Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (5 page)

“Well, all my observations of the male species over the years have led me to one conclusion: Men will only consider marriage when they reach a certain income level. And assuming most lawyers our age would be just about hitting that comfort mark—or are even likely beyond it—I figure my odds of marriage are better with a lawyer. At the very least, I could argue my way to the altar.”

“Wait a sec here. Back up. Since when are you so gung-ho about getting married?”

“I'm thirty-one years old. I ought to start thinking about it, don't you think?”

“I'm thirty-one, too, and you don't see me rushing out to buy a dress.”

“Lys, not to be mean or anything, but it's a lot easier to be brave about your unmarried status when you have Husband 1 living under your roof.”

“Nothing's definite between Richard and me.”

“Yeah, but you guys are clearly in—” A twinge of panic shot through me as realization dawned. Something was up. “Wait a sec. What's going on with you?”

“Oh…nothing.”

“Please don't tell me you and Richard are on the rocks. You would be destroying my last lingering belief that soulmates do exist. That people can actually follow falling-in-love with happily-ever-after.”

“Everything's
fine,
I guess.”

“Lys—”

“Okay. I met someone else.”

“What?”

“It's not like I planned it or anything.” She never did. Men just fell in love with Alyssa without warning.

“Who is it?”

“Don't laugh.”

“I promise.”

“Dr. Jason Carruthers.”

Leave it to Alyssa to go from a lawyer to a doctor. “Let me guess…your ob-gyn?”

“Don't be ridic—”

“Your optometrist? Your dentist?”

“My vet.”

“Your
what?
” Suddenly my head was filled with images of a scrawny, softspoken man with patchy facial hair. After all, I had never seen a vet who hadn't eventually turned out to look somewhat like the patients he treated.

“I told you Lulu has been having trouble with her bowel movements? Well, I went to her old vet, except he had retired. And in his place was Jason.”

“Jason? You guys are on a first-name basis already?”

“I know what you're thinking. It's just that I never met anyone like him before. And it's not only that he's gorgeous. There's a certain…tenderness about him.”

“Oh God. Don't tell me. Have you guys—”

“No—no! Nothing like that. I mean in the way he handles Lulu.”

I began to become suspicious. Lulu was Alyssa's Lhasa apso, the dog she grew up with on the Upper East Side and the last vestige of her mother, who had died two years ago. Alyssa's father had a fatal heart attack when she was a teenager, and her mom had gotten her a puppy during that difficult year. Alyssa loved that dog
as if it were the last family member she had. And Lulu was, really. If you didn't count me and Jade, of course.

“How is Lulu?”

“Not good. Jason thinks it may be her kidneys.”

Aha. “Well, don't do anything rash, Lys. Just see this thing through with Lulu, and then look at where things stand. You and Richard have a long history together. That's not something you should regard lightly.”

“I know. I know. It's just that…things have changed between us. I…I sometimes feel like I don't even know Richard anymore. Maybe
he's
changed. Hell, maybe
I've
changed.”

“Lys, all I'm saying is don't do anything—”

“Oh, shit. Got to go. Richard just got home. Listen, Em, let's keep this between us. I haven't even told Jade. You know how she can be—and I don't feel like being ridiculed right now. I'll look into the lawyer date thing. Maybe Richard knows someone. I'll call you….”

“Alyssa—”

“Hey, maybe we should all get together for dinner Saturday night? Richard's going out of town on business, and it's been a long time since we've had a real girl's night out. Is Jade around? Let's plan something.”

“That's fine, Lys, but don't think I'm letting you get off easy with this one.”

“Okay, okay. I promise I'll be good. At least until Saturday.”

Confession: My mother's wisdom is starting to make sense to me (God help me).

 

T
he next day was my planned lunch date with my mother, who was still under the lovely-though-absolutely untrue assumption that her only daughter was on the sure path to happily-ever-after with her own dream man. Though I hadn't yet decided how I was going to handle the Derrick subject, I headed off to the restaurant she'd chosen near my office, armed with catalogs and travel brochures filled with all sorts of ideas for how to pull off this wedding she was dreaming of.

She was already there and seated at a table in the back when I arrived, and suddenly I realized where I might have gotten that five-minute-early arrival technique. Was I more like my mother than I realized? I wondered with sudden horror.

“Emma!” she exclaimed as I approached the table. She got up and gathered me into a warm, apricot-scented embrace. When we pulled back from each other, I realized that taking after my mother wouldn't be so bad after all, at least in the looks department. Though she was fifty-nine years old, she was still a beautiful woman, with wavy chestnut-brown hair framing her high-cheekboned face. Other than the fact that she had the same hazel eyes as mine—though hers seemed more definitely green—no one would have guessed we were mother and daughter. How had I
wound up with straight mousy-brown hair and no cheekbones to speak of? Maybe these things skipped a generation.

“How are you, sweetie?” she said, studying my face once we sat down across from each other.

“Good, good,” I said, immediately hiding my face in the menu to disguise any glimmer of unhappiness that might betray me. “Tired. Work is nuts, as usual.”

“Sometimes it's nice to take a break in the middle of the day. I was just reading this new book,
A Mental Space of One's Own,
and it talks about how we can renew our creative energies just by taking as little as fifteen minutes each day to meditate.”

“They won't allow us to burn incense in the office, unfortunately.”

“Oh, Emma, you don't have to—” She stopped, probably realizing she was going to get nowhere with me, as usual. “Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

“I'm sorry, I—” Then I caught sight of the ring, a large deep blue stone that sparkled magnificently on her left hand. “Oh, is that it? I mean, is that the ring Clark gave you?”

She beamed and held out her hand. “Isn't it absolutely perfect? We decided to stay away from diamonds after— Well, you know, I'm starting to think they're bad luck after the first two… Anyway, when Clark gave me this sapphire, he told me that the ancients believed it to be the truest blue in the world, a reflection of the heavens above. He wanted me to have it as a symbol of his faith, his sincerity.” Then she blushed. “You know Clark. Always thinking like a poet.”

The look on my mother's face was positively beatific. I began to suspect that maybe this
was
the real thing. Until her next words.

“Clark and I have decided to take a vow of celibacy.”

“What?”
Now my mother's sex life, or lack thereof, was a subject I strictly avoided. But I couldn't help asking, “Forever?”

“Oh, no. Of course not!” Then she glanced around and leaned close, confiding, “It's only been a week, and Clark's having a hard enough time as it is. Just the other night—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, interrupting her, not wanting her to get into any details I couldn't bear hearing. Over the years, my mother's intermittent single status often put me in the position of confidante, given that I was the only other close female in her life for long periods. But despite that, there were some lines mother and daughter could never cross. “Let me guess. Until the wedding night?”

“Yes! So you've heard of couples doing this?”

“Yeah. I think we did a story on it once in
Bridal Best.
Something about recapturing the romance of an old-fashioned wedding night.”

“Exactly. I knew you would have heard of it. Clark thought I was crazy at first, but you know how agreeable he is.”

“Can I bring you ladies something to drink as a starter?” the waiter said, when he finally showed up at our table.

My mother looked up and beamed him such a smile he almost blushed. “We're ready to order our meals, I think,” she told him. Then looking over at me, she asked, “Have you decided, Emma?”

No, but that wasn't about to stop my mother, who's had this thing for time-efficient behavior ever since she read
Twelve Time-Saving Strategies That Might Just Lengthen Your Life.
“You order first. I'll be ready in a minute,” I said, my eyes roaming frantically over the menu.

“I'll have the grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side and a sparkling water,” she said. Then, looking up at me, she continued, “The salads here are really good, Emma.”

Now this is the kind of statement my mother makes that immediately sends me into paranoid speculation. Clearly I had gained weight, and my mother was subtly guiding me back from the brink of bulging midsections and mornings spent obsessing in front of my closet in search of an outfit to disguise my sudden change of dress size. If there was one thing I could count on my mother for, it was a careful monitoring of weight fluctuation. If I relied on my own eyes, which tended to deceive me during periods of my life when I felt a pressing need to gorge myself at any opportunity, I
worried I would wake up one day requiring a crane to get me out of bed. “I'll have the Cobb salad and an iced tea,” I said, handing my menu to the waiter, who gave a quick nod and scurried off.

“So have you told Derrick about the wedding yet?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I said, then quickly moving on, “Told Jade, too. She's thrilled to pieces for you.”

My mother stopped, staring at me hard for a moment. “And you aren't so thrilled, I take it?”

Here it comes. Confession time. “It's not that I'm not
happy…
” I began.

“You don't trust it,” my mother said. “I was worried about this happening.”

Whew. I was actually going to be saved by psychobabble. I felt my mother about to take over from here, explaining away her reasons for running to the altar for the third time.

“I know for much of my life I've looked like I've had my head in the sand, and in truth I probably have,” she acknowledged.

She was looking at me in earnest now, and I saw a burning need in her eyes to make things make sense to me. “It hasn't been so bad for you…” I said, attempting to erase whatever anxieties she might still be having about the zigzagging course her life had taken thus far.

“It has been bad at times. And I think it was because I simply refused to see what was in front in me. But I look at Clark and I see everything. His warmth. His compassion. His kind, kind heart.” Her eyes misted. “But I also see his flaws. For example, I know he sometimes gets so wrapped up with his work or with his students that he tunes out my needs. And he sometimes has a hard time adjusting to change—and you know my life is nothing but change, it seems.” Then she smiled. “And he snores. Loud.”

“You snore, too, Mom.”

“Oh, Em, I'm quiet compared to him.” She laughed before growing serious again. “But the one thing I know for sure is that I love him in a way I've never loved anyone else. I would do anything for him. Go anywhere to be by his side. Tend to him if
he were ill, God forbid. And I know—this time I know for sure—that he would do the same for me.”

Her words rang through me, clanging in ways I wasn't ready to hear. The question rose, unbidden, of whether Derrick and I were really the soulmates I dreamed we were if we were so unwilling to give even a little of our lives to each other. But I quickly swallowed this doubt down around the lump in my throat. And, fortunately, the waiter took that moment to come by with our salads.

Once he was gone, Mom said, “Does any of this make sense to you?”

I saw in her face how much she needed my acceptance of this latest turn of events in her life, and though for various reasons I wasn't ready to swallow it whole, I was ready to start seeing her hopes and dreams in a more sympathetic light. “I understand. And I'm happy for you, Mom. In fact, I've got a stack of ideas with me on just how we can make wedding number three the charm.” Then I laughed, not able to end things without some kind of ironic touch. “Because you know as well as I do, Mom, it isn't really about
who
you marry. It's
how
you marry.”

And with that, we dug into lunch, as well as the stack of wedding-day dreams I had packed into my tote bag. Things were pretty much on an even keel after that, which is why I didn't understand the lump of emotion that emerged once our salad plates had been cleared away and we sat poring over the last few pictures of brides gazing thoughtfully into the camera as they stepped beneath various archways and gazebos that could be rented and transported to the location of your choice.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt something inside of me go slack. And before I knew what I was saying, I had told my mother everything. About Derrick's disastrous departure and my newfound misery. And after we shed some tears and angsted together over the “whys” behind the breakup—my mother is especially good at this type of relationship analysis, having submerged herself in self-help books as each relationship ended in her own life—we indulged in
giant slices of Mad Mocha Mud Cake for dessert. Even ate it with heaping clumps of vanilla ice cream on the side.

“You know what you really need,” Mom said, when we'd finally emerged from our dessert dishes. I stared at her, sensing some significant bit of wisdom would be forthcoming.

“Highlights.”

 

Confession: There are some ailments only good hair can cure.

 

Though agreeing with my mother is not my strong suit, I had to admit, she was right—I had relationship hair. Long brown locks that spoke of Saturday nights at home, wrapped in Derrick's sweatshirt and boxers while we watched videos and stuffed ourselves full of whatever goodies we had managed to find at the bodega on the corner. In order to remedy the situation, I did what I had done in the Pre-Derrick Period when dye jobs were a regular part of my regiment. That night I called Sebastian, my erstwhile hairdresser.

“Emma, what a surprise!” he said, a hint of censure in his tone, when I got him on the phone. This is the problem when you first befriend the person who ultimately becomes responsible for your hair. They expect you to adhere to the boundaries of friendship, even when all you need is a few blond streaks. And since I hadn't spoken to Sebastian in more than six months, I had to smooth things over by inviting him out for drinks.

“Oh, I don't drink anymore, Emma. Tea, perhaps?” he said, naming some veggie joint on West 3rd Street and suggesting we meet there the following evening.

The nondrinking stance should have forewarned me, but I was so focused on my forthcoming transformation, I missed the signs. So as I headed down to West 3rd Street after work the next day, I looked forward to catching up with Sebastian and swapping zany stories of New York men and other strange creatures. When Sebastian and I first met, he was dating a college friend of mine, Keith. And though Keith and Sebastian lasted no longer than a semester, it was enough to seal the bond between Sebastian and me. I held his hand through the breakup, downed some serious
drinks with him and bitched about the sad state of the male species, excluding Sebastian, of course. And when all was said and done, Sebastian started dyeing my hair.

It was a difficult relationship from the start, though my hair never suffered. Sebastian took me through every shade of blond, a few hues of red, and even a rich chocolate-brown—which, coming from his magic hands, even seemed a bit dangerous and exciting. He was an artist, but like all artists, he was temperamental. He insisted his friends didn't have to pay, then complained he was being taken advantage of. It got to the point where I was forced to surreptitiously leave money on his countertop as I left his apartment after a color session, like a lover leaving secret gifts for his inamorata. And he was alternatively open, then secretive, about his love life, so I never knew when it was a good time to ask how things were going between him and whatever luscious boy—and they were
always
gorgeous—he had in his life.

“Emma,” he called, waving lazily at me as I detangled myself from the velvet drape hanging between the juice bar and the dining area where Sebastian sat, presiding over his surroundings like the queen that he was. Somehow Sebastian had managed to find a place that matched his unique look—a mixture of wholesomeness and exoticism. Amid gilt-framed pictures of various plants and herbs and swaths of rich fabric hanging from the windows and walls, Sebastian, with his lush golden curls and Asian eyes set in a cherub's face, looked at home.

Once I reached his table, he enfolded me in a hug—a departure from the practice of kissing both cheeks he had instituted the last few times I saw him.

“Sit, sit! Isn't this place fabulous?” Sebastian insisted, studying my face with a mixture of reverence and concern. Whenever I was with Sebastian, the same insecurities came over me that I felt when ever I was in the presence of a beautiful woman—that my eyebrows needed shaping, my lipstick updating. In short, I felt woefully sub-par in the femininity department.

“How
are
you?” he asked once we were sitting across from
each other, giant scarlet menus—in some textured fabric that was clearly impractical for a food environment—before us.

“Good, good. How are
you?
” I said, peering at him over the top of the menu. “You look…relaxed.”

“Do I? Oh! I have so much to tell you.”