Happily Ali After (7 page)

I
t was the middle of July and I had pneumonia. Nobody gets pneumonia in July—nobody I knew even had allergies—yet there I was, bedridden, with the shades drawn, chugging antibiotics and wheezing through an inhaler. One could argue that I am a sickly person. But it’s genetic. When WASPs insist on breeding within their incestuous circle, the results are sallow, chronically tubercular, and anemic offspring (see: All British people). We all look like the antique American folk paintings of babies with bulbous eyes and pallid skin.

I was a dead ringer for the elderly gentleman in a wheelchair gasping for breath in those antismoking
commercials. Adding to my misery was the fact that my elder daughter, who was one week in at sleepaway camp, was miserable. Despite the camp’s cell phone ban, she had managed to con or blackmail the counselors into lending her theirs, and was calling daily, crying and begging to come home. There is nothing more wrenching than a sobbing child—not a screaming child, hate those, but when it’s your own child weeping . . . I have had my fair share of driving in my pajamas at 3
A.M.
in a snowstorm to fetch a child who got homesick during a sleepover.

An important thing to know about my daughter is that she’s an excellent negotiator (read: manipulator). She is the Alan Dershowitz of middle school. I think she should skip high school and go straight to Harvard Law, but she has to finish puberty first. She can out-debate us on every matter except fifteenth-century theology and the history of American politics as it relates to war; my husband reigns mighty over those categories. When we first broached the subject of sleepaway camp, she expounded upon the ways in which it was too far out of her comfort zone. And by comfort zone I assumed anywhere outside her purple down comforter where she reclines Snapchatting, eating old Halloween candy, and painting her toes with glittery nail polish. We introduced the enlightened idea that the camp experience would reward
her with a sense of independence. Her rebuttal was, “Why don’t you give me five dollars, let me walk ten blocks in Manhattan by myself to buy some eggs. That experience will make me more independent than any sleepaway camp will.” My husband and I were rendered speechless for almost an hour. She can scramble my mind; sometimes when I’m trying to dispense punishment, I end up locked in my room reading,
Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret
while she’s out having sushi with some extroverted adults.

By the third hysterical phone call from a cell phone belonging to a counselor named Brandy, I tried to convince my daughter to keep a stiff upper lip, pull herself up by her bootstraps, and remember that “a hot iron, though blunt, will pierce sooner than a cold one, though sharper,” among other nonsensical and clichéd Puritan sayings instilled in me from my own upbringing. I then hung up and bawled like a baby. All I wanted to do was get on a magical, winged unicorn and bring her home, but I knew it would teach her nothing about independence, self-reliance, and all that bullshit. Or maybe I just wanted to go on a magical, winged unicorn. I called the camp director and tried to get an accurate temperature reading of her misery. I reached what sounded like a 1980s cassette-operated answering machine.

A few hours later Uta called me back. Uta was the
wife of the camp director and the office administrator. Uta had a strong Eastern European accent and a monotone way of speaking that brought to mind a Russian prison guard.

“Hail-o, diz iz Uta. I’m ze kimp administrator.” Long pause.

“Hi, Uta! Listen, I’ve been getting these heart-wrenching calls and I just want to make sure my daughter—”

“Zair are no phuns allowed hair!”

“I know, yes, she must have borrowed—”

“Who dit she say she git ze phones from?”

I feared naming names in case Uta was some leftover McCarthy spy still on the red hunt. And packing heat.

“She didn’t say, listen, the point is, I’m worried. She’s been crying—”

Uta cleared her throat loudly. “Evry gerl has homesickness. It’s nathing.”

“Could you just give me updates?”

Uta answered like she was reciting the weather, or my horoscope. “Yur daughter iz surrounded by luff.” And she hung up. She probably had to spit and shine her combat boots.

It was only a two-week sleepaway camp and my daughter had just one week left, so I closed my eyes and took a huge drag from my medical inhaler. And popped another steroid.

T
he following week, the pneumonia worsened. A simple walk to the kitchen was fatiguing. Even watching a movie would deplete me for hours (particularly the ones starring Kristen Stewart). My younger daughter and our babysitter would be out all day surfing, picnicking on the beach, and basically frolicking with joy. What normal people are supposed to be doing in summertime. Not living in a cave of darkness, despair, and phlegm. When I would hear the front door slam, I would call for them and offer them hundreds of dollars to fetch me a Bagel Bite or some peanut butter on toast. How quickly they had forgotten the sickly old woman who lived down the dark hall.

I was living off mini bottles of Gatorade and Wheat Thins. Meanwhile, my daughter had survived the second week of sleepaway camp. I hoped she would be filled with the feeling of true selfhood and fortitude, but instead it was pure animosity and mercilessness. In the months (and, I assume, years) to come, she would regale strangers with the story of how we abandoned her in Maine without money and food and left her to survive. Yes, her experience of tennis, riding, and campfire s’mores was on a par with being lost in the desert and chewing off an arm wedged between two boulders. They should make a film about her experience.

It was very clear that I, in my enfeebled and frail
state, would not be able to pick her up on the last day of camp. The idea of driving ten hours one way was ludicrous; a simple trip to the toilet involved resting on the side of the bathtub en route. The whole ordeal took an hour. I knew my husband could retrieve her and maybe stop for ice cream and speeding tickets and have a memorable and bonding day. And he could be the sponge for all her bitching and tales of woe.

And then the world got far grimmer outside my own miserable cocoon. On July seventeenth the Malaysian airline flight MH17 was shot down. My husband was called to the anchor desk at ABC, where he sat for hours and hours of breaking news. In between throwing questions to correspondents regarding the developing investigation into a possible missile fired by Russian rebels in the Ukraine, he would e-mail me about camp. “You’re going to have to go get her!”

Huh? I pulled the chilled washcloth off my fiery forehead. I e-mailed him back.

“Fever. Delirious. Can’t.”

Surely they would have to go back to their regularly scheduled programming; Rachael Ray was mid Naked Chef stew-off. And then he could drive up to Bangor?

The news coverage grew more gruesome. I took a fistful of Tylenol and wrote, “Why don’t we get a babysitter to get her?” As soon as the network broke to a dependable health care commercial, I received his answer.

“No, after all she’s been through it needs to be a parent.”

This was one of those marital moments known as a power struggle. In most cases, my husband always trumps me. But on this particular occasion, I would say a winner was not so easily pronounced. Yes, he was anchoring pressing news, but I was deathly ill and literally physically incapable of the task at hand. He was the one who didn’t want anyone but a parent to pick her up. And we were the only parents. There are moments when sister-wives seem compelling.

“Honey, I cannot operate a vehicle. I will drive off the side of the road. I can barely keep my eyes open e-mailing this now!” With that, I passed out.

I opened my eyes minutes later to this: “Honey, I can’t leave work. What if you get your mom or someone to drive with you?” It was getting heated. Even though we both understood the other’s predicament, we were standing strong. Or in my case, lying down strong.

I am always one to play the martyr card and even in my addled state recognized an opportunity to not only resent and bottle rage, but also emerge as the most magnanimous saint north of the Hudson. I would go in my soiled nightgown with a thermos of Theraflu and a box of Kleenex and save our child.

“Fine (cough cough), I’ll go . . .” Slam phone down.

It’s amazing how self-righteousness can spike adrenaline
when driving long distances. I groaned out loud like a cow in labor. I cruised with the windows down, my chest feeling hollow, but enjoying the landscape of upstate Vermont and New Hampshire midsummer. It reminded me of my college days in vintage sundresses and bare feet skinny-dipping in lakes and eating tempeh wraps made by vegan hippies in Woodstock. And there I was, a grown woman (who would never let anyone see her naked) consuming beef jerky, driving up 95 north to deliver her daughter home. A daughter who was not jumping nude into sparkling lakes, but hiding under the infirmary cot with Brandy’s stolen cell phone.

I felt old. And the pneumonia and difficulty breathing exacerbated that feeling. I reminisced about the long-haired guy with a lisp who used to recite his awful poetry to me while I wiped pumpkin butter off his beard. I wondered if he was married. And if he was married, whether it was to a man or a woman. And then I thought about all the ex-lovers and whimsical and fanciful summer days of my youth. And then I got angry with my husband again. How dare a man let his sickly wife trek to a far-off land? He must want me to die. And why do I have to do everything? I’m the only one who empties the dishwasher, throws out moldy cheese, and picks up underwear from the floor. If not for me, the show
Hoarders
would use our episode for sweeps.

Righteous anger literally fueled me to drive above
seventy miles an hour—a feverish pace inside and out. I finally reached the quaint and bucolic town in which my poor daughter was forced to drive bumper cars and chow down on homemade blueberry pancakes. And I won’t go on about the rolling hills and sparkling lake.

Needless to say, when I walked into the dorm, my daughter was giggling and hugging other adorable girls in neon polo shirts. “Oh, hey, Mom!” Oh, hey, Mom? OH, HEY, MOM? After flirting with death to save her, all I’m met with is an “Oh, hey, Mom”?

I must have looked deathly; I could feel my ratty hair matted to my clammy face. I hadn’t eaten in hours. All I wanted was the chicken noodle soup from Bernstein’s deli on Third Avenue. “Sweetie, is there a commissary or a vending machine?”

She shook her head. “No. We had to throw out all the care packages because we had a maggot problem.”

Ah, there was my cherry on top—a maggot problem. The sight of her enormous trunk and mildewed duffels made me even weaker.

My daughter informed me that she was going to watch her friends in the swim competition. I decided I would rest for a few minutes after using my inhaler and taking my antibiotics and a steroid on an empty stomach.

I climbed up to a top bunk. There were no sheets, blankets, or pillows, just a stained single mattress. A few
photos of Demi Lovato were taped on the wall and the room smelled like old feet. I didn’t care; I was a walking corpse. I passed out. Or died, I’m not sure which.

In my sweaty dream state I thrashed around envisioning myself packing my daughter’s luggage and soiled boots into the car. And in my dream the boots were made of lead and the car had four flat tires and I was three inches tall. There were also penguins, but I’ll save that for my shrink.

Suddenly, I was nudged awake. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I screamed in delirium. I opened my eyes to my husband’s face. He was in a suit and tie; his skin was caked in orange TV makeup. I shot up, barely missing a concussion on the stucco ceiling.

Knowing I would be a hot mess, he had found a way to hand over the reins at work and drove above the speed limit.

My husband packed the car and bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal. It did make me happy. And the three of us drove back to New York City. I would like to pretend “singing songs and snapping our fingers,” but the time was mostly spent convincing our daughter that she actually did like camp and that homesickness was just part of the sleepaway experience. And explaining what an anxiety disorder was.

M
y husband and I have never been to couples therapy. But if we ever did, this is how I imagine it would go:

Int. Therapist’s office. Upper West Side, NY. Afternoon.

Husband, in a finely tailored suit and navy striped tie, and Ali, in tattered jeans and looking like a bedraggled Bennington college student, sit on a tweed love seat holding hands.

Dr. Love sits across from the couple in a leather wingback chair, holding a notebook and pen.

DR. LOVE:
  So . . . what brings you to therapy today?

ALI:
  Um, everyone we know is in couples therapy and we aren’t.

DR. LOVE:
  So you came to couples therapy because everyone you know goes?

ALI:
  Yes, sir, that is correct.

DR. LOVE:
  Ali, you don’t have to call me sir, I’m a therapist, not a judge.

ALI:
  Yes, Doctor.

Husband pulls out his iPhone 6.

HUSBAND:
  Sorry, breaking news . . .

ALI:
  Syria?

HUSBAND:
  No. Drew Barrymore’s in town.

DR. LOVE:
  Let’s start by each of you telling me the one thing in your marriage you want to work on.

Husband is replying to e-mail.

ALI:
  I never understood why shrinks have African
masks. Was therapy born in Uganda? Or is it a literal shrinking heads metaphor? Did you buy them from the guy in front of the Whitney Museum?

HUSBAND:
  I think we could both appreciate each other more in our marriage?

ALI:
  That’s dumb.

DR. LOVE:
  That’s not appreciative, Ali. There is no such thing as dumb here. It is a safe haven.

ALI:
  Well, every couple says that. I would like to be appreciated more, sure, but if my husband followed me around telling me how wonderful I was and throwing peonies at my feet, I think it would get annoying. Appreciation is overrated. If I cook a crappy meal, I don’t want to hear, “This is the most delicious cod I’ve ever had.” I know it’s bullshit! I’m eating the same dry fish, so the compliment is meaningless—in fact it’s worse than that, it’s humiliating. But a week later if I make the same cod dish, but with more lemon and butter and it is delicious and he says so, the compliment means more because it’s true.

HUSBAND:
  
(Looks at Dr. Love)
I don’t, I’m not . . . this is where it gets tricky for me!

DR. LOVE:
  Ali, you seem angry . . .

ALI:
  I’m not angry. And if I am it’s because of superficial things like I’m getting older, I’m afraid of death, and I’m really out of shape.

DR. LOVE:
  Tell me one thing you think you could work on in your marriage.

ALI:
  I wouldn’t mind bringing in someone new to the bedroom?

HUSBAND:
  
(Elated)
Really?

ALI:
  No. Not really.

Husband looks down.

ALI:
  I’d like to revise what my husband said earlier . . . I don’t want him to appreciate me more . . . I want him to feel like he exceeded every expectation by getting me.

DR. LOVE:
  What do you mean by that?

ALI:
  I mean, I want him to feel like he hit the jackpot! He got a hole in one! Struck gold! When a stunning woman in tight lululemon leggings struts by, I want him to think, “Sure, she’s younger and fitter and probably makes a real effort in bed, but nothing beats my wife and her winning personality!”

HUSBAND:
  I do, honey.

ALI:
  But I wish you were slightly more repulsed by all other women! And it wouldn’t
hurt for you to clap when I step out of the shower!

DR. LOVE:
  That seems a bit narcissistic.

ALI:
  Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . Doctor, if I read the American Board and Academy of Psychoanalysis certificate examination manual correctly, you are legally not supposed to label a patient before the third session. And I am not a narcissist, I’m the opposite: I’m an insecure psychopath.

Silence.

DR. LOVE:
  Let’s move on.

Dr. Love is furiously scribbling notes.

ALI:
  What are you writing?

DR. LOVE:
  Just some notes.

ALI:
  About me? Are you writing about me?

DR. LOVE:
  
(Obviously yes.)
No.

ALI:
  Look, I’m very happy, WE’RE very happy. I just . . . sometimes I wish there was just a little drama, you know? I go out to dinner with my friends and one hates her husband, one thinks she might be gay, and the other is having an affair with her chiropractor. I
have nothing! I have nothing to add except things are really good, I love my husband, and I don’t fantasize about women. Boring! For once, I want to have a marital problem to bring to the table!

Husband looks at her curiously.

DR. LOVE:
  Do you want your husband to have an affair?

ALI:
  No, of course not. But I want to be able to buy the apps that track cheating spouses based on iPhone location or unscramble deleted texts! Why does everyone else get to throw dishes and scream, “that BASTARD!”

HUSBAND:
  I would never have an affair. I love you!

ALI:
  
Pointing to husband.
You see?

DR. LOVE
  How’s your sex life?

Husband is about to speak.

ALI:
  Let’s just say, thumbs-up!

DR. LOVE:
  Hmmmm . . . I don’t see any glaring problems in your marriage at all. I would, however, like to spend some sessions with Ali alone.

ALI:
  Me? Why, did my husband win? He won, didn’t he . . .

DR. LOVE:
  There’s no winning or losing.

ALI
   Well, how come I have to come but not him?

DR. LOVE:
  You seem to need therapy.

ALI:
  Ugh. More? Okay, how much is it?

DR. LOVE:
  It’s two hundred dollars a session.

Ali stands.

ALI:
  Are you out of your fricking mind?

DR. LOVE:
  I’ve been accused of it.

ALI:
  Instead of therapy sessions, I will take that two hundred dollars a week—

DR. LOVE:
  It would actually be six hundred—I’m suggesting three times a week.

ALI:
  Six hundred dollars a week and purchase a pair of jeans that fit right, meet Eddie Redmayne, and discover a fat-free Oreo milkshake and believe me, I will be the happiest wife in Manhattan!

Ali walks out of the office.

HUSBAND:
  
(Looks up from his iPhone.)
Oh . . . are we done?