I'm So Happy for You (6 page)

“How’s my Lady of Perpetual Graduate Student–dom?” he said.

“Oh, you know, toiling away,” said Wendy, amazed at the facility with which she’d always been able to lie to her husband.
“She’s on some kind of cleansing grapefruit diet, so she didn’t even drink.” (Had that last detail really been necessary?)

And the next day at work, when an email arrived from Daphne, Wendy waited to open it until she’d finally finished editing
Leslie Fletcher’s Medicare screed. And when she did so, she performed a quick scan rather than conduct a careful exegesis,
which would have been her normal inclination. It said:
So sorry for worrying… good friend… I know I’m pathetic… Obviously, I need help… I don’t expect you to listen… Asking for
your patience… Sorry again… Your friend, Daf.

Fearing that not answering might be interpreted as a form of escalation—and also secretly eager to assert her superiority
and indifference—Wendy wrote back, “D, It’s fine. Let’s talk later, W.”

That’s some sort of progress,
she thought.

But by the following Sunday, Wendy’s resolve to put distance between herself and Daphne had begun to falter. She woke that
morning to find that she had her period again, even though she and Adam had had sex on two of her three most fertile days
the previous month. That something she’d always taken for granted should turn out to be so elusive—that her life could be
reduced to charting her menstrual flow on graph paper and examining her cervical fluid for signs of elasticity—made Wendy
feel angry, ashamed, and disoriented. What’s more, she had no one to complain to about how frustrated she felt at still not
being pregnant. Bitching to Adam was out of the question. He would only remind her, as he always did, that they had each other
(and Polly), which was the important thing.

And that he got tired of listening to her complain all the time.

And Wendy didn’t feel right complaining to her other friends who weren’t married. (
At least you have a husband,
they were sure to think, if not to say.) She wasn’t comfortable calling her friends who were already mothers, either. They
were probably busy with their children, anyway—at least Pamela was. (Even though it was Sunday, Gretchen was probably attending
a strategy session to end poverty in Africa.) Moreover, the pity in their voices—even if it was mostly projected; even if,
in Gretchen’s case, it was fairly clear she’d rather be anywhere than at home playing patty-cake with her twin babies—only
made Wendy feel worse.

And for all of her problems, all of her hysteria, Daphne was the rare person who could hear other people’s news and not immediately
think about herself. Or at least Daphne gave that impression. (And was there really any difference?) Plus, on account of the
many hours that Wendy had spent listening to Daphne talk about Mitch, she felt able to natter on about her own neuroses in
a way she didn’t with anyone else—especially now that she’d fired her therapist.

Wendy already missed the patter of their private language, with its rising and falling cadences, its ample use of hyperbole,
especially on Daphne’s part, too. “You’re kidding!” she’d say. And “I’m dying!” And “That’s just BEYOND!” Daphne’s spoken
English sometimes seemed to be composed entirely of exclamations. Which is maybe why Wendy never felt that Daphne was minimizing
her pain.

And even though Wendy was the one who was supposed to be mad, she’d begun to worry that Daphne might be mad at her, too. (Why
else had she not called?)

And what if Paige had stepped in to fill the void created by Wendy’s retreat?

It was also true that Sundays had always depressed her. There was too much pressure to relax. And the apartment seemed too
quiet, even with Adam in the living room. Or maybe it wasn’t quiet enough. She could hear him all the way across the apartment,
crunching loudly on tortilla chips while he watched the Sci Fi Channel on TV.

And was it Wendy’s imagination or, since the advent of text-based communication, did the phone never ring anymore? Then it
did.…

The caller ID said “J. Sonnenberg.” Wendy didn’t know anyone by that name. But she was bored and curious. (She was always
curious.) And the receiver was right next to her on the bed, where she lay leafing through a home furnishings catalogue, simultaneously
loathing and longing for the fantasy of generically upscale domesticity intimated by a photograph of an immaculate suburban
“mudroom” with individualized footwear cubbies labeled “Aidan,” “Zach,” and “Olivia.” “Hello?” she said.

“Ohmygod, I’m
so
glad I reached you.”

“Daphne?” said Wendy. It sounded like Daphne’s voice, albeit dumped in a vat of honey.

“You’re still furious at me, aren’t you?” said Daphne.

“Forget about it—really,” Wendy told her.

“Really?” said Daphne.

“Really,” said Wendy.

“I’m so
beyond
relieved you’re saying that. So, how are you?”

“Since you asked, terrible,” said Wendy. “I got my period again this morning. I feel like I’m never going to get pregnant.
Plus, I feel like I can’t talk about it with Adam anymore. He just gets mad at me for not being happy with what we have.”
Admitting her frustration to Daphne made Wendy feel as if a huge load had been lifted off her back.

“SWEEEEEETIE!” cried Daphne. “First of all, you’re totally going to get pregnant. It just takes a while at our age. And then
you’re going to completely forget about this whole period of your life. In the meantime, OF COURSE you must be dying of frustration.
Anybody would be—except maybe a Zen Buddhist. I mean, we’re goal oriented. That’s just who we are. Forget about Adam. Just
talk to me. Men never understand this stuff anyway.”

But Daphne understood. Or seemed to understand.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Wendy, feeling better by the second. “I mean, I hope you’re right.”

“Believe me, I’m completely and utterly right.”

“Anyway. How are
you?
”

Daphne let out a mellifluous sigh before she announced in a singsongy voice an octave higher than normal, “Well, I’m in love.
And no, not with Mitch. I met someone. I’m actually at his apartment right now.”

In love—since Monday? “You’re kidding!” said Wendy, as startled as she was suspicious. “That’s amazing.”

“No,
he’s
amazing,” said Daphne, lowering her voice to connote the seriousness of the situation. “I mean, he’s possibly the greatest
person ever—like maybe in the history of mankind.”

Was Daphne dating Jesus? Gandhi? Hugo Chávez? “My god,” said Wendy. “Who is he?”

Daphne’s voice returned to the soprano range. “Well, his name is Jonathan. He’s a lawyer. He’s thirty-seven. Never married.
Jewish—you know me!” She laughed. “Most importantly? He’s literally the sweetest man I’ve ever met. I mean, he’s beyond sweet.”

“And you met him where?”

“Mortifyingly enough, at the gym. I mean, we’d seen each other there before, but we’d never spoken or anything. At least,
I don’t remember speaking to him. Though he
swears
he told me I left my water bottle on the Lifecycle or something a few months ago and I thanked him. But whatever. Tuesday
morning, we were on adjacent treadmills, and we started talking. And we’ve basically spent every waking hour together since
then.”

“That’s insane!” said Wendy, still struggling to believe. Daphne had the worst taste in men of anyone Wendy knew. Rich, married,
arrogant, obnoxious, and over forty-five was her usual formula. She’d also seen Daphne rush into “serious” relationships before,
only to find that they were flings at best, and cruel jokes at worst. Wendy didn’t know if she had the energy to see her through
another disappointment, another punch line that wasn’t all that funny. “So you think it’s for real?” Wendy knew as soon as
she’d said it that it had been an unsupportive thing to say.

Daphne’s voice sharpened. “What do you mean, do I think it’s for real? I know it’s for real!”

“Well, it’s very exciting,” said Wendy, anxious to make amends.

“Thanks, Wen,” said Daphne, sounding wary if marginally less defensive.

“Of course—”

“So anyway, listen to this. Yesterday, Jonathan gave me this silver tennis bracelet from Tiffany’s, engraved with both of
our initials and the date we met. How insane is that?”

“Insane.”

“I mean, it was literally the corniest present anyone’s ever given me. But at the same time—honestly?—I was practically crying
when he gave it to me.”

“My god, he must be incredibly in love with you already,” declared Wendy, suddenly feeling defensive on her own account. It
had been years since Adam had given her any jewelry. Now that she thought about it, he’d never given her any jewelry, other
than her wedding band, which—now that she thought about
that
—they’d ordered together (Adam had gotten a matching one) and paid for jointly. Actually, Wendy had paid, and Adam, who had
no savings at the time, had promised to pay her back for at least half the cost—a promise that had become moot after they
got married and merged bank accounts. Not that he’d accumulated any savings since then.

“Well, I don’t know how in love with me he is,” said Daphne. “But, at the risk of jinxing things, I honestly think this might
be it. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone.”

“Well, it’s great news,” said Wendy. And it was. Wasn’t it? If Daphne was to be believed, she’d finally broken free of Mitch’s
grip. What’s more, from how Daphne had described him, Jonathan Sonnenberg was precisely the kind of man who Wendy and her
friends had been exhorting Daphne to date. He was available, he was age appropriate, and with any luck, he was not dependent
on antipsychotic medication that he occasionally forgot to take.

Yet there was an unreality to Daphne’s voice and words that Wendy felt somehow irked by. Only seven days earlier, after all,
Daphne had been threatening suicide. From the way she was acting now, it was as if Mitchell Kroker had never existed—and that,
by association, Wendy hadn’t spent hundreds of hours of her life listening to Daphne prattle on about the guy.

Or was Wendy being ungenerous, petty, even? No doubt Daphne was in the myopic first throes of, if not love, then at least
infatuation, when the world receded from view leaving nothing in its place but the two of you. Wendy recalled having briefly
inhabited this particular desert island with Adam, although she could no longer remember what the sand had felt like beneath
her feet.

“Well, I can’t wait for you to meet him,” Daphne was saying.

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him!” said Wendy.

“Maybe the four of us could meet for dinner next week? We could even come out to Brooklyn—”

“That would be great,” lied Wendy, who reserved a special dread of group restaurant expeditions, if only because someone always
ordered three appetizers and four times as much alcohol as everyone else and then, when the check came, suggested they split
the bill evenly.

“Terrific,” said Daphne. “Why don’t you talk to Adam and I’ll talk to Snugs and then we’ll talk again in a day or two.”

“Snugs?” said Wendy, knowing full well to whom Daphne was referring. It just seemed unfair that Daphne should have an “adorable”
inside-joke nickname for the guy after six days.

“Oh, sorry!” Daphne giggled. “That’s my little pet name for Jonathan. He’s so into cuddling that I started calling him Snuggle
Bunny. Then it got shortened to Snuggle, then Snugs.”

“It’s very cute,” said Wendy, reminding herself that she had an affectionate nickname for Adam, too: Mr. Potato Head. Though
hers was critical as well as affectionate, insofar as its origin lay in what she deemed to be the beginning of jowls on her
husband’s face.

Adam had a new nickname for Wendy, as well: Pope Wendy, because, according to him, just like the pope, she was “only interested
in sex for procreation.” With every new menstrual cycle that failed to produce an embryo, Wendy found the joke a little less
funny.

After Wendy hung up the phone, she went into the living room, where Adam sat on their pilling Ikea sofa, Polly panting at
his feet, and said, “Hey.” She was excited to tell him Daphne’s news. She thought he’d be excited, too. Some insecure part
of her thought he’d be less likely to leave her if she kept the stories coming. She was mad at him also—for never buying her
a bracelet. She was mad at herself, as well, for caring about something as superficial as jewelry.

“Huh,” Adam grunted without looking up.

Wendy sat down next to him and folded her arms across her chest, a signal of irritation she knew he’d fail to notice. There
were crumbs everywhere, which annoyed her further. Why couldn’t he keep the chips in his mouth? She figured she’d let
that
complaint go, too. What was the use? Adam was a slob; that was just who he was.

He was watching
The Twilight Zone
. It was that famous episode where a guy on an airplane looks out the window and sees a boogey man balanced on the wing. All
the flight attendants think he’s crazy because every time they look, the boogey man disappears. Then the station switched
to a low-budget commercial for a nearby Hyundai dealership. Bunting filled the screen. Rebates were promised. “So, Daphne
met someone,” Wendy began. “Some lawyer guy who’s madly in love with her and already got her an engraved bracelet from Tiffany’s.”

“Let me guess,” said Adam. “This one isn’t quite as married as the last one, though, technically, he’s still married.”

“You’re so hilarious,” Wendy replied as she frequently did—only with more aggression. As if he wasn’t actually that hilarious.

But if Adam detected anger in her voice, he ignored it. “Any chance you want to make us eggs?” he said, his nose suddenly
burrowed in her neck.

“Make your own damn eggs!” she said, pushing him away.

“Purty please. I’ll have sex with you every day next month—”

The tears came on suddenly, collected in the corners of her eyes, where they shimmied like disco dancers. “I got my period
this morning,” she choked out.