So when Theo and I sprawled on the couch after Raina’s wedding and he declared that he didn’t think marriage “added up,” I didn’t argue. He said that his parents stayed together out of obligation, not out of love. That he’s never been one to follow the straight and narrow, and so why should he now? That he loved me more than anyone he’d ever loved but he’d been round and round and run the figures and the facts and the economics (evidently there were economics of marriage), and a legal union didn’t “add up.”
I nodded my head while he rubbed my feet, and said, “I understand. I can totally see why marriage doesn’t add up.” What the hell did I know? Maybe it didn’t.
And then there was the opportunity in Seattle, and he wanted me to come. We were driving home from a weekend in Sag Harbor when he asked. And I loved him more than anyone, and yet, I immediately said no.
Even today, the same impulse rises up in my throat when I recall the memory. No. It sprang up quickly, unexpectedly, and I think neither of us knew how to react. It wasn’t as if I was known for my strident opinions.
He turned off the radio and swallowed my answer for twenty miles. I figured he was concocting his plan to get me to reconsider. He always had a plan to get anyone to reconsider. I eased my head into the headrest and let my hair fly against the breeze of the open window and waited for him to tell me why I had to reconsider.
Finally, he just said, simply, succinctly, without argument: “Why?”
And I said, much to my own surprise: “Because I believe in marriage.”
So he said: “But marriage doesn’t add up.”
And I didn’t answer because I didn’t have any reason to insist that marriage added up, at least to me. Not with my own parents as examples, not with anything sturdy to support me. And yet, still, some part of me believed that it was too soon to abandon the notion of happily ever after, the sort of happily ever after that came with vows and a three-tiered cake and the people most important to you as witnesses to your union.
He said: “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way? Why wait until now?”
And I said: “I don’t know.” And then I paused and added: “But aren’t you going to figure out how to get me to say yes?”
But he shook his head, and there were tears in his eyes.
“Not this time. No, I am not.”
18
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Minnie Chandler
Subject: Are you there?
Hi Mom,
No one has heard from you in a week since you went to Palm Beach. Are you okay? I know that Raina was in touch when Oliver was indicted, and she is grateful that you posted bail, but we are all a little concerned that no one has heard from you since. As you know, I’m in Seattle researching a book project (looks like dad might not be the only published author in the family!), and it is going…well. I think. I don’t really know. I just do what Vanessa says, which is weird things like go up to 20 strangers and tell them they look beautiful, or learn how to ride a mountain bike (I think I broke my pinky yesterday, but I’m okay — I put it in a splint I made with Q-tips), and she even forced me to hike up Mt. Rainier. Do you know Mt. Rainier? It’s hell. It’s hell on earth, Mom. It’s raining again today, so I had some time to email.
Anyway, please either get in touch with me or Raina to let us know that you haven’t set sail for Bali with a retired billionaire. If you have, please at least consider writing me into the will.
Also, before you ask, I haven’t spoken to Shawn, though I’m hoping to see Nicky soon. We lost our apartment, and all of our stuff is in storage, and I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for my life right now.
xoxo
Willa
PS — as you may know, Ollie is on house arrest and staying at Raina’s. If you are back in town, I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you stopped in and checked on him.
Email from: Minnie Chandler
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Re: Are you there?
Hi darling William!
I am so sorry that I have been remiss in staying in touch for a week. This time away from your father and the family has been so nourishing for my soul, and while I provided Ollie with his bail money (a sentence every mother can only dream of typing!), I had a spiritual awakening three days ago. And that is this: I love my family like all get out, but I have had enough. This is my time, my darling! I am sixty-six, and I am going to enjoy my sunset years without getting dragged into the horseshit that this family always manages to step into! It is so liberating! Try it, darling: just say FUCK IT! Go on, try it! You have been so like me your whole life, and damn your father, I am certain that he would tell you that shouting FUCK IT to the world wouldn’t mean anything, wouldn’t change anything, but dammit, it feels wonderful!!!!
I came to this spiritual awakening with the help of my new friend, Nancy Barnes. Do you remember Nancy? You met her so many years ago — twenty, perhaps — when we all vacationed at the Breakers. Well, we haven’t seen each other since, but we ran into one another at this new meditation hut that is just soooo relaxing, and we reacquainted ourselves rather quickly. Nancy has opened new pathways in my mind and my emotions, and if I’m speaking freely, my sexual well-being, and I have never felt so nourished in my life.
I am not going back to New York for now. But please continue to email me, my darling. I know that this thing with Shawn is a mess, but I can only hope that one day soon you find the fulfillment that I am finding with Nancy.
xoxo
Your mother, Minnie
PS — while I am no longer on speaking terms with your father, he continues to email me incessantly. He is quite angry with you. I’ll forward along his notes shortly. Nancy and I are off for sunset massages.
Email from: Raina Chandler-Farley
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: What’s your plan?
Willa,
Your brother is driving me nuts. Not just me, but Gloria too. Jeremy is in Berlin, so he hasn’t been here to deal with the madness, and for once, I’m not pissed at all of his travel because he would just be one more person around for me to deal with. Ollie has started holding yoga classes in my living room. Yes, really. Jennifer Aniston asked Gloria for a towel and some lemon tea this morning. All while I sit here and diligently work on his behalf. I’m not saying that you should come home because I can’t blame you for running, but still. I do wish that you would stop running. We go before the judge in three weeks. I hope you can at least be back for that.
Raina Chandler-Farley, esq
Partner
Williams, Russell and Chance, LLP
email: [email protected]
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Nicholas Abrams
Subject: How r u?
Nicky — it’s been a few days since I’ve heard from you. Can you let me know if you’re okay? I drafted an email to your Uncle Shawn (okay, I’ve drafted three) but am too chicken to send them. Do you think I should send them? Is he dating? Do you know a woman named Erica Stoppard? Is she prettier than me? Can you tell me why I am writing a twelve-year-old and asking his advice? Wait…have you ever had a girlfriend? This might be helpful for me to know before I ask for further advice. You know what? On second thought, please ignore this entire email. I should really hate your uncle right now, so let’s pretend that I actually do.
Email from: Nicholas Abrams
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: re: How r u?
Dear Aunt Willa:
I might be 12, but I know a cry for help when I read one. I told Uncle Shawn he’s an asshole and should send you a note. Also, I have had a girlfriend named Mara Goldstein, who just got braces and changed her French kissing style, so I broke up with her. Speaking of Goldsteins, I am exploring
Judaism. What do you know about being a MOT? (That’s member-of-the-tribe, in case you didn’t know.)
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Raina Chandler-Farley
Subject: Our mother
Raina — I’m 99% sure that mom is now a lesbian. We should probably talk.
19
Daring Yourself to a Better Life!
By Vanessa Pines and Willa Chandler
STEP TWO: RESIST INERTIA
Summary: This might be the scariest dare of all: to refuse to let life carry you along in its stream, to plant an anchor in that stream and say, “enough.” “Enough” of letting life whiz by, “enough” of accepting just okay for yourself, “enough” of refusing to be bigger than you think you can be. Giving in to inertia is the most natural, most innate human tendency, so we cannot promise that this second step will come easily. But when it does, you’ll feel it, deep in your soul, deep inside of your heart, that you — little old you — might just have the ability to change everything.
—
I immediately regret emailing Nicky, but Vanessa had urged me to, or at least sort of. It’s part two of the book. Dare Yourself!
“Dare yourself to resist inertia!” she implored tonight, as we headed to Safeco Field to watch the Mariners play the A’s. She didn’t specifically say to email Nicky (or indirectly Shawn), but if she scoffed (or caught wind of the email, which I actually really hoped she wouldn’t), I had an answer: I haven’t exactly fought for anything in my life before, so if I’m going to fight for something, maybe it should be my husband. That’s resisting inertia. That’s rewriting my master plan: after all, the first time, I just let Shawn walk away. I let him draft the stupid rules of our intermission, and I didn’t make a peep, didn’t put up an argument, didn’t throw a fucking pan at his head and tell him that we’d taken vows and this was the stupidest goddamn idea I’d ever heard. We were Shilla, for Christ’s sake! Maybe now, my version of resisting inertia was fighting to get my husband back. So when Vanessa made a bathroom stop at a bar in Pioneer Square, I pressed “send” to Nicky.
Take that, inertia!
Vanessa got us tickets when our concierge mentioned a singles mixer at the stadium in section 210. Evidently, every single person in our near vicinity would be available and looking. I protested my involvement but Vanessa said: “Dare yourself, Willa! Jesus, if you end up sharing Cracker Jacks with a hot guy for a few hours, will you actually die of cardiac arrest?”
And I sucked on my cheeks and said, “No, I actually won’t.”
“Great, because I wasn’t sure.”
“But I haven’t been on the singles scene in half a decade.”
So she snapped, “Which is entirely the point. Maybe you’ll actually have fun.”
Now, in the bleachers at the ballpark, Vanessa says, “Damn, I love a baseball game on a perfect summer evening. The peanuts, and the buzz of the crowd, and the beer. And the men. Have you looked at all of the men?”
I dig my hand into my solo box of Cracker Jacks and I unobtrusively check my phone with my other hand, but less unobtrusively than I thought, because Vanessa says, “Yo, what the hell, William? Can you not put down your phone for a second? What are you waiting for? Your knight in shining armor?”
And something must give me away (okay, my face gives me away because my face always gives me away), so she says:
“Please tell me you didn’t email Shawn.”
And I say (without lying):
“I did not email Shawn.”
And on home plate, a Mariner cracks his bat and the ball soars toward the stands, and the crowd is on its feet cheering, so we are on our feet too but not really sure why because we weren’t paying attention, until the same crowd falls to a hush and sits back down when the ball lands foul.
Vanessa sinks into her plastic seat and says, “I didn’t just fall off the dumb truck, you know. Why are you emailing him to get him back? The guy who made a list of rules of your break!”
At this, the very cute guy next to me turns. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but what a dick.”
“I know, right?” Vanessa extends her right hand and says, “I’m Vanessa. This is Willa. We’re from New York.”
And he says: “New York girls scare me.”
So she says: “We don’t bite.”
And he leans over me and says: “Well, I don’t mind a little nibble.”
And I roll my eyes and stare up at the dusk sky and realize I’ll never have to dare Vanessa to do anything because there’s nothing she’s afraid of.
I offer to swap seats with cute guy, and we do this awkward thing of pressing our bodies against each other while trying very much not to press our bodies against each other on the way to the other’s seat. Cute guy’s friend leans over, close enough so I can smell the beer on his breath, and says, “Hey, I’m Bill.” Before I can answer, there’s another loud pop from home plate.
The crowd is on its feet again, this time cheering louder, then louder still, and the wave of energy is pulsing right through section 210. I look up and I see it, the white flash of lighting, the ball coming right toward me. I don’t have a glove, and though I know it is stupid, I know it is so moronic to reach up with my bare, open palms, I do so anyway. I resist inertia, resist the urge to let cute guy leap in front of me, to let anyone else stake his claim. I outstretch my hands, and I feel it, the hot leather ball land smack against my palm.
“Holy shit!” Vanessa yells.
“That was awesome!” the cute guy shouts.
Bill picks me up and pulls me into a bear hug, and then, much to both of our surprise — caught up in the euphoria of the moment — I lean down and kiss him.
Everyone in section 210 starts pointing and screaming, and I unclamp my lips from Bill’s and peer across the field to see me, my face, 100 feet wide, up on the Jumbotron. It’s a face that looks happy, a face that looks brave. A face that didn’t duck when the smarter thing would have been to take cover. I offer a little wave, and the stadium cheers back.
“Sorry about the kiss,” I say to Bill, once we’re seated.
“I didn’t mind,” he replies, laughing.
“It was a one-time thing.”
“One time is better than never.”
I nod and suppose that he is right. One time really is better than never.
It’s only about fifteen minutes later when the throbbing sets in.
I gaze down and realize that my fingers have swelled to hot dogs, that my palm is purple and bruised.
I knew it, I think, as I try to make a fist but fail. Nothing good ever comes from reaching for the stars.
—
Theo meets me at the emergency room of Harborview Hospital.
“First dates in ERs seem to be our specialty,” he says.
“I told Vanessa not to call. I could come alone,” I say.
In fact, I’d begged Vanessa not to call Theo, all the while insisting that she go share a drink with Cute Guy. I had grown weary of being her pet project, and I craved a break from her psycho-scrutiny, even if it meant trudging to the ER solo.
“Also, this isn’t a date. Unless, like, you’re a masochist,” I add.
“Duly noted,” he says, holding out his arm to steady the door, though the door was automatic and would have steadied itself. “And to the second part, I’m pretty sure you know that I’m not.”
I do know that he’s not. I know that he is pretty good cook and always willing to bring home fresh flowers and the type of guy who will give you the covers if he notices that you’re cold and also tell you (lightly, with enough humor so you don’t want to kill yourself) when you need to go brush your teeth. He’s not a masochist. But he didn’t want to marry me. So I’m trying not to be a masochist and entertain the notion that this could be a date.
My face crumbles from the pain, and Theo notices the wince.
“Come on, I know the head of the ER. We’ll get you to the front of the line.” He takes my good hand, without even thinking about it, like he doesn’t even consider the intimacy of intertwining his fingers in mine, and leads me down the hallway.
The doctor comes immediately and gives Theo a bear hug, slapping him on the back, and says: “Man, what can I do for you? I came as soon as I got your text.”
And then he takes one look at my eggplant, mangled fingers.
“Did you really try to catch a homer with your bare hands?”
“I can be an idiot. I was trying to resist inertia. It didn’t work.”
“Like hell it didn’t,” Theo says. He digs into my purse to get the ball. “Your fingers will heal but you’ll always have this. A memento of the night you weren’t afraid to reach up and catch what was coming for you.”
By now, the Vicodin that the doctor has given me has kicked in, so I can easily read his metaphor, and I know that he’s referring to more than just the ball. I sweep my good palm up to his cheek and say:
“You’re sweet.” Though I also want to say: You’re the one who didn’t want to reach out and catch me. You’re the one who didn’t believe in marriage.
Theo whispers: “Uh-oh. I think you’re high.”
And he and the doctor chuckle, and since I am indeed high, I chuckle too.
A kind nurse sets my hand in a cast, and I sit beside a six-year-old whose cheeks are tear-streaked and whose pigtails hang limply against her shoulders.
The Theory of Opposites Page 14
