gone, and Chloe, light of my life, she’s almost as lost to me as the other children I couldn’t have. It’s just me and my barren womb now. Andrew—Andrew’s a rumor. I’m by myself on a wide, flat plain, no one else in sight, just boneless me who can’t even cast a shadow. And Andrew wanted me to take this puppy to the pound.
To hell with his imaginary headache. I punch the number, the phone rings twice, and he answers, his voice clogged with sleep.
“I’m taking my name back.”
“Dash? Is everything—”
“Tirva, not McGugin—why should I take my father’s name? That’s as silly as taking yours. Tirva.” My mother was Lithuanian. “Although,” it occurs to me, “that was just her father’s name, so what’s the difference? Even if I took her mother’s , it would just be her grand father’s. You guys really stacked the deck, didn’t you?”
“I was asleep,” Andrew mumbles accusingly. “Hold on, hold on.” I can hear him poking around, looking for his glasses, like that’ll make him hear better.
“I’m just telling you, Andrew, this is not for a few days. I don’t know how long, but it’s not going to be just a few days.” As soon as that’s out, I feel better. Whatever else is the matter with me, I’m not a wishy-washy person. Making decisions peps me up.
“Wait now, hold on, this is why we said we’d talk.”
“I know, but I don’t care, Christmas isn’t the deadline anymore. Without Chloe it’s just another day anyway, so let’s let it go.”
“Let it go?”
“It’s just another day, and frankly—frankly, I don’t want to do it anyway, the house, the tree, lights, all the cooking , the presents, my God. So let’s skip it.”
“Fine. Very well, no Christmas.”
“Oh, yes, that should please you. You never want Christmas. Oh, this’ll be right up your alley! I should’ve married a Jew.”
“God.” He’s rubbing his face, I hear his whiskers, and probably making that pained expression. “You’re not making sense. We’ll talk it all out tomorrow.”
“I’m not making sense? I’m the most sensible, the most boring person I ever met. You even know where I am. I’m right here in our cabin, all nice and safe—”
“Dash—”
“I’m not driving across the country, am I, I’m not taking interesting side jobs, not having an affair with Brad Pitt.”
“What are you talking about?”
He’s touched a goddamn nerve. “I let myself get too old. I’m not one of those women in books who just—walk off the beach one day—I’m not Susan Sarandon or what’s-her-name, my time has passed. Men start a whole new life—you can go to ninety, a hundred, but it’s all over when we turn fifty. I heard that all my life and never believed it, I thought it was feminist bullshit, but you know what, Andrew? It’s the goddamn truth.”
“Now, listen—”
“It’s the goddamn truth, and this is my last chance.”
“Last chance to do what ?”
“Don’t ask me questions, I don’t have to answer any of your questions. Okay—find myself. Are you happy? I said, ‘Find myself.’ I am now a walking, talking cliché.”
I hate his exasperated silences. I start to say good-bye, but then he says, “Come home, Dash,” in a voice that slips past my defenses. It enters my whole body through my ear. “Whatever you want, Christmas or not, it doesn’t matter. Just come home.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” I have to drown him out to stay clearheaded. “I’m not. Andrew, I’m not. You’ll see, this will be good for us.”
“How can it possibly be good for us? Good for us ?” Good , I think, now he’s mad. “How can being alone at Christmas possibly do either one of us any good ? For God’s sake—I don’t even know where my shoes are.”
“Your shoes ?”
“That’s not the point, of course—”
“Your shoes ? They’re at the shoe repair.”
“Which one, the one on Columbia or the one on Eighteenth?”
“You just want your maid back,
To hell with his imaginary headache. I punch the number, the phone rings twice, and he answers, his voice clogged with sleep.
“I’m taking my name back.”
“Dash? Is everything—”
“Tirva, not McGugin—why should I take my father’s name? That’s as silly as taking yours. Tirva.” My mother was Lithuanian. “Although,” it occurs to me, “that was just her father’s name, so what’s the difference? Even if I took her mother’s , it would just be her grand father’s. You guys really stacked the deck, didn’t you?”
“I was asleep,” Andrew mumbles accusingly. “Hold on, hold on.” I can hear him poking around, looking for his glasses, like that’ll make him hear better.
“I’m just telling you, Andrew, this is not for a few days. I don’t know how long, but it’s not going to be just a few days.” As soon as that’s out, I feel better. Whatever else is the matter with me, I’m not a wishy-washy person. Making decisions peps me up.
“Wait now, hold on, this is why we said we’d talk.”
“I know, but I don’t care, Christmas isn’t the deadline anymore. Without Chloe it’s just another day anyway, so let’s let it go.”
“Let it go?”
“It’s just another day, and frankly—frankly, I don’t want to do it anyway, the house, the tree, lights, all the cooking , the presents, my God. So let’s skip it.”
“Fine. Very well, no Christmas.”
“Oh, yes, that should please you. You never want Christmas. Oh, this’ll be right up your alley! I should’ve married a Jew.”
“God.” He’s rubbing his face, I hear his whiskers, and probably making that pained expression. “You’re not making sense. We’ll talk it all out tomorrow.”
“I’m not making sense? I’m the most sensible, the most boring person I ever met. You even know where I am. I’m right here in our cabin, all nice and safe—”
“Dash—”
“I’m not driving across the country, am I, I’m not taking interesting side jobs, not having an affair with Brad Pitt.”
“What are you talking about?”
He’s touched a goddamn nerve. “I let myself get too old. I’m not one of those women in books who just—walk off the beach one day—I’m not Susan Sarandon or what’s-her-name, my time has passed. Men start a whole new life—you can go to ninety, a hundred, but it’s all over when we turn fifty. I heard that all my life and never believed it, I thought it was feminist bullshit, but you know what, Andrew? It’s the goddamn truth.”
“Now, listen—”
“It’s the goddamn truth, and this is my last chance.”
“Last chance to do what ?”
“Don’t ask me questions, I don’t have to answer any of your questions. Okay—find myself. Are you happy? I said, ‘Find myself.’ I am now a walking, talking cliché.”
I hate his exasperated silences. I start to say good-bye, but then he says, “Come home, Dash,” in a voice that slips past my defenses. It enters my whole body through my ear. “Whatever you want, Christmas or not, it doesn’t matter. Just come home.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” I have to drown him out to stay clearheaded. “I’m not. Andrew, I’m not. You’ll see, this will be good for us.”
“How can it possibly be good for us? Good for us ?” Good , I think, now he’s mad. “How can being alone at Christmas possibly do either one of us any good ? For God’s sake—I don’t even know where my shoes are.”
“Your shoes ?”
“That’s not the point, of course—”
“Your shoes ? They’re at the shoe repair.”
“Which one, the one on Columbia or the one on Eighteenth?”
“You just want your maid back,
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