“That too!”
Up until now I had found myself unable to tell the full story of me and Ashwini—surely one of the crucial stories of my life—but walking through my childhood neighborhood with Sadie, it had come easily, prompted by her frequent questions, which felt at once brazen and circumspect, at once tender and vaguely rude.
“You said you fantasized about proposing to her,” she said as we neared the end of the path. “Did you actually want to get married?”
“I did!”
“Why?”
It took me a few moments to formulate a response: I wanted to answer as honestly as I could. “I wanted to make Ashwini happy,” I finally said. “I thought making her happy would make me happy.” Ashwini wanted to get married—at some point—because her parents wanted her to. She wasn’t romantic about it, but she cared. She wanted to make her parents happy. And her parents cared deeply that their only daughter, a first-generation Canadian, should display as many outward signs of success as possible. And this made sense to Ashwini. How else would her parents know if they had made the right decision to leave their home? How could you know? In any case, Ashwini had already rebelled against her parents by choosing writing over the more reliably remunerative professions, and her desire to marry may have been in part a desire to abide by at least some of her parents’ wishes.
As for me, I told Sadie, I’d renounced marriage a long time ago. Of course as a kid I’d assumed I’d get married: my parents stayed together and I had no reason not to believe that marriage was something you ascended to by natural law. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that it even occurred to me to question it, and when I did I rejected it wholesale. It was an empty convention, I decided, an insidious cultural expectation whose purpose was to reduce autonomous human beings to reproducers, to providers, whose loyalty to the family unit was a cover for the ultimate egotism. It was a lie. And it was an excuse for a couple to stop trying, since what was there to try for if you’d made it, if you’d arrived?
Only after being with Ashwini for a while did my hard stance on marriage begin to erode, and the moment that getting married became a possibility for me was impossible to locate, I told Sadie. What seemed to me to have happened now, though I wouldn’t have put it like this at the time, was that marriage came to seem less and less like a lie, and more and more like a fiction. It wasn’t real. And because it wasn’t real you could make it whatever you wanted, you could write its story. It would provide a template for the story, but that template was there for the couple to alter in any way it saw fit, or to dismiss. And even in dismissing the template you were using it; it was serving a function. In this way the unreality of marriage became an opportunity to create a new reality, or perhaps to give form to a reality that already existed. Marriage, I came slowly to believe, was a sort of transformational vessel. Or at least benign.
“You circled back around,” said Sadie.
“I circled back around.”
After seeming to consider my account for a moment, Sadie said that the progress of my attitude toward marriage—from unthinking approval to fierce rejection to more considered and qualified approval—reminded her of the progress of my attitude toward Des Moines as I’d explained it two weeks earlier. Her reference to our previous walk sent a small but potent thrill through me. She was creating a continuity, which felt good to be a part of, as she surely understood. “That’s one measure of growing up,” she said, “isn’t it? Coming to see that the things you thought were terrible may not actually be so bad.”
“How would you know?” I accused. “You don’t feel grown up.” Now I, too, had done my part in establishing the continuity, and I was glad to see Sadie acknowledging my contribution with a smile. “Anyway,” I concluded after a moment, “I never felt a pressing need to get married, but I also didn’t feel a duty not to. And since Ashwini wanted to so much, I thought sure, why not? Thank god I didn’t. Even just a few months after leaving her, it’s clear to me that she and I couldn’t be less suited for each other.”
“ ‘To think that I wasted years of my life on a woman who wasn’t my type!’ ” Sadie quoted.
“I’m not interested in types,” I said. “I’m interested in connections.”
“Wise man.”
“I stole that from The Bachelor,” I confessed.
“Another wise man. Speaking of: I can’t wait until tonight!”
“Me neither.” I’d forgotten The Bachelor was on that night, and I was grateful to have something to look forward to.
We’d transitioned from the path back onto sidewalks and were climbing up Madison Avenue, Sadie setting a pace so brisk I almost had trouble keeping up.
“The difference between the people on The Bachelor and us,” she proposed halfway up the hill, “is that they never went through that essential phase of rebellion against the givens of their childhood, like marriage. They’re gullible. They’re not grown up. They lack imagination. They can’t believe in a world beyond the world they were born into.”
I said yes, that was one difference, at least.
“What are some others?”
“I don’t know. On the ABC website they all list their favorite book as The Notebook. Sorry if that’s your favorite book.”
“Well…”
“I mean, I haven’t read it, so.”
“No, I haven’t read it either. Actually I can’t read fiction at all anymore. No offense.”
“None taken. I can’t write it anymore.” The moment I said it I felt physically lighter, and I realized this was the first time I’d told anyone, and that now I’d told Sadie, in one afternoon, two things I hadn’t told anyone else.
She shot me a look that said, Oh, come on.
“I mean I don’t care to,” I tried to explain. “I’ve decided I’m not going to. I’m giving up. I’ve retired.”
“Retired. You’re what, thirty-three?”
“Twenty-nine.” The four-year difference seemed infinite.
“Child,” she said with a faint, warm smile. She didn’t ask why I’d “retired” from fiction writing, and I was grateful for her tact, if that’s what it was. We’d crested the hill, to my relief, and the sun was sinking behind trees and houses.
“So what do you read instead of fiction?” I asked.
“Memoirs mostly.”
“So fiction.”
She laughed. “Women’s memoirs about their fucked-up parents. The more fucked up the better.”
“What fun.”
“Maybe you could try your hand at one, now that you’re not writing fiction.”
“I’d love to. Unfortunately, I’m not a woman and my parents aren’t fucked up.”
“All parents are fucked up,” Sadie said after a moment. “Even yours. Because all people are fucked up. We can’t help it. Even if we do everything right—and what seems right is constantly changing from one day, one moment, to the next—we can’t prevent the stream of loss that will come to define our children’s lives. Sorry to be dour, but that’s just how things are. Life is loss. And lately it’s seemed to me that our most important task as parents is simply to be honest about that fact. Sometimes it seems to me I was lucky my father died when I was a girl: I learned very early what life was about, and I think it’s made things easier for me.”
She fell silent after this little discourse, and, as we headed home on Lower Beaver, I turned over her words in my mind. The casual reference to the story of her father’s death implied that she thought she’d told it to me, which made me hesitate to respond, either with sympathy or surprise, even though I was almost certain she hadn’t. That life was loss could not be denied, but I didn’t see how that made all parents “fucked up,” least of all mine. It was a label that was impossible for me to accept—partly, I realized, smiling inwardly, because it’s a term they would never use: I had never heard either of them curse,
except once, when my mother was reading to me from a Michael Crichton book and couldn’t avoid saying “shit,” which had thrilled me.
Suddenly Sadie stopped, turned fully toward me, took firm hold of one of my shoulders, and, looking so intently into my eyes I had to fight an urge to turn away, said, “Speaking of loss, I’m so sorry for yours. I’m not sure I properly conveyed that. You must be hurting, and I’m sorry.”
I told her I was actually fine, thanks, but not before wondering for the briefest of moments how she’d found out about Maria.
* * *
—
A little later we were on the couch, Sadie fresh from a shower in silk pajamas and smelling of aloe vera shampoo, holding glasses that held the last of a Côtes du Rhône and waiting for The Bachelor to begin.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she said. “It’s embarrassing.”
“You’ll get over that.”
“Remind me what happened last week?”
I recapped the Costa Rica episode, the longest zip line in the world, group-date rappelling, spelunking with Alli, everyone falling in love.
“And how many women are left?”
Six: Chantal, Shawntel, Other Ashley, Michelle, Britt, and Emily.
“Britt?”
A food writer from Woodinville, Washington, who hadn’t been getting much screen time lately; probably she’d be eliminated this episode—which was starting as I spoke.
“Oh my god, there he is! That voice! That jaw!”
For the next two hours we lived in a world of salt breezes and yachts and coastal villas—Anguilla! With its white sand, green palms, pink flowers and drinks, the turquoise and ultramarine of the sea, the oranges of sunsets and candlelight and midnight bonfires on the beach, clear skies; a world circumscribed and governed by simple rules, in which everyone spoke the same little language and love was the only thing that mattered.
This was the biggest week of the Bachelor’s life. He and Emily stepped into a helicopter. “I want it to go to a whole other level. Someplace we haven’t been before.”
Their own private island in the Caribbean.
If things went well here, next week the Bachelor would fly to Charlotte, where finally Emily would introduce him to Ricki. Emily’s ambivalence about such a meeting—“I don’t want to confuse her in any way”—was enough to convince Sadie to switch her allegiance, at least for the moment, from Shawntel.
“Today was fun,” Emily said. “Today was perfect,” the Bachelor corrected her.
The show went to commercial and Sadie said, “So wait, I have a question.”
“Go for it.”
“This has all already happened, right?”
It had.
“Like, how long ago?”
“I’m not sure exactly. A few months, maybe?”
“How come everyone doesn’t know who wins?”
“They make the Bachelor and whoever he picks keep the whole thing a secret. They can’t see each other till the season’s over. Everyone signs something, I assume.”
“So the Bachelor could be sitting somewhere at this very moment watching himself on TV?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
He took Shawntel to the local farmers market, where they danced and jumped rope and drank coconut juice. “I like how I feel when I’m with you,” he said. “I don’t have to put on some act.” “She’s so pretty.” “Whatever’s happening between you and me, I like it.” “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.” “They all say that.” “I have a really tough time putting myself out there.” “I’m scared.” “Any man would be lucky to have her.” “Albatross!” “What did I get myself into?” “I’m so nervous.” “It’s a little bit awkward for everyone involved.” “Every moment is funny and meaningful and tragic and meaningless.” “It’s not real.” “It’s actually very real.” “From here on out there’s going to be a lot of heartbreak, a lot of devastation.”
8
Next morning Sadie made us scrambled eggs and bacon and banana–chocolate chip pancakes and coffee, and we sat and chatted and read the Des Moines Register, passing finished sections to each other and quoting aloud from time to time. (Said Warren County Emergency Management Director Mahala Cox, read Sadie, I’m not sure I have any idea of what the cause of the leak was or why the pipe broke, because that facility was just inspected by the Department of Agriculture and passed with flying colors. “Well, how reassuring!”) Then she announced that she was leaving to meet a friend for lunch. I said I didn’t think I’d need another meal the rest of the week.
Almost as soon as she’d left the house my thoughts turned to Maria. It had been more than a week since my probably misjudged email, and I’d given up all hope of hearing back from her, almost all. When I thought of her now I detected stirrings of guilt—something to do with our night together in Detroit…no, I’d overlooked some element of our correspondence…no, I should have sent one of the emails I didn’t send…no, it was connected to Sadie. Sadie? Maria had no idea who Sadie was, I hadn’t mentioned her in a single email. Had I? Why would it have mattered if I had? I felt full. I’d been pacing back and forth between the kitchen and living room; now I lay down in a patch of sunlight on the late-morning-warmish living-room floor. I closed my eyes. I’d made some crucial oversight, I’d committed some irremediable crime. I dozed off. I was floating toward some long-neglected corner of my childhood where the answer to all my questions would be revealed when I was awoken by three sharp knocks on the door. Had Sadie locked herself out? I’d let her in. I went to the door and opened it and there was Jess, holding in one hand a plaid wool scarf, in the other a large padded envelope.
“Special delivery,” she said, handing me both. “You left this in the car the other night. The package was leaning against your door.”
I thanked her. “I’m always losing scarves.”
“Aren’t we all.” The envelope had no return address, but my name and address were in familiar handwriting.
“Hey,” I said, “it’s nice to see you.”
“Is it? You didn’t return my calls.” Jess had called twice over the past few days; I hadn’t listened to her messages. I’d been waiting for my embarrassment about my behavior at the concert to dissipate; maybe it never would.
“It is!” It was! “Sorry I didn’t call you. I’ve been busy.” Ha.
“No, it’s not a big deal. Anyway…” She turned slightly as if about to leave.
“No, hey—do you want to come in?” Except for Sadie I hadn’t had any visitors in the house.
“Sure!” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Just for a second, though. I’m on my way to the dry cleaners.”
We went inside and sat down at the kitchen table. I offered Jess a cup of coffee; she declined.
“Smells great in here.”
“Big breakfast. Bacon.”
“Bacon’s the only kind of meat I can’t give up. Whose house is this again?” she asked, looking around.
I explained who Sadie was, and Jess asked questions about her and my mother—it was cool that I was friends with a friend of my mom’s, she said, and I agreed—but as I spoke she seemed distracted, as though she were only feigning interest, and the shame I’d felt the day after the concert began to rise up in me again.
“Hey, can I say something?” I asked, interrupting myself.
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry about the other night.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“The whole…fainting situation or whatever. I know that must have been annoying to deal with.” I decided not to mention the attempted kiss; maybe she’d forgotten about it?
“What? No, it was scary for a second, but it happens. Don’t worry about it. Seriously. And you were so funny after you came to. You seemed really happy.”
A rush of
gratitude overtook me. She was right: I had been happy. No one should be ashamed for being happy. I felt an absurd urge to kiss her, ignored it, thanked her for being so understanding.
“Don’t worry about it. Seriously. We’re all good. I wanted to ask—did you listen to my messages?”
“Oh, hey, I’m really sorry. I’ve just been so busy and—”
“No, it’s fine, they were actually more messages from Amanda.” Amanda? Heartbroken Amanda? “She was wondering if you might be up for drinks one of these nights.”
No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Amanda seemed fine, but so young, younger than Jess—though actually they were probably around the same age—and anyway I couldn’t handle someone new, suddenly my life felt improbably full, it was too much, the prospect of getting to know another woman, I didn’t have it in me. I told Jess that Amanda seemed great, but she wasn’t my type. Then I said something that scared me as I said it, the words just seemed to come out: “Actually, I was sort of wondering…”
“Oh! No, I’m flattered but—” She seemed to search for a reason, landing on, “I’m not interested in seeing anyone right now.”
“Of course. No. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I’d better go. I’m covering for my grandma this afternoon.”
“Tell her hello,” a joke?
I walked her to the door, my face warm and pulsing. I couldn’t account for my sudden proposal, it felt as though Jess had drawn it out of me, as if her physical presence across the table had summoned the words from my mouth.
“We should hang out,” she said in the entryway. “There’s no one else here to talk books with.”
I couldn’t imagine hanging out with Jess after today. “Steph and Amanda don’t talk about books?”
“Not really.”
“What about that guy we gave a ride from the concert?”
“Peter? Peter’s a doofus. I mean he’s sweet. Anyway—”
The Bachelor Page 14