Ugly Girl Ties the Knot

by Alice Wasser

  But Sam is going to be okay. I know it.

  April 8:

  This morning I met the nurse who’s going to be helping Sam change his dressing in the morning. I offered to do the morning dressing too, but he was adamant that he didn’t want me to do it

  She showed up while Sam was still in the shower, so I went to answer the door. When I heard the phrase “home healthcare nurse,” I had been picturing somebody dumpy and middle-aged. I guess that was wishful thinking on my part, because the woman who stood before me was absolutely gorgeous. She was maybe in her mid-twenties with a curvy figure and white-blond hair—she looked like some sort of ice princess. I thought Sam’s cleaning woman was beautiful, but this girl was really something else. I know they just send over a random person and he had no choice in the matter, so I couldn’t very well blame him for her beauty, but it was hard not to feel a little bit irritated that this gorgeous woman was going to be in my home every morning.

  “I am looking for the home of Samuel Webber,” the woman said in a Slavic accent, reading off a paper in her hand.

  “You found it,” I told her with a twinge of regret.

  The woman looked me over. “You are Mr. Webber’s daughter, yes?”

  What? That was even worse than the doctor’s assumption that I was Sam’s aide. Although at least in this case, I could take it as a compliment.

  Before I could even contemplate how to answer that question, Sam wheeled into the room, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. I couldn’t help but notice that he looked pleased when he got a look at Eva. Really, who could blame him?

  “You must be Eva,” he said. “I’m Sam Webber.”

  Eva frowned at him and then burst out with, “You are so young!”

  “Um,” Sam said. “Thank you?”

  Eva held out the paper in her hand. “It says here that you are 74.”

  “I’m 34,” he corrected her.

  Eva still seemed confused and then ended up having to call the company to confirm she was at the right place, which she was. I wouldn’t have blamed Sam for being annoyed, but he took the whole thing with good humor, I’m sure in no small part because of how attractive Eva was. After it was all worked out, they set up a place on the couch for her to change the dressing.

  “Oh my,” Eva said when she saw his heel. “How did you do this?”

  “Let me give you some advice,” Sam said to her. “When they tell you don’t aim a nail gun at your foot, they mean it.”

  Eva laughed at his joke, shaking her head in amusement. “He is so funny,” she told me.

  “He sure is,” I muttered, trying to keep bitterness out of my voice. Sam is funny, but he’s only supposed be funny around me. Or around women who don’t look like international supermodels.

  Sam and I were carpooling to work, so I busied myself in the kitchen while Eva took care of his foot. When she finished, she made a point of saying goodbye to me on the way out. “Your husband is such a good patient,” she told me.

  I started to tell her that Sam isn’t my husband, but I figured this was one assumption that didn’t bother me.

  I had made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t mention Eva’s abundance of beauty, but I apparently have no self-restraint. On the way down in the elevator, I commented to Sam, “So she was very pretty, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Sort of.”

  I huffed in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Sam, you’re allowed to say a woman is attractive.”

  “Fine, she was attractive!” He rolled his eyes. “Happy?”

  Not really.

  “But she’s not as pretty as you,” he added.

  I assumed he was saying this to appease me, but it was just annoying. “Will you stop it? I am not prettier than her.”

  “To me you are,” he said so seriously that it was hard to stay irritated at him.

  We were taking Sam’s car to work, because he had the handicapped parking plates. He got himself into the car before I did, and stashed his chair in the backseat. Sometimes when he transfers himself, he gets muscle spasms in his legs, which is a complication of his spinal cord injury. Usually he grabs onto his knee and it quiets down.

  Except today the spasms in his right leg would not quiet down. He was holding his knee, and his leg just kept jumping up and down like he was really cold or really nervous. He repositioned himself in the seat and his leg still wouldn’t stop jumping.

  “Goddamn it,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Do you think you can drive?” I asked. “We can take my car if you’d like.”

  Sam shook his head again. “Just give me a minute. The dressing change must have set it off. It’s a reaction to pain I can’t feel.”

  He turned on the radio and we sat there, waiting for the spasms to subside. After about two minutes, his legs were still again.

  “Well, that was annoying,” he commented.

  “Is there anything you can do about it?” I asked.

  “There’s a medication that helps,” he said thoughtfully. “But… I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Medications have side effects,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything more about it, but then on the way home, we stopped off at the pharmacy to pick up a medication for him, so I guess he decided it was worth it after all.

  April 9:

  Today the printer that I use at work ran out of ink. My life is exciting, I know.

  There isn’t a person specifically assigned to the task of changing the ink cartridge on the printer. Basically, whoever drains the last of the ink is supposed to change it. And since I was printing out a report when the pages started having a big white streak in the middle, I was It.

  We have a supply closet, filled with any office supplies we could possibly need. I know a couple of my coworkers steal regularly from the closet, and I really don’t get that. Why would you jeopardize your job over a dollar pack of paperclips? Just go to Staples, for God’s sake.

  I scanned the contents of the closet and finally located a big cardboard box on the top shelf with “printer cartridges” written in big magic marker block letters. I made a reach for it, but the tips of my fingers just barely brushed against the bottom of the box.

  (Sometimes I hate being short.)

  I stood there for a minute, contemplating my options. I could have tried to recruit somebody to help me, but most of my friends at work are female and just as short as I am. Alternately, I could have found a chair to stand on that would almost certainly collapse under my BMI of 30.2. Neither option was particularly appealing.

  This is when having a boyfriend at work might’ve been helpful. Except Sam couldn’t reach the box any better than I could.

  I stood on my tippy toes, doing my best to reach the box. Of course, it did occur to me that if the box was filled with printer cartridges, it could be pretty heavy. If it dropped on my head, I was probably risking a concussion. But I’d deal with that later.

  “Need some help, Matilda?”

  I whirled around, nearly losing my balance in the process. I saw Jake Winston standing behind me, looking slightly amused.

  “I need ink for the printer,” I explained awkwardly. I pointed up at the box. “It’s a little high for me.”

  “No problem,” Jake said. He reached up and easily grabbed the box from the top shelf. “Here you go, m’lady.”

  I tried to take the box from him, but it turned out that the box was really heavy. I mean, ridiculously heavy. It slipped right out of my hands and fell to the floor.

  (Good thing I’m not entering any weightlifting competitions in the near future.)

  I picked out one of the cartridges as Jake watched. I looked up at him and smiled hopefully. “Um, do you think you could put it back for me?”

  Jake grabbed the box and hoisted it over his head without even grunting. Like it weighed as much as air.

  God, he was strong.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Jake grinned at me. “What ar
e men useful for if not getting heavy boxes down from high shelves?”

  I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it, but Jake’s remark sort of struck me. Mostly because I have a man who can’t get heavy boxes down from high shelves. As much as I try to pretend like it doesn’t bother me, occasionally it sort of does.

  “Anytime you need help with anything physical,” Jake said, “just send me a text and I’ll be right there.”

  “I don’t have your number,” I said.

  Jake’s smile broadened. “Well, that’s an easy one to fix.”

  And then I let Jake program his number into my phone. It’s not like I’m going to text him all the time or anything, but it would certainly be useful next time I need ink for the printer.

  April 10:

  Sam’s parents, Jean and Peter, flew in from Ohio for a celebratory dinner tonight.

  I want to emphasize how completely different the Webbers are from the Glockenfelds. My parents (mostly my mother) are really hyper, turn everything into a big deal, and pick on every little thing I do. In contrast, Sam’s parents are completely nice and laid back about everything.

  “You’re just idealizing my parents because you don’t know them like I do,” Sam told me once.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, my mother is completely meshugas,” Sam said, and he grinned proudly like he always does when he manages to squeeze into conversation some Yiddish word he picked up.

  Sam’s mother may be a little bit meshugas (crazy), but even he has to admit that my parents are orders of magnitude crazier than his.

  Sam left a little early from work to pick his parents up at the San Francisco airport and I was home by the time he got back. When Jean saw me, her eyes lit up and she practically crushed me in a hug. Her perfume made my eyes water slightly. “Congratulations, sweetheart!” she said. She took a step back to look at me and her eyes were filled with tears. “I’m just so happy for you two.”

  She didn’t have to convince me. Sam told me that his mother has been dying for him to get married for the last five to six years, since his younger brother tied the knot. I think part of it was that she sensed that Sam wanted to get married and she felt bad it wasn’t happening for him. Sam is an anomaly in that he really likes the idea of settling down with a wife and kids. That’s his upbringing and also what his brothers did.

  “I knew you were going to get married,” Jean said smugly. “When I first met you, I said to Peter, ‘This is the girl my Sammy is going to marry.’ Didn’t I say that, Peter?”

  “Yeah, but you said that about every girl Sam dated,” Peter said.

  Jean gasped in horror. “I did not!” She looked at me in confidence. “They were all awful, Millie. You were the first good one.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “All right, Mom. We get it. I dated a bunch of losers before Millie.”

  Jean then denied that was what she had been trying to say. I guess Sam’s right that his mother can be annoying. But she’s still light years better than my mother.

  Unfortunately, my mother was a hot topic of conversation during dinner. Jean just didn’t understand why my mother was so angry about my marrying Sam. Nobody wanted to say it, but I thought it was painfully obvious why my mother didn’t like Sam. I’m pretty sure Peter got it, but he was keeping his mouth shut. Jean just couldn’t seem to catch a hint though.

  “What did you say to Millie’s mother to offend her so much?” Jean asked Sam.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I was a perfect gentleman.”

  Jean looked at me for confirmation. “He was,” I admitted.

  “Maybe I should call her?” Jean suggested. “Try to smooth things over?”

  “I don’t think that will work,” Sam said.

  “So why doesn’t she like you?” Jean asked, baffled. “Everyone likes my Sammy.”

  Sam and I exchanged glances. I really didn’t understand why his mother couldn’t figure this one out. It was pretty obvious.

  “Mom,” he said slowly. “Millie’s mother doesn’t want her to marry me because I’m in a wheelchair.”

  Jean’s eyes widened like this had never even occurred to her. “No… is that true?”

  I nodded.

  This revelation seemed to really upset Sam’s mother. She sat back in her chair, looking really troubled. She barely touched her food after that and ignored her husband and son’s lighthearted attempts to cheer her up. She just seemed really sad. She was polite enough, but she seemed to have lost interest in celebrating.

  The whole thing made me feel really bad. Jean has always been so nice to me and loved me from the moment we met, and it’s not like I’m wonderful or perfect or anything. I’m embarrassed by my mother’s behavior. It’s just insulting.

  Unlike my own parents, the Webbers were totally fine with the fact that Sam and I were living together. Sam’s dad opened up the couch for them to sleep, which was a teeny bit uncomfortable but it was only two nights. I’m sure he would’ve given up his bed, but he’s got this special pressure relief mattress that he needs, so his parents were stuck with the sofa.

  While I was getting ready for sleep in our bedroom, I overheard Sam and his mother talking right outside the door. I don’t think Jean is capable of talking quietly, so I was able to hear her very well, even through the door. I had to strain a bit to hear Sam.

  “Mom, please don’t feel bad about this,” Sam was saying. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “It just makes me so upset,” Jean replied. “That someone could judge you and dislike you just because you can’t walk. You’re such a sweet and wonderful person.”

  “I’m not that sweet and wonderful,” Sam said. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “And you know she’s going to try to talk Millie into canceling the engagement,” Jean said. “That’s what mothers do.”

  “That’s what mothers do?”

  “You know what I mean, Sam,” she said.

  “Millie and I love each other,” Sam said. “We’re going to get married. Her mother can’t stop us.”

  “I hope you’re right, sweetheart.”

  “I am,” he said, but it struck me that he didn’t sound completely sure of himself.

  A few minutes later, Sam wheeled into our bedroom. He looked really spent, but he managed to flash me a weary smile. “Sorry about my mother,” he said.

  “You’re the last person who should be apologizing for your mother,” I pointed out.

  He smiled at me again and my heart fluttered. I remembered the uncertainty in his voice when he reassured his mother that I couldn’t be convinced to break off the engagement. I walked over to him, sat down in his lap, put my arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply on the lips. When we separated, he was grinning. “What was that for?”

  “That was for being the most wonderful fiancé in the world,” I said.

  I started kissing his neck and worked my way up to his earlobes. Of all the places I can put my lips, I think his earlobes are the money spot. If I want Sam to writhe and squirm, all I need to do is suck on his earlobes. Within seconds, he was moaning and his eyes were watering.

  “Millie, my parents are in the next room,” he managed to say.

  “So they’ll be happy for you,” I said.

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  April 14:

  Dieting is hard. Quite a revelation, I know.

  It’s especially hard when you’re in the relatively early stages of a relationship and want to go out to eat a lot. Restaurant portions are huge and God knows how much fat the dishes have. I’m sure they just throw sticks of butter into the frying pan like it’s nothing. If we go to a restaurant, the only thing that’s safe for me to get is a salad with no dressing. Which is obviously really delicious and filling.

  (I hate dieting.)

  We went out to dinner tonight and I got my dressing-free salad. Sam doesn’t usually order food that’s specifically meant to be healthy, but I think he just tends to like food that’s healthie
r for some reason. He very rarely eats red meat and he genuinely likes vegetables. He’s someone who could just eat a whole plate of vegetables and find that satisfying. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him. He eats whatever he wants but usually that food isn’t as bad as what I’d get if I were eating whatever I wanted. For example, tonight he got chicken breast cutlet with a side of grilled vegetables. That’s the last thing I would order if my BMI were in the normal range like his.

  When my salad arrived, he made a face at me. “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just lettuce,” he pointed out.

  “No, there are little tomato slices in it,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t you like some actual food?”

  “I’m on a diet,” I said through my teeth.

  “Still?”

  I sighed. I picked up a bottle of ketchup that was on the table and upended it over my salad. A glob of red squirted onto the topmost leaf. I picked up my fork to stir it in.

  I looked up to find that Sam was staring at me in horror. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Tomatoes have a really high content of lycopene,” I explained. “It’s really healthy. Raw tomatoes have it, but it’s actually easiest to digest as ketchup.”

  Sam shook his head. “You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?”

  I looked down at my plate. I had to admit, salad smeared with ketchup didn’t seem incredibly appealing now that I was actually looking at it. It actually seemed kind of disgusting. But at this point, I felt like I had no choice. “Of course I’m going to eat it!”

  Sam was completely ignoring his own food as he watched me spear a piece of lettuce with my fork. About midway to my mouth, I recognized how revolting the bite was going to be, but at that point I had too much forward momentum. A second later, I was chewing on a mouthful of lettuce and ketchup, trying not to gag.

  “Yum,” I said halfheartedly.

  Sam burst out laughing. “Okay, you made your point. Let’s get you some actual food to eat now.”