The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (17 page)

I suddenly become aware

of the music that's pouring in

through the open window—

Jane's trumpet blasting out the melody

to “You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling,”

Duncan's drums keeping the bluesy beat.

I press my hands over my ears,

trying to block out their doleful duet,

and let the tears fall.

“How are things going

in that cozy little empty nest of yours?”

she wants to know.

“They're going…great!” I say,

hoping my stuffed up nose

won't give me away.

But Alice just heaves a dreamy sigh

and tells me how lucky Michael and I are

that we love each other so much.

“Can you imagine how hard it is,” she says,

“for couples who don't have the amazing bond

that the two of
you
have?”

Yes,

I think to myself,

I can.

This time it's Samantha.

Ah! The sweet lilt of her voice.

How I've been missing it…

And there's

so much

I want to know!

I ask her how she likes

her sociology class,

but she's only gotten two words out

when Michael gets on the extension and says,

“Oh, wait a minute! This is important—”

Then he starts talking about her student loan…

I'm just about to ask her

how she likes the food

in the dining hall,

but Michael starts telling her

about some health insurance forms

he needs her to fill out…

I'm just about to ask her

how she likes

her new roommates,

but Michael swoops in again,

asking her how much money she needs him

to deposit in her checking account…

And when they finally finish,

and I'm just about to ask her if the leaves

have begun to change color yet,

Samantha says, “Yikes!

My history class starts in five minutes!

I've gotta run! I love you! Bye!”

And then—she's gone.

I compliment the mother

on her daughter's flame of orange hair,

her dazzling eyes—

two soulful sapphire skies.

The woman listens to me

as though to a symphony,

beaming at her baby so brightly—

as if she's the child's own personal sun.

I run my fingers over the divine fuzz

on the baby's head,

letting the flood of sense memories

wash through me like a transfusion.

I play a game of peek-a-boo with the baby.

I tickle her cheeks.

I coochy-coochy-coo her.

But none of this elicits a smile.

Then I get an idea—

“Achoo!” I say.

“Ah…choo! Ahh…
choooo!

Ahhh…
CHOOOOO!”

And when the baby rewards my efforts

with a magnificently gummy grin,

I have to turn away as if I've been slapped,

so shocked am I by the sting of my longing.

The only good thing

about missing Samantha so much

is that it helps to distract me

from worrying about how sick my mother is.

By now,

I suppose it seems like

I've been neglecting her.

Because it's been

almost twenty pages

since I've even
mentioned
her.

But I've decided

to take a vacation

from writing about my mother.

I'm on sabbatical from Misery U—

and from writing about Hack

and his chuckle, too.

Besides,

I'm running out of ways

to describe how truly awful it sounds.

For a while,

I just want to write about

missing my daughter.

No.

I don't even want to write about that.

I don't want to write about anything.

And I don't

want to talk to Roxie

about
why.

I just want to lie in bed,

with Secret curled up next to me,

watching reality TV.

Because

anyone's reality

is better than my own right now.

I just want to lie here,

eating bowl after bowl

of heavily buttered popcorn.

And Michael isn't either.

In fact, he's been so depressed

about Sam being gone

that he's started seeing a therapist.

This therapist of his seems to think

that
both
of us would benefit

from less wallowing—so Michael

drags me off to an art opening.

But on the way there,

he tells me

that I should have signaled

when I made that left turn.

I tell Michael

that I didn't need to signal

because there weren't any other cars

on the road for as far as the eye could see.

Michael does that throat-clearing thing

and tells me that not signaling

is a moving violation and that if a cop

had seen me I would've gotten a ticket.

I tell Michael

there weren't any cops around

and he tells me I had no way

of knowing that for sure.

I tell Michael I checked very carefully

and there definitely weren't

any squad cars around

and
will you please just drop it?

But Michael
won't
drop it.

He says a rule is a rule

and that rules are made

for a reason

and that if I start making turns

without signaling,

then pretty soon I'll be running red lights,

and maybe I'll even hurt someone.

I pull over,

leap out of the car,

and slam the door so hard

that I'm amazed it doesn't shatter

into a thousand self-righteous pieces.

Being married makes me feel

like a miner trapped in a shaft,

crouched

in unfathomable darkness,

sucking carbon monoxide

into my dust-filled aching lungs,

waiting

for the rescue workers,

who will

not be able

to make it

in time.

A few months back, when I thought

I'd lost Michael to Brandy,

it felt like my heart was being carved

right out of my chest.

But now,

even though I
haven't
lost Michael,

I still sometimes feel that same

jagged-edged knife slicing into me.

And,

try as I might,

I can't remember

what it was about my husband

that I was so afraid

of losing.

Alice calls to tell me

that she finally met Mr. Right.

“Omigod,” she says. “I'm sorry I haven't

spoken to you for a few days, but I met

this
fantastic
guy on Match.com and we've

been spending every waking minute together

and he's got the greenest eyes you've
ever

seen and the softest red curls and this Irish

accent that positively makes me
swoon
and

he's so smart and thoughtful and kind and

funny and wise and we've only known each

other for a little while but he's already told

me he loves me and I know it sounds crazy,

but I love him
too
and his name is Noah and

I've decided that if he asks me to go for a

ride on his ark with him I will
definitely
say

yes because I've never felt like this about

anyone
before and it feels so completely

amazing to adore absolutely every single

thing about a person, but I know I don't

have to tell
you
that because that's exactly

how you feel about
Michael
and oh, Holly,

I am so happy and the sex is so totally earth-

shaking and we can't keep our hands off of

each other and he makes me feel like I'm a

teenager again and we did it
four
times last

night and being in love makes you feel so

alive,
doesn't it?”

“Yes
,” I croak,

“it does.”

All Alice has to do is smile at him

and Noah forgets what he's saying

right in the middle of his sentence.

And when he
can
complete a thought,

Alice acts as if he's just said

the wittiest thing ever.

Not that Noah
isn't
witty.

He
is
witty. And he's smart.

And sweet.

And his Irish accent

even makes
me
swoon

a little.

But why does he have to keep on

nuzzling her like that

and kissing her neck?

And they haven't stopped

holding hands for a second

since we've been here,

which seems like hours,

though it's probably

only been a few minutes.

I don't know how

they're going to manage it

when the food comes.

Michael and I are just sitting here

across from them in the booth,

trying to make small talk.

Our thighs

aren't even touching

on the seat.

Things will get worse

before they get better.

You'll just have to hang on and ride them out

like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

You'll find that your mate

will no longer be playing on your team.

He'll be on a
new
team—

one comprised of him and his therapist.

He will begin most of his sentences

with the phrase “my therapist says.”

And the ends of these sentences

will not be pretty—

“My therapist says

you push me around.”

“My therapist says you aren't fair.”

“My therapist says you are controlling.”

Your self-esteem

will reach such an all-time low

that you'll send yourself emails

and report them as spam.

Your husband will make

a shocking shift away from

being willing to put up with your flaws,

to wanting you to be perfect—

as perfect

as
he
is becoming,

with the help

of his therapist.

Someone

who doesn't have a line on me yet.

Someone

who doesn't always think I'm doing

that incredibly annoying thing again,

for like the ninety-millionth

incredibly annoying time,

even when I'm not doing it.

Someone

so brand-spankingly new

that he doesn't find

a single thing about me

incredibly annoying yet.

Or even a tiny bit annoying.

I want to be with someone

unannoyable.

Someone who's not still laboring,

after all these years,

under the false assumption

that he could get me to change

if only he could come up with

the exact right combination of words.

Someone who can comprehend the fact

that just because I don't agree

with what he's saying,

that doesn't mean

I haven't heard

what he's said—

like if I'd
really

been listening to him

there'd be no
way
I could disagree.

I want a husband

with whom I have

no disagreements.