“You deserve him,” he says sincerely.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Yeah . . . I do.”
He leans forward and takes my hand gently. “I’m sorry about everything, Kerry. I’ve been a selfish bastard in this relationship, and now I’ve lost you. I know it’s too late for excuses, but I let myself get so wrapped up in my career and my lifestyle.” He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t mean to be one of those New Agey self-analyzers, but I was trying so hard to prove to my father that I could really make a name for myself in this city that it kind of took over my life.”
I recall that Sam’s father, whom I have never met, is a potato farmer in Idaho. He’d always looked down on Sam for deciding to escape to the city instead of helping out with the family business. I’d heard the story several times over our years together: As Sam packed up to move West, his father had dismissed him with the words, “You’ll never make it, kid. That city will eat you alive.”
Sam continues. “And now I’ve proved to him that I can make it here. I’ve achieved everything I wanted to . . . more, even.” He looks at me, and his eyes are so warm and caring. “But in the process, I lost you. And it’s going to take me a long time to forgive myself. I guess it’s true what they say—you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
I know he is just quoting Joni Mitchell lyrics to me, but it is working. What is wrong with me? I came here wanting to end things cleanly, and now I want to throw myself into his arms, inhale the scent of his cologne, and bury my hands in his thick, dark, Patrick Dempsey–ish hair. “You haven’t lost me!” I want to scream. “Your dad is an ignorant jerk for ever doubting you! You are a wonderful, amazing man, and I am yours forever!” But I don’t.
“I’d better go, Sam,” I say through the thickness in my throat. “Busy day.”
“Okay . . .” He releases my hand. “But, Kerr . . . would it be okay if I called you once in a while? Just to see how you’re doing?”
I know what I should say here, but I am made of flesh and blood and not cold hard steel. “Sure,” I say. “Give me a call sometime.”
Chapter 12
Val has called an emergency meeting to discuss the Sandra situation. I was very relieved when she phoned. My new enlightened position of butting out and letting people make their own mistakes is very unnatural for me. In fact, it’s downright painful. I have reread Dr. Rainbow Hashwarma’s chapter on friendships several times to keep myself focused.
We are drinking red wine at a cozy bar on Pine Street. It is a cold and rainy night, but we are toasty and warm, seated by a large rock fireplace. Val dips a chip into her watercress dip and launches the topic of the evening.
“What are we going to do about Sandra? She can’t go ahead with this plan to have a baby with George.”
“I agree,” Michelle says. “We need to take a hard-line approach with her. We’ve looked the other way on her pathetic excuse for a relationship for long enough. If she goes through with it, it will be the biggest mistake of her life.”
“I know what it’s like to have a child,” Val continues. “It’ll be so difficult for her without a proper father in the picture. At least I had Jay around until Taylor was four.”
“And Sandra’s so fragile,” Michelle adds. “How will she handle all the sleepless nights, the shitty diapers, the sore breasts? . . . Ugh!” She shudders at the thought.
“As much as I agree with your opinions,” I say, “I don’t believe we can force her into our way of thinking. It is only by making her own mistakes that she can find the path to true enlightenment.”
They gape at me in silence for a long moment. Then Michelle says, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m reading this book called You Get What You Give, and it says that you can’t control your friends’ lives and—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Michelle interrupts. “We don’t have time for this New Age shit, Kerry. Sandra’s considering getting pregnant by a married man!”
“New Age shit?” I fire back. “Who’s the one who takes off for yoga retreats every month to get centered? Who are you to call Dr. Rainbow Hashwarma’s book ‘New Age shit’?”
“Calm down, both of you,” Val admonishes. “We need to focus on Sandra and her situation, okay?”
“Okay,” we both mumble like scolded children.
“I propose an intervention,” Val says. “We need to invite her for dinner, then sit her down and tell her that we won’t stand by while she ruins her life.”
“I tried that,” I said. “She stormed out of the restaurant, and now she won’t return my calls.”
“You can’t storm out of an intervention,” Val continues. “You’re locked in. It’s very intense. My aunt did one because my cousin was smoking too much pot. The person has to sit there until they’ve heard you out and agree to deal with their problem.”
“Okay,” Michelle says. “It has to be done.”
“Ummm . . . okay,” I say hesitantly. It is difficult for me to contradict my newfound values of noninterference, but I can see the logic in an intervention. Learning from your mistakes is one thing, but when that mistake is a baby with a married man, that’s quite another.
“Good,” Val says. “Michelle, can we do it at your place? She won’t come over to Kerry’s, and I’d rather not do it at my place because of Taylor. This thing could go on all night, and I don’t want her coming back from her dad’s and witnessing it.” She sounds very ominous.
“Okay . . .,” Michelle says unenthusiastically. Her apartment is spare, modern, and expensively decorated. I’m sure she is having visions of us tackling Sandra to the ground to get her to listen to sense, and breaking some expensive knickknacks or lamps in the process. I know I am.
“Okay . . . I’ll bring the wine, and I’ll make an artichoke dip,” I volunteer.
“Kerry, you don’t bring wine and artichoke dip to an intervention!” Val sounds exasperated.
“This is serious,” Michelle adds. “We’re not going to sit around and have cocktails while we talk about her becoming a single mother.”
“Sorry!” I retort. “What do I know about interventions? I don’t have any cousins who smoked too much pot. I just thought that it would be comforting for her to have a glass of wine and a snack while we discuss things.”
“No wine or snacks,” Val says authoritatively. “We’ll have water and some protein bars to keep our energy up, but that’s it.”
I have visions of us in a damp room with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Sandra is tied to her chair while we take turns alternately screaming at her and offering her cigarettes and coffee.
Michelle pulls out her Palm. “How’s the third Saturday of next month for everyone?”
“She could practically have had the baby by then!” I scream.
“She’ll have ovulated at least twice,” Val says. “We have to do it sooner. This Saturday.”
“But that’s the Women of Influence dinner!” Michelle whines. “I’ve had my ticket for months. All the female VPs in my industry will be there, and it’ll look bad if I . . .” She trails off, noticing our disapproving looks. “Okay,” she gives in. “This Saturday at my place.”
With that unpleasantness out of the way, we drink more wine and discuss our respective weeks. They are impressed that I met with Sam and didn’t offer to blow him under the table in order to start things up again. “It was difficult, of course,” I say, sipping my merlot, “but I have a much more positive outlook now. I know that someone will come along who’s genuine and kind and cares about the real me.”
“Of course he will,” Val says. “Don’t give up hope.”
“Mr. Right is bound to be just around the corner,” Michelle says, with just a hint of condescension in her tone.
I change the subject. “And how’s work?”
“Boring,” Val says.
“Great!” Michelle enthuses. “There’s a possibility that Pinnacle Tech could buy a majority share in our compan
y, which would mean [blah blah blah].”
Val and I exchange subtle looks as Michelle goes on about the value of her shares in relation to other tech stocks. Thankfully, we are interrupted by a visitor to our table.
“Val? I thought that was you.”
“Matt! Hello!” Val rises out of her chair to embrace him. “How are you?”
“Good, good. And you?”
“Really good, thanks. These are my friends Michelle and Kerry.”
“Hi,” Matt says to each of us. He has dark hair, golden skin, and a strong jawline. He looks to be Spanish or Argentinean or something equally Latin and exotic.
“Matt used to work with me,” Val explains. “Until he was headhunted by one of the big banks. How’s it going there, anyway?”
“It’s good,” he says. “Really busy. I work a lot more hours than I did at the credit union, but I guess that goes with the territory.”
“That’s the price you pay for being a rising star!” Val teases. “Can you join us for a drink?”
Do . . . Do . . ., I mentally will him. Sit down and join us for a drink . . . and maybe some sex afterward?
“I’d love to,” he says, looking directly at me. All the blood in my body rushes to my groin area. “But I’m here with some friends, so I’d better get back.”
“Okay,” Val says. “Give me a call sometime. You know where I work.”
“I will.” He smiles at her. “Nice to meet you,” he says, fixing me again with his intense Latin gaze. “You, too,” he says to Michelle before leaving.
“Oh, my God!” I squeal when he is safely out of earshot. “He is gorgeous!”
“Yum, yum,” Michelle says.
“Isn’t he?” Val gushes. “All the girls in the office just loved him! We were devastated when he left. He was by far the best scenery we had, and he’s really sweet and nice, too.”
“He seems it,” I say.
“And he’s going to go far. He’s a very bright guy. He’s only twenty-four, and he’s already heading up customer service at the Bank of America on Pike.”
“Twenty-four!” I gasp.
“Yeah. He’s a baby.”
Michelle laughs. “Maybe Sandra could adopt him, and that would solve all her problems?”
“Twenty-four?” I say again. “Am I allowed to date twenty-four-year-olds?”
“The rule is,” Val says knowledgably, “divide your age in half, and add seven. So . . . you’re thirty-one, divided by two is fifteen and a half plus seven is . . . twenty-two and a half.”
“I can date twenty-two-and-a-half-year-olds?” I ask, shocked.
“The rule?” Michelle interjects. “What rule is this?”
“It was in Cosmo,” Val continues. “Divide by two and add seven—that’s the youngest man you are allowed to date.”
“Wow. Twenty-two and a half,” I say. “I had no idea. Maybe I should start hanging out at skateboard parks and arcades?”
“Or the Bank of America on Pike?” Val asks with raised eyebrows.
“I must definitely set up an account there.” I wink. “And I will have many, many problems with customer service, and I will demand to see the manager!” I bang my fist on the table for emphasis.
“Yes!” Michelle adds. “I need some servicing, young man!”
We carry on with our jokes about “putting the customer first” and “the customer is always right” until the bottle of wine is gone and it’s time to go home.
“If you’re ever talking to young Matt,” I say to Val as we pile into a taxi. “Ask him if he’d like to go out with a woman who is—what is it?—two times half his age plus what?”
“Older! A woman who’s older,” Michelle yells.
“Okay,” I say. “Ask him that.”
Chapter 13
The intervention was a disaster! In my wildest, most negative fantasies, it could not have gone any worse.
It had all started smoothly. Sandra was successfully lured to Michelle’s apartment, where I was sequestered in her Asian-inspired bedroom until Sandra was safely inside with the door locked. They didn’t want her to lay eyes on me and turn around and leave in a huff.
Sandra was suspicious right off the bat. She glanced at the bare dining room table, noted the lack of cooking smells, the bottle of water in Michelle’s hand, and the protein bar Val was munching on. “What’s for dinner?” she asked hesitantly.
That’s when I emerged. I was pained by the look of chagrin on Sandra’s face when she saw me. “What is she doing here?” she snarled.
“We’re all here for the same reason,” Val said. “Because we need to talk to you about the mistake you’re about to make.”
“I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Well, you’re going to hear it,” Michelle said forcefully. “Have a seat. Would you like a protein bar?”
Sandra acquiesced, and we all took turns ranting about her dismal future if she had a baby with George. We each had assigned topics:
Val would talk about the difficulties of raising a child alone, using her firsthand experience with Taylor for impact.
Michelle would discuss how George would never be there for Christmas, for summer holidays, for the baby’s birthday. Eventually, the child would start to wonder why she was such a low priority in her father’s life, which would have a devastating impact on her self-esteem.
My role was to give Sandra hope for a normal, happy future that would involve children and a husband. “Look at me,” I would say. “I’m still hopeful that I’ll find someone.”
Of course, all these points were to be followed up with, “We love you and care about you and want you to be happy.”
Sandra listened, her face impassive, for more than two hours. Finally, she downed the remains of her water bottle and stood up. “I can see your point,” she said. “I guess there were a lot of things I didn’t factor into my decision when I decided to continue on with George. You’ve really given me a lot to think about.”
“Well . . .,” Val said, taken off guard by the change in attitude this early in the process. “I’m glad you’re starting to see things our way.”
“I am,” Sandra said. “Would it be all right if I left now? I’m really exhausted.”
A quick conference determined that her leaving at this stage would be a bit premature, but we offered to make her some tea and toast and let her lie on the couch. “Okay,” she said. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
We were busying ourselves in the kitchen, whispering about how persuasive we were and wondering if we should start a business as professional “interventionists.” Really, we were quite good at it. Val’s cousin had taken fourteen hours to convince to stop smoking so much pot, and we’d made Sandra reevaluate her relationship in less than three. Our self-congratulations were interrupted by a pounding at the apartment door.
“Open up. Seattle Police Department.”
“Oh, my God!” we all shrieked. “What are the police doing here?”
Michelle rushed to open the door.
“We had a 911 call from someone who is being kept here against her will?” the burly officer said. At that moment, Sandra emerged from the bathroom, tucking her cell phone into her purse.
“It was me, Officer. I called.”
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked. “Have you been hurt or abused?”
“Just mentally and emotionally,” Sandra sniffed, going to stand between the big cop and his female partner. “They kept me here against my will.” She shot us a triumphant look.
“Are you ladies aware that forcibly restraining someone from leaving the premises is tantamount to kidnapping?”
“Oh, pleeeeeeeeeeeze!” Michelle erupted. “Kidnapping? We’re her friends!”
“This is an intervention, Officer,” Val said calmly. “We need Sandra to stay here and listen to us until we can convince her not to destroy her life.”
“Are you a drug user, ma’am?” the female officer aske
d Sandra.
“No!” she shrieked.
“Alcoholic?”
“No!”
“Exactly what kind of intervention was this?” the policeman asked.
“She’s considering having a baby with a married man,” I piped in, looking directly at the female officer. Surely she would understand the magnitude of the situation.
“Pardon me?” the big guy asked, like I’d just said Sandra’s been chewing too much gum.
“Officer—” Michelle stepped up. “—we were trying to get our friend to listen to reason. Yes, we locked the door—yes, we told her she couldn’t leave—yes, we didn’t give her anything to eat but protein bars and water—but our intentions were the best.”
“We were going to make her toast,” I added lamely.
Suddenly, Sandra erupted in tears. “I was terrified,” she wailed. “I told them I’d consider what they said, but they still told me I couldn’t leave. They said I had to sleep here. I couldn’t even go home to feed my cat!”
“Why didn’t you feed your cat before you left?” Michelle screamed back. “Any normal person would feed her cat before she went out, not after she came home!”
“When I feed my cat is my own goddamn business and not yours!” Sandra was on the verge of hysteria.
“You can’t even take care of your cat, let alone a baby!” Michelle hurled at her.
Sandra started to launch herself at Michelle, but she was restrained by the two police officers. “Violence is not the answer, ma’am,” the first officer soothed her. “Do you want to press charges against these ladies? They could be charged with unlawful confinement.”
“Yes, I do!”
“Sandra!” Val and I were shocked. “You can’t be serious? We were only trying to help!”
“You—you—kidnapped me!” She collapsed into the arms of the female officer. “You unlawfully confined me!”
The three of us were taken “downtown” in the back of the police car while Sandra was given a ride in a separate vehicle to make her statement. The police station was horrific—full of junkies and hookers and generally smelly people. We were separated and asked a bunch of questions. The only saving grace of the evening was that the cop interrogating me was kind of sexy in an Andy Sipowicz kind of way. (Weird, I know, but I’ve always kind of had a thing for him.)
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 10