Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but it’s what you say, right?

“I got a little crazy. I’m sorry.” She offers up a lame, hollow grin. “It’s all these hormones I’m taking.”

“Okay.”

“Things don’t have to get all weird between us.”

“Okay.”

“Can you say something besides ‘okay’?”

“Fine.”

“Come on, Judd. Throw me a bone.”

“Get out of here, Alice.”

“Please, Judd. You won’t even look at me.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No. I guess not.” Alice looks down at her clasped fingers like she’s kneeling in prayer and then back up at me. “The thing is, you’re having a baby by accident. Wendy squirts her kids out at will and doesn’t even seem to particularly like them. I’ve been trying for so long, and it just doesn’t seem fair.”

She sits there on the edge of the bed, pretty, sad, and tragically resigned. I remember how she ran to help Paul when he hurt his shoulder yesterday, and I feel a powerful urge to kick her teeth in.

“You have a good marriage,” I say.

“What?”

“You and Paul. You love each other, don’t you?”

Her face turns red, and her eyes grow wide, like she’s about to cry. “Yes. We do.”

“That’s a lot harder than having a baby. It’s damn near impossible, really. And you’re putting it at risk.”

Alice thinks about that for a moment and then nods her head. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“I mean, any asshole can have a baby, right?”

“I can’t.”

There is no talking to her. And now the tears come, just like that. Where have all the happy, well-adjusted women gone? Every one I talk to these days is one wrong word away from a crying fit.

“Alice . . .” I have no idea what to say anymore.

“No,” she says, sniffling. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She wipes her tears with her wrist and shakes her head. “I put you in a terrible position. I understand that. I just need to know that things are okay between us.”

At this point, I just want her out of here. “They’re not, but they will be.”

“You promise?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.” She stands up, still crying, and gives me a hug. I accept it, but my hands stay firmly at my waist, keeping my towel up.

“Okay. I guess I’d better let you put some clothing on.”

“That would be great.”

“Thanks for understanding, Judd,” she says, and she must be joking, because, Alice, honey, I would travel to the ends of the earth, kill or die, just to find one single thing that I could understand.

You never saw a sorrier bunch of mourners. Paul’s arm is tied up in a sling. The back of Phillip’s hand is black and blue and looks like an inflated glove, to the point that his knuckles have disappeared. My lip is swollen and split. Picture us there in the living room, crouched uncomfortably in our low chairs on this sixth day of shiva, hungover and fuzzy from the prescription painkillers Mom doled out like candy this morning. We squint in the daylight, which seems aggressive and spitefully bright today. Wendy is exhausted because Serena hasn’t slept through the night since she got here, and Mom is ragged and moody. There’s been no sign of Linda since their argument yesterday.

According to the informational pamphlet Boner left on the piano, this is the last full day of shiva. Tomorrow morning he will come and lead us in a small closing ceremony, snuff out the shiva candle, and then we’ll part ways, back to the flaming wrecks of our individual lives. In my case, I have no idea what that even means. My rented basement feels to me like a bad movie I saw and forgot.

None of us makes eye contact. We have pretty much had it with each other. We are injured and angry, scared and sad. Some families, like some couples, become toxic to each other after prolonged exposure.

Mom runs three weekly postpartum therapy groups in her living room, where young mothers come to share tips on colic remedies and toilet training while venting their frustration about lack of sleep, worthless husbands, and how the last bits of pregnancy fat have taken up permanent residency in their asses. When we were kids, we called these women the Sad Mommies and viewed them with a mixture of awe and pity, spying from the top rungs of the staircase to watch actual grown-ups cry. Some of those ladies could really wail, in a way that sent us scurrying back to our bedrooms to laugh hysterically into our pillows. Today, through a phone chain, or, more likely, through a Sad Mommies e-mail distribution, a number of them have all arranged to come pay their respects at the same time. This happens a lot, I’ve noticed. People form shiva alliances, arriving together to eliminate the risk of a one-on-one with the bereaved. Some of the Sad Mommies sit with infants strapped to their milk-laden chests in little knapsacks, vibrating unconsciously in their seats to keep the kids asleep.

“Don’t rock them,” Mom insists hoarsely. “You rock them now, you’ll be rocking them for the next four years. You’re robbing them of their natural ability to put themselves to sleep.” This is why they pay Mom the big bucks.

“Did you rock us?” Wendy says.

“Just you,” Mom says. “I learned the hard way. The rest of you learned to put yourselves to sleep.”

“I’d like to go practice right now,” Phillip says, resting his head on my shoulder. I think of Tracy and shrug it off maybe a little more violently than I meant to, and Phillip practically falls off his chair.

“What the hell?” he demands under his breath.

“Sorry.”

There are seven mothers, three of whom have left their babies home with the help. They are making a day of it. Brunch, shiva call, pedicures, and then a quick trip to the mall. “Good for you,” Mom says. “Any excuse to take care of yourself is a good one.”

An ad hoc therapy session breaks out. Paul, Phillip, and I listen in amazement as the women speak of all the injustices they endure, the sacrifices they make to propagate our species. Mom eggs them on, offers suggestions, wisdom, and absolution, which, when you get right down to it, is what they’re really paying for. Among Mom’s gems:

“Children crave discipline.”

“Don’t shield your child from anger; this business of saying ‘Mommy is sad’ when you’re angry is just a bunch of new age crap. If he pissed you off, let him know it.”

“One way or another, start having orgasms again. Restore your balance as a woman.”

“Love them to pieces, but demand their respect.”

The Sad Mommies share stories and offer harried grins, looking tired and put-upon as they discuss their marriages. One of them, bonethin with the sad eyes of a puppy, says, “Having kids changes everything.”

“Not having kids changes everything too,” I say. The mommies look at me with guarded respect, as if I’ve just said something complex and profound. Mom beams and nods, proud of her emotionally damaged son.

A blond mommy with dark roots and a floral skirt casually unbuttons her blouse and unsheathes a large, pendulous breast to feed her baby. Her belligerent gaze darts around the room like sonar, daring anyone to have a problem with it. I’ve never fully understood the agenda of angry breast-feeders.

“That was once a tit,” Phillip mutters.

Wendy smacks the back of his head, but without any real conviction.

SAY WHAT YOU will about the Sad Mommies, but they don’t overstay their welcome. They have schedules to keep, nap times and feedings to coordinate, manicure/pedicure appointments, and grocery shopping to get done. They rise as one, pulling up the low-riding jeans they really shouldn’t be wearing at this particular juncture, offering harried condolences as they shoulder their designer diaper bags, fumbling for minivan keys, thoughtlessly slipping orthodontic pacifiers like corks into the mouths of their restive babies. Their heels click down the hall like jazz rim shots, leaving a palpable silence in their perfumed wake.