Helen’s tight-lipped expression was transforming from strained concentration into something more overtly perturbed. “If I may,” she said. “Sorry, Helen here. Can I ask, how frequent are these voicemails?”
I sat back as Jon told her the truth. That I’d texted or emailed most days, sometimes several times per day, since we had separated. That he had stopped answering my calls seven months ago, but that had not stopped the messages, which only became longer and, in his words, “significantly more batshit.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” I said.
“On Valentine’s Day you left a three-part voicemail where you sang that Bernadette Peters song in full.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jon sang a few bars of “No One Is Alone,” from Stephen Sondheim’s 1987 musical Into the Woods.
“Oh,” I said. “Well. That’s not actually a Bernadette Peters song, she only covers it on Sondheim, Etc., because it’s one of her favorites. And I didn’t do the whole thing, I just wanted to show you the chorus and one particularly resonant verse about how everybody makes mistakes, because they do, and maybe that’s not so—”
“I don’t care, Maggie.”
“I think it’s important to be accurate—”
“I don’t care about any of it,” he said. “I don’t want to hear from you.”
“Why didn’t you say that?” I asked. “How could you just disappear?”
Jon let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I was mad. I don’t know why you thought you could suggest we get divorced and then have me hold your hand through it too.”
“Because you promised!” I wailed. “You said you would.”
“Did you have sex with Calvin?”
Helen’s lips were so pursed I was genuinely worried about her air supply.
Jon tried again: “I don’t even think you mean it, about getting back together. I think you’re stressed out about having to make decisions for yourself. Honestly, you might just be bored.”
I told him I was bored, that being sad all the time was fucking boring, actually. He was unmoved. I tried to rally, invoked the promises we’d made, the day at the beach with the sunset that made him feel safe, the jokes about baby names, the life we’d agreed to make happen. Didn’t people have rough patches? Didn’t they have rough years? Was trying to be happy again worth being this miserable? The words were tumbling out of my mouth, melodramatic and fast. I wasn’t sure I meant them either. I didn’t want to think any longer about what I wanted, or how to be, or who to try to be with. I wanted to go back to how it was.
“We can’t do that,” Jon said.
“Fine, then,” I said. “I want closure.”
“Closure isn’t real,” he said.
“Well, fucking WHY NOT?”
I yelped the question at Helen as much as Jon. Wasn’t closure kind of a therapist’s purview? Helen had been waiting for her opening. “That is unfortunately all the time we have for this session,” she said. “I, um—usually I would suggest we come up with a schedule that works for us all, but—”
“That won’t be necessary, Helen, thank you,” said Jon.
I could feel that Helen was looking at me but could not make myself meet her gaze. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” said Jon.
“You can text me any time, you know, if you change your mind about talking. Or we could agree to meet at, like, the midway point of a bridge, maybe . . .”
Jon sighed. I wondered if he was in bed in the new home he lived in without me, if he had roommates or a lover or had gotten Janet a little outfit. I wondered if he was wearing the sweatpants I always stole, if he still smelled like the crappy bodywash he’d used since college, if even a small part of him had feelings for me.
I stared at the floor, chewed a bit of my hair, and waited for him to speak. I sat with Helen, quiet and rigid, hoping she could not hear the weird rumbling sounds my stomach was making, wondering how fast I could get out of here when this was over. I checked the clock. The session had gone eight minutes over time.
“Jon, listen, I—”
Almost as soon as I started speaking, I realized he had hung up. The dial tone cut in, droning and loud, and I felt something like heartburn, tight and sour in my chest. I kept my eyes on the spot of carpet in front of me, letting it come in and out of focus as I rode waves of shame and nausea and fought a confusing urge to laugh. Helen opened her mouth and closed it again. The idea that I’d freaked out a therapist was very stressful.
“I’M FINE,” I shrieked, to put her at ease. “DON’T worry AT ALL about me, because as I said, I really am SO fine.” I smiled like a child pageant contestant—blankly, hugely, with frightened eyes. My cheeks stung. I hooked the sleeve of my cardigan over my thumb and poked at the corners of my eyes in short, sharp dabs. Helen leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs, interlocking her fingers. Our eyes met. I smiled apologetically and let out a ragged, resigned breath.
She smiled back and said, “I would really like it if you came back again next week.”
Emily and Patrick’s Big Day
March 9, 2019
3pm VOWS—Family and friends gather in the （covered and heated!） gardens for a nondenominational commitment ceremony.
The wedding was Gatsby-themed, which was too bad, and there was a “winter wonderland” component as well, though that came and went. （Basically, there was an ice luge.）
I had capitulated to the Gatsby element by wearing dark lipstick and an embarrassing headband with a feather in it, which I removed almost immediately after arriving. Otherwise, I was dressed in a style Amirah called “floozy semiformal,” in this case a wedding-friendly floral print on a perilously closed wrap-front dress, rented via a website where women wealthy enough to own such things but not wealthy enough not to stress about it could loan out their $400 garments for $20 a day, plus shipping and cleaning. It didn’t look right, or I didn’t feel right in it. Normally any wardrobe uncertainty could be cleared up with a photoshoot for the group chat, but things were off with my friends right now; it was not the time to send a transparent request for compliments.
I wiped some goo from the corner of my eye, careful not to smudge my unusually complicated eyeliner. The bride and I had been friendly in high school, so I had to put in some effort. Emily, who looked gorgeous, was marrying a man she’d met at work. She had been counting down to their wedding on her various social media profiles for literally the last five hundred days. Her dress was beautiful: sleek and modern, with a slightly whimsical cape thing on the back. I’d seen images of all ten she’d been considering via Instagram, and this was easily the prettiest one. It clung to her impressive body—honed, as I’d also seen online, via a personal trainer’s proprietary #ShreddingForTheWedding program. Her husband-to-be was wearing a bolo tie.
Though it had presumably been their idea, the couple seemed to have eschewed the twenties theme, which was perhaps why the bridesmaids looked so down about their dumpy sequined sack dresses, ordered in bulk from an online retailer that had recently been outed, to no consequence whatsoever, as exploiting the workers in its factories overseas. They adjusted and readjusted themselves under the rotunda, trying to find a flattering way to stand as Emily and Patrick each expressed how lucky they were to grow old with not only the love of their life, but their best friend too.