Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Really?” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “Yeah. I’m kind of done with this city. At least for now.”

  “Wow. Done.” I look over at the Eiffel Tower, majestic and iconic. “I can’t imagine ever being done here.”

  “Neither could I a few years ago. When I was a kid, I dreamed of living here, and then I worked my ass off to make it happen, and then … I don’t know. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.” He turns to look at my reaction. “I know—that’s coming off as really spoiled, isn’t it?”

  “No, I get it.”

  “No, you don’t, and that’s cool. One of my friends keeps joking, ‘Show me a beautiful city, and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking in it.’”

  I stare at him, a bit puzzled.

  Jay shrugs. “That might sound funnier in French.”

  “Probably. But I do know what you mean. I passionately wanted to teach my whole life, but now I’m bored with it. I desperately wanted to marry the guy I dated for years. Now I can’t imagine what I ever saw in him. I used to love running, now I don’t see the point. It’s like none of the things that used to make me happy still do.” I rethink what I just said. “You know what? Let me rephrase that. It’s more like different things are making me happy now than when I was younger. Like I have to go after some new dreams. Maybe it’s time for you to go after some new dreams too.”

  “You might be right,” Jay says, noticeably pensive. He makes a show of shaking his head as if he were shaking out the cobwebs. “Okay, enough serious talk. You didn’t fly all the way out here to become my therapist. What do you say we finish our picnic, head to the Musée d’Orsay, then make out under the Eiffel Tower at sunset?”

  “I say perfect,” I declare through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Excellent,” he says, scooting over to me and putting his arm around me. Then he does something I don’t think he’s done since college—he gives me a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says softly.

  I smile. “Me too.”

  We hold hands, and for a while we eat and drink contentedly and people-watch.

  “Do you think anyone here desperately dreams of going to America?” Jay eventually asks me.

  I have to give it a moment’s thought as right now I can’t imagine being anywhere else. But I finally conclude, “Probably.”

  Jay’s brow furrows. “Like maybe that girl with the computer over there dreams of getting a PhD at Stanford and is working on her application right now. Or maybe that guy to our right is in love with a girl who lives in Cleveland and is doing everything he can to be with her.”

  I nod. “I hope so. It’s easier to get through life when you have something to work toward.”

  “I don’t know if it’s easier, but it’s better.”

  Jay and I watch the French girl flip her notebook shut and begin to pack up. “It’s definitely better,” he repeats, a bit lost in thought.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Musée d’Orsay is actually a restored rail station on the bank of the Seine known mostly for its impressionist art. (Jay told me some of the impressionist paintings are actually castoffs from the Louvre. Who knew?)

  Jay knew to buy our tickets on the museum’s website, so we managed to escape the long lines of sweaty tourists waiting to buy a ticket to see the dancers of Degas, the Tahitian scenes of Paul Gauguin, the dance scenes of Renoir, and the landscapes of Monet.

  My favorite painting is a blue one Monet painted called Nymphéas bleus (Blue Water Lilies). It’s feminine—white water lilies floating in a blue pond. For whatever reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I must have stared at the painting for ten minutes before Jay comes up behind me, doughnuts his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Is it as good as the one on your coffee cup?” he asks me in a quiet, museum voice.

  “It is,” I say, smiling and putting my hands over his. “I love gardens. I love the feel of them. Yet I’ve never tried to grow anything. That’s weird, huh?”

  “No. I like Porsches, but that doesn’t mean I plan to build one in my spare time.”

  “True,” I agree aloud, though I feel as if I haven’t made my point.

  I continue to look at the painting and try to guess what Monet must have been feeling when he painted it. The pond was part of a water garden he had installed on his property, so it wasn’t an accidental source of happiness, it was intentional. And he didn’t paint a sky to go with it, or even land around the pond, he just painted the pond. Nothing to detract from the flowers and the water. Maybe all of his fame and money didn’t bring him true happiness. Maybe later in life he realized that something as simple as watching a lily float through water made him happy. So that’s what he focused on.

  Something as simple as watching a flower float through water is one of those little pleasures in my life. Yet I never think to pick up flowers when I go to my local Trader Joe’s. Or go to Home Depot and buy a few flowering plants. It’s such a little thing to do for myself. Why don’t I ever bother?

  I make a resolution right then and there to buy more flowers when I get home, and to try to appreciate the little things I take for granted every day.

  I turn to Jay and give him a quick kiss of gratitude. “This was just what I needed. Thank you.”

  Jay smiles. “No problem. It’s a beautiful place. Care to go home and work up an appetite before we head out to dinner?”

  I am probably blushing. “That’s also just what I need. You read my mind.”

  “Great.” He kisses me lightly on the lips, and we hold hands as we walk through the museum and out the front door and into the sounds of the city.

  Jay’s cell phone rings, a French chanteuse crooning what I’m pretty sure is the Etta James song “At Last.”

  I would have found the ringtone charming if the sound of it didn’t make Jay slump his shoulders, roll his eyes, and say, “Oh, crap!” He drops my hand, puts up his index finger to signal to me One second, and picks up his phone.

  “Bonjour,” he says, in a businesslike voice.

  Okay, Mel, calm down. It’s just work. You showed up on a weekday. People on weekdays get calls from work. I decide to pretend the view of the Seine is fascinating as I listen to him get more and more riled up. He’s talking a mile a minute, then listening for long stretches. At one point, I think I pick up on a rapid and urgent Quel le problème? and a bunch of nons.

  We appear to be passing a gelato shop, so I signal to ask him whether I should go in there to give him privacy, but he shakes his head no.

  Finally, Jay says au revoir to the caller and hangs up. He slowly closes his eyes for a moment, sighs, then opens his eyes to look at me. “I’m so sorry. We’ve had a problem with one of our accounts. I need to go home and change, then go in to work for a bit. Do you want to come back with me to the apartment, or should I give you a key, and you can sightsee for a while, then find your way back?”

  “No, I’ll come back with you, if that’s okay,” I say a little timidly.

  I can’t explain it, but that call once again pricked up my Spidey sense.

  “Okay, it should only take an hour or two,” Jay tells me, his mind a thousand miles away. “But I’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

  We get home in what I’m pretty sure is record time. While I leaf through an art book in his living room and try to stay out of his way, Jay takes a quick shower (which I am not invited to join him in), then dresses in a gray suit, crisp white shirt, and bright red tie. He’s barely said five words to me since we got back, and I’m feeling anxious.

  “You look very handsome,” I say awkwardly as he grabs his briefcase, which rests next to me on the couch.

  “Thanks,” he says distractedly. “I’ll text you when I’m leaving my office. In the meantime”—he reaches into his pocket—“take my key. The gold one’s to the building, the silver one works both the top and bottom lock.”

  I put out my hand, a bit c
onfused by his generosity. “Is this your only key?”

  “There’s probably another one somewhere in the house. I know Tatiana gave it back to me, but I have no idea where I put it.” When he speaks, he doesn’t quite sound angry, but he’s definitely not friendly either. In the same tone of voice I get, “I’ll be home in time for a late dinner. We’ll pretend we’re from Spain and go at ten.” Jay kisses me on the forehead. “Okay, enjoy yourself, whatever you decide to do.”

  And he’s out the door.

  What the hell just happened? Is he mad at me? If this had been Seema being dragged into work on a Friday afternoon even though she had guests in town, I would have heard every detail of what was going on, including the client’s name, gender, weight, age, and degree of hotness. Plus a flurry of other details she would have vented, hoping for some sympathy.

  Her brother, on the other hand, is a clam.

  I make a mental note of that. Why didn’t he talk to me? What’s he hiding?

  Okay, and by mental note, I mean that after saying good-bye to him at the door, I turn on the TV for ten minutes to watch Sofia Vergara’s character in Modern Family speak in French, then proceed to ransack his house for clues of another woman.

  I do everything from pawing through his sock drawer (nothing but socks), to running my fingers over the top shelf of his closet (nothing but random, old Sports Illustrated magazines and some computer cables).

  Then I stop.

  What the hell am I doing? Okay, so the guy had to go to work. Do I really think this man I trust enough to sleep with would encourage me to fly halfway around the world, only to have him abandon me for a local squeeze? Am I really that messed up about men?

  I walk over to his computer, click on Skype, then type in Nic’s Skype number.

  I know she probably won’t pick up, but Seema’s still on her honeymoon, and it’s the early morning in Maui, so Jeff’s asleep. Clearly, I’m desperate. Pick up, pick up, pick up …

  Nic’s video pops on. I see her half-asleep, maternity-blouse flap unbuttoned, and a small person attached to her left breast.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Nic says, sounding tired, but smiling at me. “How’s Paris?”

  “I’m insane. Do you have a minute?”

  “I have all the minutes you need. Just don’t mind my nursing.”

  “No problem. I’ve seen your boobs before.”

  “Not like this you haven’t. Cows are fit to pose for Playboy more than I am right now. So what’s up?”

  “I’m the worst girlfriend in the world. No, I’m the worst person in the world.”

  “Nothing like a good hyperbole—”

  “I searched his medicine cabinet.”

  Nic sighs as she looks down at the baby. “Oh, dear,” she coos in baby talk. “Auntie Mel’s a nut job.”

  “I know. I’m awful. I am in the most romantic city in the world, eating the most amazing food, drinking the most exquisite wine, and seeing the most beautiful sights with a handsome, charming man who I have had a crush on forever, and I’m determined to ruin it.”

  “He’s latching wrong. Hold that thought.” Nic pulls JJ (Jason Jr.) off her breast to readjust him.

  “Yikes!” I blurt out.

  She looks up at me and shakes her head. “I know. Right?”

  I’m stunned. “Women pay thousands of dollars to get boobs like that.”

  “Please. In a few minutes he will have sucked me dry, and they’ll look like deflated balloons. So what event inspired you go through his medicine cabinet?”

  “He had lavender bubble bath in his bathroom.”

  “Bastard,” she says sarcastically.

  “He also had a pink toothbrush.”

  Nic’s face softens a little. “Hmm. Well…”

  “No tampons though.”

  Nic’s face perks up. “Well, there you go.”

  “I’m not done. While he was in the shower, I checked his cell phone for incriminating texts.”

  She sighs. “You can’t do that, Mel. You’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

  “It didn’t matter. They were all in French.”

  “Good. Because you—”

  “Although I was thinking I could type them into an online French translator and find out what they mean.”

  “Stop. Let’s dial back the insanity here.”

  “If I could dial back the insanity, I wouldn’t be in my midthirties, single, and going halfway across the planet for sex. Say something to make me feel better.”

  “I don’t know if I can say anything to make you feel better right now,” Nic says apologetically. “I can listen though. Why did you decide to go to Paris? And don’t tell me for sex. Because if that’s all you wanted, you could have gone to the bar down the street. Or Trader Joe’s for that matter.”

  Nice, uncomplicated question, Nic, thanks. I shrug. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

  “Okay, what’s it like?”

  “Devastatingly beautiful and romantic,” I say, slightly saddened. “More so than I ever could have imagined. If a city were Cary Grant, this would be it.”

  “Huh.”

  “Huh? What’s huh?”

  “You’re not happy when you say that.”

  “Well, I was happy this morning. But then it … I don’t know, it kind of faded away.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I went back to being me,” I say in a resigned tone. “I could say it’s because he talked to some other women, but in reality what happened was I started being me again.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean by you’re ‘being you again’?”

  I let my eyes flit around the room. Nic doesn’t fill up the time with talk; she takes the time to wait for me to answer. Eventually, she looks down at her baby. “He’s asleep,” she whispers to me, pulling him off her breast, then standing up. “Give me one second. Don’t move.” Then she walks out of camera range.

  I glance over at Jay’s floor-to-ceiling windows to watch the apartments across from me. One woman is in her kitchen, moving bowls around, clearly getting dinner ready. An older couple quietly watches TV together in their living room. A man reads his iPad while his dog lies by his feet. Everyone’s life looks so peaceful from across the street.

  I focus back at Nic’s screen, which shows part of her living room through the doorway of her kitchen (where her computer rests). It looks peaceful too.

  Everyone seems to be at peace with his or her life except for me.

  I’m not at peace. And that’s what I’m yearning for. I don’t want excitement in my life, I want contentment. I don’t want my brain constantly tormenting me with what-ifs: What if you had become a politician instead of a teacher? What if you had moved to New York when you were twenty-two? What if you had married Danny?

  I’m so tired of not being able to turn off my brain. Yet I have this nagging feeling deep inside me that keeps telling me I’m not at peace yet.

  The stone of the buildings outside has turned pink from the impending sunset. The scene is idyllic, much better than anything I would have experienced tonight at home, sitting in my bedroom for the millionth time playing solitaire on my computer.

  And yet what-if still keeps playing in an infinite loop in my head. Something inside me is still empty, some part of me still needs to be filled.

  Nic returns, holding a coffee mug with the painting of Monet’s water lilies.

  I can feel my eyes bulge out from excitement. “Oh my God. Is that my mug? I saw that painting today!”

  She turns the mug inward to get a good look at the picture. “Probably. I don’t remember ever buying it. So how was the painting?”

  “It was beautiful and tranquil and I stared at it for ten minutes. I’m so glad I got to see it. It was, like, bucket-list good.”

  “Then why do you sound so miserable?”

  “Because it was a temporary distraction. When we left the museum, I was back to being me.” I struggle for a moment, trying to figure o
ut how to put it into words. “It’s like everything here is gloriously beautiful, but nothing makes me feel like I should be here. This isn’t home.”

  “Honey, it’s not supposed to be home. You’re on vacation. We take vacations to escape day-to-day life.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Or at least that’s not why I went on vacation, I guess. Do you know for months leading up to Seema’s wedding, I’d been absolutely dreading the changes that were about to happen? You guys have been my family since college. And first you went away and then I knew she was going away, and it’s like the hole in my heart kept getting bigger and bigger.”

  Nic looks pained that I said that, so I quickly tell her, “Don’t get me wrong. I love Jason, and I love the baby, and I’m really happy for you. But, sometimes, I miss us. I miss being able to go out with you on a random Tuesday night. And I knew the minute Seema got married, no more random Tuesday nights with her either. Plus I had to move out, so there would also be no more random Sunday-afternoon ‘Let’s watch reality bride TV all afternoon for no reason’ roommate days. And that loss, well … it’s like it started out as this little snowball: ‘Oh, my life isn’t quite where I want it.’ But over the months the snowball got bigger and bigger, and soon I was running from an avalanche.”

  Nic nods. “And then Jay showed up, and you were young again.”

  I laugh uncomfortably. “Yeah. Only this time I got to be with my crush, and he invited me to be with him, and I thought, ‘Yup, this is it. This will fill up my hole.’” I shrug. “No pun intended.”

  I glance back over at the building across the street. In the apartment beneath the older couple, a young mom walks through the door, carrying her baby in one arm, and her diaper bag in the other. “I’m surrounded by perfection, and I still want to jump out of my skin. What’s wrong with me?”

  Nic shakes her head and juts out her lower lip. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You have a big change coming up, and you’re getting used to it. For now, just enjoy yourself. Enjoy the moment. No one ever said this guy was the one. And that’s okay—he doesn’t need to be.”