Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [82]
“Of course we will, Cary! But you lived through two world wars,” I reminded him. “Life has to go on, even though the world’s not perfect.”
One evening, he had come home in a brighter mood than usual. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’m taking you to Musso & Frank for a good steak. You need some protein!”
I came out of the bedroom a little later wearing slacks and a sweater. Since our wedding, he was rarely pleased with what I chose to wear, even if it was an outfit he’d picked out for me. For that matter, I no longer had much in the way of clothing that he hadn’t picked out for me. “I have been doing my best to elevate your sense of style, but you seem to be completely attached to old thought patterns,” he said.
That made me laugh. “Cary, we’re going out for protein, not fashion.” I’d about had it up to my birth canal with being constantly voted the worst-dressed woman in Los Angeles, and I told him—sincerely, not in anger, because I really just wanted things to go smoothly—“Cary, just lay out what you want me to wear, and I’ll wear it. Because I can’t seem to ever choose the right thing.”
“Don’t you see?” he said, like Perry Mason cross-examining a witness. “It’s not what you choose. It’s why you choose it. It’s to purposely displease me.”
“In that case, why don’t you call up Sophia Loren? I get the impression she knew how to please you in all sorts of ways.”
“Oh, you look fine,” he said wearily. “Let’s go.” He’d already taken the wind out of my sails, and at that point I’d rather have stayed home. But I didn’t want to make waves, and we went. Cary ordered a steak; I asked for a cheeseburger, but he overruled me. “You need good, lean protein,” he said insistently. We sat there eating in silence until midway through the dinner when Cary put down his fork and looked up at me. I felt like his eyes were boring into my mind.
“It could be so different,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t you like to see every dream you’ve ever had unfold right before your eyes?”
“That’s already happening,” I replied. “I’ve got you. You’ve got me. And we’ve got a baby coming. But I get the feeling that for you, something’s missing.”
“Something is missing.”
“What?”
“You.”
“Me?” After a long pause, I said, “Where did I go?”
“Dyan, it’s not where you went. It’s where you haven’t gone. You haven’t been to yourself. None of us can be fully present until we’ve taken that journey.”
Oh, Lord. Please, not again.
He went on. “I have a session with Dr. Hartman tomorrow. Why don’t we go together?”
At that moment, I would have driven a motorcycle up a stunt ramp and through a tunnel of flaming hoops to please Cary. But LSD again?
“Not on your life, Cary. Or mine. Do you want the baby to come out with two heads?”
“Dyan—”
“Please, Cary. Please. Call it maternal instinct, but this is not the time for another experiment. We have to protect the baby before it’s born, not just after.”
The next day, Dr. Wise Mahatma canceled the session because of a family emergency, and Cary decided to play space cowboys and Indians on his own, at home.
“I’ll be in the bedroom for the next few hours,” he said around noon. “Please see to it that I’m not disturbed. Would you mind unplugging the phone?”
“Is this really a good idea?” I asked. “Don’t you need someone to monitor you?”
“I’m a seasoned professional,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”
“What should I do if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. I know what I’m doing.”
I was grateful that the afternoon passed uneventfully. At about five, Cary came out of the bedroom and took a tranquilizer. He plopped down in his armchair, and a few minutes later he was smiling and relaxed.
“You seem to be very serene and content,” I said.
“I had