“Gracias,” I say.
There are four women in front of bus 70, sweating in a ragged line. I take my place at the end and wait anxiously. The woman standing in front of me—late thirties, faded pretty, straw-colored hair—gives me a nervous smile. She might be as freaked out as I am. As we wait, I silently recite the schedule we’ll be following for the next two days: orientation, free period, meeting, dinner, bachelor/bachelorette parties, sleep, breakfast, therapy, wedding. It sounds like a mix of camp, high school, and a dream where everything seems real but nothing makes any sense. And the upshot of it all, the thing that’s banging around in my mind and pushing my heart against my chest, is that by the end of tomorrow I’ll be married.
I went to see Ms. Cooper the Monday after the party. When I was shown into her office, there was a white folder sitting squarely in the middle of her desk. Somehow I knew that whatever information she was about to give me about my potential future husband was in that folder, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. I eyed it with nervous anticipation, with hunger, maybe even with lust. The corners looked sharp enough to cause a paper cut if not handled properly. And I wanted to handle it properly.
Most of all, I wanted to see what—who—was inside.
“I imagine you’d like to read this?” she said, holding the folder casually.
Hey, lady, be careful with that! My husband’s in there.
“Yes, please.”
She handed it to me with an inscrutable look. I put it in my lap and ran my hands along the edges. They were as sharp as I’d imagined. My stomach was a pit of nervousness. I took a deep breath and opened it. Inside, there was a single white page containing a typed paragraph that read:
Profile Match for Anne Blythe
Jack H., 34, writer/journalist. 5’10”, brown hair, green eyes, parents deceased, no siblings, never married, wants kids, university-educated. First match. Match quotient 8.
I sat staring at the paper. I read it again and again until I’d memorized each word. No matter how long I stared, the information on the page didn’t change.
Jack H.—are you the man for me?
“What does ‘match quotient eight’ mean?”
“It’s a metric made up of your personality type and the matching characteristics we use.”
“What’s it out of?”
“It’s not ‘out of’ anything.”
“Then how do I know if it’s a good score?”
A flash of frustration crossed her face. “A match can be one through eight. One is least compatible, eight is most compatible.”
“So it’s a good match?” I persisted.
“Yes, Ms. Blythe. We don’t put people together who have less than a seven. That’s the reason we’re so successful.”
“Will he get the same information about me?”
She hesitated. “It’s the same information he’s received about you, yes.”
“Has received? He already knows about me?”
“Yes, Ms. Blythe.”
My heart started beating wildly. Somewhere in the world, probably in this very office, Jack H. had read a little paragraph about me and thought . . . what?
“Why did he get to go first?” I asked, feeling childish.
“We’ve found it’s better to ensure the man’s agreement before we present the candidate to the woman.”
I thought it over. “Because men deal better with rejection?”
“I wouldn’t say better. Just differently.”
“So the fact that you’re showing this to me means he’s agreed to . . . marry me?”
“Yes.”
Thump, thump, thump. “Did he accept the first match offered, or did he look at several matches?”
“No, you’re the first. That’s what ‘first match’ means.”
He picked me. He picked me! He doesn’t know anything about me, but Jack H. agreed to marry me. How is that even possible?
“What happens now?”
“You decide if you want to continue the process.”
“So it’s up to me?”
“It always has been.”
“How long do I have to decide?”
“You can take as long as you like, but . . .”
“I shouldn’t expect him to wait.”
She gave me one of her thin smiles. “We find it’s best not to wait too long. The other party can get impatient.”
“And if I agree? Then what?”
“Our next retreat is scheduled for the fifteenth.”
She was referring to the resort in Mexico where the weddings take place. Seven sun-drenched days and moonlit nights in a five-star resort. Speaking of which . . .
“Um, you never said. What are the sleeping arrangements?”
“You will have your own room for the week.”
“We’re not expected to . . .” I stopped, feeling like I did when I was stupid enough to ask a question in health class.
“What you do with your husband once you’re married is up to you, Ms. Blythe. I’m sure Dr. Szwick can discuss this in more detail, if you like.”
I nodded like a blushing idiot and got the hell out of there as soon as I could.
I spent the next several days barely able to sleep. When I showed up for my next appointment with Dr. Szwick, I was in mid-panic.
“What do you think I should do?” I asked him, perching tensely on the corduroy chair.
“That’s not for me to say, Anne.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“But if someone else can pick a husband for me, why can’t you tell me whether to marry him?”
“All Blythe and Company is telling you is that this is the type of person you should marry. But the decision to marry or not, the decision to marry under these circumstances, that’s a life choice you have to make.” He rested his hands on his knees. “I know you’re too intelligent not to see the distinction, so what’s really bothering you?”
“I guess this all seemed so theoretical. Something I was trying out that wasn’t going to lead anywhere, or at least not so quickly.”
“I won’t lie to you, Anne. This is happening faster than I’d ideally like. I think we still have some work to do, and in a perfect world, it would’ve taken longer. But Jack’s such a great match for you that—”
I interrupted him. “What do you mean, Jack’s such a great match for me? Have you met him?”
He gave me a patient smile. “Of course I have. I thought you understood that. I’ve been working with him just as I have with you. I see all of Blythe and Company’s clients in the city.”
“He’s been coming here?” I put my hands on the arms of the chair as though I might find something of him left behind, something that would tell me more about him than the scant words on the piece of paper Ms. Cooper gave me.
“Yes.”
“What’s he like? Tell me everything.”
“I can’t tell you anything, Anne, you know that. You’ll know the answers to your questions soon enough if you decide to go through with the process. But I can tell you I’m happy your first question was ‘What is he like?’ rather than ‘What does he look like?’ That shows some progress, I think.”
Or not. I really, really wanted to know what he looked like.
“So . . . should I marry him?” I couldn’t help asking again.
He shook his head. “I want to try something.”
“Do you want me to feel discombobulated again? Because I already feel that way.”
“No, I want you to relax. Sit back, close your eyes, and count to ten slowly.”
I slid back. “What am I supposed to be doing while I count?”
“Nothing, Anne. Just close your eyes and count. Don’t think of anything but the counting. Imagine the numbers forming in your mind. Use the numbers to push back any other thoughts. Ready?”
I closed my eyes. I tried to block out all the other thoughts in my brain but the numbers. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . I vis
ualized each number as I thought it, bright starry things that hurt my eyelids.
“Have you counted to ten?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to think back to the moment you decided to go to Blythe and Company. Do you remember where you were?”
“Yes, I was at work.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was talking to my best friend, Sarah. She’d just told me she was engaged.”
“She told you she was getting married, and you decided to call Blythe and Company?”
“Yes.”
“Why? And don’t say ‘I don’t know.’ ”
I breathed in and out slowly. One . . . two . . . three . . . now the numbers were pastel tones, the crayon bleeding outside the lines as if my nieces had colored them.
“I suppose I wanted what she had.”
“Yes. But why call Blythe and Company to get it?”
“Because I didn’t know how to get it myself.”
“And isn’t that still true? Don’t you want what she has?”
Six . . . seven . . . eight . . .
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“No ambivalent answers, Anne. Do you know how to get what you want?”
“No.”
“Do you still want what Sarah has?”
“Yes.”
“Should you marry Jack?”
Nine . . . ten . . . one . . . two . . . the numbers sparked brightly and disappeared.
“You’re saying if I marry Jack, I get what I want even though I don’t know how to get it?”
“What do you think?”
“I want to get what I want.”
“And so?”
“I want to marry Jack.”
“Okay, Anne. Now open your eyes.”
I opened my eyes slowly. The light hurt, like it does when you turn on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. I rubbed my eyes with my fists, and when I could focus again, there was Dr. Szwick, smiling at me.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Kind of excited.”
“That’s good, Anne. That’s very good.”
I left Dr. Szwick’s office on a high, and I rode that high right through to Mexico. I cleared my schedule, requested the time off, and told everyone I was going on an impromptu vacation to celebrate my book deal. I stayed up late, night after night, going through the line edits and copyedits for my book. I purchased some beach clothes and got a haircut. And I changed my mind a dozen times, but something always pushed me forward.
On the day before I was scheduled to leave, I bought a dress to wear to my wedding.
I was all set.
I get on the bus and take a seat next to a round woman in her mid-forties who has wild chestnut hair streaked with gray. She’s wearing a cream peasant skirt that falls to her ankles and a sleeveless purple linen shirt. She smells like baby oil and lavender.
“Hi,” she says brightly. “I’m Margaret.”
“I’m Anne.”
“Ever been to Mexico before?”
“No, you?”
“Nope. Say, I wonder where all the men are?”
I’ve been trying desperately not to think that very thing myself. Not to look into the face of every man on the airplane who had brown hair, wondering if he was Jack. Am I really, truly not even going to see this man until tonight?
“Good question,” I tell her.
“Maybe they bring them in on a different bus?”
“That must be it.”
“What’s yours named?”
I feel shy about saying his name to another person. It makes it more real somehow. Though how much realer can it get than this, sitting on a bus on the way to meet him?
“Jack.”
“Mine’s named Brian. Funny, I’ve never liked that name. Oh well. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Do you like the name Jack?”
“I do, actually.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a writer.”
“Brian’s an accountant. I’ve always thought that was a really boring profession, but it’s nice to know he makes a steady income, you know? Writer. Hmm. That doesn’t sound too stable.”
My shoulders tense. “I’m a writer.”
Her milky brown eyes widen. “Two writers. Wow. Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“What?”
“That you’re sure it’ll be fine?”
“Do I? Oh well, it’s just an expression, you know? I mean, Blythe and Company has such a great success rate, right? I’m sure they’ve matched us to the right people. Only . . .” She lowers her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Do you ever wonder if they make mistakes, you know, mix up the files or whatever?”
“No, I’ve never wondered that . . .”
Not until now!
She waves her hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ve got measures, you know, protocols or something, to make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen.”
I fucking hope so.
She looks out the window. “Have you noticed how many classic Volkswagen Beetles there are on the roads here?”
“No.”
“Look, there’s another one!” She punches the side of my arm. Hard. “Punch buggy yellow!”
“Ouch.” I rub the place on my arm where she hit me.
“Oh, sorry. It’s just a game I play with my son. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”
“You have a kid?”
“Sure. David. He’s nine.”
“Were you married before?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Married in . . . the usual way?”
She laughs brightly. “What, you think only freaks who can’t find husbands in the usual way use this service?”
“No, sorry.”
“Yeah, well, when my marriage blew up, I decided to take a different approach to things. I was using this Christian dating service when my sister told me the truth about how she met her husband. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather, you know, but then I started thinking about it, and I could sort of see the possibilities.”
“Like what?”
“Cutting through all the dating, the getting-to-know-you, the am-I-pretty-thin-smart-enough-crap and just building a future with someone I can be friends with, you know? I mean, Sal and I—that’s my first husband’s name, Sal—I don’t think we really liked each other, not even in the beginning. And by the time we got married, I was already sick of so many things about him, but David was on the way, and well . . .”
“I get it.”
“Anyway, I think it’ll be nice not to know anything about Brian for a while, right? Leave the surprises and annoyances for later, you know? Plus, I’ve always found the kind of things that drive you nuts about your partner don’t bug you in the same way when it’s one of your friends, you know what I mean? Like, who cares if your friend squeezes the toothpaste tube in the wrong way or doesn’t put the toilet seat down? I think Blythe and Company’s on to something with this whole friendship philosophy of marriage. How’d you hear about them?”
My head’s whirling so fast from trying to follow Margaret’s logic that it takes me a minute to catch up. “Oh, um—”
“Hey, we’re here!”
The bus pulls up in front of the entrance to the resort. It looks like most of the hotels we passed on our way: white and yellow stucco, large glass doors, colorful Spanish tiles on the steps. The ocean lies behind a large strip of impossibly white sand, azure and calm and vast.
We disembark and wheel our suitcases into the lobby, politely lining up at the front desk. The Spanish tiles continue on the inside, brightening the walls below a vaulted white stucco ceiling. The only men in the lobby are the hotel staff, almost indistinguishable from one another in their white uniforms and beige ties. When it’s my turn, the man behind the counter checks me in and provides me with an orientation package. He snaps a blue plastic bracelet aroun
d my wrist—my pass for meals and drinks for the week—and tells me not to lose it.
I walk with Margaret from the lobby toward the wing where our rooms are. She chats away as we follow a concrete path bordered by bright pink bougainvillea; the air is full of its sweet and acidic smell. I can hear the faint sound of waves breaking on the shore, a soothing hum.
“Hey, this is me,” Margaret says excitedly at room 42. “See you at the orientation!”
Another minute brings me to room 58. The floor is a light gray tile. The sunlight dances through gauzy curtains. The coverlet on the king-size bed is a pattern of bright, gaudy flowers. A basket of waxy-looking fruit sits on a round table in the corner.
Feeling grimy and worn out from the flight, I take a shower in the enormous tiled bathroom. The water is hard and smells faintly of salt, but the spray is strong and hot. When I’m done, I apply a lacquer of sunscreen, put on some beach clothes, and head to the orientation.
The orientation takes place in a glass-enclosed room next to the lobby. I watch a group of men play volleyball on the beach as Ms. Cooper leads the session. She looks out of place in her usual muted grays and taupes among the bright summer colors. As on the bus earlier, there are only women in the room, about twenty of us, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties.
Ms. Cooper goes through the schedule and explains that Blythe & Company’s resort is connected to the one next door, which is full of regular guests on vacation. The blue band around our wrist gives us access if we want it.
“I have a question,” Margaret says. “Where are the men?”
“They arrived yesterday. Which reminds me—I would encourage you not to speak to any of the men until after you’re matched tonight.”
“Why?”
Ms. Cooper gives her a patented frown. I’m glad I’m not the only one who provokes that look. “We’ve found it best to keep the two groups separated until the formal introductions.”
“So that we don’t, you know, fraternize with the wrong person?”
“Yes, that’s right. Now, as I was saying . . .”
When the orientation is finished, we have the afternoon to ourselves. We’ll be meeting our matches at six. The four hours between then and now seem like a lifetime.
Arranged Page 9