What Alice Forgot

I was eating corn chips and watching a woman experiencing the worst moment of her life.

I have no right to be sad about anything. No right to have therapy from expensive doctors like you for losing children who never existed. There is real grief in the world. There are real mothers losing real children. I make myself sick.

And that’s when Ben said, “Lots of children must have lost their parents.” He said it solemnly, but also with a definite hint of cheer. As in, hey, how handy! Lots of dead parents! Lots of spare kids up for grabs! Maybe a cute little violin player is crawling out of the rubble right now. Jesus.

I said, “Yes, isn’t this cyclone great!”

He said, “Don’t be like that.”

And suddenly I was screaming, “I would have adopted! I would have! I would have! But YOU SAID NO. You said you were psychologically damaged by being adopted, you said—”

And he interrupted and said, “I never EVER used the words ‘psychologically damaged.’”

Which is true. But he implied it.

I said, “You did so.” I mean he might as well have said it, Jeremy.

He said, “Bullshit.”

I really hate that word. He knows that. And it doesn’t even make sense. A bull’s shit.

Then he said, and this is the kicker, Jeremy, he said, “I thought it was you who didn’t want to adopt.”

After my head stopped exploding, I said, “Why would you think that?”

He said, “Whenever people asked us about it, you’d get so angry with them. You’d say we want our own biological child.”

I said, “But I was saying that because of you. Because you’d been so against it in the beginning.”

He said, “I was against it, but then after we kept losing the pregnancies, it seemed the obvious thing to do, but I didn’t want to bring it up because the idea seemed to upset you so much.”

So there you go. How’s that for great communication in a marriage?

It reminds me of that television show where they investigate airplane crashes. Sometimes a major disaster happens because of the tiniest, most stupid error.

I said, “Anyway, it’s too late now.”

He said, “It’s not.”

I said, “I’m not adopting. I’m too tired.”

It’s true, Jeremy. It has occurred to me recently that for the last few years I have been in a permanent state of tiredness. I’m so tired of trying and trying and trying. I don’t have anything left. I’m done. I would like to go to sleep for a year or two.

I said, “We’re not going to be parents. It’s over.”

And after a while of him munching corn chips (energetically grinding them with his teeth like a guinea pig), he said, “So are we just going to sit around and watch TV for the rest of our lives?”

And I said, “Suits me.”

He got up and left the room.

Now we’re not talking. I haven’t seen him since. But I know when he comes back, we won’t talk. Or if we do, we’ll talk very, very politely and coldly—which is the same as not talking.

Right now, I feel . . . nothing.

Nothing at all.

A huge, empty, endless nothing that I am filling up with corn chips and Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.

Chapter 22

The Love family was sitting around the dinner table. There had been an awkward moment when Alice went to sit in Olivia’s place, but Nick saved her by jerking his chin at the place opposite.

The children had become wriggly and giggly, almost as if they were drunk. They seemed unable to sit still. They were sliding off their chairs, constantly knocking cutlery onto the floor, and talking in high-pitched voices over the top of one another. Alice didn’t know if this was normal behavior or not. It wasn’t exactly relaxing. Nick had his jaw clenched, as if this dinner were a horrible medical procedure he had to endure.

“I knew you wouldn’t remember that you promised I could make lasagna.” Madison poked disgustedly at her hamburger.

“She’s got amnesia, stupid,” said Tom thickly, his mouth amazingly full.

“Manners,” said Alice automatically, and then caught herself. Did she just say, “Manners”? What did that even mean?

“Oh, yeah,” said Madison. She turned her dark eyes on Alice. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Alice said, and dropped her eyes first. The kid could be sort of scary.

“What’s for dessert, Mummy?” said Olivia. She was kicking the table leg rhythmically as she ate. “Maybe ice cream? Or I know, Chocolate Mush?”

“What’s Chocolate Mush?” asked Alice.

“Oh, silly, you know that!” said Olivia.

Tom slapped his hand against his forehead. “You girls! She’s got amnesia!”

“Mummy, darling,” said Olivia. “Is it gone now? Your am—thing? Because maybe you could take an aspirin? I could get it for you? I could get it for you now!”

She pushed her chair back from the table.

“Eat your dinner, Olivia,” said Nick.

“Daddy,” groaned Olivia. “I’m trying to help.”

“As if an aspirin is going to help,” said Tom. “She probably needs an operation. Like brain surgery. By a brain surgeon. I saw a brain surgeon on television the other night.” He brightened. “Hey! I would like to dissect a mouse and see its brain, as well as its intestines! With a scalpel. That would be excellent.”

“Oh my God.” Madison put down her knife and fork and put her head on the table. “That is making me sick. I am so going to be sick.”

“Stop it,” said Nick.

“This is a mouse’s brain, Madison.” Tom squished his fork into his hamburger meat. “Chop, chop, chop, mousie’s brain!”

“Make him stop!” wailed Madison.

“Tom,” sighed Nick.

“So!” said Alice. “How was the Aquatic Center today?”

Madison lifted her head from the table and said to Alice, “Did you remember that you and Dad were getting a divorce? After you hit your head? Did you remember that?”

Nick made a strangled, helpless sound.

Alice considered the question. “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

No one spoke. Olivia banged her knife against her plate. Tom twisted his arm over and frowned ferociously at something on his elbow. There were spots of crimson on Madison’s cheekbones.