Measure of Love

by Melissa Ford

  “I don’t totally get it,” I admit, interrupting her soliloquy about the bouquet toss. “How you’ve gone from Riot Grrrl to Martha Stewart over one little proposal.”

  “I’m still Riot Grrrl,” Lisbeth insists.

  “I know you are. But listen to you. White gowns? Signature cocktails? First dance? Rabbi officiants? Four Seasons? I didn’t think you’d go the whole traditional route when it came to a wedding.”

  “This is one of the most important days of my life,” Lisbeth says with a fierceness she usually reserves for talking about printmaking techniques with her artist friends or debating vegan versus leather Doc Martens. “I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for years. I want every last experience—cake tasting, bachelorette party, embarrassing games at the bridal shower. Plus there’s a reason why there are wedding traditions. They’ve worked for hundreds of years. Who am I to mess with something that works?”

  I don’t bother pointing out that there are thousands of traditions she ignores on a daily basis. Such as calling before dropping in or returning library books on time. Lisbeth polishes off her slice and looks at the menu on the wall, silently debating getting another slice. Like Adam, she can eat whatever she wants and never put on a pound.

  “But how are you so certain that a wedding is a good idea?” I ask stubbornly. “How do you know that marriage is the way to go about spending the rest of your life together? How do you know that you won’t feel constrained after making those vows?”

  “How do you know that you want to make that very same commitment to Adam?” Lisbeth counters.

  “I am scared,” I admit, feeling that I’m not betraying Adam at all since I’ve already shared these thoughts with him. “Making that vow is huge. It’s not just a throw away promise that if you can’t keep, you rework into something more palatable. Have you really thought about what you’re doing?”

  “Rach, we’ve had nothing but time to think about what we’re doing. Maybe when marriage isn’t a given, you don’t take it for granted. I’ve had too many years to think about what I can’t have and to consider why I want it. Fears about commitment are such First World love problems. Those of us who live in Third World relationships don’t spend our time wondering if it’s better to live together forever, or to bite the bullet and get married. With all that time, I’ve thought deeply about what we’re putting ourselves through and whether the prize is worth it. And it is when it comes to Emily.”

  I look down at the remains of my pizza slice even though I know that I’ve had nothing to do—at least directly—with subverting her rights. I push my crust toward her out of guilt, but she takes it nonetheless. She absentmindedly holds it up in the air like a staff, making her look as if she’s delivering a manifesto.

  “Marriage is about being included in humanity. Anyone can love another person, but marriage is an outward declaration of that love rather than an internal statement, and it takes a leap of faith and a great deal of hubris to stand up and tell the world you love someone. Marriage is about the rest of the world recognizing your statement and honoring it back, allowing it its full weight.”

  “That makes sense,” I muse aloud. It’s similar to the time my freshman year English professor told me that my response paper was brilliant and marked it with a hastily drawn “A” at the top of the page. It was one thing when I was younger to immodestly tell others that I was smart, but it was quite another thing when others reflected that statement back: heard me and agreed. And it is the same thing with marriage when I look at it that way. It is one thing to quietly say to yourself, “we are a couple” and it is quite another for the rest of the world to echo back what you already know: you are a couple.

  “Anyway, now that we finally can get married here, when we can finally step up to the plate, we have to do it better because we know that while eyes pass over every heterosexual relationship, we have a spotlight turned on ours. We don’t get to waver at all. Are you wavering with marrying Adam?”

  I end up inhaling some Diet Coke up my nose and cough for a good two minutes before I can gasp out a not-very-convincing, “of course not!”

  She silently gives me a suspicious look and wipes her fingers with a paper napkin after she finishes chewing the remains of my crust. “Anyway, the media is practically gleeful when lesbians divorce. It’s like every article is an ‘I told you so.’ Heteros can divorce all they want, and no one says anything. No offense.”

  “My mother certainly had enough to say about my divorce. But I get it. The average hetero divorce, provided your name isn’t JLo or Tom Cruise, isn’t really newsworthy. What I still don’t get,” I quickly add, “is why marriage? Why want an institution that has excluded you? It’s like those country clubs from the fifties that banned Jewish members. Would you really want to now join a club that has kept you out all these years?”

  “Country clubs are a want. So no, I’m not really dying to fork over thousands of dollars to a club that didn’t want me in the first place. But in this country, marriage is a need. It’s not just about benefits or the ICU horror stories. It’s about crossing our T’s and dotting our I’s so we’re not discriminated against in other arenas whether that’s financially or parenting. There are so many places that won’t be able to give us a hard time if we have that stupid marriage certificate.”

  “Plus,” she continues, “we’ve been on the outside looking in for so long. We just want to be included. If marriage is such a great thing like all you straight people pretend it is, we want to be invited to the party too. Government has twisted the institution, favoring and punishing people in the name of marriage. But marriage itself—a declaration of love shouted out to the world; a commitment to build a life together—is a beautiful thing. We always complain that there’s not enough love in this world, and yet, we manage to shoot it down whenever love rears its head.”

  I realize how little I’ve given this thought beyond nods of agreement. That is the mark of a First World love viewpoint. If I hadn’t already been feeling guilty enough for all my marriage doubts, they are now sitting on my chest with a crushing weight.

  “I’m marrying for another reason,” Lisbeth admits, in a softer voice. “And it has everything to do with gay rights. I think we inadvertently confirm the mindset of right wing conservatives when we choose not to marry after being given the right. It allows them to repeat their ideology that we don’t really want committed relationships anyway. That we’re promiscuous. By partaking in the right, they’re forced to contend with that belief. Emily would never be okay with us marrying for that reason, for living our lives to prove anything to anyone else. But I think about it all the time. I really do believe that I can do more to change the system from within than I can change the system from the outside. By not participating at all, we’re just hurting ourselves, and we’ll never make marriage anything different from what it is right now.”

  “So much for traditions,” I lightly joke and clear our paper plates. It’s the first time Lisbeth and I have had a serious conversation about something important to her, and I want her to know that I not only heard her, but that I support her. The only thing I can think to do is wrap my arms around her in a half hug and whisper, “I am so happy for you and Emily.”

  I vow to stop being so ungrateful for the fact that I get to marry Adam at all, knowing full well that it’s easier said than done, like the many times when I’ve counted my blessings upon hearing someone else’s horror story only to turn around and start complaining again about those very same blessings five minutes later.

  We walk back outside and start heading over to Carolina Herrera so we’re not late for our second appointment of the day. I try to ignore my internal monologue and borrow some of Lisbeth’s self-assurance. Right outside the boutique, she pauses for a moment, digging through her purse for a half-consumed pack of gum. She hands me another piece, which I take despite the fact that I have no intention
to chew it.

  “You know what it’s like,” Lisbeth says, obviously still continuing our conversation in her head. “It’s like that Dr. Seuss book, The Sneetches. I really do believe that one day, we’ll all be mixed up, and no one will remember who once had stars upon thars, and we’ll all go to the wiener roasts together.”

  “You think that the conservatives aren’t going to remember that they were straight?” I tease.

  “Oh, not when I get done with them.” Lisbeth links her arm through mine and steps into the store.

  I ALMOST DON’T answer my phone when it rings because I don’t recognize the number. But just as I’m about to let it go to voicemail, my finger accidentally twitches on the button, connecting me with the unknown party on the other end of the line. I silently curse technology and clear my throat.

  “Hey, is this Rachel Goldman?” the voice asks.

  So few people have my cell phone number that I feel like I have a right to be wary when a stranger calls. I wonder for a moment if it’s Lisbeth’s friend already holding my sample wedding gown, but even he couldn’t have worked that quickly. I only left Lisbeth a little while ago after we indulged in coffee and pastry at Le Pain Quotidien while brainstorming my invitation design. She sketched out some ideas on the back of a napkin to make me feel more comfortable about handing over part of my wedding, sight unseen, to my sister-in-law-to-be-again. A sister-in-law-to-be-again who is slightly less conventional than I am, despite her penchant for traditional weddings. Even still, Lisbeth’s ideas filled me with far less trepidation than the actuality that invitations will be ready to be mailed in time.

  “This is she,” I answer formally.

  “It’s Cory from the New York Times. Anita Goldman gave me your number so I could talk to you about the feature story now that you have a wedding date.”

  Crap. I hadn’t passed along my discomfort over the idea of the New York Times story to Anita knowing full well that she’d never understand and would just take it as an opportunity to push the idea harder. I had been beginning to hope that she had forgotten about it with neither of us bringing it up in weeks.

  “Wow, Cory,” I stall. “Are you sure you want to write about me?”

  “I think it’s a good story,” Cory sniffs, obviously put off that I’m not jumping for joy over the idea of this feature. I’m fairly certain that Cory hasn’t encountered many lukewarm receptions.

  But I think about Amy Appelstein’s skinny face with her lips puckered in revulsion over the idea of her newly-minted divorce expert getting remarried. I think for a moment about my second book, wondering if it will be enough to change my editor’s mind, and I quickly decide that I can’t risk it. She told me specifically to pass up this opportunity, and I know that the feature makes Adam uncomfortable too. I sigh inwardly, as if I just found a treasure trove of brand new Le Creuset discounted 80% but left my wallet at home.

  Suddenly, I am struck with a fantastic thought, one that may just be my most brilliant solution to date. “Actually, Cory, when Anita told you about me, she didn’t know about our even more exciting piece of wedding news. My sister-in-law-to-be-again, Lisbeth Goldman—yes, as in the Lisbeth Goldman, the artist—is getting married to her longtime partner, Emily. They recently moved here for Emily’s job at Sloan Kettering.”

  “Really,” Cory says, perking up slightly. “The art section did a feature on her a while back.”

  “I know,” I gush. “She’s just fantastic. And it’s such a better story than a remarriage. I mean, with the bill recently passed in New York, and they’re both so gorgeous and photogenic.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Cory asks suspiciously, as if he thinks this might be some sort of trap.

  “I’d be thrilled,” I stress. “I really think it would mean the world to Lisbeth to have their love recognized like that. And it would be great for the Times since she’s at least known in the art world plus her wedding is months away. It buys you more time.”

  “Why don’t you give me her number, and I’ll give her a call in the next few weeks?” Cory tells me, and I rattle it off from memory, thanking him profusely before hanging up.

  I decide not to tell Lisbeth myself and let her be surprised. In one fell swoop, I’ve managed to give Lisbeth the attention her mother is holding back from her, recognize her relationship publicly, and give her a little free publicity to boot. And I’ve gotten myself off the hook in having to deal with my publisher. There is a bit of wistfulness in my movements as I start prepping some ingredients for dinner, looking at the clock to judge when Adam will be home. I mean, it would have been nice to have that article as a keepsake, to have people hear about my book en masse. But Lisbeth needs it more. And according to my publisher’s message, I need it less.

  This is so much less complicated, I remind myself, and I’ve just done a good deed. And that’s all I allow myself to dwell on it while I start slicing onions, pretending that I’m crying from the vegetable.

  Chapter Ten

  ADAM HOLDS MY hand as we walk to our last cooking class. I like it when he holds my hand. It makes me feel as if we’re in an old black-and-white French film. The chaste exterior that hints that there might be something steamier going on behind closed doors. So few people today hold hands while they’re walking. They either jam them in their pockets or grip their phone—or even worse, look at their phone while they walk, completely ignoring the person next to them while not being fully cognizant of how they’re slowing down other people on the sidewalk. Holding hands feels as if we’re part of a different era, a slower, sweeter era.

  We have time to spare before class, so we take a long route around the park, pausing at the bodega to pick up a pack of gum for Adam and a People magazine for me. I flip through the front section, gawking at the pictures of celebrities with their offspring, celebrities with their significant others, celebrities at charity golf events. Though the pictures are supposedly candid, all of the people have been captured mid-smile, teeth gleaming, hair swept back perfectly. There are no double chins, no mouths agape, no rounded shoulders.

  “Holy crap,” I say, pulling the magazine closer to my face and then flipping it around so Adam can see the picture too. “That’s the guy from the Nightly. Noah.” The picture is actually of David Lear, the host, but Noah is beside him, his eyes crinkled up as if hugged by his own smile.

  Adam glances at the picture and shrugs. “Yeah, that’s the guy we met that day at the taping.”

  “The one who has been hanging out with Arianna,” I prompt him.

  “Yeah, the one who hangs out with Arianna,” Adam repeats, raising his eyebrows as if asking why that’s important. For someone so brilliant in interpreting literature, he can be a little slow on deconstructing relationships once they leave the page.

  “Don’t you think that’s odd? For a woman to hang out with this unmarried guy?”

  “Well, she’s not married either,” Adam points out.

  “But she’s taken. She’s dating my brother. She’s in a committed relationship, and for the point of this discussion, that’s as good as married. Don’t you think it’s sort of cheating if she’s spending all this time with another guy?”

  “It depends on what she’s getting out of the relationship. I mean, yes, if she’s attracted to him, you could say that she’s having an emotional affair . . . or a physical affair. If she’s holding back from Ethan but giving herself fully to this other guy.”

  “What if she’s holding back from her best friend? What if she’s shut her best friend completely out of her life?”

  “Do you think Arianna is cheating on you? Is she shutting you out, or is she just busier now because she has more friends? It’s possible for a man and a woman to be friends without it being anything more than that.”

  “She is definitely shutting me out. We haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. Months. Haven’t yo
u seen When Harry Met Sally?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’ve seen When Harry Met Sally. But I disagree—they couldn’t remain just friends. But they let themselves get emotionally involved. They were really attracted to each other from the beginning and just didn’t want to admit it. But think about how many men you interact with daily. Aren’t your interactions innocent?”

  I don’t really interact with any men beyond Adam and my brother unless you count dinner with Jared. “The only way it could be completely innocent is if there’s no chance to ever hook up.”

  “Okay, so let’s take my sister for example and play devil’s advocate. Does that mean Lisbeth can never hang out with another woman? Because she could technically hook up with any of them? Does that mean that I should be worried that you two went dress shopping together? Saw each other in your bra and panties? I mean, how is that any different?”

  “It’s different because your sister isn’t attracted to me, and I’m not attracted to your sister.”

  “How do you know she doesn’t have the hots for you? I have the hots for you. Maybe it just runs in the Goldman blood,” he murmurs, crunching my magazine against my body as he leans in to kiss my neck.

  “Adam, I think my best friend is having an affair on my brother.”

  Adam pulls back and studies my face. “That’s a pretty serious accusation. Why do you think she’s having an affair?”

  I don’t know why I blurted that out. Because she was watching Noah at the producer’s table instead of focusing on the host? Because she was short with my brother? Because she won’t marry Ethan? Because she has been distant with me? I don’t have anything more than a gut feeling that something is amiss simply based on the fact that I have known Arianna long enough to be able read her moods. I can tell when she’d rather stay in than go out, when she’d rather watch a drama instead of a comedy. And I can tell when she is attracted to someone, the way her voice sounds when she talks about him, the way she brings back loose threads of the conversation to the object of her affection. And I understand it in the sense that Noah is attractive and funny and seems incredibly thoughtful and kind-hearted. But Ethan is my brother, and I want him to be happy. Arianna makes him happy.