Apparently, in my lack of driving while living in the city, I had forgotten how to turn my headlights off, as they beamed brightly upon my return to the parking lot. Cursing myself, I hurriedly put my guitar into the passenger seat, as the snow fell around me. Running to the driver’s side, I closed myself in, rubbing my hands together, attempting to generate heat. Hopeful as I turned the key, maybe she’ll start. She acted like she wanted to, the sound of her engine attempting to pull, but she wouldn’t roll over.
Trying again, “Come on, baby,” I encouraged. Still nothing. I grabbed my flashlight from under the seat and got out of the car, slamming the door behind me as I kicked the tire. Sorry, Charlene, I apologized in my mind. “Shit, shit, shit,” I stammered, slapping my hands on the hood, propping it up, as I heard someone walking up behind me. I spun around quickly, shining the flashlight on him.
“Do you need a jump?” Pretty Boy offered.
“No. Thank you, I’ve got it handled.”
“I’ll pull my car around.” He hurriedly made his way to the other end of the parking lot.
“Really, I’ve got it,” I called after him. “A jump? I’ll give you a jump. Sit in there and stare at me,” I mumbled to myself, while dialing my cell phone. “Hi. My name is Harley LeBeau...member number 99126777,” I began, quickly interrupted. “Sure...I’ll hold...I’m only stuck out in the freezing cold with a dead battery.”
Pretty Boy returned with his vehicle, a brand new cherried-out Porsche 911. “You really don’t have to do this. I’m on hold with my car service.” A regular planner, I even had become forward-thinking enough to join a car service. All the traveling I did and I never had a car service before. After moving to the city, where I barely ever drove, I joined. Go figure!
“I won’t put you on hold,” he said, and there was that smile again. He lifted his hood. “I’m not sure if I have cables or not.” Now, that I believed. This guy didn’t look like he ever jumped a car before.
“I have some.” I closed my cell phone and pulled a set of jumper cables from my trunk. “Could you start her up? My car?” I asked, after attaching the cables. He obliged. Charlene pulled a few times, finally starting. I removed the cables while Pretty Boy closed the hoods on his car and mine. I stood before him, humbled, rubbing my hands together after their contact with the cold metal from Charlene’s frame. “Thank you. Now I feel kind of guilty I talked to you the way I did.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. When at first bargaining doesn’t work, resort to guilt,” he joked, removing his gloves, handing them to me. I shook my head, but he insisted. Aw, warmth, I thought, slipping my hands into them. He was quite dashing, standing there, chivalrous, definitely very easy on the eyes, just not my flavor. “So, what do you say? How about a date?”
I had no idea why this guy wanted to take me out. I had seen his type, and I in no way represented the type of woman his type dated.
“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” I asked skeptically.
“I’ve got Giants tickets...next Sunday?”
“No way!” I loved football, the Steelers, and I never attended a real live game before.
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
I remained unconvinced. If I said yes now, it would feel like I used him for the tickets. He probably had box seats anyway. He looked like a pampered fan, taking away from the authentic experience, the romantic notion of a good old-fashioned, winter football game.
“Twentieth row, fifty-yard line,” he further enticed.
“Aw man,” I said, impressed with the seats, chewing on my own discriminatory thoughts. “Okay, but only if you let me treat at dinner.” I found myself bargaining.
Pretty Boy’s name, Alexander Dimitri Novak the Third, suited his image. Thankfully he kept it simple, calling himself Xander. He was a doctor, a cardiologist at a private hospital in the midtown Manhattan area. For all his wealth and swagger, he was unassuming, a genuinely good guy.
After a few months of courtship, we delved into a full-fledged thing. I guess opposites really do attract. Our work lives homogenous, our personal lifestyles still very different. He resided in some of the best real estate Manhattan offered, while I maintained my small, but efficient, studio apartment in Brooklyn. A nightcap at his place was followed by a gourmet breakfast of my choosing, delivered by the resident bellhop. A nightcap at mine featured doughnuts and black coffee from the shop around the corner.
When he took me out, we went to the opera, the opening of the trendiest new club in the city and events at Madison Square Garden with some of the best seats in the house. When I took him out, we had picnics in the park, toured museums, and rode our bikes to Coney Island.
He could offer me the world. The only thing I could offer him, me. Thankful to have him in my life, Xander was safe, keeping me balanced and anchored.
January 1, 2004, New Year’s Day, Xander and I were snow skiing at Belleayre Mountain. He took me to the Catskills for a long weekend retreat. Dusk ended our entertaining day of skiing as we returned to our cabin for the night. Xander prepared an exquisite candlelit dinner by the fireplace. Nestled on a faux fur rug, my skin warmed from the dancing flames, he returned from the kitchen, joining me with two glasses of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.
“Happy New Year, Harley,” he toasted, clinking his champagne glass to mine. He seemed nervous, unsettled, as he took a drink. I did the same, setting my glass down on the hearth of the fireplace. I fed him a bite of a strawberry, helping myself to its remainder. “How’s your champagne?” He looked at my glass intently.
“Bubbly,” I said with a smile, quickly looking back to the glass as something sparkly caught my eye. In the glow of orange-red flames, in a puddle of straw-colored champagne, lying low beneath the bubbles, a ring. Not just any ring, the big one. Oh no, was he going to propose? My heart raced, my mouth dried to cotton in an instant. I tried to avoid his glance, as he watched in recognition that I had noticed the ring. Momentarily I returned my eyes to his. He looked hopeful. How was I going to tell him, No?
“How do you like the cut?” he asked.
I knew very little about jewelry in general, let alone diamond rings. I had no idea what cut it was. “It’s beautiful.” It was beautiful. I just never imagined myself in one.
“Four carats, canary yellow, princess cut. I went with the jeweler’s recommendation. If you don’t like it, we can get something different. Whatever you like, whatever you want.”
“Xander,” I spoke his name, trying to gather my thoughts, but words escaped me.
“No pressure,” he encouraged, attempting to ease my obviously panicked state. “This isn’t an offer to coerce you into something you’re uncomfortable with. It’s a simple promise from me.” He touched my face with one hand coming to rest on my neck. “I love you. I promise you my heart. It’s been yours since the first time you called me Pretty Boy. “ A smile formed on his lips, I laughed lightly with the memory.
“I love our life together and I want to share mine with you. The ring is not a token by which to bind you or weigh you down. We don’t have to get married right now, not even a year from now. When you’re ready, you let me know.”
When explained the way Xander so eloquently rehearsed, it didn’t sound so bad. I kissed him lingering on the fullness of his lips. “I love you, too.” I had graduated to the L-word, making all sorts of changes in my usual anti-committal lifestyle. Still uncertain of exactly what love was in its essence, how to define it appropriately between a man and a woman, I remained unsure as to whether I truly loved Xander. I felt like I did. I wanted to. I cared about him and wanted to be with him. That’s love, right? The more I said it, the more I believed it.
“What do you say, Harley Arena LeBeau? Will you maybe someday marry me?” he asked, in the most unconventional way he knew how, causing me to smile back at him, pleased.
I didn’t want to hurt him with a refusal. I found myself nodding. “Yes, I will...maybe someday marry you.” My own w
ords echoing loudly in my mind, as they escaped my lips.
We returned to the city a few days later, on the fourth of January, my mother’s birthday.
“Happy birthday, Mom! I’m engaged,” I blurted out over the phone, apprehensively awaiting her response.
“You’re what?
“Engaged. We’re not getting married right away or anything. When I’m ready,” I defended, knowing full well I spoke to the woman who told me, never get married.
“Harley, we haven’t even met the guy.” I had yet to take Xander home. I couldn’t imagine what he would think about my humble life, the one I grew up in. I didn’t know if I wanted him to see that side of me, where I came from. I definitely didn’t want him to find out how I grew up, the abuse and the alcoholism. It was embarrassing. I thought it sure to change his opinion of me. If Dad continued to remain decent, maybe I would take him home next time, I told myself, every time I went home.
“You’re going to love him, Ma.”
“He sounds like he’s got it together. Everything you’ve told me anyway. I have to give him some credit. After all, he tamed you.”
“We were at the ski resort this past weekend and he popped the question. I never saw it coming.”
“The ski resort? Operas, Broadway plays, Paris last spring, and now ski resorts. You’re moving up in the world, Harley,” Mom said happily. “How about the ring? He did have a ring, didn’t he?”
I looked at it resting on my hand, still trying to become accustomed to its weight. I would go to put my hands in the pocket of my jeans and it would get caught up. The most mundane things, like pulling my gloves on or playing my guitar, brought my awareness to it, sometimes with fondness, other times startling reservation. “It’s huge, Mom. It’s beautiful. I feel like I should put it in a safe deposit box or something.”
“My daughter’s marrying a doctor. I can’t wait to tell the girls at work.” I guess what she meant to say all those years while warning Kat and me was don’t ever get married, unless he’s a doctor! I know what she meant. Don’t ever marry a man like my father.
“Whoa, Ma, slow down. We just got engaged.”
“Don’t get all nervous, Harley. I’m excited for you, that’s all.”
“Really, you’re okay with it?”
“Your life is starting to come together. What more could a mother ask for her daughter? I’m just happy we’re finally in a good place. All of us.”
After getting off the phone with Mom, I marveled at our lives, hers, mine, Kat’s, even Dad’s. Everything seemed to be heading for higher ground, definitely an improvement from where we came. We were okay.
Winter quickly turned to spring, and summer shone upon us, July 1, 2004. Xander and I returned to New York after two weeks in Darfur, assisting with humanitarian efforts. There’s much in life people can prepare and train for, become accustomed to. The one thing for which I found preparation a complete and total waste of time, was the human suffering I witnessed as a nurse, both here at home and abroad.
The weight of it, the burden it carried, made me conscious of how selfish I was in my life. I wanted to do everything, experience everything, have more and be more. It never ended, my dreams, my wants, my desires, me, me, and me. I was inherently selfish. Why couldn’t I just be happy to be alive, to have food in my stomach, clothes on my back, someone to love, and someone who loved me? Why did I think I deserved more? There were people suffering, displaced from their homes, hungry and ill without the promise of healthcare—dying, raped, tortured, even murdered. For what? Land, power, greed? All the while, I carried on with my life, my privileged life, as though it were not enough, still wanting more, feeling a void and craving to fill it.
After returning from Darfur, I attempted to reset my important dial by setting a date for the wedding. Xander, a perfectly lovely human being, offered me his heart and all the things that should bring contentment. For crying out loud, he was willing to commit himself to me. Shouldn’t I be capable of doing the same? I had far more than I deserved and it was time I honored that. In a bit of an impulsive, panicked state, I tried to talk him into flying to Vegas and getting married, just the two of us. I wanted to do it before I had the opportunity to change my mind, annihilating it, somehow.
“Calm down, Harley,” he coaxed, heating the teakettle on the stove. “I think maybe you’re going through a little post-traumatic stress, which is expected with what we just experienced.”
“It makes me aware of what’s important, what’s real, when mortality stares me in the face. Xander, I know myself, and that’s what scares me. Once we’re married, we’re married, and I can’t just walk away from that like I can this.” I held up my hand, displaying my ring, as I prepared teacups.
“You need to have more faith in yourself. You’re not going to blow this, what we have. I trust you,” he said, pouring boiling water over the tealeaves.
“I checked the itinerary. We can fly in tonight and get our license in the morning. Bada bing, bada boom. We could be married tomorrow.”
“You’re killing me here.” He agonized. “But I can’t take advantage, even to get what I want.”
“I thought you’d be all for this. I thought it would make you happy.”
“You went from maybe someday marrying me, to marrying me tomorrow. Do you see where that’s a bit confusing? And it would make me happy, to give you the wedding of your dreams. I don’t want it to be something we do on a whim.” He put the teakettle back on the stove and leaned against it, as he continued, “I want to stand there at the altar, in front of our family, friends, and God, and whisper to my best man how you take my breath away, watching you walk down the aisle, to me. I want the reception, the band, the cake, the first dance as man and wife. I want it all, for you.”
I looked at him standing there, such a thoughtful, sweet soul. I put my arms around his waist, as he hugged me to his chest. “I can’t believe you’re passing up the opportunity to be wed by Elvis, in a pink Cadillac, at the drive-thru window, in Vegas,” I joked.
“It’s tempting. Young or old Elvis?”
Our words interrupted by the ringing of the phone in my apartment. “How about a winter wedding, this December?” I called to him, in search of the phone in the living room.
“A snowy winter wedding in New York, followed by a sunny honeymoon in the Caribbean, I think I can handle that,” he called after me.
“Can we just skip to the sunny honeymoon?” I requested, looking at the frost on my living room window, a cold winter. Finding the phone, I hurriedly pushed the talk button. “Hello.”
“Harley,” Kat’s stressed tone replied.
“Kat, what’s the matter?”
“It’s Jeremiah. He’s in the hospital. Something exploded over there, in Iraq, and he got hurt pretty bad. He needs you, Harley.”
I planned to go home for a few weeks this summer anyhow, as Gram’s health failed her, and I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could. She fell a year ago, breaking her hip, and the doctors would not operate, unsure of her fully surviving the procedure and the recovery. The immobility slowly robbed her physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Gram had always been so active, she tried to be a good sport about her condition, keeping her sense of humor and quick wit as armor, but it began to take its toll and she started pulling away, a part of the natural dying process.
Ironic, as humans, we’re always preparing—for birth, for life, for the most minute of tasks to the most extravagant—only to come face to face with an end, eventually, for which there exists no preparation.
I took an emergency leave of absence from work for six weeks, piled in Charlene and headed back to Georgia, yet again. She knew the route so well. I set her on autopilot and held onto the wheel.
Xander was understanding and supportive, more so than I expected with my running off to tend to some other man, the man, Jeremiah Johnson. I’m sure I downplayed our relationship in an attempt to ease Xander’s mind, if he even had any suspicions.
> What relationship? Jeremiah and I had never established a relationship, per se. We never promised anything to one another, never asked for anything more than what we could give at the moment. Over the past seven years we had seen each other only once, in Maui. That hardly constitutes a relationship. I held on to some idea sprouting out of our childhood, our adolescence.
I was an adult, a grown woman, things change, and time changes all things. I wasn’t that wounded little girl anymore who needed Jeremiah for a soft place to fall. He wasn’t the only one who got me in some deep, connected way, beyond comprehension by any other, as I often romanticized. My feelings for him, clearly adolescent, remained some misplaced attachment to our youth. Every man I met, I compared to him, automatically ruling them unworthy of his likeness. I built him up in my mind, putting him on a pedestal, allowing myself to keep every other man at a safe distance, convinced they could never measure up.
Not this time. Xander measured up and beyond my expectations. He was real, tangible, not some figment of my imagination. My feelings for him were in no way impulsive, deeply maddening, all consuming, nor glamorized. They registered calm, reasonable, maybe even a little monotonous at times, but authentic nonetheless, not some fantasy. We had something real. And I had to keep my head about me, honoring that. I was not going to mess this up.
Independence Day
July 4, 2004, I pulled into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Hospital. As I walked through the electric doors into the entryway, it was like déjà vu. The last time I had been in this place was graduation day, the day Jeremiah’s dad passed. I wondered why he ended up here. Couldn’t they send him to another location, anywhere but here? Following the signs to the orthopedics unit, I grew nervous to see him and his condition, apprehensive as to how I might react.
“Hi,” I greeted the man at the nurse’s station. “I’m here to see Jeremiah Johnson.”
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 15
