Arranged

by Catherine McKenzie

  The Clanging Gong

  The meeting with Jack puts me back where I was when I first asked him to leave. I spend my days trying not to think about him, and at night, in the moments when I sleep, I dream about him kissing me outside the bar. I find myself wondering too often whether we could start over, if I could ever bring myself to forgive his betrayal. I don’t even get any satisfaction from telling Sarah about our conversation or from her shock that he’s publishing his book. Because unfortunately, the cease-and-desist letter was an idle threat: A lawsuit is public, which meant everyone—not just my friends—would know who the female lead was.

  After a third nearly sleepless night, I realize I need to talk to someone after all. And though I’m not sure I can face him again, I know that Dr. Szwick is the person I should see. Dr. Szwick, with his odd ways and sharp insights, and his knowledge of both of us, might be the only person who can help me figure out what I want to do.

  When I call to make an appointment, the receptionist hesitates and asks me to hold. I smile to myself, imagining the surprise my call is creating, even for the prescient Dr. Szwick. It occurs to me while I wait that he might refuse to see me, particularly after my scene in Ms. Cooper’s office, but his receptionist comes back on the line and gives me an appointment in my old Friday time slot.

  So in the early afternoon on a late-fall day, with the first snowflakes wisping toward the ground, I settle into the familiar armchair across from Dr. Szwick and his black notebook. The ballad of Jack and Anne.

  “Are you surprised I’m here?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “I assume you heard about Jack?”

  “I did.”

  “And my meeting with Ms. Cooper?”

  He smiles. “It was the talk of the company.”

  “Why did you agree to see me?”

  “I believed I owed it to you, Anne. If you thought you needed my help, I wanted to give it to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

  “All right.” I fill him in on how I found out about Jack and about our meeting last week. When I’m finished, he lays his pen down and closes the book on me and Jack.

  “How have you been coping with all of this?”

  “Some days are worse than others, especially these days.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  I raise the edge of my turtleneck over my chin. “I guess I thought I was over him.”

  “And when you saw him, you realized you weren’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you realize that?”

  I feel a flash of Jack’s lips against mine. “Just everything about the meeting. How sad he looked. How easy it was, on some level, to talk to him. The feel of his hand on my skin. I can’t point to one thing. It’s all bound up together.”

  “It sounds like you’re still in love with him.”

  “I know. But I’m not sure I want to be.”

  “Because you can’t forgive him?”

  “Should I?”

  “You’ll have to decide that for yourself, Anne.”

  I try to smile. “I was hoping you’d do that for me.”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “I know. But . . . can we do that chair thing? Being off-balance somehow makes things clearer for me.”

  “We can do that if you like, but the purpose of that exercise is to start you on the path of living consciously. I think you know what you want to do, and you don’t need me or an oversize chair to show you what it is.”

  “You’re wrong. I do need help.”

  He looks firm. “No, you don’t. You just need to be honest with yourself about what kind of life you want. And once you do that, you’ll know what you want and how to get it.”

  Early on the morning of Sarah’s wedding day, a package arrives at my apartment. It has Jack’s handwriting on it, my name spelled out in messy block letters. I put the package on my kitchen table. Huddled in my bathrobe, I look at it while I drink my morning coffee. I have a feeling I know what’s in it, and I’m not sure I have the strength to face it.

  In the end, I take my kitchen scissors and cut away the wrapping. There are several smaller packages inside: a stack of photographs, a folded set of papers, a small box, and a copy of Jack’s book.

  I start with the papers. It’s the annulment application Sarah prepared, the one Jack hasn’t signed. Only he has. The name Jack Harmer is written in triplicate just above mine. And so that’s it. We’re not married anymore. We never were.

  I pick up the photographs and flip through them slowly. They’re the pictures Jack took in Mexico. The hotel we stayed at. The ocean at high noon, the ocean at sunset. There’s a great night shot of the palm tree on the beach with lights wound around its trunk. There are pictures from our trip off the compound—the shots we took from the top of the pyramid in the jungle. A shot of Jack and me taken by another tourist, standing on the edge of the stairs, his arm around my neck, my hair blowing in the wind. A picture I took of Jack reading by the pool, another of him scribbling in his notebook. His goddamn notebook. He was probably scribbling about me.

  The last picture is of us lying in a hammock together. I’m asleep on my back, my face flushed from sleep and the sun. Jack is curled next to me, his body around mine like he’s protecting me. I don’t know who took the picture. Someone must’ve thought we looked cute and picked up the camera lying next to us.

  I’m staring at this picture when my doorbell rings. I realize I’ve been crying. I wipe my face hastily and open the door to let William in. He takes one look at me and, without speaking, wraps me in his arms, holds my head to his chest, and lets me cry. He leads me over to the couch and waits until I can speak again.

  “What’s the matter?” he says gently.

  I hand him the picture clasped in my hand. “Jack sent me this.”

  “Ah.”

  “He sent me his book too. And something in a box. I’m not sure what.”

  “The rat bastard,” he says flatly.

  “He is a rat bastard.”

  “I know, I just said so.”

  I untangle myself from his arms. “What’s with the tone? You sound like you’re defending him.”

  “I’m not defending him, Anne. I just don’t think he’s a bad guy for sending you this picture, or his book, or trying to get you back.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Think about it, A.B. If he hadn’t tried to do those things, you’d probably be even madder.”

  “Yeah, okay, smartass. But that doesn’t mean that fundamentally, he isn’t a rat bastard.”

  “I hear you. But these are his good parts showing.”

  “That’s not helping. I don’t want to think about Jack’s good parts.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why did you come over, anyway?”

  “We had plans, remember? We were going to go for a run . . .” He gestures toward his body, and I notice for the first time that William is in running pants and a long-sleeved Gore-Tex shirt. “You forgot?”

  “I got distracted.”

  He looks resigned. “You want to show me the book?”

  I go to the kitchen to get it, grabbing the little box that came with it. The book cover is white with a bouquet of flowers on it. Looking at it, I realize the bouquet looks remarkably like the one Jack gave me on our wedding day, and I don’t know whether to scream or cry.

  God, I’m sick of crying.

  I hand it to William. He starts flipping through it. “You going to read this?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “How can you resist?”

  “I already read it, remember?”

  “Didn’t he say he changed it?”

  “So?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  Yes. No. Maybe.

  “Not really.”

  He looks skeptical.

  “Not enough to read it,” I tell him.

 
“Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  “There you go, defending him again!”

  He puts his hands up in front of him. “Relax, Anne. I swear, I’m not.”

  “You want to read it?”

  “What, and tell you what it says?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Nuh-uh. No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to suffer a messenger’s fate.”

  “Fucker.”

  He eyes the box in my hand. “You going to open that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think it’s going to make me happy or sad?”

  “I have no idea, A.B.”

  “Very helpful, as always.” I bite my lip. “All right, I’ll open it.”

  I slide the cover off the little silver box. Inside is a pink enamel heart on a threaded gold chain. The ends of my fingers start to tingle.

  “What’s that all about?” William asks.

  “It means he’s still trying to manipulate me.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I thought you said you read my book.”

  His eyes shift guiltily. “Did I say that?”

  “Uh, yeah. And lots of other stuff about how good it was, and how funny . . .”

  “Well, I started reading it, but it’s really not my thing.”

  “What page did you get to?”

  “Twenty-nine?”

  “Jeez. Thanks for giving it a real chance. Anyway, if you had read my book, you’d know that Ben sends Lauren a necklace like this when they aren’t speaking, and it’s what makes her start to realize that maybe they should be together again. I kind of lifted the idea from one of the Anne books, actually.”

  “So you think that’s why Jack sent you the necklace? To try to change your mind?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “What’s the matter? Are you afraid it’s going to work?”

  Yes. No. Maybe.

  “No need to be so insightful,” I say.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “So, are we running or what?”

  “You running in that?”

  “Give me a minute to change.”

  I set the book and the necklace on my bed and change into my running clothes: old sweats I’ve had since I was a teenager. I look at the book. Part of me wants to pitch it in the garbage. Part of me wants to read it. I’m not sure which part is going to win. I walk back to the living room. William starts laughing.

  “What?”

  “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  I look down at myself. I look kind of like Ally Sheedy in WarGames.

  “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Oh, it’s fine, Anne, if you’re running in 1984. Do you have a Walkman too, or is that technology too advanced for you?”

  “You’d better run fast, little man.”

  William and I get back in half an hour from our pathetic attempt at a run. I grab a quick shower and take a cab to the hair salon to meet Sarah.

  The salon is one of those old-fashioned ones where women my grandmother’s age come to get their weekly permanents. It even has those hairdryers in baby-blue enamel—the kind with the cone that comes down over your head—lined up in a row at the back. The air smells like burned hair and peroxide. I wonder how Sarah ended up in this place.

  Sarah is sitting in a chair, looking tense. I give her a kiss on the cheek. “What’s up?”

  She points to her head. “This is take two.”

  The hairdresser is wearing a look of extreme concentration as she sweeps up small pieces of Sarah’s hair and pins them into place.

  “It looks pretty,” I say.

  “Would you tell me if it didn’t?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Anne!”

  “Of course I would, silly. It looks amazing.”

  It really does. It’s all soft and flowing curls falling from her head. She looks . . . like a bride.

  I get my hair washed and sit in the chair next to hers, a bright pink towel draped over my shoulders.

  “You looked wiped,” Sarah says.

  “I went running with William this morning.”

  She smiles. “Did you wear that horrible eighties outfit again?”

  “Hey, I look cute in that.”

  “You think you look like Ally Sheedy.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Sarah, if it weren’t your wedding day, I’d make you pay for that.”

  “But it is my wedding day.”

  I smile at her in the mirror. “That it is.”

  “Freaky.”

  “I know.”

  She frowns. “I feel bad, being so happy when—”

  “Oh God, don’t worry. It’s normal to be nervous on your wedding day. I was.” I smile at her to show I’m okay.

  “It is, right? It’s normal to be nervous. It’s normal to be nervous, it’s normal . . .”

  I put my hand on her arm. “It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

  “I know. I’m doing a good thing today.” She looks so happy that I can feel tears forming. I think they’re tears of joy. I cry so much these days, it’s hard to tell.

  “Stop that,” Sarah says. “You’ll get me going, and I’ll have to redo my makeup.”

  I wipe my tears away. “Sorry. Hey, you want to hear a funny story?” I’m not sure it is funny, but I want to change the subject. “I got a copy of Jack’s book in the mail today.”

  She gets a look on her face. The same look she had when she told me about her meeting with Jack.

  “Sarah?”

  “Please don’t be mad at me, Anne.”

  “Mad at you for what?”

  “I read it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jack sent me a copy a few days ago, and I read it.”

  I try to act indifferent. “Was it any good?”

  “Why do you want to know? Are you going to read it?”

  Yes. No. Maybe.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “I think you should read it, Anne.”

  “What’s with him sending it to you, anyway? I really don’t like this whole pattern you two have going. Will you be going for drinks soon?”

  “Don’t be silly. He sent it to me for the same reason he sought me out before—to convince you to read it.”

  “His strategy seems to be working.” I sound petulant, I know, but I feel like pouting.

  “Anne, I’m your best friend. I wouldn’t tell you to do something I didn’t think was good for you. I don’t care about him. But I think you might feel better after reading it. It might allow you to put this all behind you.”

  The hairdresser picks up a can of hair spray to polish off Sarah’s look.

  “Wait. Don’t put that stuff on her!” I reach up and bat the can away from Sarah’s head.

  “Thanks,” Sarah says, turning her chair toward me. “So, what do you think?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  And she does. She looks beautiful and happy and ready to get married.

  I clink my wineglass to get everyone’s attention. I’m in my soft pink bridesmaid’s dress, facing a roomful of people in their finest. Large round tables glow with candles and pink and white tulips.

  “So, I’m here to talk about Mike . . . I mean Sarah, of course. Sarah.” [laughter] “What can I say about Sarah? First of all, I think she deserves a round of applause for pulling off this flawless event today.” [clapping] “If you only knew how many lists went into it, how many trees were killed with the endless drafts and redrafts.” [small laughs] “Seriously, tonight’s been lovely, and I think everyone knows that planning parties is not Mike’s strong suit.” [a drunken yell from a college buddy whom I can’t quite make out]

  “Okay, enough jokes, before Sarah never speaks to me again. I do want to say a few words about my best friend. We met in the third grade. I belie
ve the exact occasion of our meeting involved a barrette emergency (guess who needed the barrette and who provided it). All I know is, one minute I was having the worst day of my young life, and the next, everything was all right again. And ever since then I’ve had someone in my life who’s there for me unconditionally. It sounds so trite to say that out loud, but it’s rare, so rare, to have that in your life. And if you can have one person like that, you’re so lucky.

  “Mike has been there for Sarah since they met. He sees how beautiful and smart she is, but I know he loves her most for her little quirks. So I’d like to raise a glass to Mike and Sarah. Sarah, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t know how I’d get through my life without you. And Mike, you’ve restored my faith in happy endings. To Mike and Sarah.”

  I lift my glass, and the room follows suit. I take a drink of the fizzy champagne and walk over to Sarah to the applause of the guests. Her eyes are shining wet. We hug, and she whispers in my ear, “Read the book, Anne.”

  Looks like it’s just you and me.” William extends his hand, inviting me to dance. He’s wearing a dark suit and a white rose in his lapel. He’d look serious and handsome if it weren’t for his untamable hair. I take his hand, and we walk onto the dance floor among Sarah’s cousins and college friends. The band is playing an old U2 song. He waltzes me around the floor in a fast slow dance that feels like high school. We look ridiculous, and are attracting a bit of attention from the crowd. Sarah and Mike, glowing, half drunk, and exhausted, left a few minutes ago.

  “I feel like this is the end of My Best Friend’s Wedding,” I say.

  “That’s because it is.”

  “No, silly, that Julia Roberts movie. You know, the one where she tries to break up her best friend’s wedding and she’s left dancing with her gay friend at the end.”

  William pulls away from me. “Am I the gay friend in this scenario?”

  I roll my eyes. “It just has the same feeling.”

  “I’m not gay, Anne.”

  “I know, William.”

  “I had a date last week. With a woman. I’m thinking of calling her again.”

  “That’s great. Anyway, she’s left dancing with her friend. Is that better?”

  He starts waltzing me around again. “So? Sounds like a helluva good time.”

  “Yeah, but she ends up alone. She doesn’t get the guy.”

  “Did she want the guy?”