How to Love an American Man (10 page)

Even though our hero is missing from his own birthday dinner, this night feels like old times—including Grandma's laughter.

Together we celebrate the man who always knew what he wanted: autonomy in his work, and a partner who honored it.

Chapter 5
Support His Work

T
HERE'S A TINY WINDOW
every year when the landscape of central Pennsylvania deserves a description this big: it's magnificent.

It's the middle of October. Out the window there is an orchestra of color splashed around the woods, dancing from the trees, mirroring off the marina. Entering the lake, there's a great hill half a mile long, flanked on both sides by majestic, element-kissed trees that welcome you to the community like the arch of swords at Buckingham Palace marking the bride and groom's entrance into the Queen's dominion.

When I was away, I'd forgotten how these surroundings feel, this exclusive initiation into something grand and unlike anything you'd find anywhere else. Deep down, even though I admit it only to my mother, Chris's project is similar—more late working evenings to meet epic deadlines, lunches with his famed colleagues who fly in from around the country to invest their money or their interest in his practice overseas, and now, a road trip to New York. I'm leaning against the tailgate of his SUV as he sizes up his luggage in the garage of the house he rents on the lake. “Do you think five suits are enough for six weeks?”

“I'll answer if you scratch your chest like a gorilla again.”

He stops and looks at me, puzzled and amused. “Like what?”

“Like you were just doing.”

“This?” He does it again, taking both hands to his chest the way a freckle-faced little boy might scratch his head over a math problem. I double over. “Was I doing this?”

When I compose myself I peek one more time inside his garment bag at the Italian suits he had custom-tailored for this trip and tell him yes, I'm certain that he has enough clothes but he'll need to get his shirts pressed when he arrives. This is our working relationship now, caring and familiar the way the lead costars in a movie might hang out in each other's trailer between scenes. Chris and I are together so often that I know his teeth-brushing schedule, his bank account password, his mother's middle name, and that he keeps a picture of her in his car. The dynamic between us is so natural and agreeable that sometimes I wonder: is this how Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart started out in
Twilight
?

But even as we inch closer, there's a boundary that keeps us just out of reach from one another. All this contact over the last month hasn't been just for our enjoyment—it's for a purpose; for an end. And that contact is
about
to end for more than a month, because tomorrow Chris takes off for his first publicity tour in Asia to promote his practice over there. I know that if I weren't part of this business initiative, then I wouldn't be the one standing here right now, getting ready to climb into the driver's seat so he can call patients and plug away on his laptop for the next three hundred miles to Manhattan.

Tucker, poor Tucker, hates this trip. I think he's imagined every possible sabotage against it, and the worst part is, per Chris's request to keep costs down, I've booked only one hotel room. Fortunately it's a suite in the middle of Times Square so Chris and I each will have our own private space, but the thought of anything less than two hotel reservations was more than Tucker could stand—but I couldn't lie to him. I called Grandma early in the morning to tell her not to save me a seat at church today.

“Whatever you want to do!” she exclaimed. “I won't pressure you. And God doesn't mind—
He's
there for
us
; He doesn't depend on
us
to go and see
Him
.” I exhaled, grateful that at least there was someone who was trying to take some pressure off me today. I stayed in Tucker's bed and pleaded for him to accept that this trip was for work, but he rolled toward the wall, not even wanting to look at me. When I left him I was still in tears and my pajamas, speeding home to shower and pack so I wouldn't be late for Chris.

But after we get Chris's gear loaded up and the car on the road, it occurs to me that my mood has lifted significantly. In the sun, the mountains on I-80 are on fire with leaves, and I decide there couldn't be a better week in the whole year to have to drive my boss across Pennsylvania. Chris rolls down the windows and cranks up jazz music, and we snack on buttery biscuits that my mom stuffed with mushrooms and Gruyere cheese.

I do not want him to leave the country.

He calls a patient for follow-up, and when I turn down the radio he thinks I'm being polite. I actually just love the soothing, accommodating tone his voice takes when he's talking to patients. He pops open the glove box in search of a pen, and just then a black plastic bag tumbles out onto his feet. He picks it up, looking at the logo from the jeweler downtown, and mouths to me,
What is this?

“Just wait,” I whisper, locating a pen in the middle console. When he ends the call he tips open the black velvet box, finding a silver medallion inside. Perplexed, he turns to me.

“It's St. Christopher,” I tell him.

Gently, he pulls the chain from the box.

“He's the patron saint of travelers. Turn it over.”

Chris flips the pendant carefully to the other side, where his initials are engraved. “Kris, what made you do this?”

“This trip is a big deal, and you're going to be doing a ton of traveling over there. I—” I hesitate. “I wanted you to be protected.”

“You know what? My grandpa had one like this after World War Two. He gave it to me.”

“There's no such thing as too much St. Christopher.”

“Look, he's carrying a baby.” Chris is studying the medallion carefully. To buy it cost me six hours' worth of work for him, but the look on his face makes it worth a hundred.

“He carries travelers on their journeys. And know what else?”

“What?”

“You're Christopher, I'm Kristine: he's the patron saint of us both.”

We hit weekend traffic coming from the Poconos and don't get to the city until nine o'clock. Chris asks whether I mind if he goes to meet his former mentor for dinner without me, considering the time.

“No, go,” I say. “I'll get us into a room that's not right next to the elevator, so you can sleep tonight.”

I wander a block off from the bright lights of Times Square and stumble on a Greek restaurant on Ninth Avenue. There I sit, on the cushy wall side of a candlelit table that's meant for two, eating a spinach crepe and drinking chardonnay all by myself. I think of calling home or just playing with my phone to occupy myself, but instead I take in the city breeze blowing in through the open door, the passersby, and the waiter who has just delivered another glass of wine. He tells me it's from the owner, and I stretch my neck to offer a smile and thanks. I can't tell if they're admiring me or feeling sorry for me. I can't tell which I'm feeling either.

I remember how Grandma and I agree that for a woman on her own, Sunday nights are the loneliest time of the week. My cell phone clock reads 10:30 as I start back toward the hotel . . . but I'll try her. If she doesn't answer by the third ring, I'll hang up.

She startles me, picking up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Grandma! Sorry to call you so late, you're still awake?”

“Yes, I can't sleep. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I'm in New York, we made it fine. I was just calling to check on you.”

“My dear,” she says, “you won't believe this, but I think you're the answer to my prayer.”

“What? Why?”

“I was just having a very blue moment, in fact I've been crying since I hung up with your dad an hour ago. Just to hear your voice makes me feel so much better.”

I return to a dark hotel room and slip into my long-sleeve silk peejays to work—I brought my nicest pajamas, knowing he's going to see what I wear to bed . . . although the bra shall remain. Then I pull out the couch in the living area of the suite.
I'm sleeping in the living room,
I text to Tucker.
He's still at dinner. See? No worries.

He replies with this:
I'm out. Have a good night.

Chris keys into the room around midnight, and it strikes me how metropolitan he looks in distressed jeans and a black V-neck. “Hi, how was your night, where'd you eat?” he says. “Why are you out here, I told you to take the bed.”

“You take the bed.”

He says it's not right, but I insist. “I'm not the one with a nineteen-hour flight tomorrow. You are.”

He thanks me, moving into the bedroom. “Saul wants brunch with us tomorrow. He wants to meet you.” I hear his words come out as he's pulling his shirt off over his head.

“Good, I was hoping I'd get to meet him while we were here.”

He peeks his head out from the door frame, and I can see his bare, broad shoulders. He tilts his head thoughtfully. “What are you working on?”

“Writing for your site.” I look at him only for a second, careful not to gaze at his bare upper body. Over the lid of my laptop I see him continuing to hover in the doorway. Is there something more he wants to say? I clear my throat and adjust my glasses, then look up and smile in a way that could be taken as either friendly or impatient. I point at the desk lamp. “Will this bother you?”

“No,” he says, turning self-aware again. “Not at all. Sleep well, Kris.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“Good night.” He closes the door and enters the bathroom through his side door, which is separate from my entry. I hear the trickle of water running, the sound of his toothbrush, then the flick of the light switch, then . . . silence.

I exhale. This facade of indifference for him is a challenge. I pull the chain on the lamp and hunker down to work in the dark.

In the morning I'm in heels and a leather jacket, juggling luggage, a cup of Starbucks, and some files when he bursts out of his bedroom. “Saul called, we're late,” he says, and this pretty much sets our pace for the day.

We check out, lock our luggage in storage, and race through Times Square. It crosses my mind that every man who has ever succeeded at anything should thank the woman at his side who has dodged crowds in high heels to see him to the finish. I chase Chris at his heels, calling, “You know the marathon's not till next month.” He speeds up.

“You know what we forgot to do?” he says. “We forgot to return that expensive camera case. It's too bulky to travel.”

“I'm shipping it back this week, remember? We talked about this.”

Suddenly I cannot wait for him to leave the country.

Facing Chris and Saul from my side of the plush booth and between quiet bites of tomato quiche, I take notes while the two of them brainstorm. Saul is one of the world's best known sleep experts and has met Oprah. Their voices grow louder as they think of all the reasons they should add a sleep lab to Chris's center—sleep makes your body younger. Sleep fights disease. Sleep makes you smarter.

I don't tell Saul that I slept for four hours last night.

Before we return to the hotel for our luggage and the truck, we stop for a Jamba Juice. Standing in line and pondering the menu, at once the mover-shaker-surgeon-entrepreneur is himself again. “What flavor you gonna get, cheetah?”

Cheetah, ha. That's funny. I order a small berry smoothie. He gets a jumbo immunity boost. “For the flight,” he says and winks, dancing the straw in my face.

“Ah, right.”

Everything about him is exhausting me. When the valet delivers the truck, I eye the backseat and fantasize about climbing in to snooze to prep for my five-hour drive home, but before his flight Chris has a meeting in New Jersey with another investor, and by the looks of it . . . yep, he's getting cozy with his laptop in the passenger seat. I'm driving. I tell him I'm going to need his eyes to help get us out of this traffic.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. His nose is in his phone.

“Can you get out the navigation system?” I ask.

“Why?”

“So I can put in the address.”

“I don't have the address.”

I turn to him blankly. “You don't.”

He shakes his head. He tells me he recalls that our destination is located at a very specific point in New Jersey where some junction meets some route. I smile, nearing wit's end. “Why don't we call their office?”

“Right.”

Forty minutes later by the grace of the GPS gods we stand in the parking lot of a suburban office complex, the contemporary type that always seems to exist in the same neighborhood as a Cadillac dealership and a P.F. Chang's.

“Hey Kris?” He's standing outside the passenger door. “I've been wearing this sweater for two days. Can you take it home with you?” He tosses it to me.

“Okay.” I count on my fingers with his black sweater stuffed under my arm. “You have your suits, your sneakers, lots of underwear, your computer . . . wait, your camera, do you have your camera?”

He points to the fancy new travel backpack we had overnighted last week. “Got the camera.”

“Okay, good.” He stands bracing his backpack with both hands and I try to fight my estimation that he looks like a little kid going off to his first day of kindergarten.
Would you can it already? This is your boss.
“So, are you excited?”

“Really excited.” I love when his eyes say the same as his words. He opens his arms for a hug. “What will I do without the cheetah?” His T-shirt is soft against my cheek, the contour of his chest so strong, and, oh heaven, his scent. He is the only man in the universe who can conquer midtown Manhattan on foot, then spend two hours in a restaurant that reeks of French onion soup and still smell like something you'd want to rip out of a magazine and rub all over yourself.

Please don't go.

Then, as though he could hear my plea, he separates from me. “See you in six weeks.”

He's not mine to worry about, and still I do. The investor hosting him at this afternoon's meeting has arranged for a car to take him to the airport tonight, but not having the precise itinerary in my grip is a pesky loose end. Chris gets carried away talking at meetings if someone's not watching the clock . . . or, heaven forbid, they start toying with some groundbreaking procedure. For any chance to learn something new, he'd gladly take his jacket off and stay a while, miss his flight, and land in Asia somewhere around the Fourth of July.