How to Love an American Man (25 page)

I suppose the lack of this kind of attention is what Grandma's trying to cope with right now. It's made her spirit more sluggish. For two decades after Grandma Angela's husband passed away, she used to tell us all with her Roman accent, “I just want to die. Without him I have no reason to live.” We witnessed her living a busy life of capability, and Grandma Angela did live a full life without her husband, but for her it wasn't full enough. I know that every morning my Grandma Glo is fighting that same sad surrender . . . but I think she gains energy when she sees how my femaleness is blossoming. She noted the dynamic between Chris and me at brunch a few weeks ago, and looking back I remember how nurturing my actions toward my grandmothers were and how delicately I'd presented myself that day. I sense that Grandma is proud of the woman I'm growing to be, especially when her own femininity may feel like it's fading.

After the facial, Chris carted the last of his boxes to his SUV and then walked with me down the one-block stretch from the office to Joe's house for dinner. It was during this stroll that I felt an emotion transact between us as undeniable as a static shock. I wore a white denim skirt and a little pink Mandarin blouse with white buttons lining the collarbone. We strolled slowly on the sidewalk as the evening sun led us along, and once again the moment felt more like a date where we should reach for each other's hand than a business dinner or a chat between friends. Chris said suddenly, “You know what I really want to see?”

“What?”

“The Princess and the Frog.”

“Really?” I started laughing.

“Yeah. It's out, you know.” He paused, and his voice lowered. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

Oh, the sheer misfortune! He was about to ask me out but I already had plans. “My friend Celeste from college is coming in. She's the one who lived with me in Italy.”

“Ah,” he said. “Maybe another time then.” He looked down at my pastel plaid heels and said, “Will those be okay in the grass?”

“Oh yeah, thanks, they'll be fine,” I said, glancing at my feet as if to convince him I hadn't tried on half a dozen pairs of shoes with this outfit. Then I made a hasty decision to push my luck: “You speak like someone who's dated a lady or two.”

I heard nerves rattle when he chuckled. “Not for a while,” he said.

The final confirmation: he wants me to know he's single.

Joe's wife Claire seated Chris and me across from each other at the dining room table because the office staff had occupied the umbrella table outside. As Claire and Joe settled into the dining room with us and opened a bottle of wine, Claire explained that they'd renovated last fall. With the flowing floor plan and sophisticated appliances—right down to the electric wine opener—it was clear they loved to entertain. As Claire poured pinot grigio into my glass, instantly I relaxed into the ambience of their home. The kitchen was dressed in stainless steel and a merlot-colored French toile scene of a couple picnicking peacefully by a lake.

Joe and Claire have been together since high school and she helped put him through med school. Now she manages his office. She told me that ever since their fourth son graduated from college a few years ago, they make an annual trip to Europe or the Caribbean, hoping it will be soon when one of their boys announces a baby's on the way. “Oh, you should meet my mom,” I replied. “She's dying for grandkids too.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized what I'd said. Involuntarily my eyes shot across to Chris, who stared at me poker-faced.

Over dinner the staff buzzed with different stories from around the office, but Joe and Claire talked with Chris and me about their vacation last summer in the French countryside. “Oh, I
love
France,” I gushed.

“Chris, you're thinking about buying a flat in Paris, aren't you?” Joe said, and instantly I darted my eyes to avert them from Chris's. Unknowingly, a few weeks ago I'd told him that Paris was my favorite city in the whole world.

He busies himself with his fork, flipping over a piece of lettuce that's on his plate. “I've been looking into it.”

After we cleaned up from dinner, Claire directed all of us to the backyard for dessert. On the way out I asked Chris quietly, “How much longer were you thinking of staying?”

“Actually,” he said, “I'm going to spend the night here. Joe and I are going for a bike ride tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.”
How am I supposed to get home?

“You can take my car if you want.”

I shook my head. “No, remember, my friend Celeste is coming to town tomorrow and I wouldn't have time to come back and get you.”

His assistant voiced up. “Krissy, I live out at the lake and I'm leaving now, why don't I just take you?” she offered.

Chris stood, giving me the cue that I should probably jump on that option.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Thank you.” But I felt like I'd just been dumped in public, with all the staff staring at me for my next move while their ice cream sundaes melted.

I hugged Claire and Joe, who told me they hope to see me even after Chris leaves next week. “I have your card,” Joe said. “You do good work, I'd like to get you involved in some projects this summer.”

“I'd love that.”

Chris approached me from across the patio. “Sorry, Kris,” he said. “We just planned the ride today.”

“Don't be sorry,” I said, barely attempting to mask my irritation. “This solution works fine.”

But a low drum kept billowing in my stomach, even after Chris's assistant dropped me off at the Ski Lodge to meet my brother and cousins for happy hour on the deck overlooking the old slopes. We pounded shots of tequila, and my cousin Jake spun me out on the dance floor, but everytime the thought of Chris sparked in my consciousness—hazed as it was growing—it took me out of the moment. Was my attraction growing that obvious? Did he think I'd be disappointed by his staying at Joe's because it meant we wouldn't be riding home together? Well, I'll admit: I sort of had conjured this image of the two of us arriving back in town and stopping for a glass of wine on Luigi's garden patio or the balcony at the country club that overlooks the lake. No volume of alcohol or music could drown out how poorly it was sitting with me; the way that dinner ended.

I
FAINTLY REMEMBER
my brother driving me the half mile home from the Ski Lodge . . . and then my mom meeting us at the front door and helping me into bed, which must be why I'm waking up in pajamas instead of with yesterday's skirt up over my head. On hungover mornings like this when I lived in New York, I'd meet my friend Lynne for brunch and she'd shake her head miserably (and hilariously) over the menu, saying, “We need to make some changes.” Today I will: I have to address these feelings for Chris.

I'm going to tell him. I'm scared, but I can't keep shoving this down and pretending it doesn't exist.

People make themselves sick from that, don't they? Here in bed the words come to my mind effortlessly, like bubbles from the bottom of a champagne glass, and the more I cry, the more the headache and the stress are released from my brain.
This is real,
I want to tell him.
There is an emotional—no, a spiritual exchange—taking place here, and I can feel that there are moments when it's definitely two-way. And I know that I may never see you again, but I need to say all of this.

Then, these next words surface in my mind:

I think I'm in love with you.

I roll my head into my pillow to wail.
In love with you!
Why does it happen like this! The pain, the delicious misery! I feel crazed. Grandma would be horrified if she saw me like this, her hands covering her mouth in mild terror, backing away toward the door. This is not how a sane woman behaves! This is not the effect that love has on a healthy person! But then I remember how she's told me that at night, and sometimes even in the day, she has to go to her bedroom and scream and wail for Grandpa. Even Grandma does it!

I think—I
think
—my grandpa had a hard time showing his emotions until his later years. One summer evening, oh, I must've been about six, I was sipping at a Shirley Temple at the Landing bar and he was busy drying glasses on the other side. I bit my little red straw, then pointed it at him so he could see me in the mirror. “Hey, Grandpa,” I said, “here's a question for you: how come every time I tell you goodbye, you never kiss me and say ‘I love you' like my mom's mom does?” Who did I think I was, his therapist? He had no response except to busy himself even more, but that night when I was leaving, I went over to him and hugged him around his waist. “Love you, Grandpa,” I said.

And for the first time, he told me out loud: “I love you too.” He was generally very kind with my grandma, but he wasn't always known for being affectionate. She's explained to me over and over that he was always distracted, infatuated by his work. She could never hold his complete attention or get his full disclosure; even when they fought, his method of apologizing was to say, “Well, are you done being mad?”

Chris is perhaps a good deal more progressive than that . . . but when it comes to relating, man, does he have a lot of catching up to do. “How come you never kiss me and say ‘I love you'?” Do I want to spend my whole life asking a man that question? Or, is it possible that Chris has the capacity to open up and take my lead, the way Grandpa did?

Maybe that six-year-old Krissy's question was so untamed and innocent that it was wise: if I'm willing to open up first, it's
within the realm of possibility
that Chris could begin to share his feelings too. I don't know if this makes me strong or weak, but I don't think it's right to let him walk out of my life without him knowing what's developed in my heart. In these last couple weeks he's revealed more than ever . . . not everything, not even a
lot
, really; but enough.

I don't need the world from him, not today and maybe not ever. I don't even need his forecast about where he thinks things between us could go, if he sees them going anywhere. I can tell him how much I care about him and then let him go. I watched Grandma do it. The advantage I have over her is that I already know I'll be okay on my own.

If I tell him how I feel and he doesn't feel the same, at least I've told him. I love him as he is, not on the condition that he loves me too. If Grandma could sum up her message in an airplane banner outside my bedroom window right now, it would probably read like some version of this: “Krissy, you can't control how a man expresses himself. Love him anyway.”

I might never get what I want from him.
I know this. But still, I care. It's a kind of love I've never managed before: I don't really feel the need to demand anything in return; and I want to prove my care for him with my life instead of with my body. Of course, I wouldn't marry him tomorrow—come on, he still has so much to prove. Could he ever commit? Would he give our relationship the time that partners need to share together? Would
our
future be as important as
his
future? I'm not sure, but it may not matter: in two days he's leaving, and when he returns, it'll only be for a short break before he has to go back to Asia . . . and by then I could be gone. If I don't tell him, then he'll never know; and either way I'll continue without him.

I take a deep breath and smear the last of my tears, itchy on my skin and trickling to my hairline, off my face.
Ah, Krissy, nobody's ever accused you of doing things the easy way.
Why must I always love men who leave . . .

The downstairs phone rings. The machine picks up the call, and it rings again. It takes all of my mental focus to roll my body out of my bed: I'm never drinking again. The phone rings a third time, and when I make it to the kitchen, it's Mom's cell calling. I rub my head. “Hello?”

“Are you just waking up?”

“No.” My mouth tastes like Patrón. “I just don't feel well.”

“Oh. Dad and I are in town with Grandma.”

“Oh, you're planting flowers for Grandpa today!” I need to sit down.

“Yep, we did it.” I missed it. “But while we were there, Grandma told us something. We want you to hear it from her.”

I sprawl out in the wooden kitchen nook. “Okay.” Oh no, something's wrong . . .

“Dear?”

“Grandma?”

She giggles. “It's silly really, but we were talking while we were planting Grandpa's flowers—oh, speaking of Grandpa's flowers, you should see the beautiful red, white, and blue geraniums your mother found this morning, and your aunt put down fresh bark and the flag—and you really won't believe this: when we tipped over the plastic container of blue geraniums, guess what came out?”

“What?”

“A frog!”

I laugh, but it sends my head blaring. “Grandpa was there to play a prank on you, wasn't he?”

She's giggling. “He was.” I hear my dad in the background. “Oh right, I'm getting off track. Dear, that day that we had brunch with Chris and his grandparents . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I just had a feeling that day . . .”

A feeling? Oh no, I wasn't enough of a lady at brunch!

“Dr. Christopher . . . he's the man for you.”

I whisper into the phone. Certainly I've heard her wrong. “What did you say, Grandma?”

“I have a very distinct feeling about this. Chris is the man who's going to be your husband.”

“Oh my God!”

She laughs. “I know, dear, it's very strange. But I felt it that day at brunch.”

“You mean a premonition?”

“I can't say,” she says quizzically. “It was just . . . a feeling.”

I speak with caution: “Grandma, it's so strange you're saying this right now. I'm embarrassed to admit it, it's a shame, actually, because it's such a beautiful day out, but I've just spent the whole morning sobbing in bed because I've realized: I feel something really strong for him.”