How Do You Know?

by Meredith Schorr

Jodie laughs, but then her face turns businesslike. “Seriously, though. This Philip dude makes you happy?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m happy.” I bring my wine glass to my lips and let it linger a moment before drinking. “It’s different, though.”

  “Different from what?”

  I shrug. “Just different. He’s so…grown up.”

  Jodie snorts. “I hate to break it to you, Mags, but so are you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Still younger than me, kiddo. And you don’t show your age like I do,” Jodie says, pointing at the faint lines around her blue eyes which have deepened over the last couple of years. “And if I don’t color this hair soon, I might be mistaken for a Brillo Pad.”

  Jodie does have more wrinkles than I do, but she’s as adorable now as she was in college. She’s not classically beautiful, but her warm and expressive face is indicative of her bubbly personality. “You’d be the hottest Brillo Pad on the block.”

  Jodie snorts. “Have you seen my neighbors? Not much of a compliment.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “I know I’m not much younger than Philip, but he’s already been married. He has partial custody of two teenagers and a high-powered job. I, on the other hand, consider canned chicken noodle soup and a bag of chips to be a good dinner. It’s nuts. When I was with Doug, I worried he would dump me for a younger chick, and dating Philip, I fear he’s going to discover I’m still a child in a woman’s body.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but your lanky body and teeny titties aren’t very womanly.”

  “Screw you.”

  One eyebrow cocked, she asks, “Did you seriously worry Doug would dump you for a younger chick?”

  “No,” I confess.

  Jodie shakes her head. “I didn’t think so. Was it weird seeing him today?”

  I bite my lip as I recall how caught off guard I was by seeing him in the Apple Store. I wasn’t going to mention it, but Amanda blurted it out over macaroni and cheese. Probably sensing my discomfort, Jodie didn’t question me about it at the time, but I should have known she was waiting until we were alone. I down the rest of my wine. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

  “The first time you run into an ex is always the toughest. At least he wasn’t with a girl.”

  “Amanda thinks I should want Doug to meet someone else.” I glance down the hallway and whisper, “Did you know about Amanda and her first boyfriend?” Her only boyfriend. I’m still floored by her confession.

  Jodie stands up and removes our empty wine glasses from the coffee table. “Amanda needs therapy.” I follow her into the kitchen where she rinses the glasses with water and places them gently in her dishwasher.

  “Enough about me and Amanda. What about you?” I say, leaning against her refrigerator.

  Tying her curly locks into a bun on the top of her head, Jodie says, “What? My adventures in vacuuming aren’t exciting enough for you?”

  With probing eye contact, I say, “Maybe if you dated, you could allow your vacuum to charge for a change.”

  “Can we stop speaking in metaphors?” Jodie says, crossing her arms against her chest.

  “Have you thought about dating?”

  “Of course I have. But I’ve only been divorced for four months.”

  “You were legally separated for several years before that.”

  “True, but my life is so hectic right now.”

  I raise my hand in protest. “Objection. You complained only a few minutes ago your life was utterly mundane. A man could certainly shake things up.”

  Pushing my hand away playfully, Jodie says, “Overruled. Hectic and mundane are not mutually exclusive. Don’t worry your freckled face over me, Magpie. I’ll get back in the game at some point. I promise.” She sighs and then draws me into a hug. When she pulls away, she says, “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m beat.”

  My lips curling, I say, “Is ‘beat’ code for something else? If I barge into your bedroom in thirty minutes, will I catch you ‘vacuuming’ your bed?”

  Jodie smiles and taps me on the nose. “You think you’re so cute, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  November

  My mom places half a ruby red grapefruit on a plate in front of where I’m sitting at her kitchen table and kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry I don’t have soup for you tonight. I was too tired,” she says.

  I spoon a chunk of juicy grapefruit into my mouth. “No need to apologize,” I say and follow her with my eyes as she walks back into her kitchen. “Will you please sit down with me?” My mom’s most recent guilt trip was epic, so I took the train straight from work to join her for dinner.

  “Eat your grapefruit. I’ll be right there.” She bends over the stove to check on the roast beef. She removes it from the oven rack, places it on a large dish, and brings it over to the table. I stand up and help her with the side dishes—sautéed string beans and Fettuccini Alfredo.

  It takes three more trips into the kitchen, but once we’re both sitting at the table with a full plate of food and tall glasses of Diet Coke in front of us, we catch up on each other’s weeks. I tell my mom about my latest project at work and she brags about winning two dollars and seventy-five cents in her latest mahjong game. Conversation momentarily halts as we dig into our meal until my mom breaks the silence. “What’s going on with you? How’s Doug?”

  Swallowing a string bean, I say, “I assume he’s okay. I almost bumped into him in Grand…”

  At this, my mother puts down her fork and knife and stares at me. My cheeks burn and, afraid to meet her gaze, I study the blue flowers which are etched into my dinner plate while wishing I could jump back in time ten seconds to before I shoved my foot into my piehole.

  “Am I missing something?” she asks.

  My hands begin to shake. Back in high school, my mom got me a job working for a woman who owned a catering business out of her home. After nine months, my boss, Mrs. Brind, gave me an ultimatum—either show more passion for the job or don’t come back. Since I felt absolutely no passion for being stuck in her windowless basement every afternoon for two hours with zero human contact while I reviewed inventory, I took the latter option. When I broke the news to my mom, I worried she would be disappointed in my choice, but she gave me a hug and said Mrs. Brind needed a regular dose of mouthwash and a lip wax (both true). Today, I am crippled with fear she will think less of me as a result of breaking things off with Doug, thereby solidifying my fate as a single, forty-year-old woman. And Doug is a much more appealing adversary than Mrs. Brind and does not suffer from halitosis.

  I pinch my lips with my thumb and index finger and slowly make eye contact. “There’s something I need to tell you, Mom.”

  “I knew something was wrong. What is it?” There is a touch of impatience in her voice, but her forehead is crinkled with concern.

  As fast as I can, I blurt out, “Doug and I broke up.” I swallow hard and avert eye contact as my heart beats rapidly. I observe her reaction. She doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I should provide more information or wait for her to ask.

  Finally, she leans against her chair and blows out her cheeks. “What happened?”

  I open my mouth hoping for a seamless delivery of the information, but before any sound comes out, my mom cuts me off. “And when did this happen?”

  While biting a knuckle, I mutter, “July.”

  Her face turning red, my mom repeats, “July?”

  I gulp. “Yeah.”

  “Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

  “I didn’t want you to be mad at me.” I brace myself for her response.

  Repeating Aunt Helen’s favorite phrase, my mom says, “Dogs get mad. People get angry.”

  According to Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary, “mad” is a synonym of “angry,” and does not only m
ean “rabid,” but years of being corrected have trained me not to use the word “mad” around Aunt Helen. Unless I’m talking about a dog, of course. “I didn’t want you to be mad…angry with me for breaking up with him.”

  My mom shakes her head. “Why would I be ma…angry? Damn, Helen.” We both chuckle.

  “I know how much you love Doug,” I say.

  “I thought you did too,” my mom says.

  “I did.”

  My mom appears confused, so I spend the next ten minutes rehashing the events of my birthday dinner with Doug and confessing the doubts I had while we were dating. I ask her to please let me get it all out before offering remarks, and she miraculously remains silent throughout. Finally, I let out a deep exhale. “Now you can comment.”

  “First of all, yes, I love Doug. But I love you more. You’re my baby, and I want you to be happy.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. My heart is still slamming against my chest.

  “But I thought you were happy. You and Doug were such a wonderful couple—always smiling, always laughing. You share so many interests. Even my friends have commented about what a lovely pair you make.”

  I flash back to the surprise party Aunt Helen, Cheryl, and I threw for my mom’s sixty-fifth birthday, and how Doug and I caught my mom’s mahjong buddies sneaking surreptitious glances at us all day and whispering among themselves. Doug insisted they were talking about how handsome he was. I assumed they were gossiping about us living in sin. “I’m actually dating someone else now.”

  My mom raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Yes. He’s a partner at the firm.”

  “A partner, huh? Nice work.”

  I wave her away. “Stop it. He’s a nice guy.”

  She purses her lips. “Another young one?”

  When I started dating Doug, my mom was concerned about our age difference. She feared Doug might not be as emotionally available and ready to settle down as someone my own age or a few years older. It didn’t take long for Doug to prove her wrong, but I was still happy to deliver news she might like. “Philip is six years older than me.”

  Cocking her head to the side, my mom says, “And never been married?” My mom is old-fashioned and thinks any man over the age of forty who hasn’t been married must either be gay or a player. I’m thrilled to ease her apprehension. “No. Divorced. Two kids.” I see no reason to clarify that Philip isn’t technically divorced yet.

  “And he wants to get married again?”

  I sigh. “The subject hasn’t come up yet. It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?”

  My mom stands up and starts to clear the table. “As long as you’re happy. I still think it’s a shame though. You and Doug were so—”

  I put my hand up and follow her to the sink. “Please, Mom.”

  Drawing me into a hug, she squeezes me hard. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “You and me both,” I whisper while holding her tight.

  After we separate, I return to my seat at the table. “Do you ever wish you got married again?” I take a sip of soda.

  “Not once.”

  Skeptical, I raise an eyebrow. “You were barely thirty-five when Dad left.”

  “I dated plenty after the divorce, if you recall,” my mom says while smiling slightly.

  “It rings a bell.” Of course I remember being called away from Gimme a Break!, The Facts of Life, and The Love Boat to greet Mr. Greenberg, Mr. Bowser, and the string of other men who took my mom out on Saturday nights after the divorce. “I wasn’t very nice to your boyfriends,” I say, biting my lip in shame. Also fresh in my memory is publicly laughing about Mr. Greenberg’s receding hairline and Mr. Bower’s hairy arms, and privately sharing with Cheryl my anxiety that one of them would become my stepfather.

  “No, you weren’t,” my mom says.

  I stand up and bring my dirty dishes to her. “I’m sorry I was such a brat. I hope I didn’t drive them away.”

  “Nonsense. They thought you were adorable. And I was really good in bed.”

  “Mom!”

  Wiggling her eyebrows, she says, “I can’t have you thinking your father had all the fun after the divorce.”

  “That’s no joke,” I say, shaking my head knowingly. My dad never lacked female companionship, and it’s questionable whether he waited until after the separation to take a lover. The one time he invited me to visit him in Dallas, I was twelve and I counted down the days until the trip. I couldn’t wait to visit Southfork Ranch and ride rollercoasters at Six Flags, but mostly I yearned to bond with my dad. Instead, I spent the entire week tagging along while he showed off for Kiki, his girlfriend du jour. The multiple excuses I came up with to refuse a future invitation were unused as he never asked. “It’s not too late, Mom. They have online dating sites for senior citizens.”

  Recoiling, my mom says, “No thanks.”

  Pulling her into a hug, I say, “I want you to be happy too.”

  After a squeeze, she pulls away and points her finger at me. “Don’t keep secrets from me, and I’ll be ecstatic.”

  “No more secrets. I promise.”

  A slow smile breaks across my face when I realize there is no need to cross my fingers behind my back anymore.

  A light rapping on my office door causes me to look up from my computer where I’m finalizing the proposed marketing budget for the next year. When I see Philip standing in my doorway, my stomach flips in delight for more than one reason. The proposed budget is more ambitious this year because I’m counting on him to go to bat for me with the management committee. I gesture toward my guest chair. “Have a seat.”

  Philip shakes his head. “No time. Sorry. Do you have plans tonight?”

  I lean my elbows on my desk and look at him from under my eyelashes. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I thought maybe we could get some dinner.”

  “Sounds good. We can stay in if you want.” I haven’t seen him outside of work in a week and am less interested in dinner than I am in dessert.

  “There’s a new Greek restaurant near here I’ve been wanting to try. You game?”

  Greek food would not make my top five list of favorite cuisines, but I’m just happy to spend time with him. “Greek works for me,” I say happily.

  Philip nods. With one foot out the door, he says, “I’ll come by and get you later. Around six thirty?”

  “Perfect.” I glance at the draft budget on my computer screen. “Do you have a minute to—?” I swivel my chair back around to complete my question, but he’s already gone.

  A few hours later, I’m sitting across from Philip in the brightly lit rear room of Avra Restaurant. I’m certain Philip is mistaken about it being new, but I don’t bother to say anything. The décor of the restaurant is understated but elegant—circular tables with white tablecloths crowd the room. Our table is so close to the couple next to us, it almost feels like we’re on a double date. I chew my lip as I study the menu, but when I sense Philip’s gaze on me, I slowly raise my head. “What are you looking at?” I flirt.

  His expression is grim and as I watch his hand fiddle with his napkin, my heart pumps one beat faster. “What’s wrong?”

  Philip sighs. “I was going to wait until after dinner to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Trying to disguise the tremors in my heart, I say in a light voice, “That sounds ominous.”

  Philip doesn’t say anything as he casts his eyes toward his bread plate, but then he looks up at me and opens his mouth. “Here’s the thing—”

  “Are you two ready to order?” the waitress asks in a cheery voice.

  Philip clears his throat and points to me. “You first.”

  I say, “I’ll have the salmon,” even though my appetite has disappeared, and I’m fairly certain it w
on’t return until after I hear what Philip has to say.

  “And I’ll have the kota scharas.” He turns to me with his lips turned up. “Fancy way of saying the free-range chicken.”

  Philip hands the waitress his menu.

  I give her mine as well and take a deep breath before facing Philip. “You were saying?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this.” He averts eye contact but not before I detect sadness in his eyes.

  “Spit it out,” I say a little louder than intended. Lawyers are usually better at bottom-lining information, and his reluctance to get to the point suggests he’s about to tell me I lost a multimillion-dollar litigation. I check to see if the couple at the table next to us heard me, but thankfully, they seem engrossed in their own conversation.

  “You’re a spitfire, Mags.”

  “Well, you’re making me nervous.” With shaky hands, I spread butter on a roll and take a small bite.

  “My wife and I have decided to suspend divorce proceedings.” His thick eyebrows draw together while he stares at me, awaiting my reaction.

  I know my mouth is hanging open, but I can’t bring myself to close it. “Oh.”

  “I just dropped a bomb on you and you say, ‘Oh?’ Care to elaborate on what you’re thinking?”

  “I’m waiting for you to go into further details,” I say calmly. I swallow hard in an attempt to dislodge the piece of bread, which feels like it’s stuck in my esophagus.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am to do this to you. You deserve so much better. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you.” He shakes his head.

  “But you did,” I whisper. I remember the time I was out for drinks with Amanda and the couple next to us was clearly on a first date. It played out like a train wreck when the girl received a phone call and rushed out of the bar due to a “family emergency.” Assuming it was really a bail-out call from a friend, Amanda and I had a chuckle at the poor guy’s expense. As I glance at the couple next to me again, I wonder if they’re finding my public breakup equally humorous. Karma’s a bitch.

  “I know,” he says softly. “I should’ve been more careful. Sheila, my wife, and I spent some time together last week and have decided to give it another go. We have a history, you know? We have two children,” he says, as if feeling the need to justify his decision.