Walk the Dog

by Isabel Jolie

  “I figured she’d exchange it and get what she wanted. I bought a ring that reminded me of her.” It wasn’t a giant rock, but that’s not really Delilah. It was a platinum band in what they call a classic Tiffany style. Simple and elegant. A few times, I’d wondered if the ring was the issue. If she expected something grander. Or more unique. But I’m fairly certain she never even looked at the ring. No. She was backing away. Not the first time that’s happened to me.

  “Mom, I’m exhausted. And Kara’s gonna be up early, and then I’ve got a full day of work.”

  She leans over and kisses my forehead, like I’m her little boy. At the door, she pulls on her boots. “I’d rather sleep in my bed, so I’m going to head home.”

  “It’s late. Just stay here.”

  “No. You sleep in your bed. I’ll pick Kara up from school. I feel like a cold is coming on, and I’m gonna pick up some echinacea on the way home.”

  “Are you sure? I can go out and get you something.”

  She reaches up to caress my cheek then pats it as if I’m a dog. “I live two blocks away. I’m gonna stop at the market on the way home.” She leans down and picks up her overnight bag, which I now see she had already packed and left by the door. I won’t be able to change her mind.

  “Thank you for watching Kara. Thank you for everything, Mom.”

  “Honey.” God, I wish she would quit using that word. There is something about the way she says it that grates my insides. “I love you. But let me share a little something to think about.” She holds up her hand as if I’m about to stop her, but I’m not. I’m always respectful to her. Outwardly.

  “Marriage isn’t the goal. The goal is to find someone who makes you happy, who makes you a better person. Someone you want to spend your extra time with. A partner in life, to share the ups and downs. Someone you want to commit to. Marriage is a document. And before you sign that document, or offer that commitment to anyone, you need to be certain you have all those other things in play. Because it’s hard.”

  I am ready for this conversation to be over. Mom, being Mom, knows this, and continues to pat me to keep my attention.

  “Relationships are hard. I liked Delilah, but there’s no guarantee she was the one. You guys jumped into things so fast. You needed time. Time with her. Fights with her, over little things and big things. You’ve got to put in time before you know for sure.”

  Tell that to Delilah’s dad. He certainly has a different spin on it.

  Mom reaches for the doorknob, signaling this nightmare of a day is about to end.

  “Honey.” Please stop. “One day, you are going to find the right person. Give it time.”

  Finally, the door closes behind her. I crash in my bed, and as predicted, at the crack of dawn I’m awoken by a squealing four-year-old with horrible breath jumping up and down on top of me. She lands a knee directly into my abdomen that sends me curling forward. But it’s so good to see my little girl, I don’t mind at all.

  Chapter 26

  Delilah

  The blustery wind below the Eiffel Tower has the crowds clutching coats and scarves tightly against themselves. The line wraps around and around, and I stand directly below the Eiffel Tower, straining to read random signs around the perimeter as I attempt to figure out where exactly I’m supposed to freaking go. There’s no way my mother stood in this massive line.

  Me: I’m here. Where do I go?

  Melinda Daniels: I’m sending Louis down to get you.

  I read her text as I spot the 58 Tour Eiffel Tower sign.

  Oh, Delilah, it’s been renovated. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get reservations? Can’t you come to Paris for a couple of days? How many times do we ever get to eat in the Eiffel Tower? The Eiffel Tower, Delilah. Her voice rings through my head as I make my way to the sign and a young man in a thick black winter coat and gloves. He has to stand outside all day to greet lost people like me who have no idea how to get up to the restaurant.

  I flew in this morning, left my luggage at the hotel, and headed over. I’m a little late, but a part of me stopped giving a damn about the same time Mason refused to come up to my hotel room and instead hailed a taxi to return to the airport. Our final goodbye. Something I’d known was coming but had been trying to postpone. The story of my life.

  Mason. Well, I discovered his flaw. He puts his heart out there. Way out there. It’s inappropriate. You don’t propose unless you’ve talked about it. Unless you’ve each said, yes, I’d love nothing more than to spend my life with you. We were still in the newly dating territory. The yes, I believe I’m dating someone land. Like, if we were one of those nauseating couples who count the weeks that go by, we’d still be celebrating weekly anniversaries.

  A young French man pushes past me to insist his name is on the list. A young woman standing behind a desk gathers his information and types away on a keyboard. The young lady with him blushes and stands back as he argues with the woman.

  An older gentleman in a washed-out black suit approaches and bends slightly at the waist in greeting. “Ms. Daniels?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right this way, please.”

  Ah, this must be Louis. The wunderkind tour guide my mother has hired to drive her through Paris on her trip. She’s had a lot to say about him, but given I haven’t listened closely to much of anything she’s said, about all I have gleaned from her lengthy, gushing monologue is she likes this guy and is quite pleased with her decision to hire him.

  He directs me to an elevator and speaks in French to the person standing guard. We are ushered past a short line of people. As a child, I was enamored with the Eiffel Tower. I loved the view and the majestic shape and especially the angle of photos taken from a distance that make it appear trees grow right up next to it. Today, I see the throngs of tourists, the endless concrete and ugly metal fences set up all around the perimeter. It’s true what they say, perspective comes from within.

  The elevator opens onto the second floor of the tower, high in the sky. Louis leads the way through the restaurant doors and past the hostess stand and up a sweeping staircase. My mother stands, exuberant and joyful. Aunt Josie bears a troubled expression I can’t fully interpret.

  After hugging them both, we sit. Chardonnay has already been poured, and heavy condensation drips down my water glass, and water circles the base, a sign they have been here for a while waiting for me. I should have apologized profusely for making them wait. For disappointing my mother by not meeting her expectations. I should, but I don’t. A heaviness presses in on my lungs, and breathing requires effort. No part of me wants to be here right now, so my physical presence will have to be enough.

  “How was London?” Mom asks, cheerful and spry. Her effervescence annoys and chafes every single nerve.

  I exhale, shift my shoulders back, and gaze beyond her, out the window at the gray winter sky. There is a chance of snow flurries later, something that would normally have me giddy like a kid anticipating early school release, but instead, the weather forecast does not shift my mood in the slightest.

  “Delilah?” she asks in a concerned tone.

  I forgot to answer her. I roll my eyes. I shouldn’t have come to lunch. I’m so not in the mood to chit and chat.

  “Fine.” I avoid her judgmental frown and dig into the salad of mixed greens that I do not want. They’ve already finished their salads, though, so on auto pilot, I eat a few bites so my plate can be taken away without an onslaught of questions regarding how I’m feeling or if I want something different to eat. I have zero appetite.

  All I can see is Mason on bended knee. The soft press of his lips on mine before he settled into the back seat of the cab. A kiss to say goodbye. He wiped his face, closed the car door, and didn’t look back. And my insides ripped apart, as if a Cat 5 hurricane plowed through.

  “Honey, this afternoon we were thinking of going shopping. I have a private tour of the Louvre scheduled for the three of us tomorrow morning at ten. I know it’s early,
but the tour will be led by a local historian.”

  I choose to ignore her and instead people watch. There’s a large table of Asians sitting nearby. An entire family. Three generations. All happy and smiling and taking photos of themselves. The waiter comes by and offers to take a picture of them, and several of them get up from their seats and stand behind a few of the others. They shift and adjust so the photo has the best option of the view behind them, which I find to be odd because I doubt, given the lighting inside the restaurant and the light behind them, the picture’s going to come out.

  “Melinda, look.”

  “Josie. Shut it.”

  “You shut it. Stop this.”

  “Why are you always so mean to me? You hate me.”

  “I’m sitting in Paris because I love you. I’m giving it to you straight because I love you. Grow up. For once, love your daughter more than yourself.”

  “She’s my only daughter. You don’t understand.”

  “This is ridiculous. Look. Do something.”

  I stop watching the happy Asian family and shift in my seat. The two sisters glare at each other. Grand. Fight it out, ladies. Fight. It. Out.

  “I am doing what I need to do,” Mom snaps.

  “Bullshit. You’re doing what you selfishly want to do. Thinking only of you. And you need to stop. It’s time for Melinda to care for someone other than Melinda.”

  “How dare you say that to me? I have spent my life caring about everyone. Everything I do is for others! I’ll have you know the therapist said taking care of myself is not an act of selfishness.”

  “First, I don’t think the therapist meant for you to force your daughter home. And second, no, Melinda. No. You don’t need her home. You may think you do, but you don’t. And she doesn’t owe you. Every activity you carted Delilah to was partially about what activities you wanted Delilah to participate in. Every charity you championed has been as much about the people attending and how much you like the galas as actually doing good. Even now, you are making Hoffman’s illness about you.” My aunt’s words are laced with anger.

  “It is about me. That may sound wrong to say, but when someone gets sick, it does impact their significant other. Don’t make me out to sound like I’m evil. And most people do choose a charity that plays up personal preferences.”

  I stare at the plate in front of me. I notice my full wine glass and pick it up and gulp the liquid down. It stings as it coats my throat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Josie push her water glass away from her. “You are right, Melinda. You’re not evil. But for your whole life, our parents have babied you. The baby sister. Plans have always melded around you. And I’m here now, pleading with you. She is heartbroken.”

  “She is not. And besides, this is her choice. She’s doing what she wants to do. This is her decision.”

  The sky outside hangs like a veil of gray. The clouds are shapeless. The cloud we saw on the way here, the one shaped like a horse, gallops by in my mind. Has this ever been my decision? For as long as I can remember, the plan has been for me to work for Bayou Development. For as long as I can remember, I haven’t wanted to. Going to New York was our compromise. And coming back was the plan. But was it my decision? Decision implies I chose it. And doing real estate marketing is not something I personally would ever choose. I’ve been in limbo, going through the motions, as if facing a guillotine. And that’s ridiculous. This is my life. And I should be making the decisions.

  The two women argue back and forth until I slam my hand down on the table. “Oh, shut it. Both of you.” They close their lipsticked mouths.

  “Mom, what you did was wrong. You manipulated me, and I haven’t said anything, because that’s me. I didn’t see the point in saying anything, but you were wrong to do that. You scared me. No, terrified me. I was devastated. I left my company in a lurch. You didn’t give me time to wrap anything up.” Tears fall as I’m speaking, and this unbearable sadness crushes around me. It’s as if saying the words out loud is bringing it all back.

  My mother flips the knife on the table back and forth, her lips in a flat line. “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

  A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I sit straight. She avoids looking me in the eye by staring at her plate, but I lock my gaze on her.

  “No. You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel. That’s not your call. I am telling you how I feel. I should have said something earlier. No, scratch that. It’s not a should situation. I am telling you now. You manipulated me. And that hurts. I don’t want to be manipulated. I will not allow you to treat me that way.”

  Her bottom lip sticks out ever so slightly, the only indication she hears me.

  “Mom, I’m not going to move back to New Orleans. I’m going to remain in New York. I have an offer for a promotion doing what I love, and if it’s still available, I’m going to take it. I’ll still be there for Dad, but I’m not going to be his successor. His partners will have to enact the buyout clause.” The heavy weight on my chest lightens. There, now I’ve made a decision.

  Mom glares me down and sits taller in her seat. “If you return to New York, your father and I will not be supporting you. You will not be able to continue residing in the business apartment.” The gauntlet has been thrown down. Am I ready to completely walk away and make it on my own? Yes. Yes, I am. In a way, it’s as if my move after college was me testing the waters by dipping my big toe in, while standing with a life preserver around my waist.

  “I know. I’ll get my own place.”

  “And you’ll have to hand over your Amex. We will not continue paying your credit card.”

  Oh, for the love of all the berries. She’s desperate. “Mom, I love you and Dad. And I will still be there for you and support you. But I’m not moving back home.” The meek part of me wants to soften my statement with a “not right now” addendum, but I force my lips closed.

  Aunt Josie grins from ear to ear, but she hides it behind her water glass the moment Mom shoots daggers her way.

  “Do you love him?” Mom fiddles with her fork. When I don’t respond, she lifts her face to me. “Do you love him?”

  Tears fill my eyes, obscuring my view. “I do.”

  She opens her mouth and gasps, like a fish out of water, attempting to catch lifesaving oxygen.

  “But, Mom, it’s not about him. My decision is not about him. This is about me taking charge of my life. If I don’t do it now, when will I do it?”

  Tears roll down her cheeks, and my chest tightens once again.

  “Mom, please don’t cry.”

  She moves the thick white cloth napkin from the table to her nose and blows loudly. Then she sets it down in her lap and asks, “How do you love him?”

  “What?” I want to revel in my newfound, kickass strength. My take-charge moment.

  “Tell me how you love him. What do you love about him? When did you fall in love?”

  I rest my forehead on my palm and close my eyes. When I let Mason into my thoughts, my body resides in this paradoxical state of both pain and numbness. And I’m not stoned.

  “Delilah.” The mom tone prods me to answer.

  “He’s not the reason I’m moving back. I’m staying in New York for me. Because I love every single thing about that city. And because I love my job. My career. I love ad agency life. I’ve only been holding back because it felt temporary. But no more. I’m going back, and I’m gonna be all in.”

  “Are you still with Mason?”

  “Not right now.” There’s no need to tell her about his half-baked proposal. I stand by that decision. Our relationship is nowhere near ready for that level of commitment. But all signs point to strong possibilities.

  Mom stares out the window across the Paris cityscape.

  Aunt Josie clinks her wine glass against mine. “Tell us about Mason.”

  “He’s amazing. He has a gift with animals. And with people. He’s gentle, compassionate, and understanding. And he lo
oks at his daughter like she’s his world and his life. He could’ve agreed to put her up for adoption, but he didn’t. He chose to be a single dad. He’s got these strong hands and, when he looks at me, my insides light up and fizz. It sounds cheesy, I know, but I’ve never had that. With anyone. And he’s thoughtful, and... Mom?”

  She raises her eyebrows and emits a low “hmmm?”

  “I want y’all to meet him one day. And Kara.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t doing this for him?”

  “I’m not. I’m really not. And when I get back to New York, there’s a possibility he might not want to see me. But if that’s the case, I’ll do my best to change his mind because I think we’re good together. Good for each other.”

  She’s coming around to accepting it; I can see it in her shoulder position. She no longer looks like she’s about to go into battle. She’s morphed into the softer version of herself, and maybe there’s a touch of defeat as well.

  “Mom, I haven’t known him long. I mean, we could date, and it’s possible it won’t work out. It’s possible the more time we spend together, I’ll get on his nerves or we just won’t be into each other as time goes by.”

  “Oh, honey, you could be married to him for decades and it’s possible it won’t work out.” She blows her nose into her napkin. “I was wrong. I just wanted...I want you to be happy. At the end of the day, that is most important. And I want us to be close. And maybe that won’t look like what I envisioned. But...” She places a wet kiss on the side of my face and through tears, continues, “I love you, baby girl. Always. And I am so proud of you. But I want you to know, I’m not giving you a dollar. You are officially on your own.”

  Some part of her may have meant those words as a threat, but that’s not how I take them. As she says those words, in my heart, I hear one word. Independence.

  Chapter 27

  Delilah

  The sign outside the clinic reads Deck the Halls and Whack Off Some Balls.