Me vs. Me

by Sarah Mlynowski

No kidding. “It doesn’t fit. I’m sorry.”

  “Of course it fits,” Alice says. “It’s a medium. I’m sorry to tell you, but you’re not a small. Maybe if you slowed down on the eggnog—”

  “The neck is too tight.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Alice says. “Let me see.”

  “I can’t get it on. I tried.”

  “Try it on here over your sweater,” Blair orders.

  My head feels hot. My arms. My tongue. “No. It doesn’t fit.”

  “If you don’t like it, just say so,” Blair says. “It was expensive.”

  “Blair!” Cam says, finally jumping to my defense. “If Gabby said it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fit. Maybe you can exchange it for a larger size.”

  “Actually,” I squeak, “a larger size won’t help. I am a medium, but it’s the neck that doesn’t fit, and if I get a larger turtleneck to accommodate my head, the rest of it will be too big. So can you just exchange it for another style?” At this point I realize that I’m rambling and stop immediately.

  “Try it on.” Blair repeats.

  For heaven’s sake. I shove my hands through the armholes and attempt to ram my head through the neck, and what is wrong with them, why are they so horrible, why don’t they see that this stupid sweater just does not fit? The sweater is blanketing my face and I’m waving my arms and I’m screaming, “See? See?”

  By the time I give up again, I’m sweaty and hot and exhausted. The room is deadly quiet. I fling the sweater onto the coffee table and collapse into my spot on the couch. Cam puts his arm around me in a feeble attempt to appease me.

  Blair snatches the turtleneck. “You don’t have to be such a drama queen. I’ll buy you another one, since I can’t exchange it.”

  Translation: she bought it at a clearance sale.

  “Blair, honey, don’t upset yourself, it’s not good for the baby,” Alice coos. “Why don’t you open one of your presents?”

  Blair picks up the one that we got her and rips open the paper. “A satellite radio! Thanks, Cammy!” she says, clearly ignoring the card that came from Cam and me.

  “You’re welcome,” Cam says. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Matt reaches across the coffee table and shakes Cam’s hand. “Thanks, man. Thanks, Gabby.”

  At least someone in that marriage has manners. Which is perfectly understandable. He’s not blood related. “You’re welcome.”

  “Gabrielle, it’s your turn to open Cam’s,” Alice announces. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

  I ignore her. She is not going to ruin the one good part of the day: me opening the present from the man I love. “Which one is it?” I ask, searching under the tree for a small package.

  “The red one,” Cam says, playing with his fingers. Aw, he’s nervous. How cute!

  I don’t see a small red package. I do see a monster three-foot red box. “That one?” I ask, confused.

  Still doing that thing with his fingers, he nods.

  I pull it out from under the tree and, sure enough, spot my name on the card. I open and read: Gabrielle! Merry Christmas! Love, Cam!

  Since when does he call me Gabrielle? And this isn’t his handwriting. This is Alice’s handwriting. Cam hates exclamation marks. Please tell me my fiancé didn’t ask his mother to write my card. Please tell me that my fiancé didn’t—

  I rip away the tissue.

  —buy me a vacuum cleaner.

  “It’s a vacuum cleaner,” I say, my voice flat.

  “It’s a Dyson,” Alice says, beaming. “State of the art.”

  Maybe I can plug it in right now and suck myself away.

  I don’t speak to Cam all the way home. I don’t even look at him. I’m exploding with resentment.

  He pops open the trunk and says, “I’m sorry. I should never have given you a vacuum cleaner for Christmas.”

  I ignore him and concentrate instead on heaving my Dyson toward the apartment door.

  “Gabby, talk to me.”

  I lean the vacuum cleaner against the door while I search through my purse for the keys. Where are my stupid keys?

  “I’m sorry,” Cam says, unlocking the door. He piles our gifts under the window. “I’m sorry. I should have given you something more fun. But I thought that since I got you a ring, I could get away with something more practical.”

  Get away with? Is giving me a gift some kind of crime? “No, I don’t like it. A household appliance? You couldn’t have been more clichéd if you got me a toaster. And does this mean I’m supposed to do the all the vacuuming in the new house? Are you not planning to pitch in with the housework?” I shake my head. “But it’s not just that. The entire day was a disaster.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “Yes, it was. What’s up with that painting your mother gave us? Don’t they get that I’m Jewish?”

  He sits down on his couch and pats the spot next to him. “It’s just a picture.”

  I opt to angrily stride up and down the room instead. “Nothing is just a picture. Is that why she’s so horrible to me? Is it because I’m a different religion?”

  “She’s not that horrible to you.”

  “Are you on crack? Of course she is. And your sister is no better. Is it my fault I have a big head? She didn’t have to be so rude about it.”

  “You don’t have a big head. You have a beautiful head. And a beautiful smile. Will you smile? Please? I’ll talk to them.”

  I’m in no mood for smiling. “But why do they treat me like garbage? Do they just not think I’m good enough for you?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I know I’ve hit the nail smack on its tiny, ugly head. “That’s it, isn’t? They don’t think I’m good enough.”

  “It’s normal. No mother thinks any girl is good enough for her only son. It’s the same with fathers and daughters. I’m sure your dad doesn’t think I’m good enough.”

  “Yes, he does,” I say. Although, in truth, he hardly knows Cam. In truth, he hardly knows me. But one thing I’m sure of. My father would never treat Cam the way Alice treats me. And do you know why? Because I wouldn’t stand for it. But there’s a bigger problem. The truth is, lately, I don’t feel good enough. I feel so damn insecure. I have no career. No money. No desire to clean a house. “Look, forget about your family. Let’s go back to the gift for a second. How could you think a vacuum cleaner is an appropriate gift for your fiancée?”

  “I’m sure we can return it.”

  “We don’t have to return it,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “That’s not the point. We do need a vacuum. It’s just that we just got engaged…and I guess I was hoping you’d be feeling more romantic. You normally get me jewelry.” Am I sounding like a spoiled brat? “I think that may have sounded awful and I don’t mean to sound like a spoiled princess, but I think you know what I mean—”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I was going to get you something different. Like earrings or a day at the spa, but then my mom bought it and she said that you really needed one, and I didn’t want to disappoint her….” His voice trails off.

  “First of all, you should be more worried about disappointing me than disappointing her.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of my neck with his palms.

  I’m feeling appeased until I remember the card. “And what was up with the card? Did your mother write it?”

  He blushes and pulls me onto his lap. “Sorry about that, too. She said she saw it at the store and bought it and I’ve been so busy with work and the paperwork for the new house so—”

  That’s it. I push myself off him and move to the other end of the couch. “Do you know how pathetic that sounds?”

  “I didn’t ask her to do it,” he says. “She just did it.”

  “You should have said no, Cam. Don’t you get it? We have to make our life about us. Not about your mother.”

  He looks pained. “I’m sorry. Again. You know how she is. I tell her no, but she just keeps at me, until I’m too
tired to argue.”

  I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. “I understand, but it’s no good. She’s going to push us around our whole life.” And I’m going to be miserable, I think but don’t say. I’m going to be miserable my whole life.

  “I know, I know. You’re right. I’ll do my best.”

  “Whatever.” I lie facedown on the couch, feeling empty. “It’s okay.”

  But it’s not okay. I want to go back to New York. I don’t know how it happened, but I like myself better in New York. A lot better. I’m not a wimp there. Or a whiner. And I’m liked. I’m strong and cheerful…and assertive.

  “—five, four, three, two—”

  I’m in the office in N.Y., watching the ball drop live onscreen at the station. I’ve always loved New Year’s. It feels so hopeful. So fresh. The year ahead is like a blank page. Or in my case, two blank pages.

  “—one!”

  A cameraman slaps me on the back. “Happy New Year!” he says.

  “You, too.” We clink our glasses of champagne and get back to work. You’d think I’d be bored, or annoyed that I’m in the office, but I’m not. I love it here. There is nowhere I’d rather be.

  I finish my glass and wish the others well, and then get back to work.

  “Gabby, can you help with a story?” asks one of the associate producers.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to,” I answer, and follow her down the hall.

  Happy New Year to me.

  “—five, four, three, two—”

  We’re at the Starlight Bar in Tempe with a bunch of Cam’s friends, but I have to admit, the countdown is less exciting the second time around.

  “—one!”

  “Happy New Year, baby,” Cam says, and presses his lips against mine.

  “Happy New Year,” I murmur.

  He pulls me into him, brushes away my hair and whispers. “This is our year.”

  Some say that the first thing you feel in the New Year will stay with you for the next twelve months. The first thing I feel is guilt. There’s a part of me that Cam doesn’t know. A part of me he’ll never know.

  “Am I being overly critical?” I ask Lila. “After all, Cam’s her baby.”

  It’s the third week of January, and because we’ve just finished ordering my wedding dress, I’m treating Lila to a glass of wine. She wanted to get back to work, but I guilted her by saying that as my Number One maid of honor, it was her job to listen to me kvetch. She had taken the news of her shared honor relatively well. We’re sitting in a booth at the back of a bar called Grapes, enjoying our chardonnay and sharing our usual cheese plate. Sometimes I try to shake things up by trying to order the chicken wings, but she won’t do it. Cheese plate—always.

  “No. I think you’re not being critical enough. You have to set limits. The same thing happened with my mother and my brother. My mom was horrible to his wife. She treated her like an imposter who was out to steal her baby. Alice can tell that you have no spine and pushes accordingly. You have to lay down the law now before it’s too late.”

  “I can’t find my spine,” I complain. “It’s buried somewhere under all this weight I’ve gained. Which is something else I’m depressed about.”

  Lila tilts her head back and takes a long sip. “I want to talk to you about that.”

  “About my weight or my depression?”

  “About my depression.”

  I cover her hand with mine. “You’re depressed? Why?”

  “I’m lonely in the apartment all by myself. Your move screwed up my whole equilibrium. The place feels so empty. Before, I at least had you to come home to, but now I have no one.”

  “You need to meet someone.”

  Lila nods. “Exactly. It’s time for me to find myself a boyfriend.”

  Lila has definitely had her share of flings, but in all the years that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her in a relationship. I’ve never even heard her say that she wants a boyfriend. She claimed they took up too much space, physically and emotionally. “Wow. That’s a big step for you.”

  “All I’m saying is that I’m going to start dating. I’m open and willing.”

  “I’ll keep my eye out for eligible bachelors.”

  “Thanks.”

  She stuffs a slice of Gruyère in her mouth, savors it, then asks, “Maybe Cam has a friend?”

  “You’ll meet them all at the wedding.”

  “Speaking of the wedding, don’t I need to order a dress?”

  “Yes. That’s next up. Alice would like you in rust.”

  “I’m not wearing orange. Alice should mind her own business. How about black?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Remember your spine.”

  One week later, we’re back in Alice’s kitchen, binders open, iced tea poured.

  “Next major priority is finding a band,” Tricia tells us, pushing a list across the glass table. On it is written: Smokin’ Tokin’, Starlight, Party Town, Champagne. “I’ve used these bands before. They’re all available on your date.”

  “What kind of name is Smokin’ Tokin’?” Alice asks. “This is your wedding, Gabrielle. You need a band that represents sound family values.”

  What does she expect? The Partridge Family? “Great,” I say to Tricia. “Do they have CDs we could listen to?”

  Tricia nods. “Yup. But I think it’s best if you go hear them in person. Starlight and Party Town are playing at weddings this Saturday night. It’s always best to pop in and see the bands in action.”

  Fun. Cam and I can go dancing. “And the hosts don’t mind?”

  “Nah, it always happens. I’m sure you’ll have a few crashers at your wedding, too.”

  “You see?” Alice says, wagging her finger at me. “That wouldn’t happen if you got married at home. A hotel is so impersonal. Any stranger can wander in off the street. If they’re disruptive, I’m having them tossed out by their ears. And what about terrorists?”

  “They’re not disruptive,” Tricia says. “They’re just like you. Couples who want to hear bands.”

  Alice shakes her head in apparent disgust. “If we must, we must. I’ll make dinner for you and Cam, and then the four of us will go.”

  Spine, I need a spine. “That’s very considerate of you, Alice, but Cam and I are happy to go on our own. We’ll make a night out of it.”

  Alice purses her lips and grumbles something incomprehensible.

  “Perfect,” Tricia says, clapping her hands. “Gabby and Cam will choose the band. Now let’s move on to flowers. Gabby, do you have any ideas for bouquets or centerpieces?” “I—”

  “I do,” interrupts Alice. Surprise, surprise. “Turn to the flower section of your binders. One thing is certain, we have to have orange blossoms.”

  First my back tenses and then my spine shrivels. Why not forget the hotel and get married in an orchard? Fine. She can have the flowers. It’s not like I care about a bunch of plants. Hey, I’m choosing the band. I’ll just have to make sure to regrow my spine in time to argue about the bridesmaid dresses.

  13

  Live from New York

  As Arizona Me works on Alice, New York Me works on, well, work.

  I’m in the control room and the show’s about to start taping when my BlackBerry buzzes to tell me that a fire broke out at an oil refinery outside of Houston.

  “Wait, no one move,” I say into my headphone. “Curtis, did you see it?”

  “Yeah. Hold on.”

  “This could be big. Maybe we should hold off taping now and go live at eight,” I say. This is a more important story than that snowstorm that’s attacking the Northeast. Since refineries are major targets, I’m thinking terrorists. I flip through my BlackBerry trying to find out more, but there’s no news yet.

  “We hardly ever go live,” Curtis says through the headset. “It’s too risky.”

  Ron’s face is now featured prominently on the screen in front of me, waiting to begin taping.

  “Okay,”
I say, but then I get another buzz. “A hundred people still inside refinery.”

  And that’s when I get thirsty. Very thirsty. My tongue feels like sandpaper and my eyes start to itch. I know the sign, and it’s never let me down before. Something big is going down.

  Spine! I need my spine! I sit up straighter and clear my throat. “Curtis? I know it’s risky, but I think we should go for it.” My BlackBerry buzzes again. “The fire is spreading. I think we should hold off taping. We need to wait for more news. I did it all the time Arizona.”

  “This isn’t Arizona.”

  No, this is a major network in New York. Hello?

  I sit up tall. I’m not backing down. I know this is the right move, and I’m going for it. “This story will be huge. We have to go for it.”

  “Forget it,” says Curtis. “We’re taping.”

  I feel myself sink back into my seat. She’s making a mistake. We have to do it. “Let’s ask Ron,” I say. “He should have the option, Curtis. It’s his name out there.”

  “Go ask him. He won’t want to.”

  I push back my seat and hurry past security into the studio. “Ron, sorry to bother you so close to taping.”

  He waves me over. “What’s up, Arizona?”

  “A fire just broke out at an oil refinery outside Houston. I have a feeling it’s going to be a big story. The news is still slow to come in, but I think it’s worth going live at eight.”

  He seems to be processing what I’ve said. “Terrorism?”

  “Could be.”

  “Victims?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What does Curtis think?”

  “She wants to continue as planned with the taping.”

  He stares into my eyes. “And what makes you so sure you’re right?”

  “I just know.”

  “Reporter’s nose?”

  More like tongue. “Sort of.”

  Ron leans in close and I can see he’s wearing foundation and a little too much eyeliner. He looks me over, and I can tell he’s deciding. Should he risk his show on a hunch? “All right,” he says slowly. “Let’s go live. Hope you’re right, Arizona.”

  Curtis calls me over when I return to the control room. “You’d better be right about this fire.”