Separation Anxiety by Laura Zigman

Author:Laura Zigman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-01-07T16:00:00+00:00

The Sleepover

Sari Epstein’s house—a low-slung expansive midcentury ranch—sprawls atop a gently rolling hill, all white and glass and steel under a cloudy, gunmetal autumn sky—but the long driveway is blocked by huge shrubs, each wrapped in burlap and trussed like rib roasts. Confused, Gary slows, then parks on the side of the road. We get out of the car and stretch, then he gets our bags out while I crawl into the backseat to carefully extricate the orchid.

It’s a hike up the long driveway to the front door, and we don’t suffer it in silence—there’s eye-rolling and sighing and even a grunt or two as I struggle with the plant swaying in my arms. We would have never lasted a week at Plimoth Plantation or on the American Frontier, I think, as I shift the weight of the plant from one hip to the other. Gary looks at me and shakes his head. “If it’s not the dog, it’s a giant orchid.” He’s right. What is it with me and giant barriers to the world?

When we finally reach the door, we freeze. This has happened before to us—whenever we arrive somewhere, usually for dinner years ago, there would always be the tempting moment to forgo the knock; to back away silently from the door, to return to the car—the desire to leave before arriving has always been strong. Back when we were still in love it was because we preferred our own company to that of others; now it’s that being with others makes us feel worse than being alone.

My finger hovers over the doorbell. For the first time since I hatched this plan and we started executing it I’m realizing the full scope of the stupidity of what we’re doing.

“Whose idea was this again?” I say, with a lame little laugh. I should apologize now to get it out of the way, but I just can’t. Not yet. “What if we hate them?”

“What do you mean, ‘what if’? Of course we’ll hate them.”

I try to shake off the dread. “It’s only two nights, right?”

“Unless we leave early.”

We both try to laugh but can’t.

“What’s his name again?” Gary asks.

“I forget.”

“Hers is Sari. Sari, Sari, Sari.” He practices as his finger slowly heads for the doorbell and presses it.

“At least this absurdity will be an icebreaker,” I say, trying to get my face around the cellophane on the plant.

I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. When the door finally opens all four of us freeze. I’m trying to get past my shock and awe at actually seeing Sari Epstein in person after only seeing her on my phone screen all this time—and trying to gauge, for Glenn, whether or not her forehead really is as prominent as it seems (it is), until finally we all awkwardly wave and start talking and shaking hands. Sari and her husband are probably trying to figure out how they got roped into housing us the night before a retreat.

“Gary,” Gary says.

“Gregory.”

“My wife, Judy,” Gary says, turning to me, and then to Sari.

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