She woke to find Frannie sitting at the end of her bed, holding a gift.
"Hello, sleepyhead."
"Hello." Alice smiled with relief, because Frannie looked exactly as she should. She was wearing a familiar pale-pink buttoned-up blouse Alice had seen many times before, or at least one like it, and tailored gray pants. Her back was ramrod straight. She was like a little elf. She had short white hair tucked behind tiny ears, creamy white skin, and cat's-eye glasses on a gold chain.
Alice said happily, "You haven't changed a bit. You look just the same."
"You mean as I did ten years ago?" Frannie adjusted her glasses on her nose. "I guess there was no room for any more wrinkles. Here." She handed her the present. "You probably won't like it, but I wanted to get you something."
Alice sat up in bed. "Of course I'll like it." She unwrapped a bottle of talcum powder. "Lovely." She twisted the lid, poured some into her palm and sniffed. The scent was simple and flowery and reminded her of nothing. "Thank you."
"How are you feeling?" asked Frannie. "You gave us all a fright."
"Fine," said Alice. "Confused. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the verge of remembering everything, and then other times it all feels like a huge practical joke and you're all just pretending I'm thirty-nine when you know perfectly well that I'm about to turn thirty."
"I know that feeling," said Frannie reflectively. "Just the other day I woke up and felt like I was nineteen. I went into the bathroom and saw an old lady staring back at me from the mirror and it really startled me. I thought, 'Who is that dreadful old crone?'"
"You're not a crone."
Frannie waved her hand at that dismissively. "Well, anyway, I think you're probably having a nervous breakdown." Alice looked appalled. "Don't look at me like that! People do have nervous breakdowns, and you've been under so much stress lately. What with this divorce--"
"Yes, about that. Why are we breaking up?" interrupted Alice. She couldn't bring herself to say the word "divorce" out loud. Frannie wouldn't try to hide anything from her. She would tell her straight.
But Frannie said, "I have absolutely no idea. That's between you and Nick. All I know is that you both seem very set on the idea. There doesn't seem any chance of reconciliation. So we've all just had to button our lips and accept it."
"But you must have an opinion. You always have an opinion!"
Frannie smiled. "Yes, I generally do, don't I? But in this case, I really don't know. You haven't confided in me. It's very sad for the children. Especially this awful fighting-over-custody business. I don't approve of that at all, as you know."
"I don't know. I don't remember."
"Oh. Well, I've made my opinions on the matter clear. Too clear, you might say."
Alice said, "Do you think I can get him back?"
"Who back? You mean Nick? But you don't want him back," said Frannie. "Actually you talked to me on Wednesday and said you'd just received roses from some new fellow called Dominick. You seemed very excited about it."
Alice looked with dislike at the roses. She said sourly, "I thought you said I was stressed."
Frannie said, "Well, yes, you're stressed, but you were happy about the roses."
Alice sighed. "How are you, Frannie? You're still living next door to Mum, right?"
"No, darling." Frannie patted Alice on the leg. "I moved myself into a retirement village five years ago. Just after your mother moved in with Roger."
"Oh." Alice paused to consider this news. "Do you like the retirement village? Is it fun?"
"Fun," said Frannie reflectively. "That's what's important these days, isn't it. Everything should be fun and lighthearted."
"Well, not everything, obviously."
"Do you think I have a sense of humor?" asked Frannie. She gave Alice a look that was surprisingly vulnerable.
"Of course you have a sense of humor!"
Although "sense of humor" weren't exactly the first words that came to mind when you thought of Frannie.
Frannie sighed and smiled. She wasn't an especially smiley lady, so when she smiled, it was like receiving a gift. "Thank you, darling. Tell me something, would you buy deodorant in front of a man? Or would you think that was too ... personal?"
"What man?" said Alice.
"Any man!" said Frannie irritably.
"Well, I think I probably would. There's nothing especially personal about deodorant. Unless, I guess, you had to use some really heavy-duty one that would make him think you had some sort of rare and horrible perspiration disease."
"I can assure you, Alice, I don't need a 'heavy-duty' deodorant!" said Frannie, looking affronted.
"What's this about?" asked Alice.
"Nothing. Just a very silly friend of mine asked the question."
Was Frannie interested in some man? Alice knew that Frannie had lost a boyfriend during the Second World War, but as far as she was aware, there had never been anyone else in her life since, although there had been that time when they were teenagers and Elisabeth had seen a half-finished letter sitting on Frannie's desk. When Elisabeth asked who she was writing to, Frannie had apparently been so flustered, she had actually (Alice thought Elisabeth must be making this part up) blushed. She had said she was writing to "an old friend," but Elisabeth had been convinced from her reaction that it was a "secret lover." "Probably someone else's husband," Elisabeth had said, with a knowing, cynical look. "I expect they meet at motels in the middle of the day." Alice had been deeply shocked and wasn't able to look Frannie in the eye for weeks after.
"Come on, let's go downstairs," said Frannie. "Your mother is making lunch."
As they walked out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs, Frannie said, "Walk alongside me, Alice."
"I am," said Alice.
"No. Properly. That's it! See! We can walk side by side, without tripping all over each other, can't we?"
"We sure can," said Alice, wondering if Frannie had gone a little senile in 2008.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Alice stopped abruptly at the sound of a deep, familiar male voice. "Alice, my dear! I was just coming up to collect you!"
"How are you, Roger?" Alice peered over the banister, horrified to see him at the bottom of the stairs. He was all out of context without Nick. He was a visitor you planned for (steeled yourself for), not someone who looked comfortably up at you from the bottom of your stairs, as if he belonged in your house.
"Never better," Roger called back. "It's you we're worried about!"
Frannie's eyes met Alice's and she lifted a wry eyebrow. She wasn't senile. She was still as sharp as a tack.
"Is she up, then?" Alice's mother emerged from the kitchen and looked up at them.
Alice walked behind Frannie down the stairs, glad to see that although she was behaving oddly, she didn't seem that much frailer than Alice remembered.
Barb and Roger stood at the bottom with their palms lifted, like ministers welcoming the congregation, identical weirdly evangelical expressions on their faces.
"Did you have a good sleep, Alice?" asked Barb, trying in vain to take Frannie's elbow. "Rest is the best thing for you, I'm sure. I suppose everything has come back to you now?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Are you hungry?"
Roger took Alice by the arm and led her into the dining area, behind Barb and Frannie, his fingertips solicitously pressed to the small of her back.
"Don't hover, Barbara!" snapped Frannie, as Barb fussed about the best seat for her at the long pine table.
Alice sat down next to her, anxious to escape the oily feel of Roger's fingertips. She watched in fascination at the relaxed way her mother tilted her head coquettishly up at him. Thankfully, she was no longer wearing the exotic salsa-dancing outfit from the day before, but she was wearing a rather low-cut T-shirt and capri pants, and her long hair was up in a jaunty ponytail.
"Now, I've made a nice tuna salad for our lunch. I chose that specifically for you, Alice, because fish is brain food. Roger and I have been
taking fish oil every day, haven't we, darl?"
Darl. Her mother just called Roger "darl."
Roger didn't seem to have changed at all in the last ten years. He was still tanned and polished and pleased with himself. Had he had plastic surgery? Alice wouldn't put it past him. He was wearing a pink polo-necked shirt, with a gold chain nestled in graying chest hair. His shorts were just a little too tight, revealing muscular brown legs.
As Barb turned to go back toward the kitchen, Roger gave her a playful, not-at-all-discreet slap on the bottom. Appalled, Alice averted her eyes. (Roger, she remembered, owned a waterbed. "The ladies love it," he'd told Alice once.)
Frannie gave a low chuckle and laid her hand over Alice's in sympathy. Alice distracted herself by examining the long pine table in front of her. She'd dreamed about this table at the hospital. Nick was sitting at it, while she was cleaning the kitchen. He'd said something that made no sense. What was it?
Elisabeth came into the room, lifting her handbag over her shoulder. "I've got to go."
"Where are you going?" asked Alice desperately. She needed support to help her cope with Roger and her mother. "Are you coming back?"
Elisabeth gave her an odd look. "I'm meeting some people for lunch. I'll come back if you like."
"Who?" asked Alice, trying to keep her there for longer. "Who are you meeting?"
"Just some friends," said Elisabeth evasively. "Anyway, make sure you listen out for the phone because I've left three messages for that Kate Harper about tonight's party but she still hasn't called back." She looked at Alice. "You still seem very pale. I think you should go back to bed after lunch."
"Oh, I agree!" said their mother as she walked in from the kitchen, carrying a glass salad bowl. "I'm packing her straight off to bed after lunch, don't worry. We need to get her completely recovered before those little terrors are back."
Alice looked at the big glass salad bowl her mother was holding and for no particular reason the name "Gina" came into her head.
It's always about Gina. Gina, Gina, Gina. That's right. That's what she'd remembered, or dreamed, Nick saying as he sat at this table.
"Who is Gina?" asked Alice.
The room became extremely still and silent.
Finally Frannie cleared her throat. Roger looked at the floor and fiddled with the chain around his neck. Barb froze at the entrance from the kitchen and hugged the salad bowl to her stomach. Elisabeth chewed hard at her lip.
"Well, who is she?" said Alice.
Elisabeth's Homework for Dr. Hodges One thing I've been thinking about a lot is how I would feel if I lost ten years of my memory, and what things would surprise me, or please me, or upset me about how my life had turned out.
I hadn't even met Ben ten years ago. So he would be a stranger. A big scary hairy stranger sharing my bed. How could I explain to my old self that I had accidentally fallen in love with a silent mountain of a man who designs neon signs for a living and whose most passionate interest is cars? Before I met Ben, I was one of those girls who was deliberately, prettily ignorant about cars. I described them by size and color. A big white car. A small blue car. Now I know makes and models. I watch the Grand Prix. Sometimes I even flick through his car magazines.
Do you like cars, Dr. Hodges? You seem more like an art galleries and opera sort of guy. I see you have a photo of your wife and two small children on your desk. I secretly look at this photo every session when you're writing out my receipt. I bet your wife had no trouble getting pregnant at all, did she? Do you ever thank your lucky stars you didn't end up with a reproductively challenged wife like me? Do you give that photo an affectionate look as I walk out of the room and think, Thank God my wife is a good breeder? Don't worry if you do. I'm sure it's innate, it's just biology, for a man to want a woman who can give him children. I raised this with Ben once. I said he must secretly resent me and I understood that. He got so angry. The angriest I've seen him. "Never say that again," he said. But I bet that's why he got so angry, because he knew it was true.
Before I met Ben, I used to go for witty successful types. I'd never been out with a man before who owned a toolbox. A proper big dirty well-used toolbox full of, you know, screwdrivers and stuff. It's embarrassing how aroused I became when I first saw Ben selecting a chunky oily wrench from that toolbox. My dad had a toolbox. So maybe I'd been subconsciously waiting for a man with a toolbox. I bet you don't have a toolbox, do you, Dr. Hodges? No. I didn't think so.
I used to think that one of my main prerequisites for a man was that he be good at dinner parties. Like Alice's Nick. But Ben is hopeless at dinner parties. He always seems too big for his chair. He gets this trapped expression. It's like I've brought along a big tame chimp. Sometimes he's OK if he happens to find another man (or woman--he's no chauvinist) who can talk about cars, but mostly he's miserable, and he breathes out gustily when we get in the car, as if he's been let out of jail.
It's funny. I had all those years of being driven mad by Mum and Alice and their fear of social events. "Oh, no!" they'd say tragically, and I would think someone had died, and it would turn out they'd been invited to some party or lunch where they'd only know one person, and then there would be all the strategizing about how to get out of it, and the drama of it all and the sympathy they'd pour on each other. "Oh, you poor thing! That would be awful! You absolutely must not go." I couldn't stand it, and yet I ended up marrying a man who also thinks socializing is something that's meant to be endured. Not that he's shy like they were. He doesn't get butterflies in his stomach or agonize over what people think of him. Actually I don't think he has any self-consciousness whatsoever. He is a man without vanity. He's just not a talker. He has no small talk ability whatsoever. (Whereas Mum and Alice, of course, were talkers, and they were actually interested in meeting other people. In reality they were more social than me. But their shyness stopped them from being the outgoing people they actually were. They were like athletes trapped in wheelchairs.)
As it turns out, Ben and I don't really go to many dinner parties anymore. I can't stand them. I've lost my ability to chat, too. I listen to people talk about their interesting, full lives. They're training for marathons, they're learning Japanese, they're taking the kids camping and renovating the bathroom. I had a life like that once, too. I was interesting and active and informed. But now my life is three things: work, television, IVF. I no longer have anecdotes. People say, "What have you been up to, Elisabeth?" and I have to stop myself from treating them to a complete medical update. I understand now why very sick people and the elderly have such a compulsion to tell you everything about their health. My infertility fills every corner of my mind.
How things have changed. Now I'm the one groaning when I hear someone's cheerful voice on the phone asking me if I'm free next Saturday, while Alice is hosting kindergarten cocktail parties and Mum is salsa-dancing three nights a week.
Alice can't believe she's got three children. I wouldn't be able to believe I had none. I never expected to have trouble getting pregnant. Of course, no one does. It hardly makes me unique. It's just that I did expect so many other different medical problems. Our dad died of a heart attack, so I've always been frightened by the slightest case of heartburn. I've had two grandparents on different sides of the family die of cancer, so I've been permanently on standby, waiting for the cancer cells to strike. For a long time I was terrified I was about to be struck down by motor neuron disease for no other reason than the fact that I'd read a very moving article about a man who had it. He first noticed he had a problem when his feet started hurting on the golf course. Whenever I'd feel a twinge in my foot, I'd think, OK, here we go. I told Alice about the article and she started to worry about it, too. We'd take off our high heels and massage our sore feet and discuss how we'd cope with getting around in wheelchairs, while Nick rolled his eyes and said, "Are you two for real?"
Alice is the other reason I didn't expect infertility. We've always been so similar health-wise. We both get a dry,
irritating cough every winter that takes exactly one month to go away. We have weak knees, bad eyesight, a slight dairy intolerance, and excellent teeth. When she had no problem getting pregnant, I thought that meant it would be the rule for me, too.
So it's Alice's fault that I never invested the appropriate time worrying about infertility. I never insured against it by worrying about it. I won't make that mistake again. Now every day I remember to worry that Ben will die in a car accident on his way to work. I make sure I worry at regular intervals about Alice's children--ticking off every terrible childhood disease: meningitis, leukemia. Before I go to sleep at night I worry that someone I love will die in the night. Every morning I worry that somebody I know will be killed in a terrorist attack that day. That means the terrorists have won, Ben tells me. He doesn't understand that I'm fighting off the terrorists by worrying about them. It's my own personal War on Terror.
That was a tiny joke, Dr. Hodges. Sometimes you don't seem to get my jokes. I don't know why I want you to laugh so badly. Ben finds me funny. He has this sudden bellow of appreciative laughter. He did, anyway--when I wasn't an obsessive bore with only one topic of conversation.
I guess it might be sensible to cover this "worrying" issue at one of our sessions because it's obviously just stupid superstition, and childish, too--as if I'm the center of the universe and what I think actually makes a difference. But I don't know, I can already guess all the sensible things you'd say, the perceptive questions you'd ask, trying to gently lead me to my own personal "Eureka!" moment. It all seems sort of pointless and dull. I'm not going to stop worrying. I like worrying. I come from a long line of worriers. It's in my blood.