What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [67]
Before I met Ben, I used to go for witty successful types. I’d never been out with a man before who owned a toolbox. A proper big dirty well-used toolbox full of, you know, screwdrivers and stuff. It’s embarrassing how aroused I became when I first saw Ben selecting a chunky oily wrench from that toolbox. My dad had a toolbox. So maybe I’d been subconsciously waiting for a man with a toolbox. I bet you don’t have a toolbox, do you, Dr. Hodges? No. I didn’t think so.
I used to think that one of my main prerequisites for a man was that he be good at dinner parties. Like Alice’s Nick. But Ben is hopeless at dinner parties. He always seems too big for his chair. He gets this trapped expression. It’s like I’ve brought along a big tame chimp. Sometimes he’s OK if he happens to find another man (or woman—he’s no chauvinist) who can talk about cars, but mostly he’s miserable, and he breathes out gustily when we get in the car, as if he’s been let out of jail.
It’s funny. I had all those years of being driven mad by Mum and Alice and their fear of social events. “Oh, no!” they’d say tragically, and I would think someone had died, and it would turn out they’d been invited to some party or lunch where they’d only know one person, and then there would be all the strategizing about how to get out of it, and the drama of it all and the sympathy they’d pour on each other. “Oh, you poor thing! That would be awful! You absolutely must not go.” I couldn’t stand it, and yet I ended up marrying a man who also thinks socializing is something that’s meant to be endured. Not that he’s shy like they were. He doesn’t get butterflies in his stomach or agonize over what people think of him. Actually I don’t think he has any self-consciousness whatsoever. He is a man without vanity. He’s just not a talker. He has no small talk ability whatsoever. (Whereas Mum and Alice, of course, were talkers, and they were actually interested in meeting other people. In reality they were more social than me. But their shyness stopped them from being the outgoing people they actually were. They were like athletes trapped in wheelchairs.)
As it turns out, Ben and I don’t really go to many dinner parties anymore. I can’t stand them. I’ve lost my ability to chat, too. I listen to people talk about their interesting, full lives. They’re training for marathons, they’re learning Japanese, they’re taking the kids camping and renovating the bathroom. I had a life like that once, too. I was interesting and active and informed. But now my life is three things: work, television, IVF. I no longer have anecdotes. People say, “What have you been up to, Elisabeth?” and I have to stop myself from treating them to a complete medical update. I understand now why very sick people and the elderly have such a compulsion to tell you everything about their health. My infertility fills every corner of my mind.
How things have changed. Now I’m the one groaning when I hear someone’s cheerful voice on the phone asking me if I’m free next Saturday, while Alice is hosting kindergarten cocktail parties and Mum is salsa-dancing three nights a week.
Alice can’t believe she’s got three children. I wouldn’t be able to believe I had none. I never expected to have trouble getting pregnant. Of course, no one does. It hardly makes me unique. It’s just that I did expect so many other different medical problems. Our dad died of a heart attack, so I’ve always been frightened by the slightest case of heartburn. I’ve had two grandparents on different sides of the family die of cancer, so I’ve been permanently