Page 20 of My Favorite Lost Cause
We stop in Oak Bluff on the final run to the dump. I grab some groceries and cleaning supplies while Charlie heads to the liquor store down the street. I guess our little talk this morning about his drinking didn’t do a lot of good. I head tothe only register in the whole store, staffed by Martha, the friendly woman who rang us up yesterday.
“You were in here last night,” she comments, scanning the chicken broth.
I give her an awkward smile. “Yeah, forgot to get cleaning supplies.”
“You know why I remember you?” she asks, and I brace myself. “I’ve never seen someone so muted. It’s as if there are all these colors inside you, but they’re covered by this dark cloak.”
That’s not where I’d thought she was going—people tend to either recognize me or suggest I look a lot likethat model from the 90s, by which they mean my mother—and I have no idea how to respond. “I’ve been told that I don’t look great in black,” I tell her with a small laugh, glancing at my T-shirt. “I guess I should’ve listened.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your clothes. It’s youraura. Who or what is it that’s cast this pall over you?”
My mouth falls open, but I’ve got no jokes, no response. “I don’t know.”
She shakes her head. “I bet you do. When you allow yourself to answer the question, you’ll realize you already knew. That’s always how it is.”
I say nothing. And I’d like to dismiss what she says as crazy, but as I leave the store, I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that she might be right. I already know.
We cleanboth cottages as best we can. It’s slow going, as I’d never used a mop before, so I didn’t realize I’d need a bucket too, though I probably should have.
When we’re finally done, Charlie goes to the main house to shower and I go to the cottage, grateful to strip out of my stickyclothes and stand under the spray while I try to pinpoint the source of my good mood.
I have a spectacular home in Manhattan and my life is easy: I don’t have to clean; I don’t change my own sheets. I don’t even wash my own clothes. I take care of the dogs, I see my family, I help plan various seasonal fundraisers. When I express any discontent with my life, when I mention being tired of the routine, Harvey tells me I’m a spoiled brat and he’s probably right, but…I was happy today. Even though I’ve got blisters from carrying paint cans and my sneakers got trashed when I stepped into the marsh, the hours were full. I felt productive, useful. Maybe the problem at home isn’t that my life is jam-packed, but that it’s jam-packed with things that don’t matter.
I emerge from the cottage bare-faced, with my wet hair twisted atop my head, feeling like a new version of myself. Or maybe an old version of myself, the girl I said goodbye to a long time ago.
Charlie, sitting on the back veranda, watches me approach with a small smile on his face and raises a bottle of wine. “Pizza is on the way. Celebratory drink in the meantime?”
I silence the voice that wants to saypizza has a high glycemic index.
“I don’t drink,” I reply, “and what would we be celebrating?”
“You’ve successfully talked me into spending all my money, in addition to money I don’t have. It’s quite a feat. And since when don’t you drink? It’s not as if you’re already pregnant.”
He didn’t mean anything by it, but the reminder hurts. I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried. I’ve employed every scientific way to induce fertility and every non-scientific way. I’ve eaten yams, I’ve worn a fertility goddess charm, I’ve remained in bed after sex with my legs straight up in the air…all to no avail while all around me, my friends are having their second kids and an accidental third.He looks at me and I get pregnant, they’ll laughingly complain, resting a hand on their swollen stomachs. Ismile the widest of anyone so they don’t know I’m bothered, my jaw grinding hard the whole time.
I hitch a shoulder. “I’m just trying to stay healthy, so I’m in good shape if IVF works.”
“Maren,” he sighs. “Not to sound like the bad kid in an afterschool special, but a little bit of wine isn’t going to make a difference. You know that, right?”
He isn’t wrong. But when I don’t get pregnant, I will look back at each individual failure—taking this trip, the glass of wine he’s talked me into—and have to assume I brought it on myself. “I guess.”
“Give me a percentage. What percent chance is there that having half a glass of wine will somehow be bad for a baby you’re not even carrying yet?”
“If it was arsenic-laced, it would be.”
He laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had to exclude the very real possibility that I’d poison you, which I now wish I’d thought of because it would have saved me money. Presuming the wine is totally normal, what percent chance?”
I sigh. “Extremely small.”
“And,” he continues, “what is the chance that being more relaxed will actuallyhelpyou get pregnant?”
I see where he’s going, and I wish I had an argument, but I don’t. “Also small, but less small.”
“By that logic, then, you are actively harming your chances of getting pregnant by not enjoying a glass of wine with me.”
“While I’m positive this is incorrect, fine, whatever. I’ll have half a glass.”
He pours me an entire cup and I take a sip. “God, that’s so good,” I admit.
