“I found some dead mice,” Alice replied, shrugging non‑
chalantly even though she felt deflated at his comment. The
countertops were pristine and the kitchen smelled fresh and
clean, lemon and lavender oils masking the previously stale air.
Sure, she probably should have tackled the fridge first, knowing
Nate was bringing home groceries to put in there. She sighed,
frustrated with herself. In her work life results had been easy
to identify and measure. What did one get for scrubbing the
kitchen, aside from a (temporarily) gleaming countertop?
“Don’t worry about it. We can do it later.” Nate shut the fridge
door, reached into one of the bags. “Now, this can’t compare to
the hammers, but I got you— well, us— a sort of housewarming
present. Close your eyes.”
Alice did, eager with the promise of an unexpected gift, and
the paper crinkled as Nate dug around inside a bag. “Hold out
your hands,” he said, and again, she did as he asked.
He placed something in her palms, a rectangular object
without much weight to it. She opened her eyes to find a pink‑
and‑ white box in her hands. Staring back at her was a smiling
baby peeking out from under a white blanket, surrounded by
the promises Identify your 2 most fertile days! No more guessing!
“ Oh . . . thanks.” Alice set the box aside and started un‑
packing one of the paper bags.
“That’s it? ‘Oh, thanks’?” Nate crossed his arms, frowning as
he watched her swivel from counter to fridge and back, making
quick work of the unpacking. “What’s up?”
She set the butter, then the milk on the one narrow shelf (old
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refrigerators were unbelievably limited on space) and hip checked
the door closed. “Nothing. All good.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like all is good.” His forehead creased.
“What’s wrong?”
What was wrong was that Alice was disappointed. An ovu‑
lation kit as a housewarming present? She folded the paper bags
and stuffed them into a bin under the sink before responding.
“It’s just . . . it wasn’t what I was expecting. An ovulation kit
seems presumptuous, or something.”
“Presumptuous?” Nate exclaimed, barking out a short laugh
to cover his confusion. As a risk analyst he was hardwired to try
to predict the future, and so using an ovulation test seemed per‑
fectly logical— why wouldn’t you want to know your most fertile days if you are trying to get pregnant?
Alice sat at the table and pulled the box toward her. “Don’t
you think it sort of takes the fun out of it? Why can’t we do it
the old‑ fashioned way?”
Nate pursed his lips. “Ali, we agreed we’d start trying once we
moved. You told me you were ready.” His tone was mildly accu‑
satory, and fair enough, Alice had said pretty much exactly that.
And she did think she was ready. She’d be thirty by year’s end, and now that they had the house, with its extra bedrooms and full‑ size laundry, it seemed time to start trying. However, it remained a
novel idea Alice was still adjusting to. Six months earlier if talk of starting a family had come up, Alice would have replied, “Talk to
me in five years.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want children; she simply wanted other things— like a “director of PR” title— first. At least until she screwed it all up. Now she wasn’t at all sure what she
wanted.
“I told you I was almost ready,” she said, quickly adding,
“And I am! But there’s so much work to do. On the house.”
She swept loose tendrils of hair into the elastic holding back
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her ponytail. “I don’t want to worry about my ovulation
schedule, too.”
“Fine, Alice. That’s just fine,” Nate grumbled. He banged
around the kitchen, doing unnecessary things like shifting the
loaf of bread from one end of the countertop to the other,
opening and closing the cupboard doors without taking any‑
thing out. “Where the hell are the water glasses?”
“Top right, above the sink.” She could have been more re‑
dinner. Pushing back from the table, she stood behind him as he
let the tap run, waiting for the water to get cold. “I am ready.”
Nate filled the glass before turning. She smiled gently, wound
her fingers through his when he set the glass on the counter. “But
maybe first we can get rid of the god‑ awful wallpaper and hire an electrician and figure out how to warm this place up a bit? It’s so damn cold in here.” She shivered for dramatic effect, and Nate,
conceding, pulled her into his chest and rubbed his hands across
her back.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Like, really, really sure? I mean,
I thought this was the plan, but I don’t want to— ”
“I’m sure.” She took a step back so she could reach the ovu‑
lation kit on the table. “How many tests are in here?”
“Twenty.” He pointed to the top corner. “A month’s worth,
apparently.”
Alice noticed the seal had already been broken. “It’s been
opened.”
“Yeah, that was me. I wanted to read the instructions.”
“I should have known.” Alice laughed. “Okay. I’ll start peeing
on these first thing tomorrow.”
Nate shook his head. “Too soon. It’s only cycle day seven.
We’re aiming for day twelve.”
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“How do you know it’s day seven?”
He shrugged. “I pay attention.”
“Huh.” If Alice was surprised her husband was monitoring
her menstrual cycle with more accuracy than she was, she
shouldn’t have been. He was a planner and a good partner—
naturally he would take a team‑ effort approach.
“Flowers probably would have been a better choice, huh?”
“Nah, we have plenty of flowers in the garden,” Alice
replied. “I look forward to putting this to good use in five days.”
“Which means . . . we have a few practice days, right?”
“ Mmm‑ hmm. I like where you’re going with this.” Alice al‑
lowed Nate to pull her into the living room. She felt dirty and
would have liked to take a shower first, but she felt badly for her less‑ than‑ enthusiastic response. With all the flux in her life over the past few months, Nate had been her constant. She couldn’t
allow her anxieties to come between them.
Alice cast her eyes at the floral sofa, which had come with
the house and was in surprisingly decent condition. “This looks
like as good a place as any.”
Nate nodded, not taking his eyes off her. A moment later
Alice lay on the sofa in only her bra and jeans and Nate was on
top of her, his weight resting on his elbows. Under him she was
satisfied for the first time all day.
“This certainly qualifies as the old‑ fashioned way.” Nate
reached between them to unbutton Alice’s jeans and she pressed
down into the firm cushions to give him more access. He traced
a finger along the side of her face, down her jawline and neck,
between her breasts.
“I love you, Mrs. Hale,” he murmured as he bent to follow
his finger’s trail with his lips.
Alice leaned her head back against the sofa’s padded arm. “I
love you more, Mr. Hale.”
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. . .
Alice was up too early on Monday, sun streaming through the
drapeless windows before seven. She tried to go back to sleep
but instead ruminated on her to‑ do list: We need curtains. And maybe a white- noise machine because it’s too quiet. And this ugly wallpaper has to go. Along with the miniature, loud fridge, and rusty bathtub, and the drafts, she thought. But I don’t mind the sofa. Even with the gaudy flowers. The sofa can stay. Nate sighed beside her.
At his sigh she rolled onto her back and discovered she was
alone in their bed. Remembered Nate had probably already left
for the office, now that his commute was so much longer. Alice
stared up at the ceiling at a long crack she hadn’t noticed before, considered maybe the house had sighed through the crack, dis‑
content that its new owners knew little about how to care for it
A loud bang shattered the quiet, and Alice sat straight up,
clutching the duvet to her chest, heart pounding as she stared at
the bedroom door, which had slammed shut. She didn’t have
long to come up with a rational explanation (a strong breeze from
the open window?) before the second bang. The bedroom door’s
heavy brass handle fell off and hit the hardwood floor, rolling
noisily across the wood until it was stopped by the baseboard.
With a groan Alice sank back into her pillow and crossed her
arms over her face, adding yet one more item to her growing
to‑ do list.
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9
q
Harbor pleasant thoughts while working. It will make every task
lighter and pleasanter.
— Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, revised and enlarged (1956) Alice
JuNe 2, 2018
I ’ve forgotten how cold it is out east.” Alice’s mom pulled her wrap sweater, which looked like it could double as an area rug,
tighter and tucked her chin deep inside its cowl neck. “Aren’t
you chilly?” She frowned at her daughter’s outfit: jeans and a
thin long‑ sleeved T‑ shirt, bare feet.
“Mom, it’s seventy‑ eight degrees.” But that was outside.
Inside it did feel colder, as though the air‑conditioning was on full blast, except that the old house didn’t have air‑conditioning.
“No wonder I’m cold. It was eighty‑ six when we left.”
Alice swilled her coffee and murmured, “Yes, California’s
weather is different from New York’s.” Her mom, Jaclyn, and
stepfather, Steve, had been staying with them for exactly eighteen
hours, nine of which they spent sleeping, and Alice was already
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mentally crossing off the days until they headed back to San
Diego. She had tried to dissuade them from coming (“a nearly
thirty‑ year‑ old married woman does not need her parents to
help her move”), but her mother had been insistent and Alice
had given up when her mother’s email arrived with their already‑
booked flight details.
Her mom placed her steaming mug of tea, her third— matcha,
which she brought with her despite Alice’s assurances she could
get it for her in New York— on the nightstand and settled into a
deep lunge in the guest bedroom, her legs and arms like spindles
that bent and straightened with surprising ease despite the
sweater‑ rug.
“So how was your first week of vacation?” her mom asked,
moving through a series of stretches on the yoga mat she’d
rolled out on the floor.
“I’m not on vacation, Mom. I quit, remember?” Alice
frowned, thinking about work. Missing it desperately. Wishing
she’d had the good sense to keep her mouth shut that night with
Bronwyn, rather than torpedoing her career.
“Oh, you know what I meant, honey.” Her mom flowed into
a downward dog. “When I was your age I would have given any‑
thing to quit my job, bang around a big, beautiful house all day,
puttering and fixing and whatnot.”
A couple of her friends had essentially said the same— Alice
was lucky to have Nate and his salary— though if pressed, they
wouldn’t have been able to say what one does with an extra fifty
hours a week of unscheduled time. Everyone Alice knew worked,
had to work.
“You could always try out a few hobbies while you’re fig‑
uring things out,” Jaclyn said. “Like painting or gardening. Or
maybe cooking?”
“Hmm. Maybe . . .”
“Have you heard about this sous vide trend?” Alice’s mother
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described a particularly moist flank steak she’d had prepared this
way a couple of weeks earlier.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” Alice yanked a stray thread from her
T‑ shirt’s hem, sighed.
“Trust me, honey, take advantage of this time before the
kids come.” Jaclyn made the comment briskly, as though of‑
fering advice to a friend rather than her daughter, who knew it
was pointless to take offense. Her mother was not one to see
things from Alice’s perspective.
“And give yourself a break. Change is hard.” Jaclyn moved
into a headstand, forcing Alice to look at her upside down. “Are
you taking your vitamins?”
Her mother liked to remind her how as a child she was always
catching sore throats and stomach bugs with the changing
seasons, or when beginning something new, like starting middle
school. “Vitamins are for kids, Mom.” She wasn’t in the mood to
be mothered, particularly by Jaclyn.
Jaclyn breathed deeply as she stretched. Alice closed her own
eyes and counted to ten in time to her mother’s loud nostril
breathing. “Not true, honey. Vitamin D is a must in this sun‑
starved climate.”
Alice’s answer to “Are you close with your mom?” was
always, “It’s complicated.” The two women were so physically
different that if Alice hadn’t seen the pictures of her mom
holding her moments after her birth she might not have believed
they shared DNA. Where her mother was fair, Alice was dark.
Where Alice was small‑ bodied but had a tendency toward
thickness without calorie deprivation, her mom was long and
angular and lean. In the sun Alice went lobster red, her mother
golden brown.
People often asked if Alice took after her father. She did,
physically, but her dad had been absent so long she couldn’t say
if they shared any other characteristics.
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During the ten years Alice’s parents were together, her father
floated between a variety of jobs— mechanic, farmhand, in‑
surance salesman, yoga instructor— and one day when Alice was
nine years old, he floated right out the door on his way to his
landscaping job. He didn’t come home for supper, nor was he
there by the time Alice was ushered up to her room for bedtime.
She remembered creeping back downstairs hours later and sitting
in the chair by the living room window, where she waited until
she fell asleep. But the sun rose, and still, her dad hadn’t come
home. Her mother cooked them breakfast— eggs, sunny‑ side up,
and slightly fermenting orange juice bought on sale.
“When will Dad be home?” Alice had asked.
“I have no idea,” Jaclyn replied matter‑ of‑ factly, busying
herself with plating the eggs. “When he’s ready, I suppose.”
Alice, confused and upset by her mother’s impassive statement
and indifferent tone, had started to cry. Despite his fickle nature, Alice loved her father. She was still innocent enough to see only the good in him: he had a handlebar mustache and would wig gle the
ends one at a time like a cartoon character to make her laugh; he let her have a whole doughnut rather than having to share it; he taught her to swim at the community pool near their apartment, leaving
time for the underwater tea party Alice typically requested.
“Stop crying.” Jaclyn had slid the plate of jiggly eggs toward
Alice. “And eat your breakfast. You’re going to be late for school.”
Alice had gulped down her sadness along with those runny eggs,
and Jaclyn had said nothing further to comfort her young
daughter. That was the first time Alice distinctly remembered
being disappointed in her mother.
A year after Alice’s father left, her mom met Steve Daikan at