The Love Book

by Nina Solomon

  He stood in the doorway shaking his head. She knew what he was thinking even without him saying it. She’d been having entire conversations with him in her head for the past four years. Fucking little bitch. It was hard to defend herself against voices that were all her own.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE BLUE LOTUS

  ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE had never been Cathy’s thing, but Dr. Oz said acupuncture could cure vertigo, and she’d been feeling dizzy for the last two weeks, ever since the fiasco with Sean. Her health insurance paid for ten wellness visits, including Reiki and Rolfing, provided they were at participating facilities. Luckily, she found one that looked good and was in her plan, so she made an appointment for Friday after school. But the real reason she’d agreed to being stuck with needles was that according to The Love Book, opening up meridians (whatever they were) could speed up her soul mate’s arrival. So it was all for a worthy cause.

  The Blue Lotus Center for Acupuncture and Healing Arts was in a generic strip mall between a Cold Stone Creamery and a Subway sandwich shop. Once inside, though, bonsai plants, fountains, and Oriental figurines created a tranquillity rarely found on Route 9. A snow-white cat slinked through the maze of objects. Jasmine blossoms were scattered on every surface, like tiny snow angels. It was hard to believe New Jersey was just beyond the double glass doors.

  In the reception area, she sent a group email with the new date for the rescheduled Soul Mate Soirée. Her school district closed on both Jewish and Muslim holidays and next Friday was Yom Kippur. She knew Emily was Jewish, but four hours before sundown seemed a safe bet. It was that or put it off until Eid al-Adha, the Muslim Festival of Sacrifice in November, but that would throw their whole schedule out of whack. Somehow a soul mate arriving on the Ides of March did not have quite the same appeal as Valentine’s Day.

  Emily texted back immediately: Why don’t we meet at Alice’s? It’s a cute teashop with a private back room.

  Sounds perfect.

  Good luck with the acupuncture.

  Thanks, I’ll need it.

  She made a mental note to ask her brother-in-law to program Alice’s into her GPS.

  The only positive outcome of the incident with Sean was that he’d shown her that her “compass” was off-kilter. She never would have attracted a man of such low moral fiber if her Love Vibration had been clear of interference. Men like Sean were “tests,” their sole purpose to help a woman refine her intention and bring into high relief any remaining blocks to love. And Sean was one big hulking block. Sure, she was getting more male attention than usual, like the man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and patterned balloon pants at TGI Friday’s who asked if she was taking applications for husbands or the guy she’d gone to first grade with who sent her a message on Facebook telling her they were destined to be together. These were all very good signs—she was “magnetized”—she just needed to do some fine-tuning.

  The white cat nuzzled her legs, meowing insistently like Mrs. Beasley did when she wanted to take her somewhere. Cathy closed The Love Book and followed the cat through the Oriental garden into an open studio. Stenciled on the bamboo floor was a large geometric pattern, a maze, only without the sides. It reminded Cathy of Stations of the Cross, a game she used to play in Sunday school. The object was to maneuver a silver ball through a series of concentric circles with a tiny magnet on the end of a string. Always, right before getting to the center, the Resurrection of Jesus, the silver ball would roll back to where it started.

  She imagined she was looking at the hedge maze in Normandy from an aerial view, and it didn’t seem nearly as inscrutable from this perspective as it had in real life.

  Despite initial reservations, Cathy had gone along with Beatrice’s plan to explore the maze their last night in Normandy. Max and Emily had set off in different directions—first one out got the single room. She’d decided to stay with Beatrice, who forged confidently ahead. The ten-foot-high hedge on either side of them was as dense as a brick wall. Even though it was getting dark, she felt like she was in good hands, but after an hour of coming to dead end after dead end, she began to panic and stopped in the middle, refusing to continue.

  “We’ll never get out,” she said.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Beatrice asked. “We just have to keep going. We’ll make it out eventually, even if we have to be airlifted by French Special Forces.”

  “I don’t want to keep going. It’s dark and we’re getting more and more lost.”

  “You can’t just stay here.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  She knew she was being unreasonable, but she wanted to know the right way to go, not make any more wrong turns.

  “If only we had a map.”

  Beatrice took her hand. “What fun would that be? Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you.”

  I’m not going to leave you. The magic words.

  In the center of the maze the cat rolled onto its back. “Mrs. Beasley would like you,” Cathy said, kneeling to stroke it behind its ears. Talk about being magnetized! This cat knew how to get what it wanted. The receptionist called her name. When she stood up, the room began to spin, then pixilate, until finally fading to black. The next thing she knew she was on a padded table in a small cubicle surrounded by a white curtain.

  A woman in a bright fuchsia sundress was taking her pulse. She was short, a little pudgy, with a mop of curly dark hair and frosted lip gloss, the spitting image of Cathy’s dental hygienist cousin. Her name was Joy Baumgarten, the acupuncturist.

  “Good, your color’s coming back,” she said. “We’ve never lost anyone in the labyrinth before,” she said, laughing.

  “The what?” Cathy asked.

  “The meditation labyrinth. The thing you were doing before you went down. I do it every day. It reminds me that there is mystery in design and simplicity in intuition.”

  Cathy took a sip of water. “Oh, I was just following the cat.”

  “How long have you been feeling dizzy?” the acupuncturist asked.

  “About two weeks,” Cathy said.

  “Anything going on lately?”

  “Where should I begin?”

  About to launch into the story about her disastrous date with Sean, she remembered in the nick of time that it was advisable to “turn away” from unwanted things, not give them attention, which, for the law of attraction, was the equivalent of saying “Yes!” to what you don’t want. But it was hard not to think about Sean’s sparkling blue eyes. And that smile!

  “Just a little stressed, that’s all,” she said.

  Joy asked a slew of questions about her diet and sleep habits. “You really should try to eat more vegetables,” she said.

  “They make me gag.”

  “I’ll give you the recipe for kale chips. You’ll be a convert. Cute sandals.”

  “Bloomingdale’s. Short Hills Mall,” Cathy said. “They’re having a blowout sale. I got them in three colors.”

  Joy placed a rolled-up towel under Cathy’s knees.

  Cathy suddenly felt her tongue go dry. Her heart was pounding in her ears. “I’ve never had acupuncture before. I don’t like needles.”

  “You’ll barely feel a thing,” Joy said, smiling to reveal lipstick on her teeth. “See?”

  “That’s it?”

  Joy nodded. “These three points will help nourish yin and anchor the liver yang,” she said, covering Cathy with a soft blanket. “Empty your mind. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Cathy closed her eyes, but emptying her mind was easier said than done. If nature abhorred a vacuum, her head was an air popper filled with confetti. She decided to block out her thoughts with some mantras from The Love Book she’d committed to memory:

  I am open, available, and receptive. I am responsible for my relationship success. I take care of me first. I love to receive, especially from cute available straight guys with good jobs! I enjoy giving back in appreciation, but never go Dutch!

  Cathy had added the
part about sexual orientation. She figured that the more specific she was, the better. The never going Dutch was from her father.

  She had gone through the mantras so many times she’d lost count when Joy returned to remove the needles.

  “How do you feel?”

  Cathy opened her eyes. “Relaxed. Kind of floaty.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “Actually, no. The room’s not spinning anymore.”

  “If you’d like I can do a quick tune-up to raise your vibration and clear any blockages.”

  “Sure! That sounds great,” Cathy said.

  In her present state of receptivity, she would probably have said yes to just about anything, even cruciferous vegetables or, perish the thought, an advance from Lawrence, Jerk of the World. Cancel! Cancel! Note to self: never make dating decisions post-acupuncture.

  Joy opened a velvet-lined box containing tuning forks of various sizes, and struck the largest one on a round disc. Holding it about twelve inches above Cathy’s feet, she spiraled it up and down Cathy’s body until the sound faded. She shook it off as though it was wet, put it down, and picked up the next one.

  “I’m opening up your meridians,” Joy explained, spiraling the tuning fork a few inches above Cathy’s pelvis, “so all of your organs are in harmony.”

  This time Cathy flinched. She felt a tingling sensation in her lower abdomen, like an electric shock.

  Joy abruptly set down the tuning fork. “I don’t mean to be rude, but when was the last time you had sex?”

  “It’s been a little while, I guess,” Cathy said quietly. More than awhile. She hadn’t been with a man since her fiancé jilted her.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Joy said. “We all have dry spells. Maybe this isn’t your season of love. Ask the receptionist for one of my Feminine Power meditation CDs on your way out. It has a link to my website. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  But Cathy was barely listening. She walked, or rather floated, back through the jasmine-scented Oriental garden and out the double glass doors to the parking lot. With all the endorphins circulating in her system, it didn’t even register that she’d forgotten to take The Love Book.

  It was raining and she stepped into a puddle getting into her car. Her new turquoise sandals looked like endangered exotic birds after an oil spill. She was definitely back in New Jersey.

  * * *

  Cathy and Veronica hadn’t had a girls’ night since Veronica’s third child, Cathy’s goddaughter, was born almost a year ago. Pat’s Tavern wouldn’t have been Cathy’s first choice. It was a neighborhood hangout and invariably they’d run into someone they went to school with. But Veronica knew the owner and got half-price drinks. Luckily, Cathy always kept a few pairs of emergency shoes in the backseat so she didn’t have to drive all the way to her father’s. The black “Kalinda” boots would go well with her plaid skirt, giving it more edge than her now sludge-covered sandals. She’d had the skirt tailored, but instead of it being just at the knee, it was several inches above. One of her students said she looked like a Tyrolean dancer.

  As she pulled into the parking lot, Cathy got a text from Beatrice, punctuated with smiley faces wearing sunglasses. Beatrice was pretty “with it” for a woman her age—actually, for anyone. Her father wouldn’t know how to send email, let alone an emoticon.

  Guess where I’m going next Thursday! To the Plaza! With Freddy! I’m turning into you with all your soul mate hooey! And using too many exclamation points!

  Cathy responded only with a thumbs-up. What she needed to say required more thought than a dashed-off text. Did Beatrice really want to get involved with another married man?

  Her cell phone pinged again. She looked at the caller ID and pressed decline. It was her ex-fiancé, Rob, the third time he’d called since she’d begun doing The Love Book. For now it was an annoying nuisance she was willing to suffer in order to call in her soul mate. She listened to his message. He said he needed closure. Apparently, throwing his things in the street hadn’t been closure enough.

  Pat’s wasn’t too crowded, just the regulars, solo drinkers slumped at the bar watching the game, a symbolic empty seat between them, which a social scientist might have interpreted as both a hopeful and self-protective gesture. As intimate as they might appear to be, sharing drinks and their life stories, they were alone, and would still be alone even when every seat was taken. “Nondrinker” was on the very top of her soul mate list, in bold and underlined in neon pink.

  Veronica was late as always and harried. Even before having children, she’d arrive like a squall, a bundle of scarves and bags and windswept hair and a dramatic story that drew everyone in. Cathy missed her. Baby showers and Gymboree parties with the kids were no substitute. All the girls they’d gone to high school with were married, even Debbie Finster, with the unibrow and size eleven feet.

  They ordered fried mozzarella sticks and “Virgin” Virgin Marys. It was their joke, since both of them had waited to lose their virginity until they were engaged. The difference was that Veronica was still having sex.

  Cathy debriefed Veronica on her latest dating disasters. The pilfering firefighter, the guy with man boobs who’d tried to pick her up at the gym, and the cute guy she’d flirted with on Professional Development Day who she later found out had Asperger’s. She knew she was “sexertaining”—using her misadventures with men to define herself—something The Love Book advised against, but it was all in fun, and besides, her friends loved it. She was about to tell Veronica about Rob calling, when in walked Lawrence with his friend Josh. Lawrence was wearing a bulky light-blue sweater vest. It had either shrunk in the wash or he’d put on some weight since she last saw him. And brown slacks. Slacks!

  Veronica leaned over to Cathy. “What happened to Lawrence Weiner?”

  “I know, isn’t he such a—”

  “What a hunk!” Veronica made her swooning face.

  Before Cathy could stop her, Veronica started waving like the cheerleader she used to be. Lawrence’s face lit up when he saw them. The next thing Cathy knew, he and Josh were coming over with a tray of drinks.

  “Ladies, I’ll need to see some ID first,” Lawrence said.

  Veronica giggled. “You always were such a card!”

  Lawrence set down the tray and slipped into the booth next to Cathy. Three shots and a glass of ginger ale. Was it possible that he remembered Cathy rarely drank? If so, he had one thing—and one thing only—going for him: a very good memory.

  Veronica reached for a shot, which Cathy intercepted. “You’re driving.”

  “Since when did you become the fun police?” Veronica asked. “Look how little it is.”

  One glass remained on the tray. Lawrence placed it in front of Cathy.

  “Cathy’s a virgin all the way,” Veronica said. Somehow their joke didn’t seem so funny anymore.

  “I don’t drink much either,” Lawrence said. “I’m Josh’s designated driver so he can get as sloshed as he likes.”

  Veronica and Josh knocked their drinks on the table and tossed them back.

  “It would be a shame to let this one go to waste,” Josh said, pouring half into Veronica’s glass.

  Cathy gave her a look.

  “Stop being such a worrywart,” Veronica said. “Isn’t it so cool that we’re all here together and none of us have changed one bit? Cathy even has the same haircut! I can’t wait for the reunion. Fifteen years! But it won’t be nearly as much fun without Cathy.”

  “Why aren’t you going?” Josh asked. “You didn’t gain that much weight since high school.”

  “Thanks, Josh. That does wonders for my self-esteem.”

  “Tell them why, Cathy,” Veronica prodded.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I have other plans, that’s all.”

  “You do not have any plans. It’s because of Debbie Finster.”

  “What about Debbie Finster?” Lawrence asked.

  “She’s married,” Veronica said, laughing, reminding Cathy why s
he didn’t like it when her friend drank.

  “I hear Finster’s hot now,” Josh said.

  “Unibrow? Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Doug Houser ran into her in Asbury Park.”

  “That makes it even worse,” Veronica said.

  “Who cares? As long as you’re happy,” Lawrence said.

  “Lawrence,” Josh said, “you really should think seriously about taking up drinking. You need to loosen up. How about another round? We can toast Debbie Finster.”

  As soon as Lawrence and Josh left the table, Cathy tried to move to the other side of the booth, but Veronica pushed her down.

  “What do you have against Lawrence? He’s being perfectly pleasant. What did the guy ever do to you?”

  “Homeroom? Seventh grade?” Cathy said.

  Seventh grade. The year every girl had to have her hair cut like the girls on Friends, only Cathy’s turned out more mullet than Rachel. Everyone tried to be nice. You don’t look so bad. It’ll grow out. Maybe you could use a flat iron. But the last straw was Lawrence Weiner cracking everyone up in homeroom: Why is Bon Jovi sitting in Cathy’s seat?

  “That was eons ago,” Veronica said. “That’s what boys are like at that age.”

  “You don’t outgrow being a jerk.”

  “Cathy, it was seventh grade.”

  “Look who’s talking, Miss Congeniality.”

  “I’m just having fun reminiscing with some old friends. When I go home I have another life.”

  “I have a life too,” Cathy said. “I teach, I’m social . . .”

  “And where are you living?”

  “You know very well why I’m staying with my father.”

  “I told you that you’re welcome to stay with us.”

  Cathy’s phone buzzed.

  Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I rest my case.”

  After their second round, Veronica and Josh went to check out the jukebox. Each minute alone with Lawrence was more agonizing than the last. He said something, but with the jukebox blasting “We Are the Champions” and Veronica and Josh singing along at the top of their voices, Cathy could barely hear a word.