Arranged

by Catherine McKenzie

  Oh, to have the perception of a nearly-seven-year-old.

  “Because my heart hurts, little one.”

  “Can the doctor fix it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She thinks about it. “Maybe Uncle Jack can fix it?”

  “No, honey, not him either.”

  “Can I fix it?”

  I bend down to look her in the eyes and feel that time warp back to me at her age. It’s funny, because all I remember from then are the times I hurt myself. How I broke my arm at Brownies. How I burned my hand on the stove. How I got food poisoning at school. I don’t remember the actual physical pain, only the events surrounding it. But looking at Jane, I can remember how excited I was by everything then. How I didn’t realize anything actually bad could ever happen to me or the people around me.

  I pull her to me. Her little arms circle my neck. “Maybe you can, little girl, maybe you can.”

  We’re sitting around the dinner table, finishing off a second bottle of wine and talking about anything other than Jack. Or really, I’m finishing off a second bottle of wine. Gil had a glass, and Cathy pleaded pregnancy.

  “Now, Anne. Please tell us the whole story,” Cathy says with a serious look.

  I shake my head. “Can’t do it. But hold on a sec.” I walk into the hall, looking for my purse. I locate it in the entryway and bring it back to the table, stumbling as I go.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Cathy says as I plunk the manuscript down on the table.

  “I know, I know. Anyway . . . I’ve written an addendum.” I did this last night at Sarah’s when I couldn’t sleep. The writing isn’t up to Jack’s, but that’s not really the point.

  “An addendum?”

  “That’s right. I can’t handle having to tell everyone what happened over and over again, so I’ve written an addendum to Jack’s book. Instead of telling people, I’m just going to give them the package, and they can read it and get the whole story. I won’t have to explain anything.”

  Cathy looks skeptical. “You need to talk to someone, Anne. Maybe a therapist or—”

  “No. No more therapists.” I drain my glass. “You know, I was reading this article about the fact that, blindfolded, most people can’t tell the difference between white and red wine. Do you think that can be true?”

  Gil starts clearing the plates. He pointedly picks up the bottle of wine and takes it with him to the kitchen.

  “I don’t think Gil approves of my drinking,” I whisper to Cathy.

  She puts her hand on mine. “He’s just concerned for you, Anne. He loves you very much, you know. We both do. And so do the girls.”

  “I know, Cathy. Thanks.” I swallow hard. “You want to read it?”

  “All right.”

  I hand her the manuscript and go into the kitchen so I can’t hear the exclamations of shock that are sure to follow. Gil is standing at the sink, rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. I fill my glass with the last of the bottle.

  “You know, that’s just wasting water,” I tell Gil.

  “When did you become so concerned about the environment?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  He puts the last dish in the machine, closes the door, and turns toward me. He frowns when he sees the glass in my hand. “Haven’t you had enough?”

  “You really shouldn’t worry so much about me. I’m gonna be okay. I’m strong. I’ve been through this before. I’ll survive.”

  I like the sound of that. I will survive. Like the Gloria Gaynor song. Yeah, totally. Don’t be afraid, don’t be petrified. Dum-da-dum, yeah, that’s right . . . I’m going to have to change the goddamn locks, ’cause I forgot to make you give back your key . . . And then some other part, and then the good part, so go, go, go, walk through my door, and don’t turn around, no, I won’t welcome you here anymore, you think I’m going to crumble, that I might want to die, but no, no, no, I’m going to survive!

  “Anne, what the hell are you doing?”

  I stop mid-twirl. “Dancing to a song in my head.”

  Gil takes the glass from my hand. “Definitely enough wine for you.”

  “Party pooper.”

  I sit at the breakfast bar and rest my head in my hands. I click my heels together, trying to find the beat again, but the song is gone. My clicking heels remind me of that night so many months ago. The night I found the Blythe & Company card lying on the sidewalk. I clicked my heels together three times, trying to get somewhere else, I’m not sure where. And it worked, after a fashion. Maybe not in a good way, or any way I’d want to repeat, but it could work again. I close my eyes and click my heels. Click, click, click.

  “Anne, what are you doing now?”

  My eyes fly open. “Wishing on a star.”

  “You’re one crazy-drunk girl, Cordelia.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  He goes into the living room to watch TV. After a moment I follow him, but not before I hear an uncharacteristic “Fuck me!” from Cathy in the dining room. Hearing her reminds me why I’m here, and the hurt that receded for the brief seconds of wishing and dancing and teasing Gil comes back in a rush and settles on my shoulders like a weight.

  Gil is sitting in his favorite armchair, so I curl up on the couch. We sit there together, not talking, watching an episode of The Daily Show that Gil has TiVoed.

  “You know, I met one of the writers on that show in Costa Rica,” I tell him.

  “You’re full of fascinating facts this evening.”

  I throw a pillow at him. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Nice language.”

  “You should hear your wife right now. I’m sure she’s saying lots of worse things.”

  “Anne, shush, I’m trying to listen.”

  I snuggle back into the couch and don’t say another word. At some point, I fall into a half-sleep state where I can hear the TV but can’t put together the words or tell whether they’re funny. After a long time, Gil—it must be Gil—clicks off the TV and pads across the room. He drapes a blanket over me and kisses me on the crown of my head.

  “Sleep tight, little sister.”

  Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

  Chapter 23

  Refund Policy

  I wake up the next morning with a crick in my neck and my hair standing out sideways. And in the newness of the morning, I realize I’ve spent enough time mourning Jack. Enough time crying, talking, or thinking about him. I’ve known the guy only a few months, for Chrissake! I’m better than this. I’ve survived worse. I will not let it become my whole life.

  I throw back the blanket and sit up, full of energy, ready to face the day. This lasts about thirty seconds before the bottles of wine I consumed last night start attacking me. I have an instant, blinding headache, and I feel like I’ve got about two, maybe three seconds to get to the bathroom before any food or drink left in my body exits.

  I take several deep breaths and concentrate on calming my stomach, and after a few minutes it starts to work. The nausea and the pain recede. I stand up and walk to the kitchen, following the waft of coffee. It smells good, despite the wine doing trampoline tricks in my stomach.

  Cathy is standing at the stove, making eggs and French toast. Mary is cooing softly in her playpen in the corner.

  “Are you a real person or a robot?” I ask.

  Cathy looks at me and laughs. “You look a lot more Pippi Longstocking than Anne of Green Gables this morning.”

  I put my hand to the side of my head, trying to smooth down my hair, but it won’t budge. “I’m voting for robot.”

  “There’s coffee.” She motions toward the pot.

  “Thanks. I’m trying to decide if it’s going to make me feel better or worse.” I sit on one of the stools and rest my head on my arms, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

  “That bad, huh?” Gil puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze as he walks into the kitchen.

  “Why, why did you let me drink lik
e that?”

  “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

  I sigh loudly and lift my head. Gil is standing behind Cathy. He has his arms around her, and he’s rubbing her big round belly.

  “Okay, okay, enough with the PDA! You’re making me jealous of my own brother.”

  “Sorry, Anne.”

  Gil walks over to the coffeepot and pours us each a cup. I wrap my hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into my hands. I take a few tentative sips and let the caffeine work into my bloodstream. I feel infinitesimally better than I did a few minutes before. I can sense briefly what it will be like when I feel wholly better again.

  “So, what’s on the agenda today?” Gil asks, eating a piece of French toast with his hands.

  “I’m supposed to be at work.”

  “ ‘Supposed to’ being the operative words in that sentence?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Calling in sick?”

  “I think that’s a given.”

  Cathy puts a plate of French toast in front of me, and I take a few cautious bites. A bite, a deep breath, a sip of coffee, repeat. I pause after three or four repetitions to make sure it’ll all stay down. It does, for now.

  Jane and Elizabeth come barreling into the room in matching footie pajamas, full of morning glee. They scamper around, eat their breakfasts loudly, and fight with their mother about what they want to wear. Jane crawls into my lap and gives me a big hug.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “So you feel better. Jeesh.” She drops to the ground and runs from the room, her feet going pat, pat, pat on the floor, her red hair flying behind her.

  I thank Cathy for breakfast and the night before, kiss the girls, and take the train back to the city with Gil. I call in sick on the way. I can tell from the receptionist’s tone that she’s heard about Jack and me and knows my pathetic attempts at coughing and sneezing are a sham. I make a mental note to kick William in the ass for being such a bigmouth.

  I hesitate at my front door, not sure I can handle the sight of my deserted apartment. As at breakfast, after a couple of deep breaths, I’m able to do it. I walk in and go directly to bed. My bed. Our bed. My bed again now, I guess. I can still smell Jack on the sheets as I snuggle into his pillow, breathing him in and out, in and out, until I fall asleep.

  I sleep for several hours full of fractured dreams about Jack. When I wake up, I’m wrapped around the pillow that smells like him. I lie there for a few minutes, breathing him in until I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t know who I’m angrier at: Jack or myself for clinging to something that reminds me of him.

  My anger fills me with the same feeling I had at Gil and Cathy’s, that “I can move past this, this will not take me down” feeling. I’m ready to do something, whatever it takes, to pull myself together. This time, when I sit up and fling off the covers, I’m not stopped by a hangover.

  I strip the sheets off the bed and put them in the laundry hamper. Then I take a shower. As I soap and lather, I formulate a plan. I change into my grubbiest clothes and set to work.

  I start with the biggest obstacle: Jack’s shelf project. It sits half built in my living room, taking up way too much space. I borrow a sledgehammer from the super and smash down the shelves without doing too much damage to the walls. Each time I lift the sledgehammer and smash it through the boards, I feel stronger. When the noise has subsided and it’s all rubble, I gather up the debris in several heavy-duty garbage bags and drag them out to the curb. Then I move my own bookshelves over to that wall to cover up the damage, glad after all that we didn’t merge our book collections.

  Next, I rearrange the rest of the furniture in the living room, putting it back where it was before Jack set up his workspace, the corner he wrote that awful book in. I buy a colorful indoor fruit tree to put in that space. I don’t know much about feng shui, but I can feel the energy shift in the room, like it does when you open your windows for the first time after a hard winter.

  When it’s all done, I look around. I want to make sure all signs of Jack have been erased. But for a few marks on the wall, it’s as if he was never even here.

  That night I take the card tucked into the frame of the mirror on my bathroom wall, rip it into as many pieces as I can, and dump them in the trash. My good-luck card: that was what I thought.

  Maybe now my luck will change.

  The next day, over morning coffee, I sort through the mail that accumulated while I was away on my book tour and hiding at Sarah’s. Bill, bill, junk, junk. And there it is, in the middle of the pile: an envelope from Blythe & Company. I rip it open. It’s an invoice for last month’s therapy appointments with Dr. Szwick.

  I can’t believe their nerve! We didn’t even go to our last appointment, and I won’t be going to the next. I’m furious with them, with Jack, but mostly with myself, because I gave them so much money, because I was taken in. And even though they don’t know any of the Jack part or the book part, this bill is the final straw.

  I need to do something, get something from them, get back at them somehow. How, how, how can I get some measure of vengeance?

  I consider my options. I can write an article about them, but then I’d be exposing myself. Everyone who knows about my quick marriage will put two and two together and come up with Anne is a complete freak. Besides, it might hurt the other couples who used the service, and I don’t want to do that.

  Then it hits me. I know what to do. If only I have the nerve to do it.

  Ms. Cooper will see you now.”

  My head pops up from the magazine I’ve been staring at. As I stand, the magazine drops to the floor with a slippery thud. I put it back on the table and follow the receptionist along the familiar path to Ms. Cooper’s office.

  “How are you, Ms. Blythe? Or should I say Mrs. Harmer?” she says, smiling her tight smile.

  Her use of Jack’s last name, particularly in connection with me, sends a shiver down my spine. “Ms. Blythe will do.”

  I sit down, folding my fists in my lap. She follows suit.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to . . . get a refund.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I say it louder. “I’m here to get a refund.”

  “As I believe I explained to you, we don’t issue refunds.”

  “The man you found me is no bloody good, and I want a refund.”

  She looks at me in her bland way. “Is this some kind of joke? Should I be laughing?”

  “I assure you, I’m quite serious. I was duped, and I want my money back.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you were supposed to find me a husband. A real husband. You weren’t supposed to take my money and match me with a man writing an exposé about your moneymaking so-called service.”

  I did it. I finally said something Ms. Cooper wasn’t expecting. She blinks at me several times and seems at a loss for words. She gives a small cough. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean that Jack Harmer wasn’t looking for a wife, he was writing a book about having an arranged marriage. An undercover, behind-the-scenes, reality-TV kind of book about this agency and our marriage and me. And so I . . . want . . . a . . . fucking . . . refund.”

  I slap my hand on her desk with each word. Ms. Cooper flinches at every smack. Then she picks up the phone on her desk, presses a button, and speaks. “Please send security in here immediately.”

  “Right,” I say. “Kick me out, pretend what I said isn’t true. But it is true. And I’m going to get my refund.”

  I reach into my purse and take out a copy of Jack’s manuscript. I plunk it down on the desk as two men in black suits and thin ties appear in the doorway.

  “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I say to them. “I only weigh a hundred and twenty-five pounds.” I point to the manuscript. “Read that, Ms. Cooper. Read that and think about what it’s going to do to this place, what it’s going to do to your jo
b, if it gets published. Then let me know whether you want to maintain your no-refund policy. You know where you can reach me.”

  I stride past the black-suited men, my head held high. They follow me to the reception area, where a pale pretty woman in her mid-forties is waiting nervously. I walk to the front door, open it, then turn back and say loudly to the waiting woman, “Trust your instincts. Don’t do it.”

  She looks startled. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Don’t do it. Get up, walk away, leave. They have nothing for you here.” The men walk toward me, shoulders set to menace. “All right, all right, don’t worry, I’m going.”

  I stride to the elevator and punch the down button. The elevator pings, and I step in. The doors close behind me and I start shaking. I’m shaking, but I feel better. I feel stronger.

  It’s in the better, stronger moment that I realize I can survive this. I can.

  Chapter 24

  Kicking It

  And I do. I survive that first week without Jack. I survive a second and a third, and then a month goes by, and then two, and I’m not thinking about him all the time or wondering if I’m going to run into him. More time passes, until more time has passed than the time I knew him, than the time I knew about him, than the time I was contemplating finding him. Our time together starts to seem distant, like a memory from childhood, like a tiny star at the edge of the universe.

  I work a lot and hang out with Sarah and Mike and sometimes with William. I’m there when Cathy gives birth to her fourth daughter. I hold her when she’s a few minutes old. As I cradle her tiny body against mine, her whole chest moves up and down to the rhythm of her beating heart. She smells clean and new, and when her eyes crack open, they’re seeing everything for the first time. A world to discover. My tears drop onto her sleeper, onto this child who looks like she could be mine, like she could’ve been mine and Jack’s. But then I push that thought away, and she’s just my darling fourth niece. I pass her back to her mother.

  I do a few book signings, though my book isn’t setting the publishing world on fire. Still, I have a two-book deal and a deadline, so my nights and weekends are spent furiously writing and trying not to hate every word I put down on paper. My second book is about a woman whose life gets turned upside down when she takes a trip to Africa that doesn’t turn out as she planned. Halfway in, I’m cursing myself for not taking the easy way out and writing a sequel to Home. But one thing’s for sure—the heroine of this book is not going to be saved by a man.