The Break-Up Artist

18

“Tom Hanks is such a creep in this,” Diane says through a mouthful of cereal. You’ve Got Mail plays on the TV. Milk dribbles onto her pajama bottoms. “He finds out they’re online pen pals but doesn’t say anything the whole movie. He just uses that insider information to manipulate her into falling for him. And then he drives her store out of business. Oh, and he was dating someone else the entire time. But she couldn’t care less. She’s like ‘La-di-da. I get to kiss Tom Hanks. Screw everything else.’ It’s kind of pathetic.”

“The dog is cute.” I mix the fruit in my yogurt and relax on the Throne.

“Yeah, the dog is kind of cute.”

My mom charges into the living room fully dressed and shuts off the TV. She looks at Diane. “Get dressed.”

“Why?”

“Erin’s son’s first birthday is today, and you’re going.”

“Benjamin Button? Isn’t it technically his eighty-first birthday?”

I laugh. My mom remains dead serious, which makes me laugh more.

“Swing by Toys ‘R’ Us and pick up a toy for Owen.”

“Actually, I was thinking of getting him a carton of cigs and a flask.”

My mom stays planted in front of the TV, arms folded. She’s not backing down this time. I cover my mouth harder to contain myself.

“Becca, do you really find this funny?” my mom asks. No, just awkward. She’s looking for my support, but she won’t get it here.

“Mom, why does Diane have to go? She’ll send a card. How about that?”

“So you think it’s fine that she cuts these girls out of her life?”

“Can you please stop talking like I’m not here?”

“Diane, you’re going. No excuses.”

Why is my mom being so adamant? Can’t she see the fear in Diane’s eyes?

“What else do you have going on today? Are you planning to waste your Sunday on this couch again? You could maybe look for a job and put your degree to work.”

“Why do you care so much about someone else’s baby?”

“Why don’t you care? She’s your friend! Do you remember them? Those girls who called you every day to see how you were doing. The ones who tried to surprise you on your birthday.” My mom shocked even herself with her yelling. She sits down on the empty bit of cushion next to Diane and goes to pat her knee, but Diane pulls them up to her body. “I know they’re in a different stage than you, but you’re going to meet a great guy and it’ll happen, one-two-three.”

“Like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?”

“Exactly!”

Diane swirls her spoon around in the bowl, avoiding eye contact with Mom.

“You’ll see your friends. You’ll socialize. You’ll have fun,” my mom says.

“They can barely be considered my friends. I’m not going.”

My mom swipes Diane’s car keys off the coffee table and retreats back to her TV-blocking position. She’s quick, sprightlier than usual. She prepared for a fight. “Fine, then,” she says. “If you’re not going there, then you’re not going anywhere this month.”

“You can’t do that.”

“We gave you that car. We can take it away.”

Diane pulls herself off the couch, her skin making a Velcro sound against the leather. She scowls at my mom. “Fine.”

“I think you’ll have fun.”

I leap off the couch. “I’m going with her.”

“Good.” My mom relinquishes the keys with ease, quickly returning to her nonconfrontational self.

Diane gives me a relieved smile, as if glad to know someone in this house is still on her side.

Diane zooms down the highway, one hand on the radio.

“This is going to blow,” she says to me, to herself.

“Is it just going to be a bunch of people staring at a baby?”

“Pretty much. Marian may try to steal some of the attention. Heaven forbid it’s not all on her.”

“Didn’t you tell me she got so drunk at Aimee’s twenty-first birthday party that they took her to the hospital?”

“Yep. She was sobbing in the corner when we sang ‘Happy Birthday.’”

I remember when I visited Diane at college and got to hang out with her friends. Aimee, Marian and Erin were like surrogate big sisters for that weekend. They had all lived on the same floor their freshman year with Diane, all joined the same sorority and all shared an apartment senior year. The “maxipad.” Most of what they talked about were inside jokes that went over my head, but I found them hysterical. They were so cool and, in my head, still are. I would never tell Diane that, though.

We pull into a gated community filled with homes on Martha Stewart steroids. You can tell each new homeowner strove to outdo the last one. We drive down a road overlooking a pond. Diane parks on the street behind an SUV with a Baby on Board decal. Erin’s house has a wraparound veranda, a nod to her Southern roots. Blue balloons tied to the mailbox wave in the breeze.

“Brace yourself,” Diane says. She’s trying to be funny, but I can see she’s scared, and all I want to do is protect my older sister. “You may suffocate from all the smugness.”

I think about the maxipad and how envious I was of a friendship like theirs. I carry a colorful abacus for baby Owen that we found on clearance. “They love you.”

“They love the old Diane, the one scheduled to be married and living in one of these bland, ugly houses.” She stares down the house. Sadness creases her face. She spits her gum out on their lawn. “Ready?”

Erin’s house is full of Pottery Barn furniture, funky paintings and couples. Lots of couples. In fact, all couples. Everyone is in the same uniform. The men have on V-neck sweaters with a collared shirt underneath and jeans. The wives wear sweaters (not in the same color as their husbands; that’s too obvious) and leg-hugging jeans tucked into their boots. Casually formal. We look too casual. Diane cleaned up well, but these women just sparkle. I can sense Diane’s dread of having to walk through this minefield of relationship zombies. She lifts her head and forces a smile. It’s like watching a car salesman, except she’s selling her happiness to the doubters.

I follow behind my sister. Couples huddle together and exchange impassioned small talk. Diane receives a growing barrage of glances and outright gawking. It’s worse than the looks I got at the movie theater. You’d think adults would be more mature. They peer over at us then back to their safe conversations, clutching on to their significant others, infinitely grateful that they were able to fill out society’s checklist. This is my cafeteria in ten years, the next preordained step in their clichéd lives.

Diane and I charge through in our bulky winter coats. She leans into me. “I’ll say hi to Erin, watch the kid crap its pants, then we’ll go.”

“Diane?” Aimee gets up from the couch. Her baby bump peeks out from a flowing blouse. Knowing Aimee, her water will probably break when she’s leading a meeting.

Diane gives her an awkward smile. “Hey.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Aimee says. She doesn’t sound excited to see her friend. She seems nervous.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

“Yeah. Seven months. We’re waiting to find out the sex. We want to be surprised. Like I am right now. Wow! It’s good to see you!” She pulls Diane in for a hug, which looks uncomfortable for all parties involved.

I catch a couple behind me staring at Diane and whispering between each other. Look, there’s that sad single girl, I’ll bet they’re saying. But they don’t have the malicious grins of gossipers. They seem nervous, too.

“Hey, Becca! I haven’t seen you in forever,” Aimee says. Her eyes scan the kitchen entrance.

“Diane?” Marian joins us from the basement. Her wedding ring could blind somebody on a sunny day.

“It’s a minireunion,” Diane says.

“We didn’t know you were coming,” Marian says.

“Well, I’m here.”

Marian and Aimee trade glances. Their necks crane over me toward the kitchen entrance. It’s like they have a competition over who can be ruder and more obvious.

“This is a surprise,” Marian says. “You should’ve told us you were coming.”

“Well, I didn’t. Where’s Owen?” Diane asks. A caustic tone overtakes her voice.

“I think she’s feeding him. She’s wearing white pants, too, the brave soul,” Marian says. She twirls her ring on her finger, but has to move her middle finger to make it go around.

People crowd in the kitchen, giving away Owen’s location. I’m too scared to go inside. I fiddle with the abacus beads, sliding them back and forth.

“Have you seen the front porch? It’s got this really comfortable rocking chair,” Aimee says. She tries to lead Diane that way, but my sister refuses.

“What’s going on?”

Marian’s eyes bulge, and she looks down at her drink. Aimee, as usual, is the composed one. “The chair’s nice. We want to catch up.”

“Bullshit,” I blurt out, without even realizing that my mouth had opened, startling all three women. I expected smugness today, but not nastiness. Yeah, Diane may be single, but why does that deserve rubbernecking?

“Diane.”

I know that voice. Diane knows it better than anyone in this house.

My throat tightens as if my tongue fell backward. The abacus slips from my slick hands, and I grab it at the last second. Diane may appear totally fine to her former friends and acquaintances, but I notice her trembling hands. She shoves them into her pockets.

She turns around at a glacial pace, trying to delay the humiliation as long as possible. “Hi,” she says.

Sankresh stands in the kitchen doorway. He strokes Priya’s hand. The sunlight hits her ring just right. It’s bigger than Diane’s was.

The room is quiet. Owen’s crying fills the empty space.

Memories and feelings from that day crash through the mental barrier I had erected. I want to go over there and strangle Sankresh. For taking four years of Diane’s life. For being a coward. For using the “I’ve fallen out of love” excuse.

I make eye contact with Erin. She cradles Owen against her shoulder, and her husband cradles her. She looks down, nestling herself farther into her husband’s arms.

Sankresh takes a step forward. “I didn’t—”

“Know I was coming,” Diane says.

Aimee rubs Diane’s arm, but my sister shrugs her off.

Owen won’t shut up. He’s screaming no matter how much Erin bounces him.

“Let’s go,” Diane says to me, but I’m frozen. All the relationship zombies stare at her, except for her supposed friends. Maybe later I’ll appreciate the irony.

“Becca! C’mon.” She rips the abacus from my grasp and tosses it on the coffee table, where it clanks jarringly against the glass. The sound bellows in the silent room.

I keep my head down, focused on the heels of Diane’s shoes. I don’t shut the front door behind me. The street has a creepy vibe I didn’t notice before. It’s like the houses are watching us, waiting for us to leave.

“Diane! Wait!” Erin scurries onto the front lawn babyless.

“Let’s go.” Diane doesn’t turn around.

Erin’s heel gets caught on something—a piece of gum?—and she falls face-first onto the lawn. I want to help her. She’s going to get grass stains on her white pants, and for some reason, that hits me in the gut. But I keep walking.

The car’s raring to go. Diane peers over the steering wheel at Erin, her face softening with concern. I swear she’s about to open her car door when Erin’s husband races outside and scoops her up. Diane peels away from the curb.

I close my passenger door while we’re halfway down the street. Diane seems ready and willing to crash through the front gate, but it opens automatically. After the first traffic light, Diane pulls off to the side of the road.

“Are you okay?” I ask. The answer’s obvious.

Diane stares out the windshield. Then, out of nowhere, she punches the steering wheel. Over and over. Gasping for breath. Grunts and indecipherable phrases sputter out of her mouth like a blender without the lid. The punching gets faster, more frantic. I feel like I’m the one getting pummeled and now tears form in my eyes.

Finally, she stops.

Without saying a word, she turns the car back on, and we drive away.