What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [71]
“Is everything okay?” said Frannie.
But did that mean Alice had been complaining to Kate Harper about Elisabeth? “Alice?”
There was an old-lady quaver in Frannie’s voice. Alice suddenly saw her as a stranger would: tiny and frail.
She pulled herself together. She was nearly thirty—whoops, forty—years old. She couldn’t go and sob in her grandmother’s lap anymore.
“Everything is fine,” she said. “I told Kate Harper we could still have the party here.”
“You did?” Her mother had walked back into the room, followed by Roger. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Oh sure,” said Alice. “Sure. Why not?”
“She’s remembering Gina,” said Frannie.
“Oh, darling,” said Barb, while Roger’s face contorted into a horrendously mournful expression which was meant presumably to convey sympathy.
Apparently Roger had affairs when he was married to Nick’s mother. “I’m afraid my ex-husband was something of a philanderer,” Nick’s mother had once told Alice with a delicate sigh, and Alice had been impressed at the way she could make even a cheating husband sound elegant and expensive.
Was Roger cheating on her mother now?
Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Nick had turned out to be a cheat, too. Wasn’t there some old proverb about the orange not falling far from the tree? She should say that to Roger, look him straight in the eye and say sneeringly, “So, Roger, I see the orange doesn’t fall far from the tree.” But knowing her, she’d get it wrong and nobody would understand what she was trying to say. “What do you mean, darling?” her mother would say, brightly interested, spoiling the moment.
And actually, she had a funny feeling it was meant to be an apple, not an orange. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. She felt a hysterical giggle rise in her throat. She was such an idiot. “Oh, Alice,” they would all say.
“Alice?” said her mother. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or a painkiller?”
“Or a drink?” Roger furrowed his brow. “A brandy?”
“Oh, the last thing she needs is alcohol, Roger,” snapped Frannie.
“I’m fine,” said Alice.
She would think about all this later, when Roger wasn’t there pulling his grotesquely sympathetic expressions.
She didn’t care how much her world had changed. Apple or orange, Nick was absolutely nothing like his father.
Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges
Alice gave me such an imploring look, I almost considered canceling my lunch, but it wasn’t like I was leaving her alone with Roger-Dodger. That’s what Ben calls him. It suits him.
Anyway, I didn’t want to get into a conversation about Gina. My feelings about Gina are complex. Or maybe childish is a more appropriate word.
I was having lunch with the Infertiles.
We met about five years ago when I joined this “Infertility Support Group.” At first we were meeting at the community center and we had a facilitator, a professional like you, Dr. Hodges, who was there to keep us on track. The problem was that she kept trying to make us be positive. “Let’s try and reframe that in a more positive light,” she’d say. But we didn’t want to be positive, thanks very much. We longed to say out loud all the bitter, negative, nasty things we kept in our heads. The medications, the hormones, and the relentless frustration of our lives make us bitchy, and you’re not allowed to be bitchy in public or people won’t like you. So we formed our own private group. Now we meet up once a month, at a swish restaurant, where we’re not likely to come across Mothers’ Groups and their circles of prams. We eat, we drink, and we bitch to our hearts’ content—about doctors, family, friends—and most of all about the insensitivity of “Fertiles.”
At first I resisted the idea of splitting the world into “Fertiles” and “Infertiles,” as if we were in some science-fiction movie, but soon it became part of my new language. “What Fertiles can never understand . . .” we say to each other. Ben hates it when I say things like that. He doesn’t really like