The next morning, Christine made him oatmeal and tried to tell him to hold on to the momentum in his life, to try to channel it into a healthier direction. “Remember,” she said, “not all those who wander are lost.”

  He thanked her for breakfast and for everything else and hurried out, hoping she wouldn’t see how irritated he was. It seemed like such a pointless, flaky thing to say. Even if it was his favorite line from The Lord of the Rings.

  CHAPTER 48

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Mon, 12/06/1999 9:28 AM

  Subject: I’ll bet you’re the kind of girl who’s already picked out baby names.

  Am I right? What are they?

  <> Like I’m going to tell you. A pregnant person.

  <> I’m not going to steal them.

  <> That’s what they all say. Are you starting to pick out names?

  <> I’m not. Mitch is. Actually, he already has a name that he likes: Cody.

  <> For a girl or a boy?

  <> Either.

  <> Hmm.

  <> Go ahead. I know it’s awful.

  <> It really is. For either a boy or a girl.

  <> I know.

  <> That name feathers its bangs.

  <> I know.

  <> It collects dream catchers.

  <> I know.

  <> It cries out for the middle name “Dawn.”

  <> I know, I know, I know.

  <> So, did you say, “No child of mine will be named Cody, not in this lifetime, not in the next 50 lifetimes.”

  <> I said, “Let’s wait on names until we know what we’re having.”

  And he said, “But that’s the beauty of Cody. It works for everything.”

  <> I know it’s mean to laugh at someone who might have to name her firstborn Cody, but I can’t help it. It works for everything.

  What names do you like?

  <> I don’t know. I can’t even think about it that way, like something with a name.

  I feel like Mitch should get to pick out the name because he’s more invested in this whole idea. It’s like, when you’re going out to dinner and you don’t really care where you go, but the other person really wants to go to the Chinese buffet. Maybe you don’t love the Chinese buffet, but it’s kind of rude to argue when you don’t even really care.

  <> Um. I think you’ve got a lot invested in this baby. You’re the one carrying it.

  <> Yes, but Mitch is more attached to it.

  <> Your umbilical cord begs to differ.

  <> Do you think I have an umbilical cord already? I’m only six weeks along.

  <> Isn’t that what feeds the baby?

  <> Yes, but it doesn’t pop out of nowhere. It’s not like you already have a cord in your uterus that’s just waiting for an outlet to plug into.

  <> I think it forms with the baby. Isn’t this covered in that What to Expect When You’re Expecting book?

  <> I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I can’t stand books like that. Why should every pregnant woman be expected to read the same book? Or any book? Being pregnant isn’t that complicated. What to Expect When You’re Expecting shouldn’t be a book. It should be a Post-it: “Take your vitamins. Don’t drink vodka. Get used to empire waistlines.”

  <> I might have to see if there’s a What to Expect When Your Crabby Best Friend is Expecting book. I want to know about the umbilical cord.

  <> It’s nice of you to say I’m your best friend.

  <> You are my best friend, dummy.

  <> Really? You’re my best friend. But I always assumed that somebody else was your best friend, and I was totally okay with that. You don’t have to say that I’m your best friend just to make me feel good.

  <> You’re so lame.

  <> That’s why I figured somebody else was your best friend.

  CHAPTER 49

  THAT NIGHT, WHEN Lincoln was changing the toner in a printer near the copy desk, he heard one of the editors complaining about some numbers that might be wrong in a story. “If journalism majors were required to take math, I might know for sure,” the guy said, throwing a calculator off his desk in frustration.

  Lincoln picked it up and offered to help check the math. The copy editor, Chuck, was so grateful that he invited Lincoln to go out with a bunch of the copy desk people after work. They went to a bar across the river. Bars in Iowa stayed open until 2:00 a.m.

  Look at me, Lincoln thought, I’m out. With people. New people.

  He even made plans to play golf with a few of the guys the next day. Chuck told Lincoln that copy editors do everything together because “the shitty hours keep you from meeting regular people.” And also, another editor said, from figuring out that your wife is sleeping with some guy she met at church.

  The copy editors drank cheap beer and seemed kind of bitter. About everything. But Lincoln felt at home with them. They all read too much, and watched too much TV, and argued about movies like they were things that had actually happened.

  The little blond one, Emilie, sat next to Lincoln at the bar, and tried to get him to talk to her about Star Wars. Which worked. Especially after she bought him a Heineken and said she didn’t notice any differences between the original movie and the special edition.

  Everything about Emilie—her button nose, her delicate shoulders, her ponytail—reminded Lincoln of everything Beth had written about her. Which made him laugh and flush more than he meant to.

  AT THE NEXT weekend’s D&D game, Christine pulled Lincoln aside to ask about his situation at work. “Did you stop reading that woman’s e-mail?” Christine asked.

  “No,” Lincoln said, “but I didn’t walk by her desk this week.”

  Christine bit her lip and rocked the baby nervously. “I’m not sure that counts as progress.”

  CHAPTER 50

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Mon, 12/13/1999 9:54 AM

  Subject: How was the shower?

  Your tea party shower for Kiley was this weekend, right?

  <> Ugh. Yes. Don’t ask.

  <> You have to tell me about it. This is all about you proving you’ve got what it takes to throw my baby shower.

  <> I don’t want to think about showers right now. I might not even take showers anymore.

  <> What happened? Did you pour tea into someone’s lap?

  <> Uh. No. Somebody would have had to have given me the opportunity to actually pour tea for that to happen. Apparently, Tri-Delts don’t drink tea. They drink Diet Coke—Diet Pepsi in a pinch—but hot tea? Not so much.

  I had five varieties of tea, I had my grandmother’s china, I had sugar cubes and real cream. But it hadn’t occurred to me to buy Diet Coke when I was shopping for my tea party.

  I had to send Chris to Kwik Shop.

  <> Chris came to the shower?

  <> He didn’t really come. He just didn’t leave. Which was awesome because I hadn’t considered that tea sandwiches are about eight times more complicated than regular sandwiches. Chris sliced English cucumbers and blanched asparagus and spent probably an hour trimming crusts.

  Again, not that anyone noticed. You know what else Tri-Delts don’t really like, besides hot tea? Bread. One of Kiley’s bridesmaids actually said, “I never eat bread on the weekends. I save my carbs for partying.”

  <> What kind of parties does she go to—cupcake parties?

  <> I think she meant beer.

  <> Oh, right. So, what did you do?

  <> What could I do? Chris went to buy Diet Coke. They all loved him, by the way. They thought nothing of refusing my tea, spurning my sandwiches, and flirting with my boyfriend.

  <> Did he flirt back?

  <> Not exactly. He was very solicitous. He brought out ice, glasses, a bottle of rum, and all the extra vegetables from the kitchen. And every once in a while, he’d run his fingers through his hair as he was refilling their drinks, which made them just swoon. If he hadn’t slipped out while Kiley was opening presents, those girls never would have left.

  <> That was really nice of him to help you. I’m sorry the shower was such a disaster.

  <> It was nice of him. He was nice all day. He came back home about an hour after they cleared out, and I was still sitting on the couch, feeling sorry for myself and thinking about how every one of those idiotic girls is going to get married before me, and about how Diet Coke and rum is the most moronic drink of all time. They should call it a Moron, so that girls who order it would have to call themselves out at the bar.

  Chris walked in and sat next to me, and was all, “don’t worry about it” and “pearls to swine” and “you don’t even want to impress girls like that.” And I pointed out that they seemed to like him well enough.

  “What does that say about me?” he said. “That I’m attractive to women who drink rum and Diet Coke?”

  “Isn’t that the stupidest drink of all time?” I said. “Their faces lit up when you offered it to them.”

  “I can spot a Skinny Pirate–drinker a mile away.”

  And I was, like, “Huh. So there’s already a name for that.”

  Then he reminded me that there were dozens of sandwiches left in the kitchen, most of them containing cream cheese. So we drank tea and each ate enough finger sandwiches to feed an entire sorority.

  <> Sometimes, I really like him.

  <> Me, too. If he was always the person that he was on Saturday, I would be leading a charmed life.

  <> Who is he usually?

  <> It’s not like he’s somebody else. It’s like he’s usually nobody at all.

  That sounds terrible. I shouldn’t say that.

  <> Do you feel like he ignores you?

  <> No. I feel like he doesn’t see me. Or anything. I’d say it was like living with a ghost, but ghosts haunt you, right? Chris doesn’t usually do anything that engaging.

  <> Do you think he’s that way with everybody?

  <> No. I think he makes more of an effort with strangers. When he’s performing, he sort of pretends to interact with the crowd …I think that wears him out. I think he’s relieved to come home to someone who doesn’t expect him to fake it. Who doesn’t expect anything.

  Anyway. How are you? How was your weekend?

  <> I have some news: I broke Mitch the bad news about Cody.

  <> I thought you were going to ignore that and hope it went away.

  <> I was going to, but he started calling my stomach “Little Cody.” I couldn’t handle it, I had to tell him to stop. I had to tell him that no part of my body—or anything that came from my body—would ever be called Cody.

  “What about Dakota?” he asked.

  “Never. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be Cody … ,” he said. “What names do you like better?”

  I told him that I didn’t know, but that I liked names that are classic, distinguished, like Elizabeth for a girl. Or Sarah with an H. Or Anna. And for a boy, John or Andrew or even Mitchell. I told him that I love the name Mitchell.

  He wasn’t disappointed at all, that I could tell. He said he liked all those names. It was such a relief. I like this baby better already, knowing that it won’t be called Cody.

  Mitch is so happy that this is happening, I think he’ll let me pick whatever name I want. He was being so sweet that I almost told him that Dakota might work for a middle name …

  Then I decided I needed to start thinking like a mother with a child to protect.

  <> I knew your maternal instinct would kick in eventually.

  CHAPTER 51

  LINCOLN READ THIS exchange more than once. More than twice. More than he should have. And every time he read it, his stomach knotted a little tighter.

  He still couldn’t see this girl. This woman. But he could picture Chris clearly, and for the first time since—well, since all this had started—Lincoln was angry.

  He hated to think of Chris being so tender with Beth. Making her tea, soothing her nerves. Preferring her. And he hated, too, to think of Chris neglecting her, being nobody with her. He hated to think of their eight years together. Lincoln hated to think that even if he could talk to Beth, even if it was possible, even if he hadn’t backed himself into this corner, she would still be in love with somebody else.

  He was so agitated at dinner that he let Doris eat his share of pumpkin cake.

  “This lemon icing is wonderful,” she said, “so sour. Who would have thought to put lemon icing on pumpkin cake? Your mother should open a restaurant. What does she do for a living?”

  “She doesn’t work,” he said. His mother had never worked, as long as he could remember. She still got a little money from Eve’s dad, who she’d divorced years before Lincoln was born. And she was a licensed massage therapist. That had been a somewhat serious gig for a while. Sometimes in the summertime, she did chair massages at flea markets. His mom never seemed to be short of money. But Lincoln should probably be paying rent, he thought, or at least helping with the groceries …especially now that his mom was feeding Doris, too.

  “What about your dad? What does he do?”

  “I don’t know,” Lincoln said. “I’ve never met him.”

  Doris clucked and choked on her cake. She put her hand on his shoulder. Lincoln hoped that Beth wasn’t about to walk in. “You poor kid,” Doris said.

  “It’s really not so bad,” he said.

  “Not so bad? It’s a terrible thing to grow up without a father.”

  “It wasn’t,” Lincoln said, but maybe it was. How would he know? “It was fine.”

  Doris patted him a few times before she pulled her hand away.

  “No wonder your mother cooks for you.”

  Lincoln went back to his desk after dinner and tried to think about his dad. (Who he really had never met. Who might not even know that Lincoln existed.) He ended up thinking about Sam instead. She used to tell Lincoln that he should “work the fatherless boy thing.”

  “It’s very romantic,” she’d said. They were at the park. Sitting on top of the monkey bars. “Very James Dean in East of Eden.”

  “James Dean is a motherless boy in East of Eden.” Lincoln hadn’t seen the movie, but he’d read the book. He’d read everything by Steinbeck.

  “What about Rebel Without a Cause?”

  “I think he had both parents in that one.”

  “Details,” Sam said. “James Dean reeked of fatherless boy.”

  “How is that romantic?” Lincoln had asked.

  “It makes you seem unpredictable,” she said, “like a sad chasm could emerge in your personality at any moment.”

  He’d laughed then, but now it didn’t seem so funny. Maybe that’s where he was stuck. In the sad chasm.

  “MOM SAYS YOU’VE been acting weird,” Eve said when he met her for lunch the next day at Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Eve’s choice.)

  “What kind of weird?”

  “She says you’re up and down all the time and that you’re losing weight. She thinks you might be taking diet pills. She compared you to Patty Duke.”

  “I’m losing weight because I joined a gym,” he said, setting down his spork. “I told you about it already. I go before work.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I can tell. You look nice. You’re standing straighter. And your beer gut is receding.”

  “I don’t drink that much beer.”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” she said. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, why are you acting so weird?”

  He almost argued that he wasn’t, but that seemed pointless and like a lie.

  “I don’t know,” he said instead. “Sometimes, I think I’m really happy. I feel better, physically, than I have in a long time. And, socially, I feel better. Like I’m connecting with people. Like I’m talking to new people, and it isn’t as hard as it used to be.”

  That was true, even though the new people probably weren’t the sort of people Eve was hoping he’d connect with …

  Doris.

  And Justin and Dena, who weren’t exactly new.

  And the copy editors, who were an awful lot like D&D players who didn’t play D&D. They still counted as new. A bunch of them were even girls—not girls Lincoln was interested in, but girls.

  Beth and Jennifer seemed to count. Even though they obviously didn’t.

  “I feel like I’m finally getting over things,” Lincoln said. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

  His sister was watching his face closely. “No,” she said, “that all sounds really good.”

  He nodded. “But I still feel really hopeless sometimes. I don’t like my job. And I’ve stopped thinking about finding another one. And, even though I hardly ever think about Sam anymore, it still seems impossible that I might have something like that again. A relationship, I guess.”

  If he had made that confession to his mother, she would have burst into tears. But Eve looked at Lincoln the way he looked at people when they were explaining their computer problems. He felt partly responsible for that line between her eyebrows.