With This Ring, I'm Confused

by Kristin Billerbeck

  As I walk out of Hobee’s, I smile and wave to the gawking patrons. See, I wasn’t jilted, I try to communicate silently. I head to Kevin’s car, contemplating my finances—or lack thereof. Although my parents are thrilled I’m “finally” getting married, they’re not so thrilled that they want to pay for the festivities. Apparently that offer became null and void when I turned thirty and they added on a den. Parents only have so much patience. I look at my check register and see that I have a mere $2,500 in my account. Considering that half of that amount is my mortgage and that I told Dave I’d cover him for $2,000 today, I’d say I’m in dire financial straits. For once in my life, I’m going to rely on credit and I’m not even going to come out with a good pair of Stuart Weitzman’s. Which is pathetic, really, when I could tell Kevin I need money.

  But there’s something inside me that won’t let me do that. I’m not marrying Kevin for money, and I don’t want to give that impression. I slide into Kevin’s car, adjust the rearview mirror, and start heading toward Ping’s. As I prepare myself to hand over the last of my money, I’m whispering silent prayers that God will care for my careless self. I remember when I was a bit cocky about my money. Well, pride goeth before the fall, I suppose. I can hear the splat now.

  Pulling up to Ping’s, I see a man dressed in a white cook’s uniform sweeping the front porch like a scene from the Old World. Getting out of my car, I approach him, and he points me inside the restaurant without a word. Once inside, I see a man wearing a full suit. It’s only 10:00 a.m., and I wonder if he’ll still be around in his full suit for tonight’s party. And I thought high-tech involved long hours. He peers at me, head cocked to one side.

  “I’m here for Dave and Mei Ling’s red egg and ginger party. I want to leave a deposit.” Okay, I don’t really want to. I suppose the proper words are “have to.”

  He nods. “You Ashley?”

  “Yes,” I say as I hand him the check.

  I wait while he calls my bank, which thankfully is open until one o’clock today. They tell him the check is good, and then he asks for a credit card if I want to ensure “a buffet aplenty.” I assume Dave wants enough food, so I hand over the card, the last vestige of my solvency.

  I am officially broke in Silicon Valley. How unique and yet pathetic at the same time. I’d tell my brother Dave, who’d get a great kick out of it, except that he’d think I was rubbing in his own poverty and what he now owes me. The manager runs my credit card through a manual machine and hands it back to me. “Done. See you tonight. We throw best red egg and ginger party in the entire Bay Area.”

  I clutch my card and put it back in my bag. “Thank you. We’re looking forward to it. We’re certainly bringing the cutest baby along for the festivities.”

  As I head for Kevin’s car, I’m struck by the fact that most likely, I’ll be attending yet another family party without my fiancé. I’m sure my extended family is beginning to think I’m making him up. I look down at Kevin’s grandmother’s ring. It’s very special to me, an art deco platinum ring with a small emerald-cut diamond in the middle. I’m beginning to see that marriage isn’t going to solve all my problems. It’s only going to create new ones. That’s not the most comforting thought.

  Let’s make a list of the facts:

  IMPENDING DOOM IN THE MARITAL DEPARTMENT

  1. Kevin’s sister hates me. Maybe hate is a strong word, but she’s not throwing me any “Welcome to the Family” parties.

  Frankly, I can’t say she’s on my list of favorite people either.

  2. What about his parents and their four basic life groups: golf, country clubs, taut tummies, and photochemical facials? When I contrast my own parents with their beer bottle collections, family heirlooms from the Avon catalog, and enjoyment of the ever-popular green bean casserole, I wonder if I haven’t disrupted some cosmic time continuum. Perhaps this is a cross-cultural marriage not meant to happen: blue blood and blue collar. Bringing these two worlds together is a bit like nuclear chemicals colliding in Stanford’s linear accelerator. They don’t mix without a cosmic explosion. Our families mesh like the Montagues and Capulets—and my life should be a comedy, not a tragedy. I’m certain of it.

  3. I may have to subsist on Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. Philadelphia? No offense to brotherly love and all that, but who in their right mind would give up the California Dream life to move to Philadelphia?

  4. No more Spock death scenes at the singles’ group’s coffeehouse karaoke nights. Ha! Those memories alone are enough to make me want to head down the aisle—today!

  5. The fact is, I love Kevin, and he loves me. And he loves God and his kooky family. Really, is that such a bad thing? No, but I just don’t know if I can stomach them for a lifetime.

  As I walk in the morning sunlight, I can smell the salty marsh of the Baylands, and I want to run along their path, away from my money problems and wedding woes. I want to relish the complete silence, with only the birdcalls and the wind blowing gently through the reeds interrupting it. And, of course, the ever-present Cessna sounds overhead from the small Palo Alto airport nearby. But I look at Kevin’s car, and I know he probably needs it. There could be an emergency at the hospital, or his sister might get called back to Atlanta for a manicure crisis. Life is a series of have-tos that just seem to get worse as I get older.

  I accelerate up the frontage road, gaze at the Baylands, and try to remember what peace feels like. I remember when all I wanted was to get married. Okay, and to have a great new Ann Taylor outfit. When I foolishly thought a husband and then a child would complete my circle of life. Unfortunately, there are lions in this scenario, and I feel like they’re ripping me limb from limb. And unlike the mountain lions of Palo Alto, no environmental group is coming to my rescue. My mother always said, “Be careful what you wish for.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. And she also said, “Love isn’t just blind—it’s deaf, dumb, and stupid.” Does that mean I’m supposed to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to Kevin’s family and keep my mouth shut? Or does it mean that I would be completely stupid to hook up with them before God and mankind? Hard to tell for sure.

  I speed up on the frontage road before I’m too tempted to stop and bail on my day’s responsibilities. How I wish I could go handbag shopping and forget it all. My problems get lost in a Michael Kors signature print or a pebbled leather by Cole Haan. I sigh dreamily. I hate being broke.

  Arriving at Kevin’s place, I see his sister get into Matt Callaway’s Miata and drive off with a distinctive smirk for my benefit. My stomach lurches at the sight as I think about Kay at home, happily dancing through the kitchen after her first date in I don’t even know how long. I kick on the emergency brake, grab my Prada (ah, the good old days), and walk up the front steps. Kevin is nowhere in sight, and I let myself in, deciding I can call Kay for a ride home if he’s asleep.

  Once inside the condo, I see that Emily has definitely left her mark. There are new pictures on the wall, one of Atlanta’s red dirt and what must be a painting of his family homestead. I study the picture, and pain washes over me like stabbing prickles under my skin. What am I doing here? I’m thinking of giving up my job; my bank account has dwindled to nothing—all for a family that hates everything I’m about. They hate my Christianity, my untouched face, my collagen-free lips. According to Emily, I should have at least done Botox by now, but just the idea of stabbing botulism near my brain could only do more damage.

  Sheesh, I haven’t even gotten LASIK. I’m a plastic-surgery virgin and hope to stay that way! I still wear glasses when I work at the computer, like the bucktoothed seventh grader who still lurks in me. Kevin might be pure California gold, but his family is only silicone—and it eventually loses its value—and elasticity, I’m told. But you’re stuck with it for its billion-year half-life. Joy!

  “There’s my girl.” Kevin leans against the hallway doorjamb. He’s in his green scrubs and looks more luscious than a lime Popsicle, but that’s just my hormones talking. I have to wait for reality to descend.
You marry the family too.

  “I thought you’d be sleeping,” I say to Kevin, whose hair is in tangled disarray.

  “My sister and I had it out. I’m too keyed up to sleep now.” Kevin shakes his head and looks at the floor. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand what she wants. I know what she needs, but there’s little I can do about that. I worry she’s just going to keep fighting, like a fish flopping at the bottom of a boat.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about Emily. I didn’t help matters.” I focus on the new painting. “I’m sorry about the wedding plans and how nothing has gone as it should. This event has turned out to be such a fiasco. I guess we should have expected this. I don’t exactly live a charmed life.” I focus on Kevin’s green eyes, and my heart is pounding, but I have to say it. “Maybe I’m too old to get married. The window of opportunity has passed me by, and we’re just trying to force this square peg in a round hole.” I tug at the ring on my finger as Kevin comes toward me.

  His arms are outstretched. I hold up a hand and walk to the window. “Ashley, don’t overreact. If you’re looking for an easy ride to the altar, you’re not going to get it.”

  “This isn’t anything like I thought it would be. I thought it would be romantic and careless and exciting, but it’s really just stressful and frightening. I have an issue with expectations, I suppose. They’re always too high; life is always too disappointing.”

  He surrounds me with his arms, holding me close, and whispers in my ear. “My sister is a walking bit of chaos. It’s just her way. As for being too old, you’re younger than any of the surgeons I work with—and they’re not even thinking of marriage right now. That makes you a spring chicken in my eyes.” Kevin pulls back and winks at me, and I’m disarmed momentarily. How does he do that?

  “It’s not your sister. Not really.” But it is his sister. His sister, his mother, his father, and his job. It’s my age. It’s Kay alone in the house. It’s my fears. It’s a million and one things. It’s everything. Is love enough?

  “I know I’ve been working too much. But there’s this little girl, Ash—” His voice cracks. “She has no mother, and I just hate to leave her alone in the nursery. When her surgeries are completed, they’re going to send her into a care home or foster care.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I can feel his stress. “I hate to leave her alone at night in that darkened room all by herself. I’m a terrible surgeon, according to my father, because I can’t separate. I want to help, Ash, but I can’t help them all the way they need to be helped. So I feel useless.”

  I put my head against his chest. I can feel his heart beating and smell his clean scent, woodsy with a little antiseptic thrown in. I want to be here forever. But I don’t want to fail at everything else—and I don’t want Kevin to fail either. We’re just two completely broken people inside these well-dressed packages. You will never know the extent of people’s weaknesses until you get a glimpse inside their souls. What lurks beneath the Gucci is not pretty.

  “What’s wrong with the little girl?” I ask.

  “She was born with enlarged organs. They’ve had to be compacted surgically.” I feel Kevin’s arms close tightly around me again.

  I look up at him. “Will she be okay?”

  “Medically, she’ll be fine. But they’ll probably put her in a care home soon. She needs round-the-clock care, and that means a facility.” Kevin pulls me over and we sit on the couch. “I think I’m in the wrong business. I never saw my father crack over a patient. I don’t think he ever did.”

  “Because you have a heart, you’re in the wrong business?”

  “I wonder if it goes away. Nothing seems to affect the older surgeons. Maybe I’ll become a crusty old ogre like my father without any emotions. Maybe I’ll come to believe the world’s problems can be solved by surgeons.”

  “Like that guy on The Swan?”

  “What?” Kevin looks confused by my reality show reference. And the last thing I want to do is explain the whole makeover scenario and my shallow interest in this train-wreck of a television show.

  “Nothing. Listen, maybe older surgeons are just better at hiding their feelings. Or maybe they’ve come to see they’re doing what they can, and that’s all you can do.”

  Kevin looks toward his door. “Look, I’m sorry, my mind is full. And I just have to get some rest. Did you need me for anything, Ash?”

  “Everything!” I want to shout. I need you to make it all better for me, too. But I just shake my head. “No,” I say into his chest, and we just hold each other for a while. “I just wanted to drop off your car.”

  “By the way, what kind of guy is that my sister left with?”

  “He seems innocent enough. A little lost, perhaps, but harmless. Nothing a date with a twenty-five-year-old won’t help.” I give Kevin a little smile. “He’s just trying to rebuild his ego. Your sister will be gone tomorrow, so I doubt much harm will be done. He’ll think he’s James Bond, and life will go on as before.”

  “My sister’s a wreck, huh?”

  “You’re helping her, though. You’ve given her a job, for one thing.” Much to my dismay.

  “Spending your money.” Kevin smiles. “I’m not sure that’s helping. Do you need cash? Has she sucked your account dry yet? My father always complains she has a way of spending other people’s money that, if marketed, could be employed by the federal government.”

  Do I need cash? Mentally, I tick off the reasons for my newfound Silicon Valley poverty:

  REASONS I NEED CASH

  1. Dog ate wedding shoes (didn’t I use that excuse for a missing homework paper?).

  2. Wedding dress ordered/canceled—yet oddly, no refund check in my pocket.

  3. Reception money. Prawns and bacon-wrapped scallops off my desired menu replaced by veggie dip, perhaps chips and salsa, if things don’t change.

  4. Costly check gone for a red egg and ginger party, and I’m neither Asian nor a mother.

  5. Tax checks sent to help the stellar California school system (again, not a parent!).

  6. Down payment to photographer—and I still won’t look 105 pounds!

  7. Down payment for flowers that will last one day yet cost more than an entire front-yard landscaping project.

  I want to tell Kevin I need money. I want to tell him to call off the dogs, or in this case, his pit-bull sister—but I don’t think he can handle my financial and emotional crises today. Looking into his eyes now, none of that seems important. I tighten my grasp around his neck and snuggle into his chest, and we just quietly sit together on his trashed, college-style sofa.

  “Don’t worry about it, Kevin. It’s not important. We’ll get through this.” Kevin goes limp in response. As I look up at him, I see he’s completely asleep. Story of my life.

  9

  Once I peel myself away from my dead-to-the-world fiancé, I head home to get ready for the red egg party. All that, and I’m still in Kevin’s car. He needs his sleep for the party, and a small thing like taking his transportation—if that helps my cause? So be it. I’m a woman. I’m not above simple manipulation.

  I take the long route home, since seeing Kay is something I dread. I think about keeping my visual of Emily and Matt to myself, but then I’d be no different from Kay and her silence on Seth’s hiring. Didn’t I just get through giving her the women-stick-together speech? As I approach the house, I ponder the best way to tell her that Mr. Charm was out with Emily. That he had fallen victim to the fleeting beauty that is my sister-in-law-to-be.

  It’s one of those miserable truths in life that men act pathetic around beautiful women. Case in point? Rich Manhattan men. Now I know they think they’re Mr. Big with sexy, teenage fiancées, and they don’t care that it looks ridiculous. They must believe the rest of humanity is jealous, I’m assuming. But for us realists, I have to ponder the fiancée’s thought process. Granted, she probably sports a twelve-carat diamond. And I’m not immune. I’m the first to admit I could do some pretty insane things
for twelve carats.

  But marry a man nearly twice my age and live in his tacky gold palace? Um, no. Not for me. It’s too close to bringing Stepford into reality, giving up oneself to be someone’s bride. There isn’t a big enough diamond in the world to substitute for real love.

  To love a man like I love Kevin is to forget the size of your diamond. It’s to believe I am the luckiest woman alive for the rare five minutes a day (a week!) that I get to see him. I want to look into his eyes and feel utter disbelief that I get to wake up to this man every morning in my future, not wonder what I can buy next with his money. But I digress.

  My point here, and I do have one, is that last night Matt Callaway seemed like a fairly intelligent human being. Yet he fell quickly and easily under Emily’s spell. That’s not completely unexpected. I mean, she’s got this luscious strawberry blond hair that falls down her back with youthful sheen and the same green eyes as her brother, with long black eyelashes (I think she had them dyed) and full Angelina Jolie lips—also most likely helped by professionals, but still. Her face has incredible symmetry, everything aligned to PhotoShop perfection. But more than any of those attributes combined, Emily has this feminine, sensual way about her. She moves with intent, like a Siamese cat crossing the room toward a feline hater’s leg. She knows who will win, who has the upper hand, and has the uncanny knack for making men feel she’s impossible to resist.

  Emily appears completely innocent, yet something about her says she isn’t—and she manages to give men this message without speaking. Women, naturally, can just sense this type, but it’s like a dog whistle to men. They’re completely oblivious. These women rarely have a lot of girlfriends, and they don’t want them because women are the bloodhounds that sniff them out. I don’t know what this “magic” is, but it’s a powerful tonic for men: the girl next door with a dash of vixen.

  If Emily was born with this “gift” (or “curse,” depending on your point of view), she took the time and care to perfect it. She knows how to wrap people around all her fingers, and she is used to getting what she wants. Letting her run off with my wedding is like a free pass to control her brother, me, and in an obscure manner, her parents. I’ve reached my limit, and this morning’s Emily-induced breakfast indigestion crossed my personal boundaries. I’m like a dog. You mess with my meal, you will hear about it.