“How did you know? I’m only twelve weeks along. I’m not even showing.”
“Your nose. It’s swollen.”
“It is?” I said, touching it.
“Not hideously. Just the eensiest bit. Happens to most women, but they don’t notice because the membranes swell over the course of the pregnancy, just not all at once.”
“Look, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody-”
The cloyingly sweet smell of Bunny’s open snack cake drifted into my nostrils and I clapped my hand over my mouth.
“Lobby, take a right,” Bunny instructed, and I ran back up the aisle and to the bathroom to throw up.
Those weeks of rehearsal were intense. Day after day I sat beside Bunny in the darkened theater, where she tried to mentor me. At first, most of Bunny’s suggestions were along the lines of encouraging me to move beyond cliche. “I just don’t believe it, Alice,” she’d often say of a scene. “People don’t talk this way in real life.” As the rehearsals went on, she got tougher and more insistent, because it was clear to her something was not working. She kept pushing me to find the nuance and shading she believed the characters were missing. But I didn’t agree. I thought the depth was there; she just wasn’t seeing it yet.
One week before opening night, the lead quit. The first dress rehearsal was a disaster; the second just a little bit better, and finally, in the eleventh hour I saw
At that point it was too late to make any changes. I had to let the play go. It would catch a stiff wind or founder all on its own.
Opening night went well. The theater was packed. I prayed it would all come miraculously together that evening and judging by the enthusiastic crowd, that appeared to be the case. William was by my side the entire night. I had a small baby bump now, which brought out his protective instincts; his hand was a constant presence on the small of my back. The next morning came a rave review from the
I won’t say that William was happy that the play flopped, but I will say he was happy to have me home, getting ready for the baby. He didn’t go so far as to say I told you so, but anytime Bunny emailed me another bad review (she was not one of those directors who believed in ignoring your reviews-quite the opposite, she was in the you- get-enough-bad-reviews-you-become-inoculated camp) he got this grim look on his face that I could only read as embarrassment. Somehow my public failure had become his. He didn’t have to advise me not to write another play; I came to that decision all on my own. I convinced myself there was a three-act structure to pregnancy, a beginning, middle, and end. I was in essence a living play, and for now that would have to be enough.
65. I know “roommate” is a taboo word, but here’s a thought: what if being roommates is the natural stage of the middle part of marriage? What if that’s the way it’s supposed to be? The
66. Fifteen minutes ago.
59
“Yum,” says Caroline.
“That hits the spot,” says William.
“Is it supposed to taste like soil?” I ask, looking down into my smoothie.
“Oh, Alice,” says Caroline. “You’re such a truth-teller.”
“You mean she’s got no filter,” says William.
“You should really run with us,” says Caroline.
“Yes, why don’t you?” asks William, sounding completely disingenuous.
“Because somebody has to work,” I say.
“See, no filter,” says William.
“Okay-well, I’ve got to take a shower and get ready. I’ve got a second interview at Tipi this afternoon. It’s an intern position, but at least it’s a foot in the door,” says Caroline.
“Wait, what’s Tipi?” I ask.
“Microfinance. It’s this amazing company, Alice. They’ve only been around for a year but they’ve already given out over 200 million dollars in loans to women in third-world countries.”
“Have you told your mom you’re going on a second interview? She must be thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her. And believe me, she’ll be far from thrilled,” says Caroline. “She thinks I’m wasting my computer science degree. Now if it were Paypal or Facebook or Google, she’d be doing cartwheels.”
“That doesn’t sound like your mother.”
Caroline shrugs. “That
“Well, good for her. She’s out there hustling,” I say.
“Meaning I’m
“You’ve been on
“Yes, and not one callback.”
“Oh-William, God,
“There’s nothing to help with.”
“Well, let me support you. Behind the scenes. I’m a good commiserater. Top-notch, in fact-”
He cuts me off. “I don’t need commiseration, Alice. I need a plan. And I need you to leave me alone while I come up with it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
I bring my glass to the sink and rinse it out. “Fine,” I say slowly. “Well, here’s my plan. I sent off that letter to the Parents’ Association asking if they’d consider making my position full-time in the fall. Six plays every semester should be a full-time job.”
“You
“I want us to be able to send our kids to college.”
William crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Caroline’s right. You should start running again. It would be good for you.”
“You seem to be doing okay with Caroline.”
“I’d rather run with you,” he says.
He’s lying. I wonder if Researcher 101 is a runner.
“What?” he asks.
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“You had this strange look on your face.”
I stack my glass in the dishwasher and slam the door shut. “That’s just the way I look when I’m leaving you alone so you can figure things out.”
“California geese, we’re unforgettable. Goslings, gaggles, ganders on top. White feathers so soft you’ll want to pet us. Honk, honk, honk honk. Honk, honk, honk honk.”
