I'm So Happy for You by Lucinda Rosenfeld Read Free Book Online Page B

her period again, even though she and Adam had had sex on two of her three most fertile days
     the previous month. That something she’d always taken for granted should turn out to be so elusive—that her life could be
     reduced to charting her menstrual flow on graph paper and examining her cervical fluid for signs of elasticity—made Wendy
     feel angry, ashamed, and disoriented. What’s more, she had no one to complain to about how frustrated she felt at still not
     being pregnant. Bitching to Adam was out of the question. He would only remind her, as he always did, that they had each other
     (and Polly), which was the important thing.
    And that he got tired of listening to her complain all the time.
    And Wendy didn’t feel right complaining to her other friends who weren’t married. (
At least you have a husband,
they were sure to think, if not to say.) She wasn’t comfortable calling her friends who were already mothers, either. They
     were probably busy with their children, anyway—at least Pamela was. (Even though it was Sunday, Gretchen was probably attending
     a strategy session to end poverty in Africa.) Moreover, the pity in their voices—even if it was mostly projected; even if,
     in Gretchen’s case, it was fairly clear she’d rather be anywhere than at home playing patty-cake with her twin babies—only
     made Wendy feel worse.
    And for all of her problems, all of her hysteria, Daphne was the rare person who could hear other people’s news and not immediately
     think about herself. Or at least Daphne gave that impression. (And was there really any difference?) Plus, on account of the
     many hours that Wendy had spent listening to Daphne talk about Mitch, she felt able to natter on about her own neuroses in
     a way she didn’t with anyone else—especially now that she’d fired her therapist.
    Wendy already missed the patter of their private language, with its rising and falling cadences, its ample use of hyperbole,
     especially on Daphne’s part, too. “You’re kidding!” she’d say. And “I’m dying!” And “That’s just BEYOND!” Daphne’s spoken
     English sometimes seemed to be composed entirely of exclamations. Which is maybe why Wendy never felt that Daphne was minimizing
     her pain.
    And even though Wendy was the one who was supposed to be mad, she’d begun to worry that Daphne might be mad at her, too. (Why
     else had she not called?)
    And what if Paige had stepped in to fill the void created by Wendy’s retreat?
    It was also true that Sundays had always depressed her. There was too much pressure to relax. And the apartment seemed too
     quiet, even with Adam in the living room. Or maybe it wasn’t quiet enough. She could hear him all the way across the apartment,
     crunching loudly on tortilla chips while he watched the Sci Fi Channel on TV.
    And was it Wendy’s imagination or, since the advent of text-based communication, did the phone never ring anymore? Then it
     did.…
    The caller ID said “J. Sonnenberg.” Wendy didn’t know anyone by that name. But she was bored and curious. (She was always
     curious.) And the receiver was right next to her on the bed, where she lay leafing through a home furnishings catalogue, simultaneously
     loathing and longing for the fantasy of generically upscale domesticity intimated by a photograph of an immaculate suburban
     “mudroom” with individualized footwear cubbies labeled “Aidan,” “Zach,” and “Olivia.” “Hello?” she said.
    “Ohmygod, I’m
so
glad I reached you.”
    “Daphne?” said Wendy. It sounded like Daphne’s voice, albeit dumped in a vat of honey.
    “You’re still furious at me, aren’t you?” said Daphne.
    “Forget about it—really,” Wendy told her.
    “Really?” said Daphne.
    “Really,” said Wendy.
    “I’m so
beyond
relieved you’re saying that. So, how are you?”
    “Since you asked, terrible,” said Wendy. “I got my period again this morning. I feel like I’m never going to get