“Do you think this is going to be a big thing?”
“The Phoenix flu?” he asked, and then shrugged. “That depends on what you mean by ‘big thing,’ I guess. But aren’t you glad you’re not flying?”
The media connected the fears of the flu, the war, global warming, and the end of the world to the number of women who were dropping out of the workforce.
What was the point of two incomes if your money couldn’t buy you the luxuries you worked for? If you couldn’t even afford to put gas in two cars, let alone install a hot tub, why not have someone at home watching the children, folding the laundry, making nice dinners during the day?
A stay-at-home mother was even one of Dr. Springwell’s secrets—number five or six on the famous list of “Immune Boosters” promoted by the portly physician whose popular show was devoted entirely to advice on avoiding an illness, which he never called the Phoenix flu but which was, of course, the Phoenix flu.
Jiselle had watched the show only once, in a hotel room in Minneapolis. “We are like fish in a small bowl,” Dr. Springwell was saying. He had two goldfish in a glass bowl on a table in front of him. Behind him was a painted sky, heavenly blue, in which a few cottony clouds sat motionless and serene. The doctor wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His bald head gleamed. “The slightest shift changes everything.”
Dr. Springwell tipped the bowl a little to the left then, and the camera closed in on the two bright fish, who had been floating in it peacefully, seemingly asleep, but who were now trying frantically to swim, with their tiny, fluttering fins, against the current. Those fins looked as if they were made of the thinnest tissue. Useless.
“See?” Dr. Springwell said. “This is the barely perceptible change in our climate, but it alters everything . The fish have to learn to swim all over again in this new world. Like us! What we experience in our fishbowl is the gradual shift in our resources, our economy, our way of life, and, most important, our immune systems.”
Here, the words Dr. Springwell’s Secret and the cover of his bestselling book began to flash against the blue sky behind him. Dr. Springwell righted the bowl, and the fish, disoriented, began to swim in what appeared to be hopeless, exhausted circles.
“Do it,” Annette had said. “Quit. Stay home. Just think, no more puke. No more pretzels. I love being home.”
Annette was four months pregnant by then, and there were complications, but luckily she was married to a doctor. She watched television all day. She made phone calls. She kept a bucket beside the bed and threw up in it every half hour. She jokingly called her husband Dr. Williams and said that Dr. Williams said not to be concerned. Many women had morning sickness all three trimesters, and she must just be one of the lucky ones.
“I don’t know,” Jiselle said. “Sara, the younger daughter—I think she hates me.”
“So what? Does she hate you more than those old ladies who can’t get their bags stuffed into the overhead compartment hate you? Does she hate you more than terrorists hate you?”
“But,” Jiselle asked Annette on the phone, “won’t I feel like I’m trying to—?”
“Take their mother’s place? Forget about her!” Annette said. “She’s dead! I mean, it’s not like you were never with any other men.”
True.
But Jiselle had never been married. She’d never had a child with a man. She’d never been widowed.
His first wife’s name had been Joy, and it was amazing how many times a day one heard that name or saw it in the form of the word. On a card, followed by an exclamation point. On the lips of the president nodding over a lectern on television: It is with great joy that I am announcing today that seven thousand troops will be returning to the United States next month. On the lips of the president’s opponents when it didn’t happen: What happened to all that
“The Phoenix flu?” he asked, and then shrugged. “That depends on what you mean by ‘big thing,’ I guess. But aren’t you glad you’re not flying?”
The media connected the fears of the flu, the war, global warming, and the end of the world to the number of women who were dropping out of the workforce.
What was the point of two incomes if your money couldn’t buy you the luxuries you worked for? If you couldn’t even afford to put gas in two cars, let alone install a hot tub, why not have someone at home watching the children, folding the laundry, making nice dinners during the day?
A stay-at-home mother was even one of Dr. Springwell’s secrets—number five or six on the famous list of “Immune Boosters” promoted by the portly physician whose popular show was devoted entirely to advice on avoiding an illness, which he never called the Phoenix flu but which was, of course, the Phoenix flu.
Jiselle had watched the show only once, in a hotel room in Minneapolis. “We are like fish in a small bowl,” Dr. Springwell was saying. He had two goldfish in a glass bowl on a table in front of him. Behind him was a painted sky, heavenly blue, in which a few cottony clouds sat motionless and serene. The doctor wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His bald head gleamed. “The slightest shift changes everything.”
Dr. Springwell tipped the bowl a little to the left then, and the camera closed in on the two bright fish, who had been floating in it peacefully, seemingly asleep, but who were now trying frantically to swim, with their tiny, fluttering fins, against the current. Those fins looked as if they were made of the thinnest tissue. Useless.
“See?” Dr. Springwell said. “This is the barely perceptible change in our climate, but it alters everything . The fish have to learn to swim all over again in this new world. Like us! What we experience in our fishbowl is the gradual shift in our resources, our economy, our way of life, and, most important, our immune systems.”
Here, the words Dr. Springwell’s Secret and the cover of his bestselling book began to flash against the blue sky behind him. Dr. Springwell righted the bowl, and the fish, disoriented, began to swim in what appeared to be hopeless, exhausted circles.
“Do it,” Annette had said. “Quit. Stay home. Just think, no more puke. No more pretzels. I love being home.”
Annette was four months pregnant by then, and there were complications, but luckily she was married to a doctor. She watched television all day. She made phone calls. She kept a bucket beside the bed and threw up in it every half hour. She jokingly called her husband Dr. Williams and said that Dr. Williams said not to be concerned. Many women had morning sickness all three trimesters, and she must just be one of the lucky ones.
“I don’t know,” Jiselle said. “Sara, the younger daughter—I think she hates me.”
“So what? Does she hate you more than those old ladies who can’t get their bags stuffed into the overhead compartment hate you? Does she hate you more than terrorists hate you?”
“But,” Jiselle asked Annette on the phone, “won’t I feel like I’m trying to—?”
“Take their mother’s place? Forget about her!” Annette said. “She’s dead! I mean, it’s not like you were never with any other men.”
True.
But Jiselle had never been married. She’d never had a child with a man. She’d never been widowed.
His first wife’s name had been Joy, and it was amazing how many times a day one heard that name or saw it in the form of the word. On a card, followed by an exclamation point. On the lips of the president nodding over a lectern on television: It is with great joy that I am announcing today that seven thousand troops will be returning to the United States next month. On the lips of the president’s opponents when it didn’t happen: What happened to all that
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