Here I Go Again: A Novel (19 page)

Did I know this? I’m not sure if I was supposed to know this, but I keep my yap shut as she continues. “Thirty-five. That’s supposed to be the age you reach when you’re more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack than to get married and have a family. I didn’t mention it because if it worked, then it would be obvious soon enough. And if it didn’t, then no one would pity me. I missed a couple of periods and I wasn’t feeling well, so I made an appointment with my ob-gyn.”

I brace myself in my seat, because I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.

Tears begin to brim in Nicole’s eyes. “But I’m not having a baby. No, I’m not. Nor will I. According to Dr. Bates, I’ve hit menopause and I’ve stopped producing eggs.”

“How can that be? You’re still way young! People have babies well into their forties! I know, because I bump into them in the Lincoln Park Whole Foods all the time.” And how bossy are they, all gray haired and self-important, stocking up on organic vegetables.
Hey! Look at me! I don’t buy shit with preservatives!
Like that’ll make a difference when their baby’s in college and they’re wearing white shoes and eating dinner at three thirty p.m. But I stop myself from saying all this, because I fear it may not be helpful. Instead, I say, “What’s going on?”

“I guess I just won the genetic lottery,” she replies with an uncharacteristically bitter laugh. “Dr. Bates says this can happen in women with a genetic predisposition, especially if they’re particularly athletic and have a low body weight. So, I’ve been hyperconscious about my health my whole life. I run five miles every day, and I’ve minded each bite I’ve taken since I was fifteen, and because of that, I can’t have a baby. It’s just . . . so unfair. I thought I had time. I thought I did everything right and yet I feel like I’m destined to spend my life surrounded by cats.” Nicole dabs at her eyes with her napkin and exhales deeply. “But what am I going to do? It’s not like I can change the past.”

I fold my napkin and place it on the table, suddenly bereft of appetite. “Yeah,” I echo, “no one can change the past.”

Nicole, what have I done?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rhymes with “Bedazzled”

I change the subject away from what might have been, and Nicole’s mood lifts. She seems okay with the concept of adopting from somewhere third-worldy, so maybe saving some poor kid from a warlord or tainted water or banana spider bite or something is really her destiny?

And maybe she’s actually superhappy and feels bummed only when she dwells on the negative? Stands to reason that setting myself up in the best life ever would really have been a good thing for Nicole, yes? (That would certainly make me feel better.)

Once I grab a cab to go home, I text Deva.

Me:
need to talk! can u pick up?

Deva:
y and n. can text, not talk. on retreat in Maui—have taken bowel of silence

Please let that be another autocorrect.

Me:
i may have wrecked Nicole’s life

Deva:
again?

Me:
no! 1st time! never wrecked her life before

Me:
possibly made it less pleasant

Me:
not wrecked

Deva:
oak tag—what harpooned?

Me:
she didn’t meet her husband because I changed past. waited 2 long to have kids & now can’t

Me:
can I travel back to 2004 & not hire her so she gets the guy & the kids & van?

Deva:
so sorry, sissy rodent. ink potion doesn’t work that way. only full resets possible. porthole very pacific—all or netting

Me:
shit. when will u be back?

Deva:
whenever shamwow says we’re dinner—maybe 2 tweaks

Me:
PLEASE call when you’re here

Deva:
a-hole

Me:
?

Deva:
no! aloha!

Me:
aloha til then

Even though Deva says there’s nothing I can do to specifically fix this situation, I’m not someone who takes no for an answer. Also, her texts are kind of a Mad Lib anyway, so who knows what she really meant? Perhaps there’s a way to make everything right without altering my superb present and we simply haven’t stumbled across it yet.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

At some point over our second bottle of pinot grigio, I had broached the subject of a class reunion. I assumed we hadn’t had one yet and turns out I was right. I thought doing so would be an excellent idea, partially because Nicole needs a project to distract herself, and partially because I want to verify that there aren’t any more surprises with my graduating class.

(Not because I want to brag.)

(Much.)

(But seriously! My house is incredible! I know David Coverdale!)

The more we talked (read: drank), the more excited we both were at the idea. Nicole called in a favor from a friend at the Drake and we found out about a last-minute cancellation on the Friday after Thanksgiving. As former class officers, we have the authority to unilaterally decide if there’s to be a reunion, so now it’s official. The reunion is on like Donkey Kong. Nicole went home to build a Facebook event page.

Or possibly pass out.

She wasn’t quite sure.

When I arrive home from our long, liquid lunch, I’m struck again at the grandeur of my house as the cab pulls up to my address.

“Nice place, lady,” the driver says.

“I know, right?” I hand him a ten and tell him to keep the change.

I stroll slowly to the front door, taking it all in. Every time I look around, I feel such a rush of pride. I can’t believe I ended up here; it’s beyond my wildest dreams. I let myself in and throw my Birkin (yep, still exciting! I have a Birkin, bitches!) on the counter and kick off my shoes. I go to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and, finding none, I opt for wine.

“Duke? Duke! Where are you-
ou-ou
?” This place has a wicked echo because it’s so huge and open. I should probably buy more stuff to fill up the house. Not for me, of course. For sound absorption.

Duke’s not on the first floor, so I assume he’s in his office. I climb the stairs and pad down the hallway. I don’t turn on the lights because there are a whole lot of complicated switches I’ve yet to figure out, and also, I might be a little drunk.

I spy Duke alone in his office. He’s not on his computer or resting or listening to music or anything. He’s just sitting there, zoning out in front of his wall of old trophies and football pictures. Duke played college ball at Northern, but a torn rotator cuff ended any hopes he might have had at making a career of it after his junior year. I guess he was pretty broken up about the injury, but let’s be realistic—how many players have actually gone pro after graduating from Northern? I can tell you, because I looked it up—from the years 1992 to 2000, the NFL drafted exactly four guys from Northern. It’s not like he was coming out of a football powerhouse like USC or Ohio State. Even without the bum cuff, it’s not like he was going to be fitted for his Super Bowl ring anytime soon.

You’d think he’d have been pleased when I informed him of those statistics—yay, me, for having shared interests!—but instead of discussing he decided to run on the treadmill for a really long time.

Totally doesn’t matter, because he’s really the big winner in this whole altered-destiny business. I mean, he doesn’t even have to work anymore. Who wouldn’t love that? Turns out I had him quit a few years ago when the demands of my business became too much. Now he lives a life of luxury and leisure, traveling with me and managing our household.

“What’s up?” I ask, startling him. He jumps, which makes me jump and slosh a little of my wine. He clicks on the light at his desk and the room’s washed in a golden glow.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” He seems somber. What’s that about?

I settle into the love seat in the corner of his office and lick the wine off the side of my glass. “Nice day? Mine was kind of all over the place. We have a new client—total train wreck of a tween pop star and her music is shit. Although given your taste you’d probably love her.”

Duke’s passion for cheesy tunes has not abated since high school. A couple of days ago, I’m pretty sure I busted him watching a Jonas Brothers show, and I found a Hanson CD in his collection.
MmmBarf
. From what I’ve gleaned, everyone at the office still talks about how Duke lost his mind at the Backstreet Boys/NKOTB reunion show, which we attended
only
because MCPR worked with their promoter. Total fan boy. In the pictures, he was there in an original T-shirt from their
Step by Step
tour. Duke even knew—and thus performed—all the choreography for “Hangin’ Tough.” So glad I have no direct memory of that, because it gives me secondhand shame.

Duke nods absently. “Nicole’s in charge of most of the hand-holding and the team will run her campaigns, so I should be fairly distanced. And thank God, too, because the mom is this silicone nightmare and the kid’s an after-school special waiting to happen. Huge retainer on the deal, though, so if you feel like going somewhere awesome for the holidays, say the word! I hear Vienna is ah-
may
-zing at Christmas.” In our old life, we rarely traveled because Duke was always, “Blah, blah, blah, my job is important and I can’t just take off
.
” Now he rolls as though he actually were an NFL baller!

“Hmm.” Duke’s started flipping through his old photos online. “Hey, remember when we beat Hinsdale at homecoming? That was some night.” He sounds awfully wistful, which is weird. I mean, hello, best life ever! Would he rather be busting his hump all day, like he would be if I hadn’t gone back and redetermined our future? Either way his cuff would have torn. Plus, right now he’d probably be stuck in Kansas City or Pittsburgh, trying to sell pallets of macaroni and cheese to Costco before coming back to our one-bedroom-plus-den hovel. Please. In this life he has all the time in the world to do any damn thing he wants. He’s a lucky, lucky man, thanks to me.

I kick my legs out in front of me and my arms above my head, doing a full-body stretch. I’m kind of sore. Drinking all day is harder than you’d think. “What’d you do today, babe?”

His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Let’s see, I had coffee and watched
Today
, picked up your coat from the dry cleaner—your button is fixed—I watered the plants, I had a haircut, I played a pickup game of basketball at the gym with a bunch of stay-at-home dads, and then I vacuumed. Very fulfilling. Not a waste of my degree or talent at all. I’d much rather be here than working what you used to call my ‘sales job a macaroni-eating monkey could do.’”

“Excellent!” I declare.

Then what he said starts to sink in.

I must be a little slow on the uptake from all the wine.

“Vacuumed? Don’t we have people to do that?”

Duke starts to say something, but then snaps his mouth shut. “I’m cooking dinner now. Swordfish in caper sauce sound appetizing?” He pushes himself back from his desk rather quickly and rises. The sudden motion makes all his pictures and trophies teeter for a second.

Well, that’s all wrong. “Hey, babe, you worked your cute little behind off today. Relax! Treat yourself! Let’s just order dinner in,” I tell him. Without a word, he leaves the room.

I congratulate myself on my thoughtfulness.

Some days it’s like I’m the greatest wife in the universe.

 * * * 

A
fter dinner from Old Town Thai, Duke spent some time hitting the punching bag extra hard. You’d think from all that vacuuming his arms would be tired, or that it might bother his rotator cuff, but he was supermotivated. Probably because he’s full of bliss. I mean, he’s way more cut now than back when he was working all the time in our other life, so how could that not be satisfying?