The Man of My Dreams (28 page)

“You’re the one who’s a vegetarian.”

“Well, I’ve never
eaten
roadkill, if that’s what you’re asking. Really, Hannah, quit thinking about it. Do you want me to drive?”

“Maybe.”

“I promise it’s not a big deal. I bet the critter had a good life, and now it’s gone on to a better place.”

They’re quiet—
I’m sorry, possum,
Hannah thinks—and then Allison says, “You know what I was kind of thinking about while I was asleep? Remember the Mexican restaurant we used to get that seven-layer salad from? Mom would pick it up for us if she and Dad were going to a dinner party or something, but actually in no way was it a salad—it was like sour cream on top of cheese on top of beef on top of guacamole.”

At the same time, Hannah says, “Yeah, that was good,” and Allison says, “It’s amazing how unhealthily we ate when we were little.”

“It did have lettuce,” Hannah says.

“Barely. And that beef was nasty. I can’t believe I ever ate meat.” Allison and Sam now eat almost exclusively organic food, and this, Hannah realizes, must be the subtext of Allison’s comments—the miracle of her growing up to be such a wise and authentic person in spite of a childhood spent chowing on pesticides and hydrogenated oils. There are products Hannah didn’t even know you could buy organic versions of until she saw them in Allison and Sam’s apartment: ketchup, say, or pasta.

“You know what you loved, though?” Hannah says. “That super-greasy pizza from the place on Lancaster Avenue.”

“Oh, that place was the best. You’re right. And I was obsessed with the bread sticks—I thought they were really classy for some reason.”

“It was the dipping sauce,” Hannah says. “Because Mom told us about fondue, remember? We thought we were like Parisians sitting in a bistro. So why were you in such a bad mood before?”

“When was I in a bad mood?”

“You mean besides for the last five hours?”

“Hannah, you have to admit you could have been more responsible about getting directions to the hospital.”

In Allison’s voice, Hannah can hear the bad mood again. She shouldn’t have brought it up, especially when she’s just pulled Allison back from the precipice of organic righteousness and into a reverie about the bleached carbs of their youth. “Aren’t you starving right now?” Hannah asks. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I haven’t been that hungry,” Allison says, and for the first time, it occurs to Hannah that Allison could be upset about something having nothing to do with Hannah, that Allison’s foul humor could be more than sibling annoyance. Under stress—it’s inconceivable to Hannah—Allison loses her appetite.

Hannah thinks of saying
What’s wrong?
Instead, she says, “There’s some popcorn left.” She gestures toward the seat between them.

“I’m really not hungry. Besides, we’ll stop for dinner soon enough.” Allison yawns again. “Has anyone ever told you that you grip the wheel like a little old lady?”

“You have.”

“Well, you do. I should call you Esther. Or maybe Myrtle. I can see you as a Myrtle. ”

Hannah glances across the seat. “Would it be rude,” she says, “if I told you I liked you better when you were asleep?”

THAT NIGHT THEY
stay at a motel outside Buffalo, Hannah’s treat, if a Days Inn in western New York can be considered a treat. Allison’s cell phone rings while they are watching television before bed. It is Sam. First he apparently holds up the phone to Isabel’s ear.

“Mommy misses you so much, Izzie,” Allison says. “Mommy can’t
wait
to see you again.”

Not for the first time, Hannah is struck by her sister’s generous and unself-conscious affection for her daughter. Clearly, Allison is a good mother and also, she is lucky. Has time ever elapsed between Allison being aware she wants something and the thing becoming hers? That she got married, and that she now has a child—it all seems like proof that Allison is loved, Allison’s life is proceeding apace. What Allison desires is normal and appropriate.

After saying good night to Isabel, Allison says in her adult tone, “Yeah, just hold on a second.” She stands, walks into the bathroom, and closes the door. Does she think Hannah is going to eavesdrop? Besides the fact that eavesdropping is unavoidable, that is—does Allison think Hannah is still thirteen and infinitely titillated by everything her older sister does?

The worst part is that Allison’s coyness makes Hannah curious; it brings out her inner thirteen-year-old. They’ve been watching a sitcom, and at the next commercial, Hannah mutes the television and lifts her head off the pillow. At first she can hear only voice, no distinct words, but there does seem to be an edge to Allison’s tone. Are they fighting? What would Allison and Sam fight about? Then, loudly and unmistakably, Allison says, “At some point I’m not sure it even
matters
if it’s true.” She pauses. “No. No. Sam, I’m not the one—” He must be interrupting her, and when she speaks again, it’s incomprehensible.

The television show comes back on, which feels like a sign to Hannah to stop listening. She turns on the volume. Surely, after this, Allison will not pretend that nothing is wrong, but she stays on the phone for so long that Hannah falls asleep before her sister emerges from the bathroom.

THEY’RE JUST WEST
of South Bend, Indiana, and about to start their fourth round of twenty questions—a game they have not played, quite possibly, for twenty years—when Allison’s cell phone rings again. It is three o’clock, overcast but even hotter than yesterday, and Hannah is driving. She is trying to suppress a rising anxiety at the appearance of more and more signs for Chicago. Ninety-one miles, the last one said, and they’ve agreed they’ll switch places when they get to forty. They will drive straight to Hannah’s new apartment—which she rented sight unseen—unpack with Henry’s help, and return the moving truck tonight. Allison’s flight back to San Francisco is tomorrow afternoon.

“Is it a woman?” Allison asks.

“Yes.”

“Is she famous?”

“Yes,” Hannah says. “You can answer your phone, by the way.”

“That’s all right. Is she an actress?”

“No.”

“Is she a politician?”

“Not really, but I won’t count that one.”

“That’s not fair. She either is or she isn’t.”

“Then she’s not.”

“Is she living?”

“No. That was question five.”

“Is she American?” Allison asks, and her cell phone starts ringing anew.

“Yes. Really, answer it. I don’t mind.”

Allison pulls the phone from her purse, looks at the ID on the screen, and puts the phone away.

“Who is it?” Hannah says, and Allison ignores her.

“Okay, so, female, dead, American, not a politician but sort of. Is it Harriet Tubman?”

“You aren’t already pregnant again, are you?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Should I take that as a no on Harriet?”

“Is this about Sam’s brother being in love with you?” Hannah asks. “Is that what it is?”

“The only person who ever thought Elliot was in love with me was you. He had a tiny crush on me before Sam and I got married, and that was years ago.”

“Then did Sam cheat on you? If he did, I could maybe cut off his balls.”

“That’s very sweet, Hannah. I’ll keep it in mind. Okay, I’ve got it—is it Amelia Earhart?”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Why do you assume something
is
going on?”

“Because I’m not a complete idiot. You never tell me anything. I’ll tell you something. You want to know the real reason I’m moving to Chicago? You know Henry, the guy who’s helping us unload the truck? I think he’s the love of my life.”

Allison is quiet at first, and then she says, “You’re dating Fig’s ex-boyfriend?”

Right—this is the reason Hannah shouldn’t try explaining herself to other people.

“I’m not dating him,” Hannah says. “But we’re friends.”

“You’re moving to a different state to live near a guy you’re not dating?”

“Never mind,” Hannah says.

“Have you told Mom?”

“Have you told Mom you’re having marital problems?”

Looking straight ahead, Allison says, “The family of one of the girls on Sam’s track team filed a complaint with the school, saying he made inappropriate remarks. Are you happy now?”

“As in sexually inappropriate?”

“Is there another kind?” Allison’s voice is sour. “He coached the seventh- and eighth-graders last spring, and they’re so hormone-crazy that they’re out of control. It’s different from when we were that age—these girls wear little sports bras and prance around in their little shorts and ask him all these questions about blow jobs, and then they say that he made them uncomfortable.”

“What does the school think?”

“They’re having meetings now to decide what’ll happen. He might have his coaching duties suspended for the fall, which is just ridiculous. He’s basically guilty until proven innocent.”

“You’re not mad at
him,
though, are you?”

“Well, I’m not thrilled by the situation. Do you smell a burning smell?”

Hannah sniffs, then shakes her head. “Do you know the specifics of what they’re saying Sam said?”

“The girls were pretending to be prostitutes or something, and he made a joke about them selling themselves in the Tenderloin.”

“Yikes,” Hannah says.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Allison snaps. “He used bad judgment. He’s not a pervert.”

“That’s not what I meant at all. I know he’s not. You and Sam are the ideal couple—you’re Mr. and Mrs. Perfect.”

“I’m sure our marriage counselor would be fascinated to hear you say that.”

“Wait, you guys see a marriage counselor?”

“We’ve been going to her since before we got engaged. She costs a fortune.”

“You went to a marriage counselor before you were even married?”

“She’s a couples therapist. Whatever. Honestly, Hannah, take your blinders off. Perfect couples don’t exist.”

This reminds Hannah of some other conversation; what other conversation does it remind her of? Just as she remembers that it was Elizabeth who made similar remarks when Julia Roberts and Kiefer Sutherland canceled their wedding, just as Hannah is recalling sitting beside Elizabeth on her aunt’s front stoop in Pittsburgh twelve years ago—this is when Allison says, “Jesus Christ, Hannah, there’s smoke coming out of the hood! Pull over!” As Hannah slows down and turns on the right blinker, Allison leans toward the steering wheel. “Look at the temperature gauge!” she says. “Didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on it?”

The needle can go no higher; it is in the bright red zone. Also, the smoke is now billowing from the hood, and Hannah definitely can smell it—it smells like burnt seafood. When they are parked on the shoulder, Allison climbs out, and Hannah slides across the seat to get out from Allison’s side. They stand a few feet away from the hood, the afternoon’s humid air pressing against them, the cars whizzing by. “Should I pop it open?” Hannah asks, and Allison says, “The engine is overheating. You should wait for someone to get here.”

After calling AAA—thank God Allison belongs, because Hannah doesn’t—Allison says, “You didn’t have the emergency brake on, did you?” Sweat has beaded above her upper lip.

“Of course not. Why do you assume this was my fault?”

“I’m not saying it was, but I do think it’s interesting that both the incidents of the trip so far have occurred while you’re driving.”

“Allison, you bent over backward to tell me the roadkill thing happens all the time.”

After a pause, Allison says, “This is absurd. We’re an hour from Chicago.”

“Are you in a hurry? Were you hoping to go to a museum tonight?”

“I was hoping not to get stuck in Nowhere, Indiana.”

“It could just as easily have happened when you were driving,” Hannah says.

Allison doesn’t respond.

“You’re such a bitch,” Hannah says. She takes a few steps down the grassy hill that abuts the highway shoulder. She doesn’t like being visible to the passing cars, doesn’t like the sense of herself as someone the other drivers are glad not to be right now. She folds her arms, then looks back up at her sister. “By the way,” she says, “it was Eleanor Roosevelt.”

SO THEY ARE
staying for a second night in a motel. It’s not even five o’clock when they check in; the guy who towed the moving truck drops them off. The garage says the truck will be ready by noon tomorrow, which means Hannah and Allison will have to drive straight to the airport if there is any chance of Allison making her plane. Then Hannah will drive alone into the city, through the scary Chicago traffic, to meet Henry and unload the truck, and then, presumably, she’ll return the truck alone. It’s not until she knows it won’t happen that she realizes she wanted Allison to be there when she greeted Henry, when she officially moved to his city. This never happens with Fig because Fig and Hannah look nothing alike, but sometimes when Hannah and Allison are together, Hannah feels like Allison’s prettiness rubs off on her. Two cars pulled over and offered to help while they were waiting for AAA; both of the drivers were men, and Hannah wondered if they’d have stopped were she not with her sister.

They are in the town of Carlton. The motel is family-owned and one-story, with parking places in front of the rooms. On one side of the building are modest houses; on the other side are woods so lushly green that Hannah assumes there has been lots of rain lately. According to the woman who gives them their room key, the closest stores and restaurants are about a mile beyond the woods along a road with no sidewalk. As soon as Hannah and Allison have set down their bags, Allison announces she is going jogging. She is gone for nearly an hour and comes back with a dripping, ruddy face. By then Hannah is watching her second talk show. After showering, Allison leaves the room again and returns a few minutes later with a pack of vending-machine potato chips that she does not offer to share. She lies on the other bed, reading a book about raising children with self-esteem.

If she and her sister didn’t hate each other right now, Hannah thinks, being stranded might almost seem fun—the randomness of it, the annoyingness, even. As it is, Allison is making her so tense that Hannah is tempted to tell her to just take a bus to the airport now. Go ahead, see if Hannah cares. But she says nothing. There is a brief thunderstorm around six, and when the rain stops, Hannah says, “What are you thinking for dinner?”