CHAPTER FIVE
Through the keyhole, Mrs. Bartle looked like a little white raisin with huge blue eyes. Her eyes always looked big and pleading when she was about to ask a favor, like she was afraid of disturbing the balance of Diana's busy life. The irony there was that Mrs. Bartle had a far more exciting life than Diana had ever had—she at least had happy memories.
"Dear, I was wondering if you could drive me down to the dry cleaners," she said when Diana opened the door. "I would walk, but the man on the news said it's unseasonably hot today and that old fuddy-duddies like me shouldn't be outdoors for long periods of time."
Diana giggled. "Well, you're not an old fuddy-duddy, Mrs. Bartle, but of course I'll take you. Maybe we could stop for lunch on the way back."
"Oh, I'd love to, dear," Mrs. Bartle answered regretfully, "but I've got bridge with the girls at one o'clock."
"Is it Monday already?" Diana asked. "I guess I forgot." Mrs. Bartle had been playing bridge with "the girls" every Monday afternoon since before Henry retired. For more than thirty years, the same ladies had been coming to her place, once the house she shared with Henry and now her apartment, to have tea and cherry strudel and to play cards. All the same ladies except for one—Mrs. Glickman died of liver failure last year. She had been buried on a Monday morning, and they played bridge that same afternoon with one of the other ladies' daughters in her place, explaining that "Esther would have wanted it that way." Mrs. Bartle had since asked Diana to join the group, but Diana had declined. Sitting around a table full of old ladies every Monday afternoon would feel too much like giving up—a public declaration of her inability to form a normal social life. She could only imagine what her mother would say if she found out. Oh, Diana, really! Can't you find friends your own age? Besides, it kind of scared her to fill the seat of a dead woman. She didn't want to be the new generation of bridge, especially if meant replacing the old one as its members dropped like flies. It seemed that by becoming Mrs. Glickman's permanent replacement, she'd be admitting that people actually died when they died, that fond memories were worthless when there was a game to be played, and that old people weren't built to last. And she didn't want Mrs. Bartle to realize these things. The poor woman had already buried a beloved husband and a cherished lifetime friend. Filling that cherished friend's spot at the bridge table would be like waving a sign: Out with the old, in with the new! Diana didn't want to be a symbol of grave mortal realities in the game circle, a constant reminder that replacements would need to be made for Mrs. Bartle's other two friends at some inevitable point in time. Or maybe she was just a coward. Not that she worried much about Mrs. Bartle's life span. That woman was more than alive, and she had enough energy to light the busiest city skyline on the darkest night of the year. And she knew it. She'd often boasted to Diana that the last three generations of women in her family had lived to be at least a hundred-and-one-years old, the youngest to die having been her mother, whose death was purely accidental and could not be attributed to failing health. A very heavy sleeper, as the story went, Mrs. Bartle's mother had dozed off in a lawn chair on an overcast afternoon and had awoken some time later to a turbulent storm already in progress. On her way to seek shelter in the house, she was struck down by a tree that had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Mrs. Bartle's father, who had died one month earlier, had planted the tree, and the family had said that knocking it down was his way of calling his wife home. Then there was her grandmother, who had lived to be a hundred and two, and her great-grandmother, who had died the day before her hundred-and-third birthday. Mrs. Bartle was just a vivacious ninety-three now. A hundred-and-one was still eight years away. And in eight years, Diana would be forty. Who knew if she'd live that long? Who knew if she even wanted to?
"You know, dear," Mrs. Bartle said, "you really should try playing with us some time. Mrs. Livingston's niece is interested in learning the game. If you became her partner, then we could have tournaments—you know, where one team watches and then plays the winner. That could be fun for everybody, and it would really give both of you a chance to watch the pros in action from time to time."
"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Bartle. I've got . . ." Diana didn't want to lie to her. She had no genuine excuse and couldn't bring herself to make one up. Fortunately, Mrs. Bartle always knew when to save her.
"Oh, I understand, dear," she said, waving her little hand to dismiss the idea. "I know how busy you are, doing whatever it is you young people do these days. Just know you're always welcome."
"Thanks," Diana said gratefully. Something she loved about Mrs. Bartle was that she not only included her amongst the youth of the day, but that she also never asked any questions that would reveal what Diana actually did with her afternoons. Not that talk shows were a bad thing. It's just that living for other people's lives can make a thirty-two-year-old woman keenly aware that she needs to find one of her own.
Do you know a woman who is over thirty and thinks she will NEVER get married because her father abandoned her and now she has a weight problem? Are YOU that woman? Well, then you could be a guest on the Jessica Henley Show! Just dial 1-800-JESSICA and tell us your story.
Diana turned off the television and picked up the phone. After a few deep breaths, she allowed her fingers to dial, and with each passing ring, she struggled with the impulse to just hang up. But then somebody answered, and she knew it was too late.
"Hello."
"Hi Mom." There was no turning back now.
"Diana! Are you calling to cancel lunch for Thursday? Because I must tell you, I was thinking of doing the same thing. I've signed up for a new aerobics class, and realizing you probably wouldn't be interested in going with me—I mean, we both know exercise has never really been your thing . . ." Mrs. Christopher paused to lend a little laugh to her insult, continuing just as Diana was about to interrupt with the real reason she'd called. "Anyway, I'd scheduled the class for Monday and Wednesday afternoons so that we could still keep our lunches. But judging by how tired today's class made me, and since it's the first week and all, I was thinking it would be easier on my body if I used Thursday as kind of a relax day, you know—a little R and R for my muscles, which I must admit are not used to all the work!"
"Mom?" Diana could feel her nerve waning. It was now or never.
"Oh, honey, I'm not talking about every Thursday, just this first one."
"Mom?"
"I mean, it's not like we'd be stopping the weekly lunch thing altogether. Hey, I'll tell ya what. How about we switch Ping's to Fridays? I mean, you're not busy on Fridays are you?"
"Mom?"
"Well, are you, Diana?"
"Mom?"
"Yes, honey, what's the matter? You've hardly said a thing!"
Diana counted silently to five, her head spinning, her heart pounding. This was one of the scariest and most embarrassing things she ever had to admit, but she couldn't keep it to herself another day. She needed her mother's help. "Mom," she began, her voice wavering, "I'm pregnant."