I place my arm around Chris and put my head on his shoulder. “We weren’t great at this parenting thing, were we? For all our education and our plans and our hopes and our lofty dreams, we kind of sucked out loud.”
“Why is that?” he asks. “How did we go wrong?”
“I don’t know. What’s sad is that our parents with their three-martini lunches, smoking while we were in utero, not making us wear seat belts or bike helmets, and telling us to go play outside and not come home until dark did a better job than we did.”
“They sort of did. That’s bullshit.”
“Right? You and I? We turned out to be two fairly well-adjusted grown-ups. For all our big talk about happiness and success, we have two miserable daughters trapped in a state of arrested development.”
“We tried so hard. We tried so goddamned hard,” he says, laying his head on mine. “How do you work so hard and mess it up so much?”
“I have no idea. Statistically, it seems impossible, yet here we are. Will we be better at grandchildren? Maybe if it’s a boy, he’ll be—whoa. Wait. Wait a hot damn minute.” I grab Chris’s arm. “Topher is okay.”
“What?”
“Topher. He’s happy. He’s well-adjusted. He graduated and got a phenomenal job. He takes care of himself. He doesn’t live here. We have a thirty-three percent success rate! We’re not total failures!”
Chris’s entire face lights up with joy at realizing we’re not complete washouts. “You’re right! He’s a great kid with his act fully together. He’s pretty mad at me, but I kind of deserve it.”
I poke him hard in the gut, and he grunts. “Hell, yes, you deserve it! You wrecked smooth jazz for everyone, but otherwise, TOPHER IS OKAY! We didn’t ruin him!”
We both high-five and cheer and hug each other, and suddenly I’m enveloped in his familiar citrus and cinnamon cologne and I don’t care about my stupid rules or what’s most logical. I can only say that this feels right in this moment. He holds me tightly, too, and when we do finally release, we stay locked in each other’s gaze.
I can’t predict what might have happened next, given the intoxicating combination of the news of the night, the profound level of honesty, and the aphrodisiac better known as the Hallmark Movie Channel, but the spell is broken when we hear my parents come clattering in the back door and up the stairs in the kitchen.
We pull apart, saying our good nights immediately, and heading to bed separately.
Which is probably for the best.
I think.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: June 26th
Subject: All clear
Dear Mrs. Sinclair,
Per my voice mail, I’m attaching the results from Maxwell Sinclair’s CT scan and MRI. As stated, there is no evidence of stroke, brain tumor, blood vessel damage, or shrinking of the frontal or temporal lobe. In short, this is good news that we can discuss further at your father’s next appointment.
Please call the office if you have additional questions before then.
Sincerely,
Dr. S. Vora
• • • •
In my dream, I’m coming home from my internship at the insurance company during the summer of 1984, clad in Reeboks and one of Marjorie’s old suits with the giant David Byrne–type shoulder pads. I can’t say if the jacket was really this wide in the shoulders or if everything is slightly exaggerated in this illusory state, but most other parts of the memory remain true to life, rather than surreal, like how the other commuters are reading the Sun-Times or listening to their Walkmans or sipping Old Style tallboys.
Chris is picking me up from the train station, fresh off the day’s roofing job. We make an odd pair, me in my grown-up business attire and him in grimy jeans, work boots, and a sweat-stained Elvis Costello T-shirt. When Marjorie witnessed this dichotomy for herself the first time, she had a fit. She began to meddle relentlessly, and I allowed her to get into my head. I let her convince me that being with Chris was a risk I couldn’t afford to take, not if I wanted a proper future.
It’s Tuesday, the third of July, the day I tell Chris that our relationship isn’t going anywhere and we need to break up. I feel a sense of dread and loss because of this. I know how this dream goes because it reoccurs whenever I’m under stress or going through a transitional period.
The tiny part of me that is conscious tries to fully wake myself. I know that if I can just rouse myself, everything will be okay. Barring that, I can reach out and Chris will be next to me.
I’m too tired to open my eyes, so I roll over and there he is. I can feel the warmth from his body and I press up against him. I smile to myself. It was only a bad dream. I can relax again. I inhale, expecting the faint scent of cloves and cinnamon and citrus.
Instead, I smell . . . a wet welcome mat?
I open my eyes in the gray light of predawn to find myself snuggled up next to Caroline, who’s resting her massive head on the pillow next to me. She’s spread out along the length of the bed. She’s literally the size of another person. No wonder Milo didn’t want her in bed with them. She notices me looking at her and gazes back at me with her soulful cocoa-colored eyes. She thumps her tail and gently touches my shoulder with one of her massive paws. I believe she’s trying to hug me, like the large, cuddly, foul-smelling teddy bear that she is.
You know what? I’m not made of stone.
I allow this.
I bet with a trip to the groomer and a few (dozen) sessions with a trainer, Caroline has the potential to be a fine family dog. She shifts and rests her massive head on my hip, exhaling with pure contentment.
Yeah, this is sweet.
As I lie here with my new best friend, I try to interpret my reaction to the dream. Is it odd that my subconscious is still rooting for me/expecting me to be with Chris? I mean, we definitely have a history together, and I can’t discount that. If the past few weeks are any indication, we’ll absolutely be friends going forward. And, there’s still chemistry. There never wasn’t chemistry. Hell, at times all we had was chemistry.
The hurdle I can’t leap over, the part that gives me pause, what I’m afraid I can’t get past, what made me march up the stairs last night instead of dive into the pullout bed in the den was the numbers.
I say to Caroline, “How can I trust him again when there’s so little empirical evidence that getting back together is a good idea? According to one survey, up to sixty percent of men who have cheated would cheat again. I can’t go through this again. I can’t put my friends through this again. I can’t buy more spite-pillows. I can’t add more weight to my kettlebell workouts; I’ll start looking like the Rock.”
Caroline keeps her gaze focused on me. I know she can’t understand anything I’m saying, but it feels as though she’s listening to me.
I tell her, “Another study shows that men who cheat are three point five times more likely to do it again. These aren’t even men who claim to be unhappy in their marriages! I recently read about a poll in which seventy-four percent of male respondents admitted they’d have an affair if they knew they wouldn’t get caught. What? Women aren’t much better, with sixty-eight percent ready to hop into bed with someone else, provided it’s risk-free.”
She nudges my hand to indicate her desire to be petted. Her fur, aromatic though it may be, is surprisingly silky.
“Why, Caroline? What is so wrong with everyone’s lives that this sounds like a fine alternative? Doesn’t anyone just want to watch television sometimes? Empire is a really good show. Maybe you’ll see it with me sometime and we can have cheese. I bet you’d like that. But my point is, isn’t anybody guided by a moral compass anymore? Doesn’t anyone want to be with their one and only not because they’re afraid they’ll be busted but becau
se they can’t imagine life with someone else? Don’t they long to grow old with their original lobster? (It’s a Friends reference, Caroline. That was a good show, too.) Why are so many willing to do the unspeakable as long as no one’s looking? Isn’t the definition of a decent human being someone who does the right thing even when no one can see it? Would people also be as likely to commit crimes like robbery or murder if there were no chance of getting caught? Oh, Caroline. I don’t get people. I really don’t.”
She burrows in close to me as if to say, You raise many valid questions, and yet it’s still so very early. Perhaps we’ll find some answers if we quiet ourselves for a moment. She lays her paw on my chest, as if to calm me.
The dog may be onto something.
Perhaps I will sleep on this a bit more.
• • • •
When I wake up, Caroline is gone, having left a trail of destruction in her wake. For a minute I think it’s snowed in my bedroom and I’m reminded of the early days in the house when that was a real possibility. I quickly realize Caroline has discovered the cache of pillows on the window seat, and now there’s a solid foot of free-floating down along the side of my bed. I’m not angry with Caroline, though; I can’t be mad at her for never having been taught the rules.
I can certainly be mad at Kelsey for her level of irresponsibility, however. I wonder if Kelsey can even have a dog in her apartment. It would be just like her to not bother checking first. This frustrates me because almost thirty percent of all animals relinquished to shelters are there because their residences don’t allow pets.
I take my iPhone out of the nightstand drawer and snap a couple of shots. I’m not on Facebook much (when I’m not stalking), but this should make for a funny visual.
By the time I have everything cleaned up, the house is empty. Even Chris is gone. His sister Sophie lives a couple of towns to the west, and she’s been chauffeuring him to his physical therapy appointments. I find myself disappointed not to be able to share the feather carnage photos with him in person. I thought he’d get a real “I told you extra bed pillows were trouble” kind of kick out of them.
I run my normal Saturday errands, and when I arrive home, I notice Blanca, my cleaning lady, sitting on my front porch. I park out front and jog up the front steps.
“Hey, Blanca, what are you doing here on a Saturday? Did I forget to leave you a check?”
When she stands, I realize the woman I’m speaking to isn’t Blanca, but a beautifully dressed doppelgänger. They have the same caramel-colored hair, tawny skin, and green eyes and are quite similar in height and weight.
I say, “I’m so sorry—I thought you were someone else. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, hello. You’re Mrs. Sinclair? Hi. I’m Lise Westerfield. Kathy showed me your house a few weeks ago.”
I redden, remembering the incident. “Oh, yes, I’m so sorry about that. You met my daughter and my father. Lucky you.”
“Your father also called me Blanca. I must resemble her quite closely. Anyway, Kathy tells me you have temporarily pulled your listing. Is this true? My husband and I have looked at so many homes since then, and none of them hold a candle to this place.” She gives an embarrassed laugh and shifts her weight. “I’m not even sure why I’m here. I was driving by and I just wanted to see it again so badly.”
“Well, I’m not taking the house off the market, per se,” I explain. “I’m just having a few family issues—as you witnessed—so I’m holding off on showing the place for a few weeks.”
“You have not accepted another bid, then?”
“No, I haven’t done that,” I say.
She begins to bounce on her heels and then catches herself. “My husband says I should never play poker because I would be so terrible. But I am very happy to know that. You will hear from us soon. Thank you!”
Mrs. Westerfield practically dances down the walkway into her car. No, she should definitely not play poker. While I’m excited about a potential offer on the house, what’s really caught my attention is my father mistaking her for Blanca, whom he’s met only a few times. What I assumed was garden-variety racism on his part was actually fairly astute recall on a small detail. And terrible manners, but not straight-up xenophobia.
Between this and his clean test results, I’m more confused than ever as to what’s going on with him. But I’m going to get some clarity, and soon.
I open the front door, and the house is still quiet. I’m surprised Chris isn’t back yet. He’s never at PT this long—I hope everything’s okay. I head down to the den to drop off the bag of miniature Milky Way bars I bought for him (no nuts; God help everyone if there are nuts in his chocolate), and I’m taken aback when I find his room empty. All of his things are gone, and there’s a note with my name on it tented on the coffee table in front of the couch.
Hey, Pen,
I feel like my being here is muddying the waters for you, so I’m going to bunk at Soph’s while I find a new place. Thank you so much for having me here. I’ll have my crew swing by at the beginning of the week to disassemble the ramp. If you need more help with the girls, give me a shout. But, remember, you can’t go wrong if you simply acknowledge and proceed.
Your partner in thirty-three percent success,
Chris
I read his note a couple of times.
Yes.
This is logical. Him leaving makes the most sense. What were we doing, trying to play house all over again, like the past had never happened? We had proceeded but we never quite acknowledged, and ultimately that was never going to work.
This is for the best.
So why do I feel like I want to cry?
• • • •
“Are you sitting down?”
“I’m at my desk, so, yes, I’m seated,” I reply. I’ve been in a daze ever since this weekend. I feel like there’s been a thick fog in my head and I’m having trouble concentrating on anything. I completely slept through my workout this morning and had to be prompted twice in my first meeting of the day. What’s wrong with me? I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Waterstone and the rest of the EVPs later today to make my promotion official, and I have to snap out of it by then, lest they believe they’ve made a huge mistake.
“Well,” Kathy says, “we received an offer on the house from the Westerfields and it’s a good one. They’re an all-cash buyer, no contingencies, they’re asking for a quick close and—here’s where I want you to be sitting—they’re coming in above your asking price.”
“Wow.”
Is Mercury in retrograde or something? I don’t actually believe in astrology, but surely there’s some explanation for why everything feels so off, why my rhythms are so out of sync.
I can’t concentrate on any of my work because every single thing at home is an unfinished piece of business. Is Kelsey going to be a single mother? Is Kelsey going to be a single mother in my house? Is Kelsey going to decide she’s bored with being a single mother and just run off and leave her baby with me like so many unwanted chapati pans? When am I even allowed to approach her about her whole situation?
What about Jessica? Who keeps calling for her? Exactly how much does she owe? At what point can I intervene? Is there anything I can do to guide her in the direction of maybe, possibly being slightly less miserable even for a minute?
And how about Marjorie and Max? What is going on there? Are they actually dodging me, or are they truly that popular? Who has a social calendar like that? What are the both of them hiding? Why won’t anyone tell me anything?
“Wow?” she repeats. “You don’t even want to know how much wow? There’s a lot of wow to be had.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess so.”
We discuss numbers, and for the first time in my life, they’re utterly and completely meaningless. I don’t even bother writing them down. All they represent is a doorway to everything
unknown. This whole time I’ve been saying that I need a change, but . . . what if I don’t? What if a change is the one thing that will make me less happy? What if boxing up twenty-seven years’ worth of memories, for lack of a better term, blows goats? What if change is the worst possible choice?
What if the familiarity of my present surroundings is the one thing that’s keeping me from flying off the rails right now? I’m on the cusp of being promoted to executive vice president; it’s all done save for the handshakes later today. Do I really need to add a change of scenery on top of the already great transformations to come professionally?
Hold on. . . . Am I even interested in the great transformations to come professionally?
Do I want to be an executive vice president with all the additional duties and responsibilities the position entails? Do I actually want to completely and entirely give up on the math and focus on the management?
The great irony here is that I spend all day, every day, enmeshed in analysis, and at no point have I truly examined the data points of the new position. Chances are, this will be a job I’ll hate for a dozen reasons, but mostly because instead of playing to my strengths, I’ll have to forgo numbers for people. This dynamic didn’t work out with Smith Barney when the stakes were minimal, and I can’t imagine what might happen now that they’re so high.
In this moment of self-reflection, I feel like those ladies on the dating show Patrick makes me watch. A few seasons ago, all these beautiful women were fighting like mad to win the heart of an Iowa hog farmer. They were ruthless in trying to capture his interest, employing every single one of their feminine wiles. Toward the end of the show, it began to dawn on some of the gals that the victory, sweet though it might be, ultimately would result in the grand prize of life on an Iowa hog farm.
That’s because it’s one thing to say, “I love you so much, Bachelor Chris, that I would be happy to imagine my life on a hog farm in Iowa,” and it’s another thing entirely to actually go there and smell the place for yourself.
By the Numbers Page 23