Make Me a Match

by Diana Holquist

  Chapter 12

  Cecelia, Jack, and Amy fell into an awkward silence around the twelve-seat dining-room table. They passed each other the grated cheese, the pepper, the wine. Cecelia had made spaghetti with capers and broiled onions. She had tossed a salad. She hadn’t eaten a meal with Jack since before their engagement party ten days ago. How was that possible? Oh, right, they were always working. Jack had been out of town three times in the last two weeks, and she had been doing fourteen-hour days. Now, seeing how awkward it was for all of them to be together, Cecelia wondered if she hadn’t been avoiding him on purpose.

  If she could stop thinking about Finn, she wouldn’t feel so tense. It was as if the guy were at the table with them, sitting next to Jack, passing him the salad, straightening his tie. It had been like that ever since he left her office in his self-satisfied snit. Everything she did, she felt him looking over her shoulder, making snide comments. “Couldn’t use ordinary lettuce, huh? Gotta have that arugula at $7.99 a pound. You know, there are kids starving in East Baltimore . . .”

  She watched Jack eat with obvious pleasure. The man liked arugula. Appreciated it. Jack understood that when you worked hard and took risks, you were entitled to really good lettuce.

  Cecelia sighed. She was sitting at the dinner table with her fiancé, but silently defending herself to a man she was never going to see again. She tried again to shake Finn out of her head. She remembered her teacher, Dr. Manx, in her first year of medical school. He told them that he was about to reveal to them the most important thing they’d ever learn in medical school. “Every action you take in life,” he lectured, “is done for someone. Make sure it’s the right someone. When you’re in the hospital, don’t do things for the nurses. Don’t work hard to please the fellows. You’ll only be a good doctor if you act at all times for the patient.”

  Cecelia tried to see her life through her old teacher’s lens. Who was she trying to please? Certainly not Finn. She was not going to live to please a stranger who couldn’t stand her. That was crazy.

  She stuffed a bite of lettuce in her mouth. It didn’t taste as good as she remembered.

  “The meal is excellent,” Jack said.

  “Thanks, hon.” Cecelia patted his hand.

  He smiled at her.

  This is my fiancé. I am going to act to please him. He likes fancy lettuce. I like fancy lettuce. Case closed.

  She looked across the table at Amy, who was inspecting her lettuce critically, obviously shocked by its peppery bite. Was the woman ever going to leave? A fleck of spaghetti sauce dotted her chin. Cecelia felt Amy’s words echo in her head, I can fix up Molly’s old place . . .

  She was never going to leave.

  “So!” Jack said merrily, trying to cut through the discomfort that filled the room like fog. “Tell me about your mom and life at that commune. Cel never talks about it.” He used a spoon and fork to eat his pasta, every wound-up strand a perfect, compact bite.

  Cecelia met Amy’s eyes. “That’s because it’s extremely boring.”

  “Liar.” Amy helped herself to more wine, sloshing some on the tablecloth. She tried to blot it up with her white cloth napkin. “It’s fascinating.”

  Jack looked from sister to sister.

  Cecelia felt her blood come to a slow, even boil. What was Amy up to?

  Amy crammed a wad of spaghetti into her mouth, chewed, then sucked in the loose ends.

  Cecelia snuck a look at Jack, who was watching Amy’s eating habits with amazement. Or was he amazed at the dirty laundry she seemed compelled to reveal? Cecelia would have to tell him everything, the sooner the better, because Amy sure couldn’t keep a thing inside. But not now. She was going to tell him on her terms.

  “Are there any other siblings?” Jack asked.

  “Well—” Cecelia said just as Amy said, “Yes.”

  Jack stopped chewing.

  Cecelia felt terribly sorry for him. He came from a family that owned horses, for heaven’s sake. How could he understand a family that set their only pet, Fred the gerbil, free into the heat vents of the Stallings Welfare Hotel so he could search for a better life elsewhere?

  Or a family who couldn’t find Jasmine, their youngest sister, who disappeared ten years ago? Cecelia’s stomach took a nose dive. Jasmine was one of the reasons she and Amy had split up back then. A sixteen-year-old sister, gone. She’d be twenty-six now. And they had been too young to know what to do, so they had done nothing. Pretended she had never existed. She came out of the blue from India, and returned to—where? Cecelia pushed it out of her mind.

  Conversation ceased. Cecelia tried not to listen to Amy’s slurping.

  The noise stopped abruptly, midstrand. “I never showed you that postcard Mom sent me,” Amy said.

  “No!” Cecelia cried.

  Jack turned to her, his mouth a perfect O.

  “I mean, we’re eating. Show me later,” Cecelia said lamely. Her blood was roiling, overheating her body, causing her heart to pound. Amy was out of control, and there was nothing Cecelia could do about it without alerting Jack to her panic. Why hadn’t she just told him everything before?

  “I’ll go get it,” Amy said merrily. She jumped up from the table and disappeared down the hall into the guest room, chewing a hunk of bread, crumbs falling behind her.

  Cecelia shrugged at Jack. “She has no manners.” As if that were the problem.

  “I like her,” Jack said. “She’s the only family of yours I’ve ever met. She grounds you. Puts you in perspective.”

  Cecelia looked out at the night sky. She didn’t want to be grounded. She wanted to stay right where she was on the thirtieth floor.

  Jack shook his head. “You two have more in common than you think.”

  Cecelia scowled, “I don’t think so.”

  Jack took her hand. “She’s your sister.”

  She’s the Antichrist and she’s up to something. Cecelia’s fingers tingled in Jack’s warm, solid hands.

  Amy bounded back into the room waving the postcard. “It’s the Hindu god Shiva,” she said, pointing to the picture on the front of the postcard. It looked a lot like an aging hippy blissed out in the lotus position. His skin was purple and he sat on a jeweled cushion. “Shiva, the god of destruction,” Amy read from the back of the postcard.

  “Mom’s a kidder,” Cecelia said, snapping the card out of Amy’s hands before Jack could see it clearly. She flipped the card to the writing. The familiar script made her woozy with longing. She hadn’t seen her mother in twenty years. “Mom never sends me postcards,” Cecelia said before she could stop herself.

  “She only sends them to me in emergencies,” Amy said. “Hardly ever.”

  Cecelia felt Amy’s “hardly ever” like a dagger in her side. Hardly ever was so much better than never. Never was, well, never.

  “Anyway, after the way you responded to the last postcard she sent you, you can hardly blame her,” Amy said.

  “That was fourteen years ago,” Cecelia protested.

  “But who’s counting?”

  “She wanted money. There was no way I was going to send her money after she left us.”

  “She didn’t just want money. And you didn’t have to be so mean.”

  “I did. Someone had to take care of us. You were too young and Daddy was hopeless. You’d have given her our last penny.” Cecelia stopped, alarmed that she had fallen into her life story. She glanced at Jack. His eyes were wide with shock. She watched in horror as his face recomposed itself into its lawyer’s mask.

  “Of course I would have. If she needed it,” Amy retorted, clearly enjoying herself.

  The two sisters glared at each other.

  “You could give away a few pennies now,” Amy challenged.

  Cecelia blanched. “I am not rich, Amy. I have school loans—”

  “What did you do with all the money we made—?”

  “Stop!” Cecelia cried. She had to hold herself back from vaulting over the table and fastening her h
and firmly over Amy’s mouth the way she used to when they were kids. Jack did not have to know about the cons they used to pull to get by. Especially about the last con, the big score, the one that changed everything. The one that made Jasmine run away. Don’t worry about me. I don’t want my cut. I’m going somewhere quiet for a while, her note had said. Cecelia could still see the man they had conned, his kindly blue eyes warm with trust, hands that couldn’t hurt a fly. After all, Cecelia was posing as his One True Love, and he had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Cecelia had taken the money and gone right to work. The premed courses were a breeze. She blew through the MCAT. Her whole life, she had known that she had the aptitude to do it, and now she had the cash and the time. When she had gotten into Johns Hopkins, there was no looking back. She was launched. Her big break. As if it were all meant to be.

  Jack was completely still, as if trying not to break a spell.

  “We made a lot of money those last few years,” Amy told Jack merrily. “After we ditched Dad and Jane. After we figured out the perfect—”

  Cecelia pushed her chair back. “No more!” She leaned forward over the table, looming over Amy. “Not another word or you’re out! And this time, never coming back.” Cecelia knew she was blowing it. Jack with his photographic memory was taking in every word as surely as if there were a tiny court stenographer tippity-tapping away in his head. Amy was out of control. She was about to tell Jack everything. And Jack didn’t have to hear everything. It was the past. Gone. Over.

  Cecelia sat back down and carefully folded her napkin on her lap. She could handle Amy. “What we had wasn’t that much, Amy. It seemed like a lot because we were kids and we were so used to being poor. But medical school was a fortune. I still had to take out mammoth loans—”

  “You could have fooled me.” Amy expanded her arms to take in the palatial apartment.

  “We don’t own this place, Amy. I told you that before.”

  “We don’t own it yet.” It was the first word Jack had spoken since the fight had broken out, and both of them startled at his voice. “This place belongs to an investment banker who’s off in Hong Kong. He’s willing to sell, but first we have to get married.”

  “You have to be married to live here?” Amy shook her head in disgust. “What is this, Communist China?”

  Cecelia was relieved for the change in subject. “No. But we have to meet the income guidelines of the co-op. If we’re not married, our individual incomes would each have to meet the guidelines. Which is a bit of a stretch.”

  Amy’s eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “So that’s why you two are—”

  “No,” Cecelia cut her off. “Stop. Before you say something you deeply regret.”

  Amy nodded. Her smile said, No problem, my work here is done.

  Cecelia continued to stew. She was not marrying Jack for his money or for stability or for this apartment. It was just a side effect of their love.

  She imagined Finn sitting next to Jack, ignoring the good wine and throwing back a beer while he shook his head sadly at her.

  “So,” Jack said brightly, trying to break the mood. “Shiva, huh? He doesn’t look destructive. Actually, he looks high.” Jack had picked up the postcard.

  Cecelia watched horrified as Jack studied the card. She had forgotten all about it. She had to calm down. She was slipping, making mistakes. Cecelia’s fingers were beyond tingling, they were on fire. She wrung them together, ignoring Amy’s satisfied grin. She had let Amy manipulate her. She had played right into her hand. “Getting high is destructive,” Cecelia said, snatching the postcard from him. He straightened in astonishment at her uncharacteristic grabbing.

  “Since when?” Amy protested. “I remember—”

  “We’re not going down that road.” Cecelia cut in.

  “Oh, do tell!” Jack leaned forward. “Cecelia is probably the straightest person I know.”

  “Hah!” Amy snorted, obviously warming to the delightful new path the conversation had taken. “I could tell you stories.” She picked an onion off of Jack’s plate and ate it.

  “Not if you want to stay in this apartment, you can’t,” Cecelia warned.

  Amy leaned toward Jack and fake-whispered, “I’ll meet you later on the balcony. Bring the wine.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Cecelia ignored them and tried to focus on her mother’s words. The familiar handwriting brought tears to her eyes. She fought them back and read: Dear Amy, Please find your sister. I am worried about her. I think she needs your help. Cecelia felt her cheeks go hot. “I’m the emergency?”

  Amy shrugged. “You know how she is.”

  Their mother was prone to feelings and hunches that someone needed help. But this time, her mother was wrong, she didn’t need help. Please, honey, remember that an act of destruction is an act of creation. Without destruction, there can be no creation. Say “hi” to your father and Jane for me if you see them. Love, Mom.

  Great. It was official. Amy had come to destroy her.

  “So, is a Sufi a kind of Hindu?” Jack asked. He had his lawyer face on, totally blank.

  “Nah. Mom just likes the art,” Amy said.

  “What’s the emergency?” Jack asked.

  “She needed money,” Cecelia said.

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Mom is a bit of a psychic—”

  “She’s kidding! Mom’s a free spirit; she’s half gypsy. So how is the Comso case coming, honey?” Cecelia tried desperately to steer the conversation back to solid ground.

  “So that makes you a quarter gypsy at least,” Jack marveled. “A gypsy named Cecelia.”

  “Her middle name is Desdemona,” Amy said.

  Jack’s eyes widened.

  “She’s kidding!” Cecelia cried. “Anyone ready for dessert?”

  “Dad was Irish,” Amy explained. “And a true romantic. He would do anything for love. Mom was a wanderer too. And Jasmine—”

  Cecelia let the dishes she was carrying smash to the table with an alarming crash. They were startled into silence.

  Finally, Jack spoke. “Who’s Jasmine?”

  Cecelia glared at Amy. “Jasmine was an innocent soul until Shiva got her.” She picked up the postcard, and tore it in two. “Which is why I no longer have anything to do with our mother.”

  Amy snatched the pieces out of Cecelia’s hand. “Or me.”

  “Or you,” Cecelia said, aware of her viciousness, but unable to stop. She grabbed the torn card back and ripped it to pieces. She tossed the pieces on the floor.

  “Hey!”

  “That’s what I think of Shiva. And Mom.” She tried to deliver a stare to Amy that let her know that she was on the list of people she would have nothing to do with. “Now, who’s ready for dessert? I made an apple pie.”

  Cecelia left the ward just past noon. The day was clear and warm, and she decided she’d walk for her lunch hour. She needed time to think. Amy had really gone overboard the night before. If Jack hadn’t run off to his Thursday night drinks and cigars with the partners after dinner, she would have told him everything.

  As it was, he didn’t get back until after two in the morning. Cecelia pretended to be asleep, although sleeping with everything Amy had said floating in her head was beyond impossible. She had to get Amy out of her apartment and into Molly’s old row house as soon as possible. But the place was a mess. Totally uninhabitable. Amy couldn’t live there for weeks.

  The elevator door opened onto the bustling lobby. There was nowhere worse than a hospital lobby. The combination of the brisk-walking staff and the shuffling, hesitant patients and their families was unbearable. It was as if two films were running on top of each other, one at hyperspeed and in color, the other black-and-white and slow-motion. She had the sensation that the staff could walk right through the patients as if they were ghosts.

  “Dr. Burns?”

  Cecelia looked down to see a small, chubby girl of around eight or nine. The girl swung her leg around on the fulcrum of her big toe. Th
e girl looked familiar somehow. Had she treated her mother, her father? Cecelia tried desperately to place her.

  “I’m Finn’s kid,” the girl said.

  Cecelia’s eyes went wide. Of course, she looked just like him, in a blonde, beefy way. But around the mouth, they looked exactly the same. Lord, this girl had a beautiful mouth. “Call me Cecelia.”

  “You’re my daddy’s Truest Lover.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Cecelia walked out of the awful lobby into the warm afternoon air. The girl fell into step beside her. Cecelia felt an urge to take the girl shopping, buy her something pink and flowery to replace the tomboy jeans and T-shirt that she obviously preferred.

  At least straighten her ponytail.

  “You hurt my daddy’s feelings. You owe him an apology,” the girl said in a pretty decent imitation of an annoyed grown-up.

  Cecelia stopped. She looked at the girl closely. “Shouldn’t you be in day camp making lanyards and playing capture the flag?”

  “A doctor just like you killed my mommy, so it’s not going to be so easy for him to love you unless you apologize.”

  Cecelia felt her mouth drop open. She wasn’t sure what part of that sentence to address first. She began walking again briskly down the sidewalk, the girl keeping pace at her side. Was she supposed to apologize for killing Finn’s wife? “Did your daddy send you here?”

  “No. He’d be mad if he knew.”

  “Is that because it’s wrong to be here behind your dad’s back?”

  The girl harumphed, as if dealing with idiotic adults took every ounce of her patience. “No. It’s because he’s your perfect boyfriend and he’s too dumb to know it.”

  They passed a small park, where normal children ran after balls. Cecelia looked at Maya. “He is not my boyfriend,” she said carefully. “In fact, I don’t think he even likes me.”

  “Well of course he doesn’t like you. No one likes you. But I’m gonna help you with that.”

  Cecelia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “We’re gonna start with your clothes.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the exact same thing about you.”