Rebecca Handler

o n e w o m a n p a r t y

Nonfiction

Marriage

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We are in Madrid. The heat is relentless. As we used to say in Boston, it’s underwear-in-the-freezer weather. The kind of weather where each activity entails negotiation. We are eating at delicious, air-conditioned restaurants only after dipping ourselves in hot lava. At the Prado Museum, we stood in a long ticket line, and then looked at paintings of hunters with their dogs. I mentioned I hadn’t seen any dogs in Madrid. Not one. Soon after, within ten minutes of leaving the museum, I saw a small black and white dog on the shady side of the street. Then a large brown one wearing shoes. Later, when we were eating salads (with ham) and drinking Coke Zeros, Dave said, “Look! A standard Schnauzer.” I missed it but I asked if it was the big kind of Schnauzer. Taking a bite of manchego, he said, “Mid-sized. Standard.” 

My husband is a great traveler. I told him this today before realizing that is a strange thing, maybe even a condescending thing, to say to an adult. He asked me what I meant by “good traveler,” and I said it’s because he is a very “can-do person” and “has ideas for restaurants.” We are coming up on our twentieth wedding anniversary. It occurs to me I could have married someone who was not up for things, and now that thought makes me wince. If you are going to go through all the trouble of being married, it’s wise to select someone who doesn’t complain about humid, outdoor markets. 

When Dave and I got married, we agreed to sickness and health, and were thrown a doozy last year when I got cancer. When you go through cancer treatments, you get to see if your husband can dress your wounds while steering away well-meaning friends you don’t want to see. Part of why I married him is because he is an excellent roommate. Clean and thoughtful. I’ve always encouraged our children to live with someone before considering a more permanent arrangement. Now I’m thinking I should amend my advice to include, “and also go through a very hard time together.” It doesn’t have to be cancer of course; something less severe would be preferable. 

When we fight, I want to rip his face off. I once confessed that to him and he said, “Oh that’s normal.” I appreciated that he didn’t tell me he also wants to rip my face off. I told my friend Alex this and she said I feel that way because I love him so much. That doesn’t sit right with me, but she’s probably right. She is a therapist.

As I write this, my husband is next to me on the hotel bed, on his laptop, trying to change the date of our train tickets to Seville because he booked the wrong dates. He isn’t wearing a shirt because of the hot lava, and he just muttered, “This website fucking blows.” I want to lean over and kiss him, but I know it will irritate him to be interrupted like that. That’s what happens when you’re married for this long. Kisses aren’t always romantic. Sometimes they are distractions. But he is a problem-solver and I want to thank him for that. 

The Wanderers

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Yesterday I found a chihuahua in the middle of Noriega Street. I pulled over and stuck my arms out to oncoming cars. “Get out of the street,” I said to the tiny collarless dog. “Shoo!” She looked well-fed and slightly perplexed. Why am I in the middle of the street, she wanted to ask. How did I get here?

I had just returned from MacDowell, an artists’ residency in New Hampshire. For nearly a month, I was in a small town, in the middle of a forest, between Black Lives Matter signage and pro-Trump banners. At my first dinner, I sat next to a jazz saxophonist and a visual artist working on a large-scale project with tree branches and sequins. Everyone seemed magical. How did I get here?

“Get out of the street,” I repeated to the chihuahua as I chased her to the sidewalk. She wouldn’t let me come close, but also didn’t run away, so we just stared at each other as buses whizzed past. I had left everything in my car, including my phone. I sat down on the sidewalk. The dog cocked her head. Is this human lost?

At MacDowell I played ping-pong with a British playwright who wore all black and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. When she laughed, it was like seeing a photograph come to life. I miss her and the other artists. After working all day in isolation, we would pop up at dusk, like misguided sunflowers, drink red wine, and share our small wins and less small insecurities. 

“Excuse me. Do you know this dog?” A woman with pale skin, brown sunglasses, and dyed jet-black hair walked past with two mid-sized poodles. The woman shook her head but sprang into action. She handed me her dogs’ leashes and crouched down to offer the chihuahua a treat. Soon, when the dog was in my arms, the woman removed her sunglasses and said, “Let’s go to my house and call Animal Care and Control. I’ll make you coffee.” She looked like Fran Lebowitz.  

Her house was filled to the brim with green. Plants hanging from the ceiling and cascading over bookshelves, green leather couch, green plush chairs. Newspapers were stacked on a wooden chair in the corner, and the round dining table was covered in a green oil cloth and piles of sorted coupons. I held the chihuahua on my lap and sipped coffee out of a green and white mug. “I think I’ll call her Nora,” I said. “For Noriega Street.” The woman told me she thought we were meant to meet each other. I agreed because I was in her house and didn’t want to be unpleasant. 

I’ve met so many new people over the past month. The pandemic had stolen the joy of serendipity, and then going through cancer treatments kept me on the couch for most of 2021. Entering this stranger’s house felt like a victory. And being at MacDowell was like coming out of hibernation.   

The dog’s owner had been contacted and was on her way. I heard a loud noise and must have looked startled because the woman shared that her husband lives downstairs. “We are financially divorced, but I can’t kick him out.” She said he didn’t help with the dogs, the cooking, not even the bathroom remodel, “don’t get me started.” She said she doesn’t tell many people this, but she was in a near-death car accident that completely changed her outlook. “In my next life, I’m not going to marry someone who has Asperger’s and is also narcissistic.”

The doorbell rang and I had to say goodbye to the chihuahua. Handing her over, I told the owner I had been calling her Nora. “You’re close,” she said, kissing her dog’s head. “Her name is Cora.” 

We are all lost. The dogs, the artists, the narcissists in basements. And if we’re lucky, we find each other.   

A Good Mom

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I love the sound of ski pants walking down a hallway. Swoosh, swoosh. People are up early and heading out the door. Sunscreen? Passes? Gloves? The door slams.

I skied yesterday but today I’m staying back at the rental house with my friend and her two tween daughters. I don’t know when the word tween started. I don’t like saying it but it’s certainly more concise than saying the girls are something like nine and twelve. The older one has excellent eye contact and loves to cook. The younger one wears stylish baggy jeans and doesn’t like a lot of things. 

Now, I am on the couch with a coffee and Ann Patchett’s new essay collection (“I don’t like nonfiction,” the younger girl had informed me). My friend is in the kitchen with the girls, making fried rice. I am overhearing them jump from topic to topic like bees collecting pollen. First, they review the order of ingredients. “First the oil and garlic, then the crunchies, then the softies.” An Ed Sheeran song is on, and the lyric is, “I will be loving you ‘til we’re 70.” The younger daughter wonders, “Until we’re 70? Then what?” My friend responds, “Then he’ll have a midlife crisis and an affair.” They add the crunchies.

Next up is animals. “Can people be charged for murder and go to jail for killing an animal?” My friend makes a thinking sound and finally says, “I’m not sure. There are animal protection laws but it’s not the same as killing a person.” The younger girl says, “True. Probably not as long. So, like a month?” The older girl says animals are better than humans and that statement hangs in the air along with the scent of garlic and onion. My friend breaks the silence, asking the older girl how many eggs to add.  

I like being around people who enjoy the company of their children. The warmth and respect my friend extends to her daughters makes the room feel cozy and safe. 

The four of us eventually go for a walk just as it begins to snow. The older one only agreed to the walk if we promised “good conversation.” The younger one lets us know she doesn’t like her jacket. We walk down to the lake and stare at the mountains for a while. We talk about the movie Encanto, best friends, and boys who can’t sit still.  

Later I will say to my husband about my friend. “She is such a good mom. She really listens to them and doesn’t try to change their opinions. It was really fun being with them today.” He will ask me if I shared this with her and I will say no, but I should. 

Bourdonnement

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I don’t retain vocabulary related to cancer. Recently someone asked me what pills I’m taking, and I needed to check the bottles. When someone asks what kind of chemotherapy I received, I need to look it up. In meetings with my oncologist, I can feel my brain reassuring me, Just write it down. Then I’ll get rid of it for you. 

One explanation could be that trauma-exposed individuals sometimes fail to retain upsetting words or material. I once read this somewhere. I don’t know where.

In addition to all the scientific terminology, I reject most of the expressive terms around disease – for example, I am not on a journey – and have a particular disdain for military metaphors. If one “loses the fight” against depression, then that person becomes a loser. Speaking about my father, I once wrote, “My dad wasn’t a soldier in the fight against Alzheimer’s. He was an accountant who forgot his friends’ names.” In Silvia Vasquez-Lavado’s beautiful memoir, In the Shadow of the Mountain, she writes, “Surviving doesn’t mean you’re okay. It doesn’t mean you’re better. It just means you’re alive.”

All that said, my right boob is squeaking. And there’s a name for that.  

In general, I love my fake breasts. They’re perky and squishy and, best of all, cancer free. But recently, one of them started squeaking. I first noticed it when I swim. Just as I bring my right arm over my head, I feel a rubbing sensation in my chest. It’s like the sound of bare legs on a leather couch, or rubber soles on a newly polished gym floor. Except no one else can hear it. The call is coming from inside the house. 

Last week, at my cancer support group, I unmuted myself and asked, “Has anyone else felt their implant squeak?” One woman laughed and said her implant “farts” when she’s at high altitude. Another woman googled squeaky implant and said, “It’s totally a thing. You can read about it.” 

Bourdonnement is a temporary condition where the implant rubs against the stretched-out pectoral muscle, causing friction. It is not dangerous, and when I emailed my plastic surgeon asking for advice, his office responded, “Yes, some women have reported this feeling.”

Upon learning that the condition was both temporary and benign, I became obsessed. This is a word I can get behind. It is fun to say and sounds like a lingerie shop or a corner store. “I’m taking my bicyclette down to the bourdonnement. Need anything?”

My French-speaking cousin says bourdonnement means buzzing (bourdon is French for bumblebee). A Greek friend texted me the following: “Bourdes means bullshit, and onnementos means that with which I am burdened and have to face. So bourdonnement must mean, Bullshit I have to deal with.” 

My physical therapist is teaching me breast massage, which should help the implants settle into place. But in the meantime, I hear a whoopie cushion every time I reach for the nice wineglasses. This morning I thought I heard a mouse in the shower, and later, when I closed the trunk of my car, I was startled by the sound of a rubber duckie. 

Maybe this is what it’s like to go crazy. Except instead of the voices telling me to jump out the window, they are reminding me I had cancer. What brave little soldiers. 

The Unmentionable

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It began with a closed bakery.

The Liguria Bakery in San Francisco, founded in 1911, sells only focaccia. I learned about the place on social media, from a colleague who posted a photo of a delicious looking raisin bread. I miss a chummy workplace, where you learn this sort of thing leaning on someone’s desk after returning their stapler. But this isn’t a pandemic story. 

After swimming this morning, I drove to the bakery, hungry and excited. Just yesterday, my naturopath advised me to limit my white flour intake to reduce the risk of cancer recurrence. But I would limit my white flour intake another day because also yesterday, I had to put my kitten to sleep. 

Upon discovering the bakery was closed, I drove away frustrated. I nearly plowed into a Mini Cooper driven by a woman in a baseball cap who didn’t see the stop sign. It was raining just enough to warrant windshield wipers but not enough so they wouldn’t squeak. Sighing, I turned on the radio. Cyndi Lauper was on. Confusion is nothing new.

At the next intersection I spotted a market on the corner with a chalkboard sign promoting mushroom coffee. “You won’t believe it!” the sign read in cursive. The naturopath had also mentioned mushrooms. I could try the coffee, and maybe a muffin. I grabbed a tote bag from the trunk because we also needed a few groceries.

I didn’t see a basket, so I used my own bag to collect a few things. Milk for the kids, eggs, soy sauce, and coconut cream because it came in a pretty tin. By the time I approached the counter to order my mushroom coffee and muffin, I had forgotten about the items I was carrying over my shoulder. It was only after I returned to the car that I realized I had just stolen my groceries. I sat in the front seat, sipping my coffee, deciding what to do next.

I recalled the last time I stole something. Many years ago, a package was delivered to our house, and I opened it to find two cute t-shirts I didn’t order. When I flipped over the envelope, I saw it was addressed to a house up the street. I kept the shirts, even after a curious teenager showed up at our door asking politely for a package meant for her. I lied to a child. I only wore the shirts under sweaters because I was worried the teenager would see me. When my husband discovered my secret, he was disturbed by my excuse. “It’s too late. I opened the package so I’m keeping the shirts.” I assigned blame to a brown envelope and refused to accept responsibility. A shocking amount of time went by before I admitted I was wrong. My husband used to bring up Operation T-Shirt from time to time, until I instructed him that this was an Unmentionable that he should take to his grave.

“Excuse me,” I said to the man who had made my mushroom coffee. He was frothing milk and said loudly, “Hold on.” I waited, holding my tote bag. “Coffee ok?” He looked surprised to see me again. I nodded and said, “Surprisingly good actually.” Then, as I unloaded my bag onto the counter, I added, “I inadvertently stole these.” He hadn’t heard me because of the mask. “I stole these,” I said loudly. “I’m sorry.” The petite woman in the yoga pants waiting for her drink looked over at me. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the oversized flowered coat I wear after swimming. 

He finally understood. “You didn’t pay for these,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. Yoga woman pulled out her phone. “Correct,” I said, putting my credit card on the counter. After the transaction, I put the items back in my bag, nodded at the woman, and scurried to my car. I removed my mask, took a sip of coffee, and looked in the rear-view mirror. My swim cap had left giant creases in my forehead.     

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