendy thought often of her mother. Some of those thoughts were negative, of course. But mostly she
thought it was a shame they didn’t get along.

She arrived at work the next morning to find a blinking red light on her phone. She hit the “voice mail” button and punched
in her password. The first message was from Judy, thanking Wendy for thinking of her. “At the moment, I’m thinking I’m very
old,” she said. Wendy winced. Even though she didn’t particularly like her mother, she hated to think of her as sad.

The second message was from Adam, asking her to call him as soon as possible. Wendy couldn’t tell if the news was good or
bad, and she dialed his number with trepidation.

When Adam answered, he started talking so fast that at first, Wendy didn’t understand him. She had to ask him to slow down.
“Sorry,” he said. He sounded out of breath. “My dad! He woke up this morning! The nurse was changing his catheter bag, and
his eyes suddenly opened. Then he started moving his hands. The doctors are saying they’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Oh, Potato, that’s wonderful!” said Wendy. She hadn’t heard her husband sound so happy in months, maybe years. She was happy,
too. Happy for Adam. Happy for Ron and Phyllis. Happy for herself. She didn’t have to be all grown up yet, after all. Maybe
Adam could come home now. And maybe now he’d finally realize how precious life was, Wendy thought—how precarious, too—and
try harder to make things happen in his own.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said. “I mean, he’s not talking much yet, but when I went in there this morning, I swear he
looked right at me and said, ‘Lazy ass.’ My mother was screaming so loudly the nurses had to come in and ask her to quiet
down.”

“You’re kidding,” said Wendy, with a shudder of recognition.

On Saturday, Wendy caught the 11:00 AM Acela to Boston. Adam picked her up at the station, and they drove straight to Mass
General.

Ron didn’t say anything to her, but, this time, his eyes seemed to follow her as she made her way to his bedside. Phyllis
sat beaming at her husband’s side, his hand in hers, muttering, “It’s a miracle,” over and over again. Wendy thought of the
otherwise forgotten holiday weekend when she’d walked into the Schwartzes’ kitchen in search of orange juice and, to her embarrassment
and awe, found her in-laws making out against the dishwasher.

Not surprisingly, for the rest of the weekend, high spirits abounded in the Schwartz household. Wendy and Adam even had sex
in Adam’s childhood bedroom, which had been converted only partially into a guest room. (His high school wrestling trophies
still occupied the top shelf of the bookcase; Vonnegut paperbacks and SAT prep books filled the lower levels.) It was only
day eight of Wendy’s cycle. So it probably wasn’t good for much, she figured. But it was nice to feel close again.

It was also nice to feel Adam’s arms around her naked back.

At the end of the weekend, Adam followed Wendy down to Brooklyn. He said he had some business to take care of in New York.
Wendy couldn’t imagine what kind of business that was. But she didn’t want to pry or to put him on the defensive. So she didn’t
ask him to elaborate. The plan was that the two of them would drive back up to Newton on Thursday morning in a rental car
in time for Thanksgiving dinner.

Wendy had been away from their apartment for only two days, but she found waiting for them an unusually tall stack of mail.
As she climbed the stairs, three steps behind Adam and Polly, she leafed through the pile. Since it was nearing Christmas,
there were catalogues galore—one from a wine lovers’ club, another from a purveyor of holiday decorations, yet another from
Macy’s announcing a “mattress event” (whatever that was; Wendy was fairly sure she’d never participated in one). To her exasperation,
there was also another issue of
The New Yorker
. Wendy prided herself on not missing an issue, though she was currently five behind.

To her even greater distress, there was also a bill from Visa.

While Wendy waited for Adam to unlock the door, she debated whether to open the envelope now or to delay the unpleasantness
for another time. The balance was nearing ten thousand dollars. The previous month, the finance charge alone had topped two
hundred bucks. Wendy didn’t see how they were ever going to pay it all back. She couldn’t understand how their debt had grown
so large, either, and she instinctively blamed Adam for its accretion. True, in late August, she’d spent a few thousand dollars
on a new computer, but that had been a necessity, in addition to a tax write-off. (An electrical storm had blown out the hard
drive of her old desktop.) As for her new Marc Jacobs peacoat and Sigerson Morrison boots, she’d felt guilty and terrible
for weeks after buying them but had justified both purchases on the grounds that having quit therapy, she was saving them
nearly six hundred bucks a month. What’s more, having grown up with a single mother who couldn’t afford to buy her designer
clothes, Wendy felt she deserved them—even as she proudly regarded herself as antimaterialistic.

Meanwhile, Adam, while bringing in no money, continued to buy books, movies, and music for no purpose other than his own entertainment.
Had he really needed a new set of speakers to attach to his iPod? “Special delivery from Uncle Visa,” she said, entering the
living room behind him. Adam turned around and fixed his hazel green eyes on her. He was still the cutest guy she’d ever been
with, she thought. She secretly considered it a fluke that he’d agreed to marry her. She still felt unaccountably proud to
be seen walking in the company of his Converse high-tops. She waved the bill in his face.

“A lovely homecoming gift,” he said.

As Wendy forced the bill into his hand, an envelope she hadn’t previously seen fluttered to the floor. It must have been caught
inside the flap. She leaned over and lifted it off the floor. It was stamped “Certified Mail,” and it read, “OPEN IMMEDIATELY—TIME
SENSITIVE DOCUMENT.” While Wendy ran her fingernail under the flap, she let her imagination run free regarding its contents:
Just call this number to claim your expense-paid seven-day Caribbean vacation—and also to receive a year’s subscription to
Sucker’s Rewards
at the special discount price of only one hundred thousand dollars a month. Send your credit card number today! Offer only
valid in the lower fifty states.…
She unfolded the paper. The document was titled “Notice to Terminate Tenancy” and it was addressed to both Wendy and Adam: