I'm So Happy for You (21 page)

As Richard raised his glass, Wendy thought she saw a fleeting expression of contempt pass across Daphne’s face. What’s more,
the look seemed to be directed at table three, if not at Wendy. Glancing over the tulips, she could have sworn she saw Adam
roll his eyes in concert with Daphne. Was it possible that he was the intended recipient of her gaze? Or had Wendy imagined
this, too? (It was too late to say.) Daphne was already approaching the microphone, where, with a great display of mirth and
gratitude, she embraced her father, albeit remembering to turn her head for the benefit of the wedding photographer.

Jonathan’s father was next. In a shaky voice, he spoke of the first time his son had beat him at squash. He also recalled
a camping trip for which eight-year-old Jonathan—thank goodness—had remembered to bring a compass. If it was a far shorter
toast than Richard Uberoff ’s, it was also less than scintillating. A third of the way in, a restive murmur of conversation
spread through the room. It didn’t subside until Mr. Sonnenberg had finished speaking.

Finally, it was Wendy’s turn, the turn that Wendy had spent the entire previous month dreading. Prior to the wedding, she’d
composed a list of talking points. Each referenced an amusing anecdote that, in lightly roasting Daphne’s egotism, revealed
both her affinity for friendship and her unrivaled desirability to the opposite sex—while studiously avoiding the subject
of her recent past. As Wendy stood up from her chair and approached the lectern, however, the list seemed suddenly beside
the point. Alcohol, combined with Daphne’s suspicious behavior toward Adam, had left Wendy feeling strangely emboldened, even
excited. As if a marvelous, unforeseen opportunity had come her way, an opportunity she couldn’t afford to pass up. She kept
the list folded in her left hand and angled the microphone toward her with her right.

“I’m Daphne’s friend Wendy.” She began to improvise. “I hate public speaking. So I’m going to keep this short. Daphne and
I went to college together. Back then, Daphne changed majors as often as she changed boyfriends. First, there was Comparative
Literature—and Josh. Then there was Government—and Craig. Then there was Film Studies—and Andy. The list goes on. And on.
But it always seemed to me that Daphne’s main field of expertise was herself.” A sprinkling of giggles greeted Wendy’s ears,
goading her on. “Not only is she the most entertaining and insightful relayer of her own emotional highs and lows that I’ve
ever met, but Daphne’s life has always been a little more exciting and dramatic than the average person’s.” Wendy paused.
“I guess my main worry about Daphne becoming a happy married lady is that she’s going to get just as boring as the rest of
us.” More chuckling. “On the upside, I suspect she’ll be less likely to wake me and my husband up at two in the morning, threatening
to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Because, really, what is there to say when you’ve gone domestic with a good and
available
”—Wendy paused to accentuate the novelty of this concept—“guy?” She raised her voice an octave in imitation of Daphne. “ ‘You
won’t believe the latest—Jonathan and I roasted a chicken and rented a movie!’ For once, I think I’ll be within my rights
to say, ‘I’m sleeping, Daphne. Can we talk about this in the morning?’ ”

The crowd—if not Daphne herself—erupted in guffaws. (A quick glance in Daphne’s direction revealed only an amused smile. Or
was it bemused?) Had Wendy gone too far? As the laughter died down, Wendy felt suddenly panicked at the thought that Daphne
would be furious at her. “But, really,” she went on, “over the years, Daphne has been a warm and wonderful friend who’s made
life more interesting, more stylish, and generally more fun. Please join me in raising a glass on behalf of my old and dear
friend Daphne and my new friend Jonathan. Some people say there’s no such thing as love at first sight. But Daphne and Jonathan
have proven us all wrong.” Wendy paused, unable to stop herself. “That, or they were both desperate.” She paused again. “Just
kidding!”

There was more laughter, but this time it struck Wendy as being more embarrassed than joyful. Had she proven herself, once
and for all, to be a despicable human being? She raised her glass. The crowd raised theirs. “Daphne, Jonathan—congratulations.
I’m so happy for you guys.”

As the crowd applauded, Wendy walked over to table one, where Daphne received her hug with the same jocular expression with
which she’d embraced her father. But was this, too, a performance? Despite the liberties she’d taken, Wendy returned to table
three telling herself that her toast had been in the spirit of lighthearted fun—even as, on some deeper level, she was aware
that it contained the seed of a withering critique.

The collective verdict seemed to confirm the latter.

“Ouch,” said Adam.

“Yo—they ought to call you ‘maid of dishonor,’ ” said Steve.

“I’m just glad we’re not friends,” quipped Paige.

Steve’s wife, Deb, continued to add nothing to the conversation, while Jeremy appeared to be reading an English football magazine
in his lap.

Reaching for her chardonnay, Wendy felt suddenly, unpleasantly sober.

Wendy spent the remainder of the evening regretting her toast. She was still angry at Adam. But she needed his support more
and was therefore willing to overlook his trespasses—at least for the moment. “Do you think Daphne hates me now?” she asked,
as the jazz band struck up Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and Jonathan and Daphne began their “first dance.”

“She’ll get over it,” said Adam, not exactly reassuring Wendy.

Yet another drink later, Wendy joined Sara and Gretchen and their respective dates on the dance floor. (Pamela and Todd had
jogged home to co-breastfeed Lucas; Adam was too cool to dance in public.) The band was now playing a saxophone-embellished
version of the hip-hop single “Hot in Here.” For a few delirious minutes, Wendy allowed the music to transport her to a realm
of pure rhythm, a realm diminished only by the incongruous sight of Jeremy twirling a rigid but ecstatic-looking Paige across
the floor.

Meanwhile, Sara’s fiancé, Dolph, dressed in an emerald blue Prada suit and lavender tie and with his hair slicked back like
a chipmunk’s, had embarked on a series of crotch-centered gyrations performed with one arm bent backward behind his head and
the other extended out in front of him. Within minutes, he’d attracted a circle of cheering spectators. Minutes after that,
Sara could be seen bent over, her arm across her stomach. “Are you okay?” Wendy yelled over the music. (For a split second,
the thought occurred to her that Sara might be dying of embarrassment.)

“Not really,” Sara yelled back.

“Do you want me to take you to the ladies’ room?”

“Yes, please.”

Leaning over the toilet bowl, Sara revealed she was pregnant with Dolph’s baby.

“Oh, Sara, that’s wonderful news!” Wendy said, as instantly glassy-eyed as she was amazed and impressed. Apparently, Sara
and Dolph had heterosexual sex, after all.

“I know you’ve been trying,” Sara offered between gags.

“Don’t worry about me right now,” said Wendy, reaching for Sara’s hair. “Worry about your dinner.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said. And she was.

It was left to Wendy to clean her up, then fetch Dolph—no easy task, not only because Wendy had to break through his now extensive
fan base to reach him, but also because he was in perpetual motion. Finally, she managed to grab hold of his sleeve. “Sara’s
sick!” she bellowed over the music. (Nelly had been replaced by ABBA.)

“Oh, Christ—not again,” he said, eyes rolling, as he followed Wendy off the dance floor. “I know she can’t help it, but the
woman really does have impeccable timing. ‘Dancing Queen’ is only my FAVORITE SONG EVER.”

“Maybe they can play it again?” suggested Wendy.

“Maybe,” said Dolph. “Anyway, where’s the patient?”

After reuniting the expectant parents, Wendy headed back to the bar. Scanning the wedding party as she waited to be served,
she realized that Daphne and Jonathan had already left the premises—without saying good-bye. That was their right, she told
herself. They had a honeymoon to get to. They couldn’t be expected to bid a special farewell to all ninety-two guests.

Gretchen appeared before Wendy at the same time as her Bud Lite.

“Sara just told me her big news,” said Wendy, assuming that Gretchen had already heard.

“Don’t be too jealous,” said Gretchen—to Wendy’s embarrassment. “Dolph still won’t marry her.”

“But he’ll have sex with her,” said Wendy. “Who knew?”

“Do you want to know a secret?” Gretchen lifted her Red Bull to her lips. “Rob and I have had sex exactly
once
since the twins were born.”

“How old are they again?”

“Eight months.”

“Once is better than never?”

“I guess.”

“But wait—didn’t you and Rob go on your honeymoon a few months ago?”

“I didn’t tell anyone at the time, but I ended up flying home early for work. Or actually, I flew to Geneva for a meeting.
That was a fake tan.” Gretchen smiled guiltily.

“Hm,” said Wendy, trying not to sound shocked.

“Do you want to know another secret?” Gretchen leaned into Wendy’s ear. “I can’t stand Jonathan.”

“Here’s another secret—you’re not the only one,” Wendy muttered back.

“Honestly?” Gretchen continued. “When Daphne asked me to sign the katubah—which is also a joke, since I’ve been to synagogue,
like, once in the past twenty years, but whatever, anyway—I almost said no. I mean, I seriously didn’t know if I wanted my
name on that piece of paper. But what was I going to say?”

“I’m sure I would have done the same thing,” said Wendy, flinching yet again—this time to hear that Daphne had wanted Gretchen’s
signature and not Wendy’s on the frameable parchment document that confirmed Daphne and Jonathan’s marriage under Jewish law.

“Oh, shit, I have to take this call—it’s Angelina Jolie en route to Namibia,” said Gretchen, pulling her headset out of her
clutch and fastening it around her ear. “Gretchen Daubner, UNICEF,” she trumpeted on her way out to the balcony.

Every decent wedding can claim at least one scandal. On that score, Daphne and Jonathan’s nuptials failed to disappoint. At
the end of the night, Steve the Wine Distributor had to be rescued off the lake, where he was discovered semi–passed out in
a gondola alongside the scowling teenage cousin of Daphne’s who’d given Wendy a cigarette. Reportedly, both parties were half
naked and too drunk to row back to shore.

Wendy left the party fairly inebriated herself, if still sober enough to recognize her bad mood. Her only solace was the thought
that the tale of Steve and the Sullen Teen was so outrageous as to render her toast of less questionable taste.

Adam, on the other hand, seemed to think the evening had been a riot. “How funny was that gondola thing,” he chuckled in the
car home.

“Really funny,” Wendy said blankly.

D
URING THE WEDDING,
Wendy had noticed that Daphne looked slightly more filled out than her usual skeletal self. She’d chalked up the weight gain
to Daphne’s having, for once, a reliable dinner partner. As Wendy learned in an email upon Daphne and Jonathan’s return from
their honeymoon at the Four Seasons resort on the Caribbean island of Nevis, however, there was another explanation entirely:

W we’re back! Nevis beyond amazing and also really relaxing but first I’m so thrilled that you made it to our wedding I hope
you and A had an okay time?? Also, your toast was
beyond
hilarious (God, was I really that needy a friend back in the day? Yikes)

Anyway I didn’t tell you earlier because of the wedding and everything else going on but—drum roll—I’m preggers!! (Twenty-four
weeks on Thursday insane I know) Anyway can’t wait for you to join me in the motherhood mind f-ck (I know you’re going to
get there soon if you haven’t already)

Meanwhile recently realized that I
still
haven’t seen your new place! (Pathetic I know) Let me know what your schedule looks like next week and we’ll make a date
(while I still have the energy to haul my suddenly HUGE butt around ha) XXD

Wendy turned her gaze out the window, at the endless stream of cars on the Prospect Expressway. In that moment, it seemed
to her that she was the only person in the world who wasn’t headed somewhere. She tried to recall Marcia’s words about all
of us being on “his or her own journey.” But they sounded hollow—like so much self-help-book hokum. Besides, from what Wendy
could tell, everyone was on the same journey: to the maternity ward at Methodist Hospital, if not Mount Sinai or St. Luke’s–Roosevelt.
Wendy couldn’t walk outside her door anymore, not even on No Prospect Avenue, without being accosted by reproduction in action.
Everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, there were double strollers and swollen bellies, snack catchers and sippy cups.
People spoke of Calcutta as the epicenter of the overpopulation problem. As far as Wendy could tell, however, Brownstone Brooklyn
was equally to blame.

But it wasn’t just that she felt left behind. It was that Wendy and Adam had been together for more than eight years—and trying
to conceive for well over one—while Daphne and Jonathan had only just met. Wendy knew it wasn’t a race to the finish line.
After all, wasn’t the finish line death? Yet she couldn’t help but feel that, considering how long she and Adam had been together,
it had been their right—Wendy’s right—to go first.

And why did good things always seem to happen to the quicksilvers of this world? No doubt Daphne’s pregnancy had been some
kind of “early accident.” Maybe the trick was to stop trying, Wendy thought. Only, once you’d started trying, how did you
stop? Was it even possible to try not to try?

Wendy got up from her desk chair, walked the three steps necessary to reach her bed, and climbed under the covers. But even
the sensation of warmth and enclosure failed to comfort her as it usually did. Her body had become her enemy. It seemed to
be willfully defying her, laughing in the face of her designs for it. She thought of her early adolescence, when the sudden
appearance of breasts and hair in strange places had made her feel similarly outraged.