George Clooney was very nice about his shoes. Alice was appalled and tried to climb out of the stretcher so she could somehow help clean them, if she could have just found a tissue from somewhere, perhaps in that strange canvas bag, but both paramedics got stern with her and insisted that she stay still.
Her stomach felt better when she was buckled into the back of the ambulance. The chunky clean white plastic all around her was reassuring; everything felt sensible and sterile.
It seemed to be quite a sedate trip to the hospital, like catching a cab. As far as Alice could tell, they weren't screeching through the streets, flashing their lights at other cars to get out of the way.
“So I guess I'm not dying, then?” she asked George. The other guy was driving and George Clooney was in the back with Alice. He had hairy eyebrows, she noticed. Nick had big bushy eyebrows, too. Late one night Alice had tried to pluck them for him and he'd yelled so loud, she was worried Mrs. Bergen from next door would do her neighborhood-watch duty and call the police.
“You'll be back at the gym in no time,” answered George.
“I don't go to the gym,” said Alice. “I don't believe in gyms.”
“I'm with you.” George smiled and patted her arm.
She watched bits of billboards and office buildings and sky flash by through the ambulance window behind George's head.
Okay, so this was all very silly. It was only the “bump on the noggin” that was making everything seem strange. This was just a longer, more intense version of that funny, dreamlike feeling you got when you woke up on holiday and couldn't think where you were. There was no need to panic. This was
interesting
! She just needed to focus.
“What time is it?” she asked George determinedly.
“Nearly lunchtime,” he said, glancing at his watch.
Right. Lunchtime. Lunchtime on a Friday.
She said, “Why did you ask what I had for breakfast before?”
“It's one of those standard questions we ask people with head injuries. We're trying to ascertain your mental state.”
So presumably if she could remember what she had for breakfast, everything else would fall into place.
Breakfast. This morning. Oh, come on now. She must be able to remember.
The
idea
of a weekday breakfast was clear in her mind. It was two pieces of toast popping up in tandem from the toaster and the kettle bubbling crossly and the morning light slanting across the kitchen floor, just in front of the fridge, lighting up the big brown splotch on the linoleum, which looked like it could be scrubbed away in a jiffy, but most certainly couldn't. It was glancing up at the railway clock Nick's mother had given them as a housewarming present, with the fervent hope that it might be earlier than she thought (it was always later). It was the crackly background sound of ABC morning radioâworried, intense voices talking about world issues. Nick listened and sometimes said things like “You've got to be kidding,” and Alice let the voices wash over her and tried to pretend she was still asleep.
She and Nick were not morning people. They liked this about each other, having both been in previous relationships with intolerably cheery morning people. They spoke in short, terse sentences and sometimes it was a game, exaggerating their grumpiness, and sometimes it wasn't, and that was fine, because they knew their real selves would be back that evening after work.
She tried to think of a
specific
breakfast memory.
There was that chilly morning when they were halfway through painting the kitchen. It was raining hard outside and there was a strong smell of paint fumes tickling her nostrils as they silently ate peanut butter on toast sitting on the floor, because all the furniture was covered with drop sheets. Alice was still in her nightie, but she'd put a cardigan on over the top of it, and she was wearing Nick's old football socks pulled up to her knees. Nick was shaved, and dressed, except for his tie. The night before he'd told her about a really important scary presentation he had to give to the Shiny-headed Twerp, the Motherfucking Megatron, and the Big Kahuna all at the same time. Alice, who was terrified of public speaking, had felt her own stomach clench in sympathy. That morning Nick took a sip of his tea, put down his mug, opened his mouth to bite the toast, and dropped it onto his favorite blue-striped shirt. It stuck right to the front of his shirt. Their eyes met in mutual shock. Nick slowly peeled off the toast to reveal a big greasy rectangle of peanut butter. He said, in the tone of a man who has just been fatally shot, “That was my only clean shirt,” and then he took the piece of toast and slammed it against his forehead.
Alice said, “No it's not. I took a load while you were at squash last night.” They didn't have a washing machine yet and they were taking all their clothes to the laundry down the road. Nick took the squished-up toast off his face and said, “You didn't,” and she said, “I did,” and he crawled through tins of paint and put both hands on her face and gave her a long, tender, peanut-buttery kiss.
But that wasn't this morning's breakfast. That was months ago, or weeks ago, or something. The kitchen was finished. She hadn't been pregnant then either. She was still drinking coffee.
There were a few breakfasts in a row where they were on a health kick and they had yogurt with fruit. When was that? The health kick didn't last very long, even though they were pretty gung ho about it in the beginning.
There were breakfasts when Nick was away for work. She ate her toast in bed when he was away, relishing the romantic pain of missing him, as if he were a sailor or a soldier. It was like enjoying feeling hungry when you knew you'd be having a huge dinner.
There was that breakfast where they had a fightâfaces ugly, eyes blazing, doors slammingâabout running out of milk. That wasn't so nice. (That breakfast definitely wasn't this morning. She remembered how they forgave each other that night while they were watching Nick's youngest sister acting a tiny part in a stupendously long postmodern play that neither of them could understand. “By the way, I forgive you,” Nick had leaned over and whispered in her ear, and she'd whispered back, “Excuse me,
I
forgive
you
,” and a woman in front had turned around and hissed, “Shhh! Both of you!” like an angry schoolteacher and they'd got the giggles so badly, they ended up having to leave the theater, clambering past knees and getting into terrible trouble afterward from Nick's sister.)
There was a breakfast where she'd grumpily read out possible baby names from a book while he'd grumpily said yes or no. That was nice, because they were definitely both only pretending to be grumpy that morning. “I can't believe they let us
name
a person,” Nick had said. “It feels like something only the King of the Land should be able to do.” “Or the Queen of the Kingdom,” Alice said. “Oh, they'd never let a
woman
name a person,” said Nick. “Obviously.”
Did
that
happen this morning? No. That was . . . some time. Not this morning.
She had absolutely no idea what she'd eaten for breakfast that morning.
She confessed to George Clooney, “I just said I had peanut butter on toast because that's my normal breakfast. I can't actually remember anything about breakfast at all.”
“That's fine, Alice,” he answered. “I don't think I can remember what I had for breakfast myself.”
“Oh.” Well, so much for ascertaining her mental state! Did George actually know what he was doing?
“Maybe you've got concussion, too,” said Alice. George laughed dutifully. He seemed to be losing interest in her. Maybe he was hoping his next patient would be more interesting. He probably liked using those heart defibrillator thingummies. Alice would if she were a paramedic.
One Sunday, when Nick had a hangover and she was trying to convince him to go to the beach with her and he was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, ignoring her, she said, “Oh, no, he's flatlining!” and rubbed two spatulas together before pressing them to his chest, yelling, “Clear!” Nick obligingly gave a realistic spasm right on cue. He still wouldn't move, until she cried, “He's not breathing! We've got to intubate himâ
now
!” and tried to shove a straw down his throat.
The ambulance pulled up at a traffic light and Alice shifted slightly. Everything felt wrong about her body. She felt an overwhelming tiredness deep in her bones, as if she could sleep forever, but at the same time a jittery, twitchy energy making her want to get up and achieve something. It must be the pregnancy. Everyone said your body didn't feel like yours anymore.
She lowered her chin to look again at the strange, damp clothes she was wearing. They didn't even look like something she'd choose. She never wore yellow. The panicky feeling rose up again and she looked away and back up at the ambulance ceiling.
The thing was, she couldn't remember what she had for dinner last night either. Nothing. It wasn't even on the tip of her tongue.
Her chicken thing with the beans? Nick's favorite lamb curry? She had no idea.
Of course, weekdays always tended to mulch together anyway. She would try to remember what she did last weekend.
A tangled jumble of memories from various weekends poured into her head as if from an upturned laundry basket. Sitting on the grass in the park, reading the paper. Picnics. Walking around garden centers, arguing about plants. Working on the house. Always, always working on the house. Movies. Dinners. Coffee with Elisabeth. Sunday-morning sex, followed by sleep, followed by croissants from the Vietnamese bakery. Friends' birthdays. An occasional wedding. Trips away. Things with Nick's family.
Somehow she knew that none of them had happened last weekend. She couldn't tell when they'd happened. A short time ago or a long time ago. They'd just happened.
The problem was that she couldn't attach herself to a “today” or a “yesterday” or even a “last week.” She was floating helplessly above the calendar like an escaped balloon.
An image came into her head of a gray cloudy sky filled with bunches of pink balloons tied together with white ribbon like bouquets. The balloon bouquets were being whipped ferociously about by an angry wind, and she felt a great wrench of sadness.
The feeling disappeared like a wave of nausea.
Goodness. What was
that
all about?
She longed for Nick. He would be able to fix everything. He would tell her exactly what they ate for dinner last night and what they did on the weekend.
Hopefully he would be waiting for her at the hospital. He might have already bought flowers for her. He probably had. She hoped he hadn't because it was far too extravagant.
Of course, really, she hoped he had. She'd been in an
ambulance
. She sort of deserved them.
The ambulance came to a stop and George leapt to his feet, ducking down so as not to bump his head.
“We're here, Alice! How are you feeling? You look like you've been thinking deeply profound thoughts.”
He pushed the lever to open the back door of the ambulance and sunlight flooded in, making her blink.
“I never asked your name,” said Alice.
“Kevin,” answered George apologetically, as if he knew it would be a disappointment.
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Elisabeth's Homework for Dr. Hodges
The truth is that sometimes my work gives me a little “rush,” Dr. Hodges. I'm embarrassed to admit it. Not a huge rush. But a definite shot of adrenaline. When the lights go dim and the audience goes quiet and it's just me up there alone on the stage and my assistant Layla gives me her dead-serious “OK” signal as if this is a NASA space launch we're running. The spotlight like sunshine on my face, and all I can hear is the clinking of water glasses and maybe a respectfully restrained cough or two. I like that clean, crisp, no-nonsense smell of hotel function rooms and the chilly air-conditioned air. It clears out my head. And when I speak the microphone smooths out my voice, giving it authority.
But then again, other times, I walk onto the stage and I feel like there is some weight pressing on the back of my neck, making my head droop and my back hunch, like an old crone. I want to put my mouth close to the microphone and say, “What is the point of all this, ladies and gentlemen? You all seem like nice enough people, so help me out and tell me, what is the point?”
Actually, I do know the point.
The point is they're helping pay the mortgage. They're each making a contribution to our groceries and our electricity and our water and our Visa. They're all generously chipping in for the syringes and the shapeless hospital gowns and that last anaesthetist with the kind, doggy eyes who held my hand and said, “Go to sleep now, darling.” Anyway, I digress. You want me to digress. You want me to just write and write whatever comes to my mind. I wonder if you find me boring. You always look gently interested, but maybe you have days where I walk in the office looking all needy, bursting to tell you all the pathetic details of my life, and you just long to put your elbows on your desk and your chin in your hands and say, “What is the point of all this, Elisabeth?” and then you remember that the point is that I am paying for
your
Visa, mortgage, grocery bills . . . and so the world goes around.
You mentioned the other day that a feeling of pointlessness is a sign of depression, but you see there, I don't have depression, because I do see the point. Money is the point.
After I hung up on Jane, the phone rang again immediately (presumably herâthinking we'd been cut off) and I turned it off mid-ring. A man walking by said, “Sometimes you wonder if we'd all be better off without these damned things!” and I said, “Damned right!” (I have never said “Damned right!” in my life before; it just popped bizarrely into my head. I like it. I might say it our next session and see if you blink) and he said, “Congratulations, by the way. I've been to a lot of these sorts of workshops before and I've never heard anyone speak such good sense!”
He was flirting with me. It happens sometimes. It must be the microphone and the bright lights. It's funny because I always think it must be obvious to any man that all my sexuality has been sucked out of me. I feel like a piece of dried fruit. Yes, that's it. I AM A DRIED APRICOT, Dr. Hodges. Not one of those nice, soft, juicy ones, but a hard, shriveled, tasteless dried apricot that hurts your jaw.
I took a few deep breaths of bracing air-conditioned air and clipped the microphone back onto my jacket. I was in such a frenzy to get back onstage, I was actually trembling. I feel like I may have become temporarily deranged for a while this afternoon, Dr. Hodges. We can discuss this at our next session.
Or maybe temporary insanity is just an excuse for inexcusable behavior. Maybe I'll be too ashamed to tell you that somebody called to say my only sister had been in an accident and I hung up on her. I package myself for you. I want to sound damaged, so you feel there is something useful for you to do, but at the same time I want you to think I'm a nice person, Dr. Hodges. A nice damaged person.
I strode onto that stage like a rock starâand I started talking about “visualizing your prospect” and I was on fire. I had them laughing. I had them competing with each other to yell out answers to me, and the whole time we were visualizing the prospect I was visualizing my little sister.
I was thinking, head injuries can be pretty serious.
I was thinking, Nick is away and this is not really Jane's responsibility.
And finally I thought: Alice was pregnant with Madison in 1998.