Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“I can’t feel the baby,” Jen said. She had called me at the station, where I was simultaneously screening callers for Wade and looking at pictures of Jessica Biel online.

“What do you mean?”

“He always kicks when I’m in the shower. Today he didn’t.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“I don’t feel right. Something’s wrong.” She was in her eighth month, and for the last few weeks her hormones were the inmates running the asylum. I had learned the hard way that it was best to pretty much agree with everything she said.

“Have you had any coffee? Maybe he just needs a little caffeine?”

“Just meet me at the doctor. I’m leaving now.”

I sighed and closed out Jessica Biel, but not before I saw the silent judgment in her eyes.

I was late getting to the hospital. Late because there were no damn parking spots and how the hell do you build a major hospital and not think to include a single substantial parking lot? So I was a half hour late, on the one day in recorded history that Jen’s doctor’s office decided to run on time. Usually you stewed for an hour in the waiting room, reading parenting magazines and trading quick sympathetic looks with the other expectant fathers, wordlessly affirming that when you weren’t sitting quietly whipped at the ob-gyn, you were out getting drunk at football games and hunting buffalo in a loincloth. But on that day, by the time I’d come in and identified myself and been led back to the examination room by the theatrically gay receptionist, Jen was already in tears, wiping the blue conducting goop from the sonogram off her belly. And as the room started to spin and my lungs started to contract, the doctor explained that our baby had been strangled in the womb by his umbilical cord. He’d already explained it all to Jen, so she had to hear it all again because I’d been late.

Jen stopped making eye contact with me after that. Our marriage had unwittingly become fused to that little ball of life growing in her belly, and when it died, so did we. And while she’d never admit to it and rationally knew that it was ridiculous, Jen simply couldn’t handle the fact that I’d been late, that I’d let her go into that examination room by herself. People need someone to blame. I had failed her in some fundamental way, and she simply couldn’t bring herself to forgive me. I think she may have tried to, but in the end, it just seemed easier for her to start sleeping with Wade instead. So now we’ve each done something unforgivable, and the universe is once again in perfect balance.

No visitors yet. The mornings are generally slow. Jen has left to go check into the Marriott over on Route 120. She’s going to stay overnight, determined that we talk this through further. Phillip is still being yelled at by Tracy behind closed doors not thick enough to drown out her high-pitched, weepy admonishments. I feel bad for Tracy. I don’t know much about her, but she seems to be a nice enough person. Dating Phillip brings out the slut or the shrew in a woman, and there would be no dignity in a woman her age playing the slut card. Paul has used the excuse of driving Horry to work to go check on things at the store. Alice is on the couch, balancing her coffee mug and some mini muffins on her plate. Barry’s out in the backyard, trying to run a conference call while watching the kids in the pool. Mom, Wendy, and I are sitting on regular chairs, not willing to spend a moment longer than we have to in the shiva chairs.

“What did Jen have to say for herself?” Mom says.

“Nothing. The usual.”

“She looked good,” Wendy says. “Infidelity agrees with her.” Jen’s long limbs and slim build have always been viewed by Wendy with a mixture of resentment and awe.

“I think it’s interesting that she came,” Mom says. “I think it means something.”

“What, Mom? What does it mean?”

“I’m just saying. Things may not be as finished as you think.”

“Does it mean she wasn’t screwing my boss for a year?”

“No, Judd, it doesn’t mean that. She cheated on you, and I know that hurts. But it’s only sex, Judd, scratching an itch. We’ve been programmed to attach far too much significance to it, to the point where we lose sight of everything else. It’s just one tree in a thick forest.”

“It’s a pretty big damn tree.”

“Over the course of a fifty-year marriage, one bad year isn’t very significant. Your marriage might still be there to be saved. But you’ll never know if you keep indulging your hate and anger like the world owes you reparations.”

“Thanks, Mom. As always, your unsolicited advice, however useless, is greatly appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

Phillip emerges and lowers himself by his arms like a gymnast into an empty shiva chair, letting out a long, dejected sigh. “Apparently, I’m an irredeemable asshole.”

“And yet, I have a feeling she’s not done trying to redeem you,” Mom says.

“Go figure.”

“Why are you doing this, Philly?”

“Doing what?”

“Dating a cougar.” Wendy.

“Dating your mother.” Me.

“Jesus Christ.” Phillip.

“I think she’s nice,” Alice says. “And very attractive.”

“Yes, she’s lovely,” my mother says. “And closer to my age than yours.”

“I’m not as young as you like to think, Mom. And neither are you.”

“Don’t be spiteful, Philly. It doesn’t suit you.”

“And that skirt doesn’t suit you. You’ll be giving everyone crotch shots from your shiva chair.”

“I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through,” Mom says. “Because there’s no scenario in which this doesn’t end badly.”

“Much like this conversation,” I say.

“Which ends right now,” Phillip says.

“We are your family, Phillip. We love you.”

We all say “But!” at the same instant.

Mom looks around, momentarily thrown. “That’s right. But. But she’s too old. But you’re not going to start a family with her. But have you even thought about her in all of this?”

Phillip shakes his head, not taking the bait.

“What happens to Tracy when this runs its course, Philly? You’ll have no trouble finding new lovers—knowing you, you already have. But the older she gets, the harder it will be for her to find someone. She has so much less time than you to find the right person, and you’re wasting it for her.”

“And why can’t I be the right person?”

Mom smiles at him, sadly and with great tenderness. “Don’t be an ass.”

“That’s it, I’m out of here,” Phillip says, getting to his feet.

“I’ll come with you,” I say.

“You’re not supposed to leave the house,” Mom says. “We’re sitting shiva.”

“Ask Wendy about her marriage,” I say. “We’ll be back before the dust settles.”

“Dick,” Wendy says.

“Sorry, sis. It’s every man for himself.”

Paul, returned from the store, steps through the living room doorway just as Phillip reaches it. “Hey, Phillip,” he says, smiles, and then punches him square in the jaw, sending him sprawling back into the room, knocking over a handful of chairs.

“Paul!” Alice shrieks.

“He sucker punched me before.”

Phillip, flat on his back, props himself up on one elbow, wincing as he rubs his jaw. Tracy comes running out of her room, having heard the commotion. When she sees Phillip lying on the floor, she shakes her head in disgust and turns on her heel, disappearing back into the den. We won’t be seeing her again anytime soon.

“If I stand up, are you going to hit me again?” Phillip says to Paul.