She Poured Out Her Heart (7 page)

“I just want to please you,” he whispered. He slid her hand down to his penis, which was poking around again in an amiable way, and at least Jane knew what was expected of her here, and that was all right too, as long as you didn't have to do it every time.

This was pretty much how things would continue between them, for some number of years.

They weren't able to spend that much time with each other, since Eric's schedule of clinical rotations was taking up more and more of his hours. He was finishing his last year of medical school and everything depended on applying for residencies and where he got in. But they talked on the phone every day and when they did get a night or a weekend together, it had the feel of a holiday. For Valentine's Day Eric gave her yellow roses edged with coral. Jane gave him a book of funny cartoons about doctors. She grew more used to the idea that he found something about her desirable. And she was crazy about him. Oh yes.

Jane involved herself in the intricacies of his application process, asking intelligent questions about residencies and offering encouragement. So much strategy and effort went into trying to get matched with your top school, where you might spend the next five years or more, where your career would be molded and minted. There were personal statements, interviews, performance evaluations; there was an implacable computer process that sorted everyone out. Then, on one dreaded day in March, the word came down and people either rejoiced or wept or gritted their teeth and made the best of it.

Even buoyant Eric felt the stress of it. “Of course everybody wants Johns Hopkins,” he said gloomily. “And Duke. I shouldn't even have them on my list.” Jane served as his cheerleader and morale officer, telling him she was sure he'd get one of his top choices, and that wherever he ended up, he'd make it work. She couldn't tell if Eric believed her or even paid attention. “What?” he'd say, after Jane delivered one of her exhortations. “What?” When he came over he sat hunched in front of the computer, searching for one more clue, one more advantage that might help him calculate his future. She found herself looking at him critically, not even liking him very much at such times.

That was just as well; she was clearly an interim girlfriend, a convenience. Someone to keep him company in his occasional off-hours, before
he picked up stakes and headed off to his triumphant future. He didn't want to stay in Chicago, he said, which Jane took to mean, he didn't want to stay with her. And why would he? He was on the fast track. He would end up with some Highland Park princess, one of those shiny-haired, high-powered girls who had been smiling nonstop since the eighth grade. Jane would turn into another line in his personal résumé: the one who hung around blood banks.

Jane asked him if he wanted her there when he got the residency news, and Eric said no, he wasn't going to put her through that. He wanted to be able to break dishes and curse and sulk. Then he'd suck it up and call her. “You need to be more positive,” said Jane. She found it hard to remember her own last purely positive thought. “You're going to be just fine.”

“Yeah, it's all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

He was impossible. “Bye,” she said. “Talk to you later.” She hung up. She thought it was unsurprising that Eric would not handle rejection well; he had hardly ever been rejected.

She waited to hear from him, feeling both nervous and deadened, as if everything reached her through a layer of cotton padding. The phone rang and she picked it up. “How do you feel about Atlanta?” Eric's voice said in her ear.

She didn't feel anything about Atlanta. He sounded excited. “What happened?”

“Emory. They aren't top ranked in cardio, I might have to go somewhere else for a fellowship, but they were pretty high up on my list.”

“Congratulations,” Jane said. She was happy for him, in a sad way. “I told you it would work out.”

“Listen, I need to hang out with some of the guys for a while, then let's go for dinner. I'm going to make a reservation someplace killer.”

“Sure,” Jane said, funereally. “That would be great.”

“Oh man. What's that thing they say, the weight of the world . . .”

“The weight of the world has lifted from you.”

“That's it. Seven o'clock, OK?”

The weight of the world had been transferred over to Jane. It felt about like she expected. She reminded herself of all the things she did not care for about him. His sense of humor could be juvenile. He had a terrible singing voice and never missed a chance to sing. He clearly shared everyone's high opinion of himself.

Just for spite, Jane took extra care with how she looked. She had grown her hair out long enough to pull up in a pouf. She chose a black dress that, when properly engineered and arranged, gave her some cleavage. She was surprised at how good she looked, once she got past her usual rituals of making critical expressions in the mirror. She thought she benefitted from the kind of makeup that allowed you to draw an entirely different face over your own.

“Wow, you look amazing,” Eric said when he arrived. He kissed her, she kissed back. He'd dressed up too, in a jacket and tie, shaved and damped down his curls. Even so, a residue of exhaustion showed in his face, in the gray skin beneath his eyes. She felt sorry for him, in spite of her own sense of dreary grievance. He'd been through a hard few weeks, and plenty of hard weeks and months and years before that, so much work, finally paying off. She wouldn't spoil things for him. She would be good company, happy for him. Go through the motions. It wasn't as if anyone ever noticed the difference.

They went to a restaurant in the city that Jane had only read about, one of several owned by a famous chef, a place that served things like bison, persimmon emulsion, artichoke fritters, saffron-infused desserts. The menu a parade of marvels. “I hope you'll like it,” Eric said, and Jane murmured that she was certain she would. The only complaints anyone might make would have to do with decadence and waste, since it was all so viciously expensive. You half expected to see the cast of
Les Misérables
pressed against the windows.

Jane thought Eric's parents must have given him money to go celebrate. Eric was always vague about them, but she gathered, from a remark or two, that they were people of means, even if Eric said he had largely (vaguely) financed his own way through medical school. Some of his confidence undoubtedly came from growing up with money, the solid fact of it backing everything up. But the residency was something that he had accomplished on his own, fought his way to.

He talked about how his friends had managed with their matches. Not bad. He would not have to feel guilty about his own good fortune. “Tell me more about Emory,” Jane kept saying, or, “Tell me more about Atlanta.” He was excited about everything, which was a good way to start out. He said he'd no doubt be working at the huge public hospital, Grady Memorial, the one with the ER called Grady Knife and Gun Club. The prospect energized him. He loved the tough stuff. She felt how dearly she would miss him.

“When does all this start?” she asked him. Although she knew very well when it started. Graduation was in June, and the residencies began soon afterward. She just wanted to feel good and sad about it yet again. He began to answer, but was interrupted by the waiter, who set in front of them terrines made of different exotic sea creatures.

When the waiter left, Eric said, “You could go with me, you know.”

Jane had picked up her fork. Now she put it down again. “What?”

“There are about a million different health careers there. I mean, the Centers for Disease Control, for starters.”

He was waiting for her to say something, maybe, “Centers for Disease Control, really?” Jane looked around her. The restaurant was one of those minimalist temples of gastronomy, all tile and sleek leather and industrial lighting. Nowhere soft for the eyes to land. Hunger of any sort unknown here. She burst into noisy tears.

“Hey, hey,” Eric said. “What's the matter? Jane?”

She couldn't stop. She had invested so much in the idea of her own failure and unlovability.

“Don't cry into the terrine. You know, the chef hates it when people add salt.”

That made her laugh, hiccupping, although she was still bawling. The waiter stationed himself a discreet distance away in case the lady needed special attention, a taxi, say, or perhaps she wanted to change her order.

When she was able to speak again she said, “I thought when you left town, that was it.”

“Oh come on.” He made a scoffing face.

“I didn't know what you wanted. You didn't say.”

“I didn't want to even talk about it until I knew where I was going to end up. Here, drink some water.”

She drank, and fished around for a Kleenex in her purse. “Am I blotchy? I get blotchy when I cry.”

“You're fine.” Eric waved the waiter away. “So . . .”

“We should talk more about this,” Jane said, picking up her fork once more. She was slowly realizing that she had actual power here, she was free to say yes or say no. Why would she consider no? This was what she wanted, wasn't it? But didn't people first decide to be together no matter what? She didn't like the idea that the computer program had determined her future as well as his, that if it had sent him to Pennsylvania, say, he might not be asking her to come along. But maybe he had wanted to be certain he had been matched, that he had something to offer her. Exactly what was he offering her, anyway?

Jane called Bonnie the next night. “Eric's going to Atlanta for his residency and he wants me to come with him.” Although he had not actually said anything about wanting; you had to extrapolate that.

“Yeah? You going?”

“I don't know yet. It just came up last night.”

“Are you getting married?”

“That part didn't come up.”

“I trust,” Bonnie said, “that you have told him the instructive story about free milk and the cow.”

“I'm not a cow.” It wasn't what you'd expect to hear from Bonnie. “Since when did you turn into some marriage booster?”

“You know I'm not. But if you're going to up and quit your job, and live somewhere you don't know anybody else—you don't, do you?—so that pretty much everything depends on Eric, how do you want this to end up? You want to get married, don't you? You love him all goo-goo, right?”

“Yes. Sure. But . . .”

“But what, tiresome girl?”

“He hasn't asked me.”

“Well go out there and get him to marry you. It can't be that hard, people do it all the time.”

“I don't know.” She didn't even know what she didn't know, except for that sense of something sliding away beneath her and life tilting sideways. “If I don't get married. If I never get married. I'd be this whole different person. Does that make any sense?” Jane waited.

“Well,” Bonnie said after a time, “I guess so. But that's how it works. You can't be everything. Nobody can.”

“All this is happening just because of
his
job.
His
swell career. I'm just a component of it.”

“It's never too late to discover feminism, Jane honey.”

“Dr. and Mrs. Nicholson. It sounds so fifties.” She wasn't even sure she believed in all her objections, but it seemed important to register them.

“Then don't change your name. Marry somebody else. Be a doctor yourself.”

“What if we get married and move to Atlanta and things don't work out?”

“Then you'll at least get something from it. Train fare back home. Never mind. Don't get married. Hitchhike on down there with him. Throw caution to the winds.”

“That's what you'd do,” Jane said.

“Need I say more?”

J
ane stood in the apartment's hallway, her back to the crowd, and tossed the bouquet over her shoulder. There was some whooping and scrabbling, because the men were in on it too, clowning around and pretending they wanted to catch it. But when Jane turned around, Bonnie was holding the roses, wagging them back and forth. “How is this supposed to work? Do I get a prize or something?”

Everybody gathered around to wish them good-bye, good-bye. Bonnie hugged her and told her she done good, and Jane did not see her again for a long time.