Nicky is quiet for a moment, then whispers, “I didn’t know that about him.” He swallows the air, considering it. “I guess, like, I’m trying to figure it all out. Like, with God, and what it’s supposed to mean…” He pauses. “I guess that’s what the whole ‘Jewish’ thing was.”
He runs his hands through his hair, and I realize he’s no longer donning the yarmulke.
“These are pretty big questions,” I say. “I guess I’m still sorting this out for myself, too.”
“It’s easier to think like your dad thinks,” Nicky says. “Like, everything happens for a reason, and there must be some great meaning behind my dad dying. Like, maybe I’ll grow up and be president because of it. But…I mean…I’m not gonna be president. That’s bullshit. I’d rather he’d have gone into work five minutes later that day or missed the train than be, like, president.”
He stares down at his lap, but I can still see the tears on his cheeks.
“I dunno. I’m just twelve.” He shrugs, an apology.
“I think you’re pretty smart.”
“Not really,” he says.
I sigh.
“It’s a hard thing to accept: that you can’t change what’s happened. People spend their lives filled with regret over not doing things differently. Over not having those metaphorical extra five minutes.”
“Do you regret a lot of things?”
I laugh and look at the floor. “Don’t use me as an example. I’m totally fucked up.”
“You said ‘fuck.’” He grins.
“I guess you’re growing up,” I say. “I thought I could.”
He nods his head like he’s gotten a sliver of what he came for and slides off the bed, nearly out of the room. I’m about to reopen my laptop when he hesitates in the doorframe and chews his thumbnail.
“You know, Aunt Willa. You’re a pretty good substitute mom.”
“I’m not, really.” I frown.
“You are. You’re just too busy doubting everything to know it.”
—
I lay in bed and revisit the math, and whether or not my period was late. I should have gotten a morning-after pill when the condom broke, should have gone to the doctor to ensure that, even with our low odds — one testicle, one faulty uterus — I couldn’t be pregnant. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it. It’s that I wasn’t certain what I wanted to do. Some things in life can’t be undone; on that, both my father and I can agree. I wasn’t sure if I believed in fate, but after months and months of negative EPT tests, I wasn’t willing to prove that I didn’t either. Not like this. Even if I didn’t know what I wanted, with Theo, with Shawn, with a baby.
I’d lost track of my periods once Shawn and I stopped trying — when was that? Eight weeks ago? A lifetime ago? The day he told me he needed his space, the day he drafted our rules. I hadn’t been particularly regular before the pill, so now…I don’t know.
Why don’t you ever know? Cilla Zuckerberg probably knows everything! Probably has an Excel spreadsheet on her period!
Maybe I should have gotten it yesterday. Or the day before. But it could be tomorrow, too.
I slip out early the next morning to the drugstore, after Nicky gives me the courage, unknowingly, but the courage all the same, to accept that maybe this time it would be different — the test, the results, my certainty, my conviction. I still didn’t know what I wanted it to be — motherhood or…not. Everyone thinks that we grow up, we get married, we have babies. But what if we don’t? What if we don’t want to? How do we swallow the discomfort that comes with that acceptance? Because even if we ourselves accept it —
parenthood is not for me
— there are still so many questions from everyone around you: Why not? Is it medical? Is it physical? Is it psychological? Were her own parents monsters? Is she cold-hearted? Why wouldn’t anyone want to be a parent, want to give life to something else?These are complicated questions, and I can’t even bring myself to ask Theo — or anyone — the easy questions. How on earth am I supposed to know whether or not I want the pregnancy test to say Y.E.S.? But Ollie had urged me toward responsibility, toward conviction, and he wasn’t wrong. So I got two tests at Duane Reade; in case I wimped out of the first one and tossed it, I’d have the second for backup. That felt like responsibility, even if it wasn’t much.
Now, I sit on the toilet with my sweatpants around my ankles, and I contemplate fate, on how the universe works in ways that no one, not my dad, not Vanessa, not Punjab Sharma, my father’s arch-rival and recipient of the Nobel Prize, can predict. There are some things that feel inevitable — the collision of egg and sperm, the randomness of it happening at all, the further unlikelihood that the couplet implants inside of me and forms a life. At here, now, with the utter nakedness of my fear and my listlessness, it’s hard to doubt my dad, to question whether or not inevitability is, well, inevitable. The condom broke. He has one ball. My reproductive system has proven unreliable.
I stare at my toes and run them through Raina’s plush bathmat and buy myself time.
No matter what the results
, I think,
I’ll get a pedicure later
. After Ollie’s arraignment. Treat myself to something nice.
And then, before I lose my nerve, before my guts give out on me entirely, I hover the stick between my legs and pee.
When I’m done, I set the test on the vanity counter, slide down the wall onto the floor, and then, just as I had for seven months, back when I was still one half of Shilla, back before everything changed, I wait.
Whatever happens next is no longer mine to control, no longer mine to own. So I close my eyes and I wait.
—
NEW YORK POST
COVER STORY:
HEADLINE: DOWN DOG!
Oliver Chandler, the son of the
New York Times
bestselling author Richard Chandler, found himself in court today over charges that he ran a pyramid scheme for his boss, Yogi Master Dari, to raise money for their celebrated yoga retreat in India. You would think this would be enough drama for one family, but the courtroom antics were so over-the-top that we hope Hollywood producers were listening in. Someone revive
L.A. Law
stat and rip this story from the headlines!
The younger Chandler was joined in court by his wide-reaching family, which included his counsel, his sister Raina Chandler-Farley, his mother (with an apparent lady friend, which set off gossip whispers throughout the Upper East Side…Page Six will have more tomorrow!), and his famous father, who was pushed in a wheelchair by a leggy nursemaid who sources are reporting is his mistress. Repeated requests to Chandler’s agent as to the state of his marriage went unreturned.
Several famous faces were also on hand to lend their support: Halle Berry arrived wearing Versace; Jennifer Aniston rushed through the marbled halls in stilettos. There was a rumor that Lady Gaga slipped through the judge’s chambers, but that is yet unconfirmed. Nearly 90 percent of the courtroom wore those ever-present taupe ribbons that have swarmed yoga studios ever since word of Chandler’s arrest hit the spa circuit.
Once inside, we are told, Ms. Chandler-Farley began to plead her case, entering in a plea of not guilty, when she was loudly interrupted by a man shouting for a one William Chandler-Golden. When Ms. Chandler-Farley’s sister stood up and explained that she was William, the man brusquely approached her and stated, “You’ve been served!” Ms. Chandler-Golden then opened the paperwork, read it quickly, handed it to one Mr. Theodore Brackton —
Time
magazine’s Face of Our Future — and then turned to her father, Mr. Richard Chandler, and said:
“A cease and desist? Are you kidding me? Here, now?
And Mr. Chandler then rose quickly (a miraculous recovery in his wheelchair!) and shouted:
“What is here? What is now? It is all one big circle! It is karma, it is forever!”
At which point, Halle Berry started whooping and pumping her fist until the younger Mr. Chandler gave her the stink-eye.
To which the judge banged his gavel and said:
“Order! And what is going on? And Mr. Chandler, what on earth are you talking about?”
And Mr. Chandler said: “I have served my daughter with papers.”
And the judge said: “So I see. This isn’t the time or place.”
And Mr. Chandler said: “With all due respect, your Honor, because I do have the utmost respect for the judicial system, but time and place are irrelevant. My daughter, William, has betrayed me. And perhaps I should have seen it coming, because, after all, I am the one who has proven that all roads lead to here, but I did not! I did not see it coming! So I will serve her whenever the time approached, as it did now!”
Onlookers report that he then became ghastly pale, and one eyewitness added, “He sank into his wheelchair like he’d just had an exorcism or something!”
Mr. Chandler was quickly wheeled out of the courtroom by his nursemaid/mistress and two security guards.
After all of this pomp and circumstance (Hollywood, are you listening?), Ms. Chandler-Farley rose wearily to her feet and said:
“Not guilty, your Honor. Though please allow a little leniency. As you can see, the Chandler kids are working with a stacked deck.”
Halle Berry applauded at this until her bodyguard shushed her.
—
Later, I find Raina nursing a glass of wine and overseeing a 100-piece puzzle with Bobby and Grey in their playroom. She’s tucked into one of those child-sized chairs, her knees folded into her chest, her back hunched over her knees.
She reaches over and rubs Bobby’s back.
“B — no, no, look for a straight edge. Yes, right there. Try that one.”
She doesn’t see me for a moment, and I hover in the doorway, watching, learning, absorbing.
Bobby snaps two pieces together and grins triumphantly at his mom. She leans over and kisses the top of his head, then notices me there, an interloper.
“Hey,” she smiles. “Let me guess. This is about Dad.”
“Well, I also happen to be really excellent at puzzles.”
Grey waves me in and stands so he can sit on my lap. I wedge myself into his mini-chair, and he plops down atop me.
“Is it legitimate? Like, can he order a cease-and-desist?” I ask.
Raina laughs, real laughter.
“Oh my God, no. Haven’t you ever heard of the First Amendment? It’s ridiculous. Even with copyrighted material, you can work around it.” She hands Bobby a corner piece. “Here, try this one.”
He connects the corner and suddenly, a planet takes shape.
“Look, mommy! The earth!”
She runs a finger over his cheek.
“So why’d he do it then?” I say. “I mean, serve me?”
“Because he can. Because he figured it would work.”
“Like how?” I spy the lower quadrant of the earth and set it into place.
“Because you always cease and desist. That’s what you do. I mean, initially, you sometimes puke or maybe, like the other night, consider throwing your chopsticks… but then you cease and desist. I’m sure he figured it’d be the same thing this time.”
“How’d you know I wanted to throw them?”
“You’re my baby sister, Willa. I’m sure Dad knew too.”
“Oh.” I mull over her words. “So…I guess I need to aim higher?”
“With the chopsticks?”
“With everything.”
“For sure,” she replies. “But when you do, at least try to nick him in the ear.”
28
It’s pouring the next afternoon, and I almost use the monsoon as an excuse to back out, even though I’m the one who called Theo in the first place. The rain comes down by the bucketful, purging, heavy, impossible to avoid.
“So I took the test,” I say, staring at my latte at Caffe Latte, which actually specializes in desserts. But it was two blocks from Raina’s apartment, and I knew if I didn’t meet him somewhere easy, somewhere close enough that I couldn’t run, I would. I would run. I already vomited just before leaving her apartment.
“Okay.” He waits.
“It’s fine.” I exhale. “It was negative. ”
Theo forks at his lemon pie. The barista recognized him from the
Time
cover and insisted on giving him something for free.
“Okay,” he repeats.
“Did you not want it to be?” I break off a piece of the crust.
“It’s sort of irrelevant, isn’t it? What I want? What I wanted it to be?” he says, pushing the plate away.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve texted you a million times, Willa.”
“Not a million,” I say, trying to make light.
“I’m not laughing. I know that things are complicated, and I don’t have expectations…”
“I’m still married!” I cry. Like this is any sort of defense to an ex-boyfriend I just slept with.
“Well, you could’ve replied. To tell me that you were okay. Or to wonder if I was doing okay.”
“Oh,” I manage. I can’t remember when I’ve ever seen him like this: deflated, dimmer, like his usual kilowattage isn’t turned up on full dial. Then I do remember when I’ve seen him exactly like this: it was the day that I said no to Seattle.
“Why didn’t you make me say yes?” I ask quickly, before I can think it over too much.
“To what? Texting?”
“To Seattle.”
He lets out a long exhale now; it feels like it goes on forever. And then he focuses on the lemon pie, unwilling, unable to grant me comfort by meeting my eyes. He offers quietly:
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to. To ‘make you say yes.’”
“That’s what you do. You get people to yes!”
“Because that’s what a guy dreams of…talking his girlfriend into commitment?”
“I was committed! You can’t say I wasn’t committed!”
“You were committed in the way that you do commitment.”
“Don’t put this on me!” I nearly hiss. “You didn’t believe in marriage.”
“I didn’t believe in marriage to someone who didn’t trust herself because then how could you ever fully trust me?”
“So this is about me!” I’m shrill enough that the waitress does a double take.
He rubs his face.
“Willa, the condom broke, and you didn’t trust me enough to help you through it. To talk about what it might mean, to talk about what we would do. Imagine a marriage like that.”