Chapter 3
The next morning, as I gazed at Jake asleep in plaid cotton boxers, I recalled the first time I’d seen him dozing—stick straight on the twin bed in my dormitory room, facing me, his back against the speckled white wall decorated with a James Taylor poster. “You’ve Got a Friend” played on my stereo. Jake had thick dark-brown hair then, to his shoulders. He was shoeless, wore bell-bottom jeans ripped at the knee and a T-shirt that said “Marijuana for the Masses”—well, that prophecy came true.
We made out that night; that’s what they called it back then. He wanted to go further, but I worried that my dad would kill me if we did. Granted, I had no idea how my dad would find out. He was in West Hartford, Connecticut, where we’d moved when it became apparent my father could make a better living among people rather than chickens. We resided on a street named after a Native American tribe, surrounded by Jewish neighbors.
Now, a lifetime later, Jake had streaks of gray in his hair, creases around his eyes, a gathering of wrinkles on his forehead, but he still slept on his side like he did that first night in my dormitory room. I was about to go out. I wrote a note on a pad branded with the logo of Wake-Up America, informing Jake that I had an appointment for my annual checkup and was off to see my gynecologist. He rolled in my direction.
“Where are you going?” he asked blearily.
“I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Dr. Schafer?”
“No. He retired.”
“Because he wanted to?” Jake asked, his misery palpable.
“No more than you wanted to. He collapsed during a C-section. No worries. Mother and infant are doing fine.”
I went on to tell him that my best friend, Suzy, had recommended another doctor, with a new office on Glades Road.
He shot up in the bed. “Wait. I’ll go with you.” There was a lot of puppy dog in his voice.
“To the gynecologist?” Who went to the gynecologist with his wife? I wondered. But instead, I said, “Sure, come along.”
He pulled on faded green shorts I should have disposed of before the Gulf War in Iraq and a T-shirt from college. The man was outfitted to wash a car.
I frowned.
“I’m not going in.”
Good, I thought.
“I’ll wait in a coffee place. I’ll eavesdrop on conversations. I guess I’m one of those people now.”
Oy. Had anyone besides Jake said that to me, I would’ve deemed it pitiful, pathetic. But Jake Wexler was my basherter , my “meant to be.” I adored him, I understood him, and I wanted to help.
I left Jake on the street. In the gynecologist’s office, a study in pink with—guess what—Georgia O’Keeffe paintings, a young nurse escorted me to an examination room, pointed to the looming scale, indicated I should step on.
“I will only stand on the scale if you promise not to tell me what I weigh,” I said with a friendly smile. Friendly because I wanted her to agree to my proposition. Weight has always been one of my issues, even though I’ve never worn anything over a size 12. Could the secret of my remaining one size all these years have been that manufacturers cut clothing larger as Americans grew bigger? I’d have liked to see how a size-12 dress circa 2000 held up against a size 12 I’d find in a store now. Actually, not true. I wouldn’t. I enjoyed living the lie.
“No problem. I can keep a secret.” The nurse held a finger over her lips.
Satisfied with our agreement, I stepped on the monster, covered my eyes.
“One hundred fifty-five,” she said proudly, as though I hadn’t asked her for silence.
I shook my head. I had gained five pounds. Take it easy, I thought. It was only five pounds. Take a water pill, and you’d be down two.
“Now let’s see how tall you are.”
I turned, stood straight, lifting my shoulders.
“Five foot five.”
“Impossible. That can’t be. I’m five foot seven.”
“Not anymore,” she said.
“But I don’t want to be a short woman.”
She patted my back as though we’d won a bet together. “Please roll up your sleeve.”
Pump, pump. “Your blood pressure is low,” she said.
“No. Not possible. My pressure is always perfect. My height was, too, but not anymore.”
This peppy nurse made me think about how difficult it had become for physicians to find employees. I was fortunate. Rizzo had been with me forever. And I had Slivovitz, the hungry podiatrist, who had joined my practice with the hope of buying me out eventually. When the time was right, divesting shouldn’t be a problem. Now that Jake was suddenly “retired,” I would need to think about it sooner rather than later.
My mind wandered on as the nurse adjusted the band. And what of my opportunity to spend time with Macallan in the Berkshires? Would Jake want to go? Or would he prefer to remain at home and lick his serious wounds? Both our lives had changed in a moment. The moment Jake read the email. Why couldn’t those bloodsuckers have told him in person?
“Let me try the pressure once more,” the nurse said, rewrapping the band on my arm. “Nice. Now it’s one ten over sixty.”
Maybe she should’ve measured my height again. Perhaps I’d grown.
She handed me a paper gown and left. I dropped my cotton shirt, cropped pants, and underwear on a chair. Too sloppy, I thought. I folded each item, stacked it all up, my underwear hidden at the bottom. I wondered whether that looked neat enough, what other women did with their clothing while waiting for the gynecologist. Should I use the hook behind the door? Was there a hook? I positioned my flats in a corner, touching each other. I moved them apart, then together again. I was sure nearly all patients were more orderly, that the gynecologist would judge me by the way I placed my garments. She’d mark my chart: does not fold clothes well.
My phone went off. It was Suzy, my first and best friend in Florida. We took to each other when I bought a new Toyota from her dealership. Not long after, she invited me to join her book club. Some groups read historical fiction. We read hysterical fiction. When I first moved to Boca Raton, the Tuesday-evening book club meetups were a lifeline. I quickly became “sisters” with women who were my destiny.
“Passing time until yoga begins,” she reported.
If I shadowed Suzy—from exercise class to exercise class without going in—I could lose five pounds. Instead, I was dropping inches from my height.
“I’m waiting for the doctor you recommended.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked, as concerned as I would be about her.
“Of course not. It’s my annual checkup.”
But her question made me think—What if the doctor found something amiss? Major-league cancer wrong? A maternal aunt had succumbed to the disease. She never told a soul she had it. Of course, back then, no one said the c word. I could never keep a secret like that. In any case, I was being ridiculous. I was just there for a checkup.
“All’s well. Find something else to be anxious about,” I said to Suzy.
“I’ll make a list,” she said, ending the call. She really was my best friend.
The doctor entered the room without a knock, said hello without a smile. She had waist-length blonde hair. The kind of hair I planned to come back with in my next life. She appeared very young, but my concept of young had become skewed lately. At this stage of my life, anyone who wasn’t already dead I considered young. If someone told me their mother passed away at ninety-five, I’d say, “Oh, my. She had so much to look forward to.”
My new physician wore clogs, no pantyhose. Her generation was smarter than mine. If only because no one wore pantyhose. I sat on the examination table, my hands in my lap, legs hanging down. You couldn’t be old if you still dangled your legs.
The doctor was stiff, quiet, not one for small talk. I watched, hoping I was fine, as she checked the computer screen on a corner desk.
My previous gynecologist, Dr. Schafer, was a man. I wondered why a man would become a gynecologist, and, if he was married, what his wife thought of his occupation. I imagined Dr. Schafer having sex with his wife. Telling her to scoot down a little.
The doctor scanned the screen. Flatly, she said, “Your uterus is unremarkable.”
“My uterus is unremarkable. That’s not what the boys say.”
A tough one to crack, she worked up a stingy smile. “All’s well. You’re in the clear.”
As she tugged on a surgical glove, I adjusted myself—in position, knees apart—and gave old-fashioned human warmth another try. “If you find any money in there, it’s mine.”
After the appointment, relieved I was healthy, I located my husband. Jake was baking on a bench in front of a swimsuit boutique with colorful bikini tops dangling from a cord in the window.
“Everything okay downstairs?” he asked.
“The doctor’s office was upstairs.”
“Yes, but I’m asking about downstairs.”
Despite everything, he seemed to still have his sense of humor. I hadn’t mentioned to Jake that Lisa had asked me to babysit. Should I ask him to come with me? My mind cramped over the logistics. I had intended to use my Delta airline points and travel business class. He’d never cash in his precious points, meaning we’d fly economy, and he’d want the aisle. Therefore, I would be crushed in a middle seat—between Jake and some awful man-child who never bathed. I was sensitive to odors. I had no idea why Jake hoarded points. Did he plan to take them to his grave? Hope to fly out of the cemetery as we shoveled the dirt on his casket? What’s more, I preferred to arrive early at the airport. Habitually, Jake waited until the last moment, rushed onto the plane as though the terminal were on fire.
And that was just getting there. Once we arrived, would Jake slouch aimlessly around Lisa’s house, a self-beat-up man, paying little attention to his granddaughter, giving me another person to care for? Jake, how about coffee? Jake, what would you like to do while Macallan is in school? Jake, maybe it’s a good idea to stop drinking and start thinking. Jake, this isn’t the end of the world. Jake, we have our health.
It would be much easier and more pleasant to go alone.
Nevertheless, my husband had been sacked from a long-term job at a company he loved. How could I admit I’d prefer to travel unaccompanied? And if I did, the guilt I felt would ruin my trip. I stopped in my tracks. I turned toward my husband. I took his hand. “Guess what? Lisa asked me to watch Macallan in Woodfield for a spell. Naturally, Rizzo was not on cloud nine. She pouted—then she rearranged my schedule. You should come with me.”
“Too much on my mind,” he said, rubbing his temple.
“The trip will be good for you,” I said, relieved my egocentric thoughts about going to Lisa’s with Jake were thoroughly washed over by a lifetime of concern for him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. My head isn’t on straight right now.”
I couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Come with me. You’ll get your mind off things.”
“Maybe. Is that even possible? I’m ... overwhelmed.”
As we proceeded to the car, I squeezed his hand.
“How long will you be there?”
“Long as Lisa needs me. Something is brewing, but I don’t know what. You know how badly I’ve wanted to spend time with Macallan. Perhaps I’m silly, but I consider this my big chance. I want to know my granddaughter, and I want her to know me. Come with me, Jake. You don’t have to stay the entire time. Go home whenever you want.”
We walked a bit; then he rallied. “You’re right. I should come along.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll book the tickets. It’ll give me something to do.”
This was a whopping offer because Jake detested clerical duties. If he had to change a reservation on his own, he became apoplectic.
“I was planning on cashing Delta points so I could travel business class.” I raised my arms in the stifling air as though stretching luxuriously on a plane.
“No way—that’s a total waste of points.”
I swear if he had to choose between airline points and world peace, he’d take the points.
“Why?” I asked, but I knew the answer. In fact, at this juncture of our long marriage, I knew all the answers.
“One day, we may want to use the points for something important, such as a last-minute trip.”
“Hmm. I’d love to pick up one afternoon and scoot off to Paris. Remember the great time we had in France?” I said, revisiting a birthday trip taken so long ago I brought back stuffed Eiffel Towers for my children.
“Jodi, I lost my job. I have enough to think about.”
I said nothing. Silence was more than golden. It was a gold mine.
He paused on the street for a moment, fished his phone out of the pocket in his shorts. “I’m calling Lisa to tell her I’m coming.”