Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 41



Once Ruth had gone back into the library, I sat in my car for a little while.

I thought about “Till I Get It Right,” the piece from a notebook I’d read the night before. There Bruce was mentioned so casually and even a little bit fondly—unlike in their more present encounter, where Gretchen had conveyed him as cagey and odd. In both past and present descriptions, Bruce certainly sounded like one of the men who’d shown up for Gretchen’s reading—tall with a lot of puffy dark hair. I wanted to look back at Gretchen’s more recent description of him, but I didn’t have it with me. Also—I grew anxious as I remembered this, alone in my car—Willingham was pretty near the University of New Hampshire, where Bruce worked.

In any case, I thought again that I might like to just get a look at the guy myself. Just to get a feel for what kind of person he was. Plus a few of the other people Gretchen had interviewed in the last days of her life. But especially him.

Now hungry, I wandered over to the Dragon Buffet.

“How much is it for lunch?” I asked the rail-thin hostess.

“Eight ninety-nine,” she answered. “Just one?”

“Um . . . well. I’m not sure. Do you have those little fried doughnuts? Those little puffy appetizer doughnuts with the sugar on them?”

“Sorry? You want sugar?”

“Never mind. It’s okay. Yes, one person for the buffet,” I said.

I discovered, to my relief, that they had the little doughnuts. I piled my plate with five of them and ordered a glass of milk. The doughnuts were gone before I’d had a chance to reconsider. Then I went back and guiltily filled my plate with a bunch of broccoli, plus several strips of chicken breast for protein. I thought of asking about the MSG, but decided I probably didn’t want to know. During this second trip to the buffet, I noticed a woman—about my age, and dining with a toddler—staring at me, watching me carefully as I refilled my plate. Probably she’d witnessed my doughnut run. I stiffened as I returned to my table.

Since becoming pregnant—and particularly visibly pregnant—I’d considered printing up “None of Your Business” cards. I could wordlessly hand them out to people staring at me as I purchased beer for Sam at the grocery store, or gobbled down an order of Wendy’s french fries at my desk at work. I’d have special embossed lettering for acquaintances who feel they can suddenly ask me about personal or medical-type matters—like whether I’m going to breast-feed. A special limited-edition card—perhaps reading None of Your F*cking Business—would be reserved for anyone who asks me if I plan to have a water birth.

I ate my broccoli more slowly than the doughnuts, reading one of Gretchen’s notebooks so I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about being the conspicuous pregnant lady dining alone.