In Love with a Gentleman (23 page)

Oh, shut up
,
I think. There is only one way to find out. I need to start paying attention. If Ethan is really trying to change me, as Inez claims, I’ll notice it. I admit, my perceptions are somewhat clouded in Ethan’s presence. People call that “love.” But I’ll just have to be a little bit more observant.

The opportunity arises sooner than expected. Ethan wants to introduce me to his family—that is, his widowed mother. She lives in a former vicarage in a village called Sternham, west of Aldeburgh. Ethan’s father was a pastor. His successor moved into a new rectory, so Ethan’s mother was allowed to stay in the old building after her husband’s death.

On the ride to Sternham, I’m churning inside, but I find it thrilling that Ethan wants me to meet his mother. Everybody—and I mean everybody—knows what this could mean. I think Ethan is sealing our fate. Very soon I could be a bride at the altar at Sternham’s village church. I should be excited, but for some reason my enthusiasm has dampened a bit. Since that evening in Brantwood, I can’t stop thinking about what my friends said. I might have just ignored the whole thing if it hadn’t been for the fact that the same thing happened with my parents over Christmas. Phrases and sentence fragments surface like ghosts, harassing me:

Lea, you’re so quiet.

Sweetheart, don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn. What happened to your usual lightheartedness? Where’s your sense of humor?

Did something happen to you in England? Are you unhappy there?

I ask myself the same question:
Am I unhappy
? No, of course not. I have the best boyfriend in the world. Okay, let’s rephrase the question:
Am I completely happy
? That’s more difficult to answer. If I’m going to be totally honest with myself, the truth is it’s very tiring being Ethan’s girlfriend. I constantly get the feeling that I’m not good enough for him.

Last night I played my favorite game before falling asleep. The game is rather taxing, and I’ve had to be tough and patient to work through each level. Sometimes the game feels too hard for me, but because I’m so persistent, I stay with it. Occasionally, a task is so insanely hard I get mad at the stupid game and whoever made it. Sometimes I lash out in a stream of curses; other times the game rewards me with a sense of accomplishment.

It occurs to me that being with Ethan is also like playing a game. With him, I never feel relaxed or casual. I always feel like I have to fight to keep his love and attention. It’s a heavy burden to bear. It’s possible I do seem exhausted to my parents and friends.
But it’s all worth it
, I tell myself.

It’s a balmy spring day, and we’ve rolled our windows down a bit. Ethan’s curls are blowing in the wind. I look at his perfectly chiseled profile, his angular jaw, and his straight nose. He’s still my dream man.

As usual, Ethan is quiet. Something suddenly occurs to me. “Can you please stop at a flower shop somewhere, Ethan? I’d love to buy some flowers for your mother.”

“That only occurs to you now?” he asks. “You’ve known for days that we’re going to Sternham.”

The underlying message is: Lea, you’re disorganized. Anybody else would have already purchased flowers.
Half of me says,
I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time
.
But before I open my mouth, my other half speaks up:
It’s not very nice of Ethan to put you down over this.
If he is really the gentleman you think he is, he shouldn’t think twice about stopping at a flower shop.

But this thought seems so horrible, mean, and disloyal that I say, “You’re right, Ethan. I should have gotten a bouquet in Gatingstone. I’m sorry to trouble you with it now.”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop somewhere now,” Ethan says. “When you plan things so poorly—and you do that quite often, Lea—then you must face the consequences.”

Wow. I gulp.

Ethan glances at me. “Mosquito, if I constantly have to cover for all your mistakes, then I’ll spoil you and you’ll never become the woman you can be.”

That doesn’t make me feel better. I feel worse than ever. Thanks to my friends, I’m much more perceptive today. Usually, I wouldn’t have recognized the latent cruelty of his words, which is that I’m far from good enough for him. There’s obviously still an enormous amount to overcome in our relationship. There are clear parallels between this and my frustratingly difficult game. But who says I have to always be deferential and swallow what Ethan says? I try a new tactic.

“Ethan,” I say, “if you were in a similar situation and you accidentally forgot something, I would help you out, you know that.”

Ethan shakes his head. “I am never, ever this disorganized, my dear Lea.”

This cuts me to the bone.
You’re not that perfect
,
I think to myself and retort, “You know I love you, but you make mistakes sometimes, too.”

The atmosphere grows tense. “So you’re lecturing me now?” he says.

I sigh. I might as well keep going. “That would only be fair,” I respond. “You just lectured me.” The little voice inside me adds,
Every time we’re together.

Ethan pulls off to the side of the road. He shuts off the engine, turns to me, and stares. “Lea, what is wrong with you? Why are you being so nasty to me? Could you please stop it and be your usual sweet self again? I don’t see why I should let you criticize me.”

I stare at the road in front of us. A bird chirps in a nearby tree, and the trees are already full of green buds. I love this time of year. It’s so full of hope and promise. Although it breaks my heart, and I know that I’m risking a lot, I say firmly, “Why not? Why can you criticize me, but I can never criticize you?”

Ethan’s face darkens. “Because I know more than you do, Lea. I’m older and have more experience. It’s my right to point things out to you. You are like a freshly hatched chick. You still have eggshell behind your ears. What do you know about the world?”

I must look pretty shocked, because Ethan’s voice softens. “Look, little mosquito, we get along beautifully. Why should anything change between us?”

Yes, why? Gradually the feeling steals over me that we get along so beautifully only because Ethan calls the shots, and I always do exactly what he wants me to do. There is so much I could say right now in response, but I bite my tongue and say, “It’s okay, Ethan, just keep driving. Your mother will wonder where we are.”

Ethan starts the motor, puts the car in gear, and takes off, tires squealing. He seems to be hopping mad. I realize it’s the very first time I’ve ever talked back to Ethan—and I did so relatively gently and quietly. His violent reaction shakes me up. This much is becoming clear to me: if I want a nice, mutually respectful relationship with Ethan, like Catherine has with Christian, then a lot has to change. I suddenly realize that Ethan doesn’t respect me one bit, while I look up to him way too much. The idea creeps me out. So, where do we go from here? The best thing to do is just wait and see.

While Ethan drives, I think about how it came to this.
Why have I only just now noticed what’s going on? Have I been that blind? Love is notorious for doing that to people. I know myself quite well. I have qualities that may not necessarily be absolutely praiseworthy but are nonetheless quite useful. I’ve had them my whole life. For starters, I have the ability to respond flexibly to people and situations. I’m a bit of a chameleon. These animals are known for their ability to adapt to the environment to protect themselves from their enemies, which would devour them. I am an interpersonal chameleon. If a situation appears to be unfavorable or threatening, I adapt so I can fit in. When I was at the Lanes’, I implemented this ability wonderfully until I finally found the situation too much to bear. Anyone else would have moved out immediately, but I told myself that the accommodations were practical and made the best of it. It worked great for a while. Often, however, a certain amount of dissatisfaction grows inside me that at some point I can no longer suppress.
Pow
! I attack others quite unexpectedly. What happened with the Lanes was relatively mild in comparison.

And what about Ethan and me? Something bad has developed. Poor Ethan has apparently calmed down again and doesn’t suspect anything. All at once, I recognize that I’d become a chameleon again. For Ethan’s benefit, I made myself seem small, sweet, inexperienced, and eager to learn—a little mosquito, just how he likes it. But that person has little to do with the real Lea. I repressed the confident, cheerful Lea and forbade her to speak up. I knew the whole time that Ethan would not like the real Lea. It made sense to me because I was terrified of scaring off my dream man. One thing is clear as day: I can’t keep up this masquerade. At some point I’ll be exposed, because it’s as insanely exhausting as a tricky computer game. I just can’t take it anymore. I’m worn out and sad. The people who really know me see it.

I’ve created a big mess. There are only two possibilities now: either admit I’m a fraud and break up with Ethan, or accustom him to the real me in a loving and gentle way. The first would break my heart and, hopefully, Ethan’s, too. The second could work, but only if I proceed very slowly. I’m confident that Ethan will come to know and respect the new Lea. I know that he loves me. To help him cope with the change, I’ll gradually project more confidence each day. Hopefully Ethan will interpret my behavior as a positive development. Maybe he’ll even think his wonderful influence has made me more his equal. Our sex life might even improve as a result; it would be nice if Ethan took a bit more time to satisfy my sexual needs. If that could happen, everything would be perfect. So that’s the plan. I’m confident it will do the trick.

Ethan watches the road, ignorant of the plan I’ve just hatched. I feel sorry for him. It’s not his fault at all. He’s simply Ethan. He fell in love with a younger woman who looks much younger than her age. He has no way of knowing that I’m really quite sensible and mature. My behavior when he’s around hasn’t always been very sensible or mature; I admit it. But now I’m going to change that. I wonder if Ethan will even notice. If I’m careful and patient, he might never know the difference when I stop being a chameleon and start showing my true colors. He’ll rub his eyes and think that he’s probably imagining things, and that nothing has changed that much.

Ethan slows down, and I see a sign for Sternham. I love these villages in Essex and Suffolk. Once again, I am delighted by the colorful cottages, always arranged around a well-kept duck pond. A small, old church tries to look impressive with its massive stone walls, but it’s too tiny to succeed. My heart beats faster seeing it. Who knows? Maybe I just caught a glimpse of my wedding chapel for the first time. A wedding in Bielefeld would be nice, too. Several picturesque churches come to mind. They’d all be suitable for a beautiful ceremony, but one in an English village . . . There’d be something so dreamy about it, like out of a Rosamunde Pilcher romance. It would be a dream come true.

Ethan turns into a driveway with a large wrought iron gate. The gate is opened wide, and a sign indicates that the house is the old vicarage, a very dignified residence built of gray stone. It doesn’t look as quirky as the colorful stucco houses in the village. The façade is covered with dark-green ivy. It is surrounded by a small garden and, farther off, tall trees.

My heart is pounding faster now. How will my first encounter with Ethan’s mother go? These occasions are quite significant! I don’t want to do or say anything wrong. I’m going to try to act invisible. I won’t make the same mistakes with Mrs. Derby that I did with Ethan. Of course, I don’t intend to march into the house with a look-at-me, here-I-come attitude but will carry myself politely and confidently, as if there’s no chance she could one day be my mother-in-law.

We step up to the front door, and Ethan grabs the shiny, heavy brass lion’s paw doorknocker. He only knocks twice before the door opens. Aha! Mrs. Derby has been expecting us. The first thing I notice about Mrs. Derby is how small she is. She has a petite figure and is dressed in a fine tweed skirt, a pristine white shirt, and a gray cardigan. She looks stylish, partly because she has the same elegant features as my Ethan. Her heather-gray hair is pulled back in a loose knot. Perhaps I expected a cool reception, but this is not the case at all. Mrs. Derby takes my hand gently in her tiny palm and scans my face with her dark eyes, as if she wants to learn everything about me all at once. She greets me warmly.

“Lea, how nice to meet you at last! Ethan has told me so much about you already. Welcome to our house. Come in, take off your coat. Let me show you to your room, and then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

As I follow her upstairs, I wonder why the English always say “nice cup of tea.” Everyone, everywhere says the same thing. Funny—it’s like how we Germans say “good butter.” Is there even such a thing as a bad cup of tea? Probably not.

Mrs. Derby opens the door to the guest room. “Here is your kingdom, Lea. Make yourself at home.” Ethan and I have been assigned separate sleeping quarters, of course. He’d already warned me. The room is not big, but bright. The narrow bed is covered with snow-white linens edged with fine lace. I go to the window and look out. There are precisely cut boxwood hedges in the backyard, along with the first daffodils and tulips of the season.

Mrs. Derby shows me the bathroom and returns downstairs. I sit down on the edge of the bed and look around. Whew! It’s going pretty well so far. I didn’t have to open my mouth once. She seems so dear and gentle I certainly have nothing to be afraid of. I undo my hair and comb it, then neatly braid it. I put on a touch of fresh lipstick, smooth my eyebrows with a wet finger, and go back downstairs.

Ethan is sitting at the coffee table, while his mother flits around and pours tea from a silver pot. Pastries and the inevitable cucumber sandwiches are on the table. I sit very straight and wait till she speaks to me.

“I hear you study English literature,” Mrs. Derby says, “and that you want to be a teacher.”