I’d gotten quite the assortment of newsworthy items that week already:
Tim signed his name to the bottom of a picturesque card that said only “Merry Christmas from Sunny Antigua.”
Mark and Seth crowed about their new puppy in their holiday letter. Named him Spider-Man because he kept climbing all over their polished Shaker furniture.
Kim, Tom and the kids claimed to be fine in their card, but Kim was getting antsy being a stay-at-home mom. Was thinking about going back to grad school. Maybe business. Maybe art therapy. She didn’t care. She just wanted to get out of the house.
Angelique and Leo, who’d had their triplets a couple months back (one girl, two boys) in California, sent a photo of their newly expanded family. They were hanging in there despite the sleepless nights, and Lyssa had proven to be a terrific older sister. “Thank God for her!” Angelique wrote. “She can change diapers like a pro.” They were seriously saving for her future Stanford tuition.
And, from my annual grad-school university alumni newsletter, came this shocker: Brent “Go Fish” Sullivan had departed this earth back in July. The victim of a fatal car crash. No reported surviving widow or children, but I figured there was probably a woman somewhere. No mention of substance-related causes but, considering he loved single-malt Scotch almost as much as he loved card games, that wouldn’t have surprised me either.
Regardless, I was rendered speechless when I saw his name in black ink on the “In Memoriam” page. And, to be completely honest, I was sincerely saddened.
I guess I’d hoped he’d live long enough to be redeemed. That he’d find someone he could be true to, even if he hadn’t yet married her. I wished for some kind of happy ending for him in part, I supposed, because I wished it for all of us. And, yes, for me especially.
So, when I saw the two cards that came in on Jane’s birthday, sure, I rolled my eyes at the first one. Dominic Reyes-Jones. But I opened up the envelope immediately. He was getting remarried, his card said. He’d had a tough start to the year — been out of work for a few months — but had gotten a new part-time job. The (latest) love of his heart and soul was taking him to the Greek Isles for their honeymoon. Life, he insisted, was fabulous.
Well, good for him. He was happily screwing someone else, literally, figuratively. That was fine by me. Hey, at least he wasn’t dead.
Terrie’s card I opened with much more genuine interest and anticipation. Inside I found a cute photo of her and the children, plus a handful of scented stationery sheets. She’d moved out of state again but not far, Iowa this time, following a job lead that had paid off. She’d gotten herself a place of her own and enrolled her kids in a good neighborhood school. Said she’d met a new man too. Everett. Planned to take things real slow.
I grinned at this and would’ve bet anyone willing to take me on that, when I invited her to Di and Alex’s second wedding next fall, she’d be bringing this Everett dude along. It was something about how she wrote his name, her script so precise. Or maybe it was in the way she went on about him for a full seven pages. Kind of a giveaway.
Then, on the last page of her letter she added this postscript:
Oh! I thought you’d want to hear the latest gossip. My sister Sabrina told me she ran into Nate…and that he told her that Sam Blaine was finally getting married. Guess he’s engaged to some woman in Boston. Poor girl, huh?
The words jumped off the pretty floral pages and punched me in the stomach. Sam? Engaged? To somebody else?
Really?
I reminded myself that it wasn’t as though I wanted to marry him. No. I simply liked the fantasy I’d created. It was the possibility I’d grown attached to…I told myself I didn’t want to see a romantic avenue I’d imagined get closed off. That it was for this reason alone that my hands trembled and my knees shook — a bizarre reaction that had nothing to do with the man himself.
Only, I felt numb everywhere, and I knew I’d been wrong about something. When Tim and I broke up, I believed heartache couldn’t get any worse. That by embracing the pain and letting everything inside me go soft, I’d recover faster.
It’d worked with Tim, but this case was different. Going soft made me feel the cruel edges of pain sooner, and they were sharper. Each sensation was more acute, more immediate, more devastating than I could’ve imagined, and the question barrage wouldn’t stop:
• Why didn’t I stay longer at the bookstore café that one day?
• Why didn’t I really talk to Sam when I’d had the chance?
• Why didn’t I run back down that plane ramp in Boston and call him from the airport?
• Why didn’t I open up my heart more readily instead of being paralyzed by old fears until it was too late?
• Why, why, why?
Goddamned story of my life.
Chapter 15
If the dispositions of the parties are ever
so well known to each other or ever so
similar beforehand, it does not advance
their felicity in the least.
— Pride and Prejudice
Ten and a half months later, at age thirty-four, I was at my parents’ house — midweek, early November, up to my eyebrows in relatives — when the doorbell rang for the first time, at noon.
“I’ll get it,” the bride-to-be said around her last bite of lasagna Florentine. “It’s probably Alex.” And Di, knowing her ex-/future-husband well, was right.
“Hey, babe,” Alex said, kissing my sister and fourteen-month-old Clifton, then waving to the rest of us…the rest of us being me, my mom, my dad, Angelique, her husband Leo, all four of their children, my brother, his wife Nadia, their two boys and their collie, Fritz.
Various reciprocal greetings occurred, from handshakes to hugs to high fives. Mom shoved a plate of food at Alex, and Fritz contributed a friendly bark.
Dad said to Di’s fiancé, “The men are gonna watch some ESPN downstairs in ten minutes. A couple college basketball teams are playing. Wanna join us?”
Alex shook his head and gave my sister an adoring glance. “Thanks, Mr. B., but Di and I need to check out a few things with the florist.”
Mom shot Di a horrified look only the mother of the bride could produce with conviction. “What? Is there something wrong with the arrangements? The reception centerpieces we chose? That flower guy promised me — ”
“Nah, nothing like that,” Di said. “We just wanted to make sure they had the right number of corsages and boutonnieres for the ceremony Saturday.”
Mom brought her palm up to her heaving chest. “Oh, good.” She motioned for Alex to sit down. “Eat then. Now. We’ve got pecan pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert when you’re done.”
Alex took one look at our mother’s anxious expression and, apparently, didn’t dare disobey. He picked up his fork and dug in.
Mom used this opportunity to whip out her encyclopedia-sized planning calendar. “What else is left to check on today? Ellie already called about the final dress fittings. I talked with the musicians yesterday, and everything is set there. The photographer is okay. The videographer is fine, too. Di, you got ahold of the Reverend?”
“Yep,” Di said. “And Ellie and I also double-checked the cake order over the weekend.”
“That’s right…the cake,” Mom said. Then, “Oh, God! Ellie, the caterers! Did you — ”
“Everything’s under control,” I told her, trying to sound reassuring. “I sampled the entire menu again on Monday, and chicken Marsala with broccoli almondine never tasted so good. The wedding dinner will be great. Don’t worry.”
“You can be sure it will if Ellie’s in charge of it,” Angelique piped up. “Remember Di’s bachelorette party? The food was delicious. I’m still salivating over that scrumptious teriyaki salmon.” My cousin directed her comments to my mom, but she winked at me.
“Yes, yes that was good,” Mom admitted.
“And the mashed potatoes were super fluffy,” Angelique’s daughter Lyssa added, proving the t
en-year-old was as sweet as she was smart.
Nadia laughed. “Forget about the food. Awesome as it was, let’s not overlook the entertainment Ellie chose for us that night!”
This got a big laugh from the ladies present. Dad, Leo, Alex, Gregory and his sons, however, appeared less amused.
I blushed, although I’d done nothing more perverted than hire a fun-loving male dancer, whose sole job was to show us some cool moves and give us a crash course in new millennium hip-hop (while keeping on every stitch of his clothing, mind you). Even Mom got into the fun. But we’d all made a pact afterward not to tell the men what had really transpired that night, for which none of the guys had forgiven us.
Di grinned at me and said, “Yeah, that wild sister of mine really knows how to plan a party. I’m a lucky bride.” Then, as I tried to shrug off her compliment, Di turned to our parents and added, “Thanks for giving me Ellie.”
At this, Gregory jumped up. “Hey, what about me? Don’t I count?” He tried to strike an indignant pose, but it didn’t quite work.
Di said, “Oh, sorry, bro. Mom, Dad, thanks for giving Ellie to Gregory, too.”
Our family laughter was interrupted by the doorbell ringing for the second time that Wednesday.
Mom said, “I’ll get it. I’m expecting an extra package of wedding favors. That Mary-somebody said she’d FedEx over another box today.”
While Mom signed for her box, Dad, Leo, Gregory and most of the males headed downstairs to watch the first basketball game, bowls of pie and ice cream in hand.
Angelique, torn between wanting to see the game and wanting to chitchat with the women, shoved one of the triplets at Leo, put Lyssa in charge of another one and chased the third one around the living room.
Alex gobbled up the rest of his lunch and, before he could pull Di out the door, was promptly handed dessert.
“Eat this,” my mother said. Alex sat back down again and let Di feed him a huge spoonful of ice-cream-drenched pie.
Little Clifton toddled over to me and threw his chunky little arms around my knees. I grabbed him for a bear hug and he wriggled and giggled, making me laugh with all of his squirminess.
Over the past few months I’d tried to puzzle out which of Di’s ex-boyfriends he looked liked. If pressed, I’d have to say the only male he really resembled was our brother. The Barnett side had strongly marked his young features, and Clifton seemed to know this clan was where he belonged.
Alex, however, appeared to have no recollection of Clifton not being biologically his, which pleased me to witness. When Di got up to flip through the big wedding planner, Alex waved his spoon at her son and said, “Want some ice cream, Cliffy?”
My nephew wavered between the two of us.
“Aw, c’mon, kiddo.” Alex chuckled and winked in my direction. “I know no one’s more fun than your Auntie El, but Daddy’s got ice cream here…”
Clifton finally made his decision and, with a parting squeeze of those stubby, sticky fingers, waddled over to Alex, mouth open and ready.
Di caught my eye, embracing me in a glance with her heartfelt contentedness. And I could imagine her joy at being part of that happy trio, even though I’d never experience the same.
There was nothing like thinking you’d lost someone for good to put petty disagreements into perspective. Alex cast his pride aside and came running back when he thought Di might’ve moved on without him. Di reached true forgiveness only when she realized the love she had for Alex was much stronger than the passing fancy she’d felt toward other men.
And I’d gained a clarity of heart once I finally decided to search for myself, even though, in the process, I had to face the fact that this understanding had come too late. That I’d lost any chance of ever getting together with Sam.
Those early weeks after finding out about his engagement had been hard. So much so that I’d finally confided in Di (in person) and Angelique (via long-distance telephone) about my strange and assorted history with him. I needed advice, and Jane, who was so wise and generous in every other situation, refused to give counsel when it came to “that Wickham, Sam Blaine.” Though my news surprised both my sister and my cousin, they surprised me more by being amazingly sympathetic.
“Your soul mate could not be genuinely happy without you,” Angelique had said when I’d first called her about it. “If Sam has moved on, after everything you’ve told me about your relationship, then he was never really your man. You deserve someone whose eyes light up when he sees you across the room. Someone who’ll rub your shoulders when they’re aching just because he wants to relieve your pain. Someone whose heart never stops beating for you. And that man is out there for you, Ellie,” she assured me. “It’s worth taking your time to find him.”
Di’s advice directly contradicted this and was somewhat less poetic. “True love sucks,” she’d said one day, “and there’s no such thing as soul mates, no matter what Hollywood or Angelique says. It’s all work and building trust and fighting for commitment, day after day after day. And both people need to want to make it happen. Bad. Otherwise, fuck it.”
Months later, the memory of Angelique and Di’s words of wisdom still made me grin. My philosophy on romantic love fell somewhere in the middle of their extremes, but the familial devotion and appreciation I felt flowing from my closest relatives, even from those who weren’t aware of my heartache, had given me the courage to expose myself to dating again.
The results had been less than inspiring so far, but I was giving it a shot. At the start of the year, I’d written Sam a heartfelt and personally cleansing note of congratulations on his upcoming nuptials. It said:
Dear Sam,
I heard the news of your engagement through the Glen Forest grapevine — congratulations. I guess there’s a side of me that’ll always remember our friendship as it’d been during those emotional, unforgettable high school years…it’s hard to believe we’re so grown up now. I don’t think I ever told you how much those memories meant to me, though, or how glad I am that — despite everything — you were a part of my life back then.
Anyway, I know we haven’t seen each other in half a decade, and when last we did, well, it was awkward. I didn’t want to leave things between us like that. So, please know, I’m thinking of you fondly and wishing you and your fiancée well as you begin your life together.
Best,
Ellie
Yes, the whole message consisted of no more than six complex sentences but, as I wrote those words and sincerely wished him happiness with the woman he’d chosen, I also silently released him from my mind.
It was long past time to let Sam Blaine go.
Likewise, I’d recently begun to let go of the soul-mate, fairytale fantasy I’d clung to for ages while still striving to stay open to romantic possibilities. I had to turn my attention — realistically — toward the future.
I knew I could support myself financially and that my goofy family would support me emotionally when I needed a boost. I had the love of my parents, my siblings, my cousin and my friends (including Jane), all of whom would be there for me no matter what the circumstance.
And if the only happily-ever-after ending I would ever get in this life would be one I had to create for myself, so be it. I was capable of making come true any dream I wanted.
If I felt the need for a large backyard and an English flower garden, I could sell my modest townhouse and buy something bigger.
If the maternal instinct got too strong, I could go to a sperm bank and order up my own baby. I could!
If the will of the Universe had a destiny in mind for me, I could wedge my heart open to it and face whatever hand I was dealt, with the bravery of a lady warrior.
I adopted “I am woman, oh, Mighty Universe. Hear me chortle!” as my unspoken battle cry.
Looking around the living room at the women of my family, each busily tending to something wedding-related, I was flooded with pride. We were strong and competent. We were making things happen in our w
orld. We weren’t allowing ourselves to be paralyzed by old fears until it was too late. No. We could roll with any changes that got hurled our way and positively influence our destinies.
And as for me…what a wonder I was. Yes, truly! How sensible I was being about all of this. How levelheaded. How unbelievably healthy. Damn, what a great attitude I had!
And I was in the midst of congratulating myself on these tremendous feats — and on my sense of personal power — when the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it,” I said, springing up as if buoyed by a jubilant spirit. Or, maybe, by a giant Slinky.
Jane’s voice said, Do not open it, Ellie.
I asked her, Why not? but swung the front door open wide before she had a chance to reply.
And, now, here we are.
Fully in the present.
As I stare mutely into the blue eyes of the man on our doorstep.
It takes a moment of this magnitude for me to finally grasp how wrong I’d been about something important.
Because, see, until this very instant, I thought I had a shred of mastery over my life and my destiny when, clearly, the only thing I have is a theory — My Unifying Theory About the Nature of the Universe — which snaps into being, fully formed in my mind.
Simply put, my newfound theory states: The minute a person comes to the erroneous conclusion that he or she controls anything at all in this life, the Universe immediately gets even with the bloody idiot.
Let go, Ellie. Just let go of all expectation.
A voice in my head, other than Jane’s, says this, and I realize, with no little shock, that it’s my own voice.
So, miraculously, even if it’s only for a second, I let go.
“Hi, Sam,” I say finally, amazed by the calm flow of these words out of my mouth.
“Hi, Ellie,” he says with a tight smile. He’s holding a lovely bouquet of autumn-colored flowers, his knuckles white around the wrapping. “I heard there was going to be a Barnett wedding this weekend. Congratulations to…everyone.”
According to Jane Page 24