Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Oh.” MJ looked sheepish. “I didn’t remember who said it, just recall hearing it in one of my college classes. And it’s always stuck with me.”

  “I can see why it would, nature girl.”

  “Remember when we planned our trip? We said we’d be footloose and fancy free, able to go wherever we want, whenever we want. Whatever mood strikes us.” She crossed her arms. “Well the country mood is striking me, so I say we go to the Cotswolds tomorrow.”

  I was beginning to catch the footloose spirit, but I wasn’t quite up for the countryside yet. “Maybe we could go to Oxford first?” I asked meekly. “Delia recommended a great little bed-and-breakfast there.”

  “All right, all right. We go to Oxford tomorrow, then the Cotswolds. Then Yorkshire.

  “Ma’am, yes ma’am!” I gave her my air-force salute. “Hey, have you ever considered becoming a boot-camp drill instructor? You could have a great second career going there.”

  She threw another pillow at me. Followed by a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.

  The latter I inhaled. The former I punched before sticking under my head and turning it over a couple of times to find the cool spot. “We’ll be just like those women in Enchanted April who couldn’t wait to leave rainy London,” I said, finally getting into the spirit. “Only instead of going to the Italian countryside, we’re doing the English.”

  “Uh-huh,” my sleepy roommate replied.

  Once she fell asleep my brave face crumpled. So why did I come all this way, God? I thought it was to get together with Alex . . .

  So much for pure motives.

  I cried myself to sleep. But quietly.

  “What’s up with this whole ‘gift of singleness’ thing anyway?” I asked the next morning as we were packing to leave. “And how do I know if I even have it?”

  Mary Jo started to answer, but I was on a frustrated roll after nighttime dreams of Alex—which included that kiss and so much more on our happily-ever-after honeymoon—that I didn’t give her a chance. “Do I have this special singleness gift if I’m not lusting or will never lust again? But even Jimmy Carter lusted in his heart.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I remember reading that when I did a paper on him in junior high. He said it in a Playboy interview or something when he was running for president.” I shoved my socks into my small suitcase. “Of course, he was married and I’m not. So how can I have the gift if I’m still having lustful thoughts, even if they do include marriage wishes?”

  I stuck out my chin. “Yes, I admit it. Even though things with Alex didn’t work out, I’d still like to get married.”

  “Well, yeah, Pheebs. Who wouldn’t? But wanting it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. After all, you’re nearly thirty-two. Truth is, you don’t have much marriage shelf life left. That expiration date is fast approaching.”

  “Very funny, Ms. Has It All Together.”

  Mary Jo grinned as she folded her turtlenecks. “I so don’t have it all together. But this is the way I see it: If you’re single right now, then for now—today, this season of your life—you have the gift of singleness. Doesn’t mean it will be forever; doesn’t mean it won’t. That’s up to God. But how you handle it is up to you.”

  “Okay, Mother Teresa, I get the point.” I carefully tucked my new clothes back into their shopping bags. “But please don’t throw that scripture at me that married people do all the time—the one about trusting in the Lord with all your heart and He will give you the desires of your heart. Or if not, He’ll take away the desire.” I frowned. “That hasn’t been my experience at all.”

  “Mine either.”

  “What?” I stared at my contented-single friend. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I struggle just like you.” MJ sighed. “It’s a constant process of turning things over to God. I can have days, weeks, even months of being okay with where I am as a single. Then something will happen—like maybe I come down with the flu and wish I had someone to take care of me. Or I’m watching the news and some awful tragedy happens that makes me wish there was someone I could curl up next to for comfort.” She zipped her suitcase shut. “Or I want to move some furniture but I can’t do it all alone and I wish I had some strong guy to help.”

  “So what do you do?” I stared again at my stalwart, I-am-woman-hear- me-roar friend. “How do you handle it?”

  “I gnash my teeth, stomp my feet, and shake my fist at God. Then I call my friend from down the road—or just leave the furniture exactly where it is.” Mary Jo grinned. “And when I’m sick, I ask someone to bring me some chicken noodle soup. And as for the curling up with someone part”—her face split into a huge grin—“that’s why I have Riley.”

  “Maybe I need to get a dog. Herman’s more of a climber than a cuddler.” I gave Mary Jo a curious look. “So what about when you see some tragedy on the news then?”

  “I stop and pray for all those involved.”

  And that’s why she’s a WOG and you’re not, Pheebs. Get over yourself already!

  “And as far as marriage goes,” she added, “I’m so set in my ways at this point in my life that if I got married we’d have to have a duplex. Then he could have his space and I could have mine.”

  “With nighttime visiting hours of course.”

  “Of course.” She expelled a resigned sigh. “Phoebe, I’ve been exactly where you are right now; still go there sometimes. Do you know the last time I had a date?”

  Date? Mary Jo? I’ve never seen her with anyone—at least not since high school.

  I shook my head.

  “Four—no wait, I think it may have been five—years ago.”

  “I’d slash my wrists,” I blurted. My hand flew to my mouth. “Sorry. That’s just a really long time.”

  “I know. But there’s not a lot of available men in Barley.”

  I gave her a curious look. “Why do you stay in Barley then?”

  “Barley is my home,” she said simply. “God hasn’t called me anywhere else; except for this vacation to England. And that mission trip to Guatemala.”

  “But your odds would be so much better in a bigger city.”

  “It’s not about odds.” She smiled. “And it’s definitely not about geography. I have girlfriends in both Sacramento and the Bay Area who haven’t dated in a long time either. One’s our age, one’s forty, and another’s forty-seven.”

  I winced. “And all this is supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I’m just saying that it’s not about location or statistics. It’s about where you are with God and learning to be content in your circumstances.” She gave me a gentle look tempered with a crooked smile. “Getting married isn’t the only happily-ever-after, you know.”

  She frowned. “Those fairy tales we were raised on don’t help. And unfortunately, a lot of churches tend to perpetuate them. I’m not talking about Barley Pres here. But do you ever notice how some churches gear everything toward couples and families? And whenever someone preaches on singleness, the message is always just ‘Don’t have sex!’”

  “I hear ya on that.” I grimaced. “Although I’ve also heard a few pastors lump all single women together and say the reason we’re not married is that we chose to put off the highest calling of wife and motherhood to establish our selfish careers first.”

  Mary Jo shot me a wicked grin. “Hey, I know I’ve turned down plenty of proposals in favor of my selfish career. What about you?”

  “More than I can count. Just too busy clawing my way up that good ol’ corporate ladder, and those darn men dangling diamond rings got in my way.” I tossed my head. “And now that I’ve reached the pinnacle of professional accomplishment, well it’s just my own fault I don’t have anyone to share it with. You know what they say: ‘It’s lonely at the top.’”

  “It gets lonely sometimes wherever you are.” Mary Jo shook her head. “Most single women I know are simply trying to pay the bills and make good use of the gifts God has given them.
Sure, we struggle with the sex-and-romance thing . . .” She expelled a loud sigh. “Sue, my forty-year-old friend in the Bay Area, has even chosen not to watch romantic comedies anymore because it’s just too difficult. She can be strong and walking with the Lord, fine with being single. Then she’ll watch one of those love stories where a man and woman meet, have the requisite sparring and misunderstandings, and wind up happily ever after in two hours, and it sets her to longing all over again.

  “That’s why she started watching martial arts films,” she finished.

  I giggled. “But even Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a love story.”

  “I know. There’s no escaping it. Romantic love is all around—always will be.” She smiled. “But so is the love of God . . . and the friendships he puts in our lives.”

  “Preach it, sister. But be careful,” I warned her. “You’re veering into sappy territory here. Next thing you know, you’ll be singing me the theme song from Beaches.”

  [chapter fourteen]

  Oxford Dreaming

  mary Jo ran her hands reverently across the ancient tabletop. “Just think. C. S. Lewis might have sat at this very table. Or Tolkien.” She looked across at me, her eyes wide. “Maybe he even wrote some of Lord of the Rings here.”

  The Eagle and Child pub in Oxford is the one that the “Inklings” group—whose members included Lewis and Tolkien—used to frequent. Now we were frequenting it.

  Delia had picked us up at the train station, insisting we stay with her instead of the B&B, since her roommate was away and there was space. She’d explained that she didn’t actually live in her family’s London flat, just stayed there like the rest of the family when she was in town for a few days. Most days, she commuted to work. But she’d arranged to stay in Oxford that entire weekend to show us around.

  We’d dropped our bags at her flat, then she’d trundled us off to dinner at the famous pub. Now Delia and Mary Jo were engaged in a spirited discussion of Lewis’s theological works while I sat there mute, pretending an absorbed interest in my surroundings.

  Note to self: Start reading deeper Christian books so as to be able to converse intelligently with spiritual-giant friends.

  Do The Chronicles of Narnia qualify?

  Might as well face it, Pheebs. You’re never going to be a spiritual giant.You’re not even a spiritual tall person.

  During a lull in the conversation, I piped up. “Didn’t you just love Shadowlands? Although Debra Winger wouldn’t have been my first choice to play Joy. But Anthony Hopkins sure made a great C. S. Lewis.” I sighed. “Of course, that man could read the telephone book and I’d watch.”

  MJ took a bite of her chicken-and-mushroom pie. “Phoebe’s our resident movie expert. She knows every movie ever made. And then some.”

  “I know.” Delia smiled. “Just like Alex.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I’ve gone and put my foot into it, haven’t I?”

  “No.” I gave her an oh-well smile and tilted my head. “Obviously, it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Or my brother’s just daft. At least where our father’s concerned. Alex never looks beyond what Dad wants to what he wants.” Delia took another sip of her drink and muttered. “It’s not as if he’s the only member of the family who could run the company.” She gave herself a little shake, then offered me a warm smile. “I think you two would make a great pair, even if my brother is being a great idiot.”

  “It’s all right. Really. Alex and I didn’t have any kind of . . . understanding,” I said, echoing Emma Thompson’s Sense and Sensibility line. “We’d only been dating a little while before he came back here.” I shrugged my shoulders. “No harm, no foul. And he’s right, you know. Long-distance relationships never work.” I slid Delia a weak grin. “But please do me a favor and don’t tell me if he ever starts dating George.”

  One of the many benefits of staying with Delia—other than the obvious financial one—was that I didn’t need to scout out an Internet café to send my e-mail. While MJ and Delia watched The Office on BBC, I checked my messages and double-clicked on one from my sister-in-law.

  To: Movielovr

  From: Kgrants7

  Hey Ms. Continental, how’s everything? Hope you’re having the time of your life. Don’t worry about the little people you left behind—especially those of us who majored in English and drama and would give their firstborn child (not to worry; Ash understands. ) to be in the land of Shakespeare and Sir Laurence Olivier. But I’m not bitter. Not at all. Hah! You’d better at least bring me back a sweatshirt from Oxford, that noble ancient seat of learning. If you go, of course. The kids are doing great, other than Ashley having some boy trouble, but they all miss you. And Jordy’s working way too hard, but I can’t get him to slow down. A little thing called bills and seven mouths to feed. I’m thinking of becoming an Avon lady or Mary Kay rep to help out. (Can you imagine me in a pink convertible?. )

  Love, Karen

  An e-mail from Lindsey with the subject line, “Looking for Lost Best Friend” wasn’t quite as chipper.

  To: Movielovr

  From: LinsRog

  Hear ye. Hear ye. Looking for lost best friend whom I haven’t heard from in a while, other than a couple of impersonal e-mails that went out to a mass-mailing list. She abandoned me to go hobnob with the Queen and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Am I going to have to put out an all-points bulletin for my maid of honor? When last seen, she was traveling in the company of her new best friend.

  Although Lindsey had added in a couple of smiley faces to show she was teasing, I knew better. But her hurt feelings on top of Alex’s defection last night was simply more than I could handle at the moment.

  Especially since she still had a boyfriend.

  And not only a boyfriend, a fiancé—someone who actually wanted to marry her and stick with her for the whole for-better-or-worse, in-sickness- and-in-health thing.

  All I had were dashed hopes, lonely lips, and a job I didn’t even think I wanted, now that I knew Alex wasn’t coming back.

  Maybe it was time to seriously consider Phil’s job offer.

  But is that what you want for me, God? I know I can probably do it, but I must confess I don’t feel particularly called to do it . . .

  I wrote Lins back a brief reply, trying not to stretch the truth too much.

  To: LinsRog

  From: Movielovr

  Call off search party. Missing best friend is alive and well and still on the road in England. Sorry this has to be so short, but no time to write—and it’s not always easy to find an Internet connection. Miss you heaps and promise to send a long personal e-mail soon. England’s amazing. Love you, and love to Phillie too.

  I thought about sharing my Alex disappointment with her, but I wasn’t quite ready. Not yet. I just couldn’t bear it if she responded with a quick word of sympathy, then three paragraphs about her wedding.

  At breakfast the next morning, Mary Jo and I had oatmeal while Delia ate her Marmite. We watched in fascination as she spread the brown stuff onto a couple of pieces of bread.

  “Mmm. Lovely,” she said, taking a large bite and closing her eyes.

  Feeling a bit reckless and remembering how adventurous Esther had been on her travels, I decided to give the uniquely British delicacy a try. But when I raised the brewer’s-yeast concoction to my mouth, the smell almost knocked me out.

  Going for the familiar, I made my eyes all big and Oliver Twistish and extended my oatmeal bowl toward Delia. “Please, suh, I want some more?”

  “Sorry. All gone. But there’s plenty of Marmite left,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “Actually, you know what? I just realized I’m quite full after all.” I gulped down my tea. “Shall we go?”

  Delia spent the rest of the morning leading us on an insider’s tour of her famed university and all its different colleges—Magdalen, Trinity, Christ Church, and more. I managed to snag a couple of Oxford sweatshirts for Jordy and Karen befo
re she herded us to Blackwell’s, one of the largest bookshops in the world.

  “Whoa.” MJ’s eyes widened. “Books ’n’ Brew is nothing like this.”

  “That’s for sure.” Enraptured, we wandered from floor to floor in the large multilevel store. Grateful that my paycheck had at last been straightened out, I used my ATM card to buy a gorgeous set of The Chronicles of Narnia for the kids, Lewis’s Surprised by Joy for me, and the Lord of the Rings trilogy for Jordy before meeting back up with Delia in the coffee shop on the second level.

  “Where’s MJ?”

  “In the loo,” Delia said, absorbed in the sweets case. “She’ll be back directly.”

  While she paid for some shortbread, I picked up a brochure from the counter and thumbed through it. “Wow, look at this cool class:

  ‘Jane Austen in Film.’ I’d love to take something like that.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Aside from the money issue, you mean? Hel-looo . . . not a student at Oxford, remember?”

  Delia examined the brochure. “This isn’t for regular students. It’s with University Vacations, which means any adult can go.” She looked at the date. “It starts in two weeks.” Her eyes widened. “You should do it. That would be brilliant! And you could stay in my flat to save money. We’d have a blast. Plus,” she shot me an innocent look, “that would give you more time with my idiot brother. I just know he’d come to his senses.”

  “True . . .” I chewed my lower lip.

  The classroom lights brightened as the Emma credits roll. And when discussion began, I quickly realized I could more than hold my own. Though my academic background can’t match those of my classmates and professor (who looked remarkably like Michael Caine), there’s no denying my extensive knowledge of all things film. Everyone is awed by my brilliant and well-expressed insights; it’s a real Educating Rita moment. And afterward, as I jog down the stone college steps surrounded by an admiring throng of mostly male classmates, I see Alex waiting for me at the base of the stairs, a bunch of daffodils in his hand. “Darling . . .”