family has been decimated.”
Amy seemed far more frustrated about her relationship with Will than she had been when we first met—or rather, frustrated with his neurotic commitmentphobia that kept stopping her at checkpoints all along the way. And to make matters worse, the December issue of
Glamour
was out and apparently burning a hole in her bag. She reached for the magazine and dumped it on the table, and it fell open wherea giant paper clip had marked Arlene Schiffler’s latest diary entry.
“Month two,” she said.
I glanced down at the page and scanned a half column of text. This month’s focus? Morning sickness. How original.
She had already finished the flask of sake and had come back from the kitchen with a refill. She fidgeted on the floor across from me, and I wondered, for the second time that night, what was really bothering her.
So I asked.
She sipped her drink and smiled the way she usually smiled when she was happy. Only she wasn’t, I realized suddenly, when I saw her eyes well up with tears.
“What,” I said softly. “What’s the matter?”
She covered her eyes with her hands tightly, then took them away, wiping her lids as she did.
“I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Stand what?” I looked down at the magazine and wondered if that was what she was talking about. “This?” I regarded it disdainfully and pushed it away across the table.
She nodded yes, then no. “Arlene’s column. The two women in my office. Karen. Everyone’s pregnant all over the place all of a sudden, and I want to be, too. God, I hate this time of year. November. My mother died in November.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. No wonder she hated the holidays. As she wiped her eyes again and played absently with one of her chopsticks, I couldn’t help feeling incredible guilt over my contentious conversation with my mother the night before. At least I still had a mother to disapprove of me.
“I want to be married. I want a family,” she said finally. “My own family. I’m sick of always being a guest at my father’s house or my brother’s house. I’m sick of always being the one unmarried person at the end of the table—theloser—who everyone assumes can’t cook a turkey because she doesn’t have anyone to cook one for.”
I made a face, and she laughed a little.
“Okay, so they’re right about the turkey. But you know what I mean.”
Of course I knew what she meant.
While I was salivating at the thought of my impending Pickle-time in two days, I was dreading the reminder that when it came to holidays and other family get-togethers, I was, as Amy had just described, the odd person out; the perpetual adolescent; the one who always came alone and was sent home with enough toaster-oven-reheatable leftovers to feed a dormitory full of women like me. Reentry into my adult life always took time, not to mention the emotional setback that lingered, it seemed, for weeks after.
But I wasn’t an adolescent. And I didn’t feel like one.
“Look, I want a family, too,” I said.
She shook her head. “Sometimes I think it’s never going to happen.”
“Of course it’s going to happen,” though I wasn’t sure it was going to happen with Will.
“I keep going over the future trajectory of our relationship, and the math doesn’t add up. Look,” she said. “He’s thirty-eight, and I’m almost thirty-six. It’s taken a year and a half for him to introduce me to his family. He’s no closer to wanting to get married than he was when I met him. He’s looking for a new apartment—a cheaper apartment, if you can believe it—cheaper than the one he’s in, which is already incredibly cheap since he can’t afford anything else—and there’s been no mention about us moving in together. Not that I’d even want to, since I think living together is a huge fucking myth and since it would definitely waste another three years, after which he’d probably dump me anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders,
Amy seemed far more frustrated about her relationship with Will than she had been when we first met—or rather, frustrated with his neurotic commitmentphobia that kept stopping her at checkpoints all along the way. And to make matters worse, the December issue of
Glamour
was out and apparently burning a hole in her bag. She reached for the magazine and dumped it on the table, and it fell open wherea giant paper clip had marked Arlene Schiffler’s latest diary entry.
“Month two,” she said.
I glanced down at the page and scanned a half column of text. This month’s focus? Morning sickness. How original.
She had already finished the flask of sake and had come back from the kitchen with a refill. She fidgeted on the floor across from me, and I wondered, for the second time that night, what was really bothering her.
So I asked.
She sipped her drink and smiled the way she usually smiled when she was happy. Only she wasn’t, I realized suddenly, when I saw her eyes well up with tears.
“What,” I said softly. “What’s the matter?”
She covered her eyes with her hands tightly, then took them away, wiping her lids as she did.
“I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Stand what?” I looked down at the magazine and wondered if that was what she was talking about. “This?” I regarded it disdainfully and pushed it away across the table.
She nodded yes, then no. “Arlene’s column. The two women in my office. Karen. Everyone’s pregnant all over the place all of a sudden, and I want to be, too. God, I hate this time of year. November. My mother died in November.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. No wonder she hated the holidays. As she wiped her eyes again and played absently with one of her chopsticks, I couldn’t help feeling incredible guilt over my contentious conversation with my mother the night before. At least I still had a mother to disapprove of me.
“I want to be married. I want a family,” she said finally. “My own family. I’m sick of always being a guest at my father’s house or my brother’s house. I’m sick of always being the one unmarried person at the end of the table—theloser—who everyone assumes can’t cook a turkey because she doesn’t have anyone to cook one for.”
I made a face, and she laughed a little.
“Okay, so they’re right about the turkey. But you know what I mean.”
Of course I knew what she meant.
While I was salivating at the thought of my impending Pickle-time in two days, I was dreading the reminder that when it came to holidays and other family get-togethers, I was, as Amy had just described, the odd person out; the perpetual adolescent; the one who always came alone and was sent home with enough toaster-oven-reheatable leftovers to feed a dormitory full of women like me. Reentry into my adult life always took time, not to mention the emotional setback that lingered, it seemed, for weeks after.
But I wasn’t an adolescent. And I didn’t feel like one.
“Look, I want a family, too,” I said.
She shook her head. “Sometimes I think it’s never going to happen.”
“Of course it’s going to happen,” though I wasn’t sure it was going to happen with Will.
“I keep going over the future trajectory of our relationship, and the math doesn’t add up. Look,” she said. “He’s thirty-eight, and I’m almost thirty-six. It’s taken a year and a half for him to introduce me to his family. He’s no closer to wanting to get married than he was when I met him. He’s looking for a new apartment—a cheaper apartment, if you can believe it—cheaper than the one he’s in, which is already incredibly cheap since he can’t afford anything else—and there’s been no mention about us moving in together. Not that I’d even want to, since I think living together is a huge fucking myth and since it would definitely waste another three years, after which he’d probably dump me anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders,
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