Just as I am about to turn off my computer, I hear the blip of an incoming e-mail. Though I am running late, something makes me check it.
Name: Sam Miller
Subject: Hi
I’m sorry it’s been so long since you’ve heard from me. I’d like to explain, but I’m not sure I understand it myself. Just know that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I miss you.
S.
I stare at the message on the screen. My heart is pounding, my chest feels tight, and I am sweating. I try to swallow through the lump of emotion in my throat. Why is he doing this to me? What is he playing at? Not a word from him for almost a month, and now this? A few seconds ago I was happy and hopeful and practically over him! Why is he resurfacing at this particular moment? It’s like he has some sixth sense to tell him when I am finally moving on. Angry and confused, I stab the off button on my monitor.
When I arrive at the rustically upscale restaurant, I find Val and Michelle at a tall cedar table in the lounge, sipping martinis.
“She’s not here yet?” I ask as I sit. “It’s almost six thirty.”
“Maybe she’s chickened out?” Michelle says, biting into an olive.
“She hasn’t chickened out,” Val asserts. “She invited us.”
“I don’t know,” I say as I order a drink. “If I were her, I wouldn’t be too excited about—”
“There she is!” Val whispers excitedly, waving to the doorway.
We all turn and watch as Sandra moves toward us. Somehow, everything seems to slow down, and it is like Sandra is sashaying through the restaurant in slow-motion while “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” plays in the background. She looks amazing! Her skin is kissed by the sun, her honey hair has beach-blond highlights, and her brilliant smile radiates happiness and contentment. She is positively glowing! Oh, god. Does this mean she’s pregnant?
“Hi!” she says, leaning down to kiss us each on the cheek. “How have you all been? I’ve missed you guys!” She is all sweetness and light.
“We’ve missed you, too,” Val says.
“We have,” I echo.
“Yeah,” Michelle says grudgingly. She is leaning back in her chair, looking suspicious. Sandra is distracted by the waiter for a moment, and I kick Michelle’s foot under the table. I shoot her a look that says, “Don’t turn this into an antagonistic meeting,” and she shoots one back that says, “Fuck off.”
“I’m glad you all agreed to meet with me,” Sandra says, smiling at us each in turn. “I know things have been a little crazy, but I want you to know that I still value our friendship.”
“So do we!” Val says, reaching for Sandra’s hand.
“We do,” I chorus. Michelle is still silent and obviously not heeding my warning.
“I’m so glad!” Sandra says, and holds up her cocktail. “To great friendships!” she says. “To us!”
“Cheers!” we all say and drink. Michelle joins in, somewhat reluctantly.
“So . . . what have you all been up to?” Sandra asks. “It’s been ages!”
“More important,” Michelle says, her eyes narrowed, “what have you been up to?”
“Yeah! How was the Dominican Republic?” I ask breezily, trying to lighten the mood.
“Well,” she says, looking directly at Michelle. “I have undergone some major changes since I’ve been away.”
“Yes?” Michelle prompts.
“I may as well lay it all on the line.” She takes a sip of her drink then places it on the table. “It’s over between George and me.”
“Really!” the three of us exclaim.
“I mean . . .,” I stammer. “Are you okay?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” Val follows suit. “That must be hard.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Michelle says stoically.
“So, are you—?” I trail off, not sure if I should ask.
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Phew!” we all say again.
“It’s just that you’re positively glowing,” Val says. “You look amazing.”
“Well . . .” Sandra’s face lights up even more. “I met someone in the Dominican Republic.”
“Great!”
“He’s from San Francisco, but he lives in Punta Cana now. He owns a restaurant and bar on the beach.”
“Wow!”
“Is he single?” Michelle asks.
“Yes,” Sandra retorts.
“He’s not, umm . . . like, uh . . . sixty, is he?” I had to ask.
“He’s forty,” she says. “And he is absolutely the most wonderful man I’ve ever met!”
“I’m so happy for you,” Val says, leaning over to give her a hug.
“There’s something else,” Sandra says, when she’s released. “I’m moving there.”
“Where?” Michelle asks.
“The Dominican Republic! I’ve quit my job at the firm and filled out my immigration applications. John has offered me a job running his restaurant! I leave on the twenty-third. I’m going to spend Christmas on the beach with him!”
I can see by Michelle’s face that she is about to say something negative. I stomp on the toe of her shoe to distract her.
“I think that sounds great!” I say, purposely ignoring the daggers flying at me from Michelle’s eyes. “If you follow your heart, you can’t go wrong!”
Chapter 24
“What’s the worst that can happen? So she lives in the Dominican Republic for a while? It’s not like she’s moving to the West Bank!”
“She’s following the same destructive patterns,” Michelle says shrilly into the phone. “Who knows how this John guy is going to treat her? Are we just going to stand by and let her be crushed by some man again? What kind of friends are we?”
“Michelle,” I say exasperatedly. “I agree that Sandra is spontaneous and impulsive—”
“Try impetuous and irresponsible!”
“Whatever. But you need to take a chill pill, man.”
There is a long pause then Michelle says, “Hello? Hello? Can you please put Kerry Spence back on the line? She’s a thirty-one-year-old account manager. I seem to be speaking to a sixteen-year-old high school girl.”
I laugh. “Sorry! I’ve been hanging out with Tiffany so much I’m starting to talk like her.”
“Yes. You’re very hip and cutting edge . . . dude.”
“Anyway,” I steer the conversation back to the subject at hand. “We are Sandra’s friends, Michelle, and we’re good friends. We’re not supposed to try to change her. She may make mistakes, but—”
“Don’t start spouting off about Dr. Rainbow Hashafasha again!”
“Hashwaaaaaaaaarma,” I say, enunciating clearly. I really do think Michelle could benefit from picking up his book.
“You’ll be singing a different tune when this John guy dumps her and she’s a broken woman, miles from home with no one to talk to.”
“I volunteer to fly to the Dominican Republic to console her,” I say jokingly. Michelle does not laugh. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. My mom wants me to help her set up for the open house.”
My mom is expecting close to fifty people to squeeze into her nine-hundred-square-foot condo over the course of the day. She has always loved to entertain. It was a big part of her role as a successful banker’s wife.
“That was the only thing I enjoyed when I was married to Randall,” she often says to whoever happens to be listening. “The social side of our life! He was as dull as dishwater, but he did have some interesting colleagues!”
This event promises to be far different from any soiree she would have held while married to my dad. This party will be primarily meat, dairy, and wheat-free. She will offer a wide assortment of herbal teas to drink. (Thank God she included a few bottles of liquor for my boozy Uncle Evan.) Her invited guests include
Her yoga instructor
Several “gals” from her pottery class
Several “folks” from her vegan
cooking class
Some of Darrel’s coworkers from Seattle Public Utilities
Various friends and relatives
Nick
My mom doesn’t know I’ve invited Nick, per se, although I did mention that I’d asked a friend to join us. “It would be lovely to see one of the girls,” she said distractedly while processing tofu in the blender to replace mayonnaise in her dips. I chose not to correct her.
Because, really . . . Nick is just a friend—a friend who makes me feel all shivery and giggly and fifteen when I talk to him—but still, just a friend. It’s not like we’ve kissed or had any physical contact, really. I find myself smiling as I drive through the rainy December streets thinking about him. He e-mailed yesterday to confirm that he would definitely be there, but wouldn’t arrive until about three. He was taking Brian Christmas shopping to get a gift for his mom.
For some reason, my mind switches tracks and Sam enters my thoughts. His e-mail the other day was so cryptic and strange. He’s thinking about me? He’s missing me? Then why didn’t he pick up the phone and call me? Why didn’t he ask me out on another date? My response the last time couldn’t have been that discouraging? I did spend six hours with him and let him kiss me in the back of the taxi. I can’t figure it out. I shake my head, trying to dislodge all thoughts of him. I was much happier daydreaming about Nick.
My mom answers the door wearing a flowing, tie-dyed purple robe and bare feet. She takes my coat and hangs it in the closet, then turns to take in my outfit. “You’re looking sharp,” she says, surveying my charcoal slacks and eggplant turtleneck.
“And you’re looking very . . . bohemian.”
“Well, thank you,” she says cheerfully. “I’ve got an eclectic crowd coming today, so I don’t think any dress would be inappropriate.” She really is at her happiest when planning a party.
“Okay. Put me to work.” I follow her into the kitchen, where Darrel is stirring a large copper pot of spiced apple cider. “How’s it going, Darrel?”
“Excellent.” He smiles. “We’re going to have a great time today.” He grabs my mom around the waist. “Thanks to this amazing woman! Martha Stewart’s got nothing on her.” (Wet sloppy kisses on neck while my mom titters like a schoolgirl.)
“You do have some wine here, don’t you?” I ask, scanning the countertops.
“Of course.” My mom breaks away from her boyfriend’s fondling. “Are you wanting a drink already? It’s only noon!”
“Oh, yeah,” I say sheepishly. It would be “starting something” if I were to point out that being half-drunk makes it much easier to stomach Mom and Darrel’s public displays of affection. “I was just wondering . . . for later.”
“Don’t worry,” my mom says from inside the depths of the fridge. “We’ve got something for everyone.”
By the time guests begin arriving at one, we are well prepared. The table has been spread with a wide variety of hors d’oeuvres. A line of red tape runs across the middle of the festive tablecloth to delineate the vegan dishes from those intended for the bloodthirsty carnivores.
I sit with my aunt and uncle (two alcohol-drinking, meat- and wheat-eaters like myself) and catch up on the progress of my more successful cousins.
“What do you hear from your brother? How’s he doing in the land down under?” Aunt Ruth giggles.
“He’s doing fabulously!” My mom makes a beeline across the room, her Spidey sense alerted to an opportunity to brag about her favorite offspring. “Greg is having the time of his life in Sydney! I tell you, if I could do it all over again. Don’t you agree, Ruth?”
I slip away as they embark on a conversation about the supreme sacrifice of mothers, and steal into the kitchen to refill my wineglass. I hope my mother is not keeping track of my consumption. Grabbing a plate, I join the other guests mingling around the table and fill up on dishes from the non-vegan side of the tape.
“Nice to see you again,” I say politely to one of Darrel’s coworkers. I can’t recall her name, but I remember her from last year’s open house. She is at least three hundred pounds, so is a little hard to forget at a small gathering in a nine-hundred-square-foot condo. She is also eating from my side of the table.
The doorbell rings, and my mom’s singsongy voice calls out, “I’ll get it!” I glance at my watch. Nick won’t be here for at least another hour.
“Namaste, Ted!” my mom says delightedly, and I catch a glimpse of her purple gown as she bows to her yoga instructor. “Please come in. Let me take your coat. The vegan food is at the far end of the table, and I have a wide assortment of herbal teas.”
“Kerry.” My uncle Evan approaches. “Getting enough to eat there?” He indicates my overflowing plate. “Stay away from that seaweed and tofu stuff. Wouldn’t want you wasting away like your mother.” He squeezes me into him. His breath reeks of scotch. Uncle Evan is the boozy uncle I mentioned before.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “What about you? Do you need anything?”
“I could use a refill on the scotch.” He shakes his tumbler, and the ice cubes tinkle together.
“I’ll get it for you.” I take his glass.
“Ah, you’ve always been my favorite niece,” he slurs. “What are you doing stuck here with us old fogies?”
“Oh, come on.” I slap his arm playfully as I head to the kitchen. “You’re not old! Anyway, I’ve got a friend joining me here later.”
I pour him three fingers of amber liquid and return to the table. Uncle Evan seems to have moved. I scan the crowd for him when a deep voice behind me says,
“Hi, Kerry.”
I turn to look and, “Oh, my God!” I jump, startled, and promptly spill Uncle Evan’s drink all over my forearm. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Sam smiles at me fondly. “I’m here to see you.”
“Well . . . how—how did you even know about this party? I mean—I didn’t tell you about it!”
My mom’s beaming face pops from behind him. “I invited him,” she says. “We were chatting the other day, and I mentioned—”
“You were chatting?” I look from my mom to Sam in disbelief. “You two chat?”
“Now, don’t get jealous,” my mom titters. “He called to talk about you!”
“I had no idea. . . .” I am speechless, stupefied.
“I called your mom because I was thinking about you so much, but I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me. I told you’d I’d give you time to think and I didn’t want to crowd you.”
“I—uh—I—”
“Sam really poured his heart out to me,” my mom says, putting her arm around him and giving him a squeeze. He squeezes her back and kisses the top of her head. “I knew you’d want to see him, Kerry—if you knew how he really felt.”
“But—I—uh—” (As I mentioned, speechless and stupefied.)
“Kerry,” Sam says, reaching for my hand. “These past few months apart have been horrible for me. The only good thing that’s come from our splitting up is that I’ve realized that I don’t ever, ever want to be apart from you again.”
“See? See?” my mom says excitedly.
I notice that a crowd of guests is starting to mill around us, but Sam continues, apparently oblivious. “I want to make you see how important you are to me, Kerry—the most important thing in my life. Our relationship has been a roller-coaster ride, I admit it. But I’m tired of all the ups and downs, the highs and lows. I’m ready for some smooth sailing—some smooth sailing with you, Kerry.”
“Well, Sam,” I begin, but everyone bursts into applause. He pulls me into him and kisses me hard on the mouth; the cheers get louder. Before he releases me, I manage to hiss in his ear. “We need to talk about this in private.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” he whispers back. “But now . . .,” he says, in a booming voice. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
Jesus Christ! What is he doing? It is like slow motion as I watch Sam reach into
his jacket pocket and retrieve a small black velvet box. He is lowering himself to one knee; my mom jumps up and down gleefully in the background.
“Kerry . . . will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?” He flips open the box and an enormous emerald-cut diamond sparkles up at me.
“Uh—I—ummm—”
“They were meant to be together,” I hear my mom tearfully telling Aunt Ruth. “They’ve been through a lot, but this is what she’s always wanted.”
I scan the faces of the onlookers. Their eyes encourage me, coaxing me to say yes to this madly romantic gesture. “Say yes,” someone calls out and soon all the guests are chanting: “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” Okay . . . they’re not actually chanting, but by the looks on their faces, they may as well be.
“I’d like to talk to Sam alone,” I say hoarsely.
A moan of disappointment goes up from the crowd. Sam slowly gets to his feet and looks at me. I’ve never seen him so hurt. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess I made a mistake. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. . . .”
He snaps the little black box closed and turns toward the door. My mom shrieks “Kerry!” as if she’s just realized I’m about to fall out a seventh-story window. I look at her, and her eyes implore me: Don’t let him get away. You’ll never get another opportunity like this.
And maybe she’s right. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted all along? A gesture so incredibly romantic that no one could blame me for going back to him? I mean, I know I used to want it. It’s just that lately I’ve been so distracted that I forgot for a moment . . . Maybe this is my reward for becoming a better person? For volunteering and helping old ladies with their groceries? Perhaps my karma is so good now that Sam has become a changed man and wants to be with me forever?
“Sam?” I call to him. He turns back, his handsome JFK Jr. face full of pain. “I will,” I say smiling at him. “My answer is yes.”
He rushes back to me and takes me in his arms. The crowd of onlookers applauds wildly, someone even whistles through their fingers in the manner of hockey fans. Sam lifts me and spins me around with joy. I cling to him, trying to let his enthusiasm overtake me and wash away the doubt that is playing on my mind. When he stops turning and places my feet back on the floor, I am facing the doorway. And that’s when I see him.
The Journal of Mortifying Moments_A Novel Page 19