Arranged (4 page)

She looks sympathetic. “That must be hard. Just waiting.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“How’s that going for you?”

I smile. “About how you’d expect. Constant email and voice-mail checking.”

“Well, I know it’s going to sell. It’s great.”

Sometimes I believe her when she tells me this—on the days when I think my book might be good. On the days when I want to put it through the shredder, I think she’s being kind.

I catch Sarah looking at her ring again.

“Happy?”

“Surprisingly happy.”

I reach across the table and give her hand a squeeze. “I love you, Anne.”

“I love you too.”

Suddenly, I think maybe friendship
is
enough.

W
hen I get home from dinner, my hair smells like cumin, and my stomach feels tight from eating too much. I collapse on the creepy left-behind couch. I’ve covered it with a moss-colored cover from Pottery Barn, and it’s almost comfortable. When I save up some money, it’s the first thing out the door.

I sort through the pile of mail that’s accumulated over the last couple of days. It’s mostly bills and junk mail, but there’s also a bright red envelope containing a Christmas card from my friend Janey. She’s a friend from college with whom I’ve fallen out of contact recently. It’s something I’ve noticed a lot since the breakup: the dwindling of my friends. When Stuart and I started dating, my life wasn’t much different than it was in college. We spent the week working and the weekend playing. It felt like it would be that way forever. But somewhere between the triple shot of Jack Daniel’s that got Stuart’s attention and the day I read his emails, it all changed. Janey and Nan and Susan got married and started having kids. And despite their twentysomething bluster that they’d never live anywhere you couldn’t get a drink past eleven, none of them live in the city any longer. Janey had a baby not long ago, a little boy named Tanner. His round, perfect face smiles out at me from the tasteful card.
Happy Holidays from the Jenners!
it reads.
Look what I’ve been up to while you’ve been wasting your time with a no-good cheater!
it screams.

Tanner Jenner. The poor kid.

I toss the card on the coffee table and wrap myself in a fleece blanket. I start reading Andre Agassi’s autobiography,
Open.
Half an hour later, I’m totally lost in it the way I never seem to be these days.

I’m startled when the phone rings. “Yello.”

“Can’t you answer the phone like a normal person?”

“Hi, Mom. Are you watching
CSI
again?”

“How did you know?”

Because it’s blaring in the background, as usual.

“Lucky guess. Why are you calling during your program?”

“I’ve seen it already.”

“Then why are you watching it?”

“Nothing better to do.”

“What’s up?”

“Can’t I call my daughter to chat?”

I feel annoyed for no particular reason. I often react to my mother this way.

“Of course you can. It’s just that you don’t normally do that.”

“Well . . . I spoke to your brother tonight.”

“What’s new with Gil?”

Yes, that’s right. My mother not only named me Anne Shirley Blythe, she named my older brother Gilbert, after Anne of Green Gables’ love interest. It’s a miracle that I haven’t needed massive amounts of therapy. Yet.

“Cathy’s pregnant!”

Of course she is. My brother got married at twenty-eight, had his first kid a year later, and has had two more since then. I now have three nieces, and this fourth pregnancy is right on schedule. The whole family kind of makes me want to puke, probably from jealousy, but I pretend otherwise.

“Surprise, surprise.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. You could do with being more like your brother, you know.”

“I know you think that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that not everyone has to get married and have kids, Mother.”

Even though this is exactly what I want, I can never admit it to her. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been like that between us.

She sighs. “Do you want to be alone forever?”

“Of course not.”

“Well?”

“What am I supposed to do about it? It’s not like I’ve chosen to be alone.”

“Haven’t you?”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“You’re not married, are you? You’re not even dating anyone.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“I never could see anything wrong with your boyfriends. You’re too picky.”

I know on a rational level that it’s my fault she thinks this, since I’ve never filled her in on the gory details, but still, this is going too far.

I try to keep my voice calm, though I’m feeling anything but. “That’s so completely unfair. Just because I don’t tell you why my relationships end doesn’t mean there isn’t a good reason. Why do you assume it’s because of me?”

“What about Stuart?”

I grip the phone cord tightly. “What about him?”

“There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him.”

“Stuart was a lying, cheating bastard.”

She sucks in her breath loudly. “There’s no need to use that kind of language, Anne.”

“Sorry.”

“Humph. Well, how was I supposed to know that? You never tell us anything.”

Yeah, I wonder why? “I don’t tell you things because I don’t want to be judged all the time.”

“That’s not fair. You know we’ve always been supportive of you.” She sounds hurt, like maybe she’s on the verge of tears.

Ah, crap. “Look, don’t get upset, okay?”

She sniffles. “I don’t want you to be alone, Anne. I want you to be happy.”

“I know, Mom. I want that too.”

“You want to get married?”

“Yes.”

“And have kids?”

“Of course. Maybe not as many as Gil, but at least two.”

“If you have a boy and a girl, you can call them Diana and James.”

Those are the names of two of Anne of Green Gables’ kids. My mother is
obsessed.

“I can name them whatever I want, Mother.”

“Of course you can, dear. I’m only making a suggestion.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to call Gil to congratulate him?”

“Yes.”

“You
are
happy for them, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Well, I should go.”

“Enjoy your show.”

I hang up the phone more aggressively than I should. I contemplate calling Gil but decide to put it off until tomorrow. I want to muster the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, and I’m so not up for that right now.

I read a few more chapters and climb into bed. Normally, I go right to sleep, but tonight my mind won’t settle. I can’t help wondering if maybe Blythe & Company has the answers I’ve been looking for all this time, as crazy as that sounds. Does even thinking this
make
me
crazy?

But maybe that’s what finding the card meant all along. Maybe someone, something, is trying to show me the way. Giving me a sign.

Only . . . I don’t believe in signs.

I could read the pamphlet Ms. Cooper gave me. She said it might answer some of my questions. I retrieve it from my purse and climb back into my warm bed. The front section describes the “friendship philosophy” of marriage. Next come the testimonials from Blythe & Company couples explaining how the therapy sessions helped them connect and put aside the superficial ways in which they used to decide who to be with. I stare at the happy faces smiling out from photos taken at a beach resort, and follow their progress over five, then ten, years of marriage. Through the having of babies, the purchasing of homes, the living a happy life together, wondering the whole time if this could be me.

When I close the pamphlet and turn out the light, I feel calmer. Maybe I
can
do this. Maybe I can finally find the right person, someone I can be happy with. Anyway, it can’t hurt to stick it out through the psychological evaluation. And maybe it’ll work.

Maybe, maybe, baby.

Chapter 4

Me, Myself, and I

T
he next day, I’m back in one of the gray leather visitor’s chairs facing Ms. Cooper. Her hair is pulled into a French twist, every white-blond strand in place with a neatness I can never achieve. There’s something about this woman that intimidates me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“So, um, what do these tests involve again?” I say, applying pressure to a small piece of gauze in the crook of my elbow. A uniformed nurse has just finished taking a blood sample. She tucks the small tubes of my thick red blood into a small carrying case and leaves us alone.

“The blood samples are to test for STDs and to do some basic genetic testing. Next you’ll be answering a series of questions about your background, family history, and romantic history, so we can assess whether you’re ready for the process. Then you’ll be doing a thorough psychological evaluation to determine your personality type. We use these last two tests to find you a husband.”

“How do you know if I’m ready for the process?” I resist an urge to place air quotes around the word “process.”

“As I told you yesterday, one of the prerequisites is having six failed relationships. We’ve determined that people aren’t ready to give up their attachment to the concept of romantic love if they’ve had any fewer than six.”

Did I tell her yesterday I’d had six relationships? I must have, but I don’t even remember talking about it. Oh, the mind-numbing power of extreme shock.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, hoping this sounds like a suitable answer.

“You’ll learn more about all of this in therapy.”

“Right.”

“Shall we get started?”

“Sure.”

She coughs politely. “Ms. Blythe, you may recall that we require the first payment before we can proceed.”

The first payment? Shit. How much is that supposed to be? I don’t have ten thousand dollars, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t give it to Miss Perfect Hair. Besides, what if I don’t pass the test or they can’t find me a match? Do they provide a refund if the man they find is no bloody good?

Easy, Tiger.

“I can’t remember how much I’m supposed to pay today,” I say, feeling lame.

“The first payment is five hundred. If you pass the psychological evaluation, the second payment will be twenty-five hundred. The balance is due once we find you a match.”

I reach into my purse for my checkbook. “Do you take personal checks?”

“Of course.”

I rest the checkbook on her desk and write out a check. I look at it for a moment before handing it to her. Five hundred bucks to find out if I’m sane enough to do the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of. Is that supposed to be a bargain?

“Thank you. Now, if you’re ready?”

She leads me out of her office, down the hall, and into a room with a small glass desk in the middle. On the desk is a questionnaire. It looks thick, as if the questions will be hard. I feel like I’m about to take the SATs again. Love is to marriage as . . . I never was any good at those kinds of questions.

I sit down and look up at Ms. Cooper. I feel small and nervous. “Is there a time limit?”

“No, Ms. Blythe. Take all the time you like. You can use that button to call me if you need assistance.” She points to a yellow button on the wall. “Please follow the instructions carefully.”

She leaves the room, closing the door gently behind her. I open the exam booklet and begin to fill it in.

Full name:
Anne Shirley Blythe

Age:
33

Birthday:
October 29

Height:
5’7”

Hair:
Auburn

Length of Hair (short, medium, long):
Long

Eyes:
Green

Weight:
125 lbs.

Occupation:
Journalist/writer

Employer: Twist
magazine

Years of employment with this employer:
6

Highest level of education and major:
B.A. in English

Ever owned a business?
No

Ever thought of owning a business?
No

Hobbies:
Reading

Sports played:
Tennis

Do you have any siblings?
Yes

Provide name and age of each:
Brother, Gilbert, 35

Occupation of sibling(s):
Lawyer

Parents still married?
Yes

Age at which parents married:
27 (mother), 28 (father)

Age of parents when had first child:
28 (mother), 29 (father)

Occupation of mother:
Housewife

Occupation of father:
Insurance salesman

The questions seem to go on forever and in no particular order. What kind of house did I grow up in? What kind of street? How many elementary and high schools did I attend? Did I have lots of friends growing up? On and on until the final series of questions, which are all about my sexual preferences, and now the room feels hot and close, and I’m wondering if I can skip ahead . . . I mean, it’s an arranged
marriage,
so obviously, that’s part of it, but . . . shit. Will you relax already? You’re acting like you’re Sandra Dee in a white nightgown and there’s a big bad man in the other room, waiting for you with a predatory look on his face.

Right. So. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. It works, after a fashion, and I make it through the blush-inducing questions. The hard part over, I read the next question.

Describe each of your adult romantic relationships and why they failed. Be as objective as possible. Describe the person physically. Explain how you met, how long you were together, whether you lived together, whether you were engaged or married,
etc., etc., etc.

Damn. Ms. Cooper said I needed six relationships to qualify. Is that a firm rule? How can it be? How can it matter whether I’ve had only five or four or none? Love isn’t a science. And this isn’t about love, anyway. I’m supposed to be forgetting about love. But she said I needed six. Crap! I’m going to fail out . . . Wait a minute, hold on. I make things up all the time. I can do this.

I write out the details of my real ex-boyfriends, and in between I invent two relationships, one with “Brian” and one with “Seth.” The physical description is easy, and I vary the other details by picking and choosing moments from my real relationships. As I get into it, I find it kind of fun, like writing a short story. I start imagining what it was like to be with these fictional men and what I felt when we broke up. I decide that I broke up with Brian (he didn’t want kids), but Seth broke up with me by leaving all my stuff on the curb with no note. Damn that Seth. I get a little choked up as I write about it.

Okay, Anne, now you’re taking it too far.

My hand starts to cramp, like it did in college when I tried to cram a semester’s worth of knowledge into a lined exam booklet. I finish up with Stuart and flip back through the pages, reading what I’ve written. This is the sum of my knowledge about love. I wonder what it says about me that I didn’t ask for a second booklet.

I turn to the second part of the questionnaire, the psychological profile. I read the instructions:
Answer these questions honestly. There are no right or wrong answers. Answer the questions instinctively and do not change your answer. Answer “yes” or “no” to each question. You must answer each question. If you find a question difficult to answer, go with the answer that first comes to mind.

The test is filled with questions like “Generally, are you more concerned with current events than the future?” (yes) and, “Do you find it difficult to express your feelings?” (no). Some of the questions seem so banal, and others are important life questions like “Are you concerned about the future of humanity?” (I have to say yes, right? Who isn’t concerned about the future of humanity?) Others are middle-of-the-road personality stuff: “Are you an outgoing person?” (yes); “Are you a spontaneous person?” (no); “Do you enjoy experimentation?” (no). Crap. Is this answer alone going to disqualify me? Fuck it. I press on.

The next question makes me laugh out loud: “Do you get emotionally involved in the stories in romantic comedies?” (Embarrassing answer: yes.) What the hell? What possible relevance could this have?

Then a question that makes me think: “Do you rely on your instincts?”
No
is what I finally write down. The real answer is:
I shouldn’t.
Sigh.

And then the last question. The reason I’m here: “Can you commit to one person?” (yes). I underline this answer, though it’ll probably make whoever reads this think I’m making up the answer, or not answering instinctively, or whatever it was they told me to do at the beginning.

Reaching the end of the test gets my nerves going again. Is this really all they’re going to use to find me a husband? A background story and the yes-or-no answers to fifty questions about my likes and dislikes and whether I have a lot of friends? It doesn’t seem like enough.

Is the person they match me with someone who has the same profile or the opposite or partly the same? And who does the analysis—a human, a computer? I wish I’d paid more attention to Ms. Cooper yesterday.

Here is what I do remember her saying: 95 percent success rate.

I close the booklet and run my hand over the edge to flatten it. I press the button on the wall. A few moments later, Ms. Cooper opens the door.

“Yes?”

“I’m finished.”

“Already? Are you sure you answered everything?”

I look at my watch. It’s taken me an hour and a half. “How long do people usually take?”

“Generally over two hours.”

“I always finished tests first in school,” I say, feeling foolish.

“That’s fine, Ms. Blythe. Would you like to come with me?”

Back in her office, I ask Ms. Cooper what the next step is.

“It will take a few weeks to analyze your answers. If we believe you’re ready for the process, we’ll let you know. Once you’ve paid your next installment, we’ll begin looking for your match.”

“How long does that usually take?”

“It can take up to six months.”

“Six months!”

She frowns. “Husbands don’t grow on trees. We aren’t trying to find you a date. This will be a real match with whom you can build a life.”

“Okay, right.”

“Many of our clients feel the way you do, Ms. Blythe. However, the time we take is necessary, I assure you.”

“Who does the analysis or matching or whatever?”

“Our staff psychologists. They analyze the data with the aid of a sophisticated computer modeling program we’ve developed.”

“What happens if you don’t find anyone?”

“Then you don’t have to pay the next installment.”

“What if you do find someone but it doesn’t work out in the long term? Do I get my money back?”

“No. We don’t guarantee the final outcome. If you choose to go ahead with the process, you’re ultimately responsible for the success or failure of your marriage. Of course, we have tools to help you succeed.”

“Such as?”

“We’ll go into that in more detail if you’re cleared to continue. Right now I have another client waiting for me.”

She stands up to show me out.

“Can I ask one last question?”

She hides her frustration well. “Of course.”

“How long have you been in business, and how many matches have you made?”

“That’s two questions, Ms. Blythe, but I will answer them. We’ve been in business for fifteen years, and we’ve matched approximately twenty-five hundred couples.” She stands a little taller as she says this, as if she’s personally responsible for each and every one of those matches.

“And ninety-five percent of them are still together?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”