What Alice Forgot

Alice looked up from the diary and said, “You’re not?”

Elisabeth seemed to flinch. “No, I’m not. I haven’t had any luck in that regard. So, anyway”—she seemed desperate to get off of the subject—“what are you going to do about this party?”

But Alice didn’t care about the party. There was no way she was going to host any “kindergarten cocktail party.” She said, “So will you tell me what happened? Please? Did you try again to get pregnant after you had that miscarriage?”

Elisabeth’s eyes slid away.

Frannie’s Letter to Phil So, the village minibus was pulling out of the driveway, and all of a sudden there was a commotion. It was Mr. Mustache, do you mind, running alongside the bus, rapping his knuckles on the window, shouting, “Wait for me!”

I thought there must have been some crisis, but no, he was just running late. He leapt aboard, all breathless and excited, as if we were off somewhere far more thrilling than the local shopping center. He announced to the entire bus that he’d been held up on the phone “placing a bet on the doggies.” I think that means greyhound racing, Phil. Charming.

There were plenty of spare seats, but for some reason, he chose to plonk himself down next to me. It was uncomfortable. He’s not a large man, but he did seem to take up a lot of room. I found I was pressing myself against the side of the bus, so our thighs didn’t touch. Also, he was close enough that I could smell some sort of aftershave or cologne. I’m not saying it was unpleasant. It just seemed overly personal.

I said something about the weather but he ignored that and said, “How’s that honorary family of yours?”

I found myself telling him about Alice’s accident and how she didn’t remember anything about her marriage breakdown. I told him how worried I was about the children. He told me a rather sad story about his own son, who had gone through a divorce, and how his daughter-in-law didn’t let them see their grandchildren anymore. “It broke my wife’s heart,” he said. He told me that his wife had died two years ago and that he truly believed she would have lived longer if her grandchildren hadn’t been taken from her.

When we got to the shopping center, I naturally assumed he would go off and do his own thing, but he cheerfully admitted he didn’t have a thing to buy and he’d be happy to keep me company. I’d had enough of him by now but I couldn’t think of a polite way to get rid of him.

So he followed me around while I bought talcum powder for Alice. I needed some new deodorant at the chemist’s, but I was too embarrassed to buy it in front of him, as if deodorant could only be purchased in private. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard?

Also, we couldn’t seem to synchronize our walking. We kept bumping into each other and treading on each other’s toes. It was driving me a little batty, to be honest. (I’m sure it was his fault, not mine. I’m perfectly able to walk alongside other people. You and I used to go on such long walks! Never a problem!)

At one point we saw a toddler sitting in one of those toy cars. The child was having a tantrum, screaming, “Just one more turn!” at his poor harassed mother. Next thing, Mr. Mustache took a coin from his wallet and leaned past the toddler and popped it in the slot to activate the ride. Of course, the toddler shrieked with delight, while the poor mother didn’t know what to do.

We were having quite a spirited argument about this (I felt that he had rudely undermined the young mother’s authority) when he suddenly got all excited by a pink neon sign advertising free iced doughnuts with your coffee. He insisted on buying me a cappuccino. For something to say, I told him about Ben and how he designs rather beautiful neon signs for a living, and that led to us talking about Elisabeth’s problems.

He was very sympathetic to Elisabeth and, strangely, that made me want to argue with him. I said that babies weren’t the be-all and end-all and that Elisabeth might do better to concentrate on her marriage and her lovely husband.

He asked whether I’d ever had a “lovely husband” myself.

I said no.

Then I got a little snappish and said that my doughnut was stale.

That was a fib. It was actually quite delicious.

Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges It was surreal hearing Alice ask me if I tried again, so wide-eyed and respectful. I nearly laughed. I wondered if it was an act.

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought properly about those early “losses,” as you call them with a straight-mouthed grimace, as if you’re constipated. I sort of hate that face you pull, Dr. Hodges. I bet your wife does, too. It always makes me think about what else I could be doing with the $150 I spend on you. I remember in one session you wanted me to start talking through the “early losses” (grimace, grimace), and I gave a dramatic sigh and said I didn’t think I could, but really I was just so irritated by that expression on your face.

Mostly now I just think of my “losses” as bullet points on my medical history. If a doctor asks me for my history I can reel off every single procedure and test and crushing disappointment without even a tremor in my voice, as if they don’t mean a thing, as if they happened to somebody else.

So I can say “second first-trimester miscarriage in April 2006” without blinking, and I don’t even think about what it was like, or how it felt.

I want you to know that I’ve missed all of Grey’s Anatomy now. I’m really working hard on this therapy. I wish you were grading me. You should give grades to your approval-seeking patients.

I remember how happy we were when we got pregnant again, because this time, for some reason, we managed a “natural” pregnancy.

That was to be my January baby, due on 17 January (the day after Ben’s birthday; imagine if it was born on the same day! But no, shhhh, don’t say that out loud). We kept the pregnancy a secret this time. We thought that telling everybody about the first baby had been our beginner’s mistake. I imagined announcing my second pregnancy with calm, womanly confidence after I’d passed the first trimester. It seemed a more grown-up, safer way to handle things. “Oh no, not an IVF baby this time,” I’d say casually. “A natural pregnancy.” This time we didn’t talk about names, and Ben didn’t pat my stomach when he kissed me goodbye each morning. We said things like “If I’m still pregnant at Christmas” and lowered our voices to a whisper when we used the word “baby,” as if getting our hopes up had been the mistake, as if we could trick the gods into not noticing us sneakily trying to have a baby.