“So what was wrong with this blind date? Hunchback? Cross-eyed? Two left feet?” I ask Bellini, running through the dating disabilities list. “Drinks Merlot instead of Pinot?”
“Stood straight, eyes were fine, and I didn’t dance with him,” she mutters. Then she looks up at me. “But if you must know, he didn’t even order wine; he ordered seltzer. No lime.”
I wait.
“And?” I ask.
“And nothing,” she says. “That’s the problem. He was boring.”
Ah, now I understand. He probably wore a suit, has a job, and is nice to his mother. Not the right man for Bellini.
“I can’t decide if your standards are too high or too low,” I say.
Bellini laughs. “I’ll go either way. I just can’t stand guys in the middle.” She wipes her fingers on a napkin. “But how about you? How was your weekend?”
“Quiet,” I tell her.
I fill her in quickly on the Heavenly Spirit Retreat Center, and the details of my encounter with Rav Jon Yoma Maharishi. I’ve actually started to think of him that way because “Barry” is certainly long gone.
“So right after dating you, the guy turned gay,” Bellini says, summarizing my story. “Nice work.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what happened,” I say defensively.
“You should be proud,” says Bellini. “It’s easy to get dumped by a guy. It’s harder to get him to dump the entire gender.”
“I’m talented. Four weeks with me and a man’s life is changed forever,” I say.
I reach over and take a bite from Bellini’s pizza. “Actually, it was good to see Barry. I always liked his openness and eagerness to explore the world, and I felt some of the same sense of discovery I did twenty years ago. He’s the kind who introduces you to new experiences—Gaudi and Botticelli when we were young, silence and sat-sang now. But I think somewhere deep down I always knew he wasn’t the man to marry.”
“So the lesson for me is to rely on my instincts when it comes to guys,” Bellini says.
“The lesson for you is to rely on my instincts,” I tell her, remembering the night I had to drag her away from the art thief at the opera.
In fact, my instincts were on target with Barry. I didn’t expect he’d become a maharishi, but given his wandering, ethereal spirit, I knew he’d never be the solid husband type, either. Not the man you’d turn to in the middle of the night to ask if he thought the bright red bumps on the baby were Magic Marker or measles. And, ultimately, I needed a husband who understood that having a family is the very best adventure.
Bellini reaches for a grape and peels the skin off before eating it. Talk about high maintenance. “So your old boyfriends now include one billionaire and one guru. I guess I’m not the only one who likes extremes. Who’s next on your hit list?”
I think about the two other names I doodled on the napkin. One of them I can’t call. I can never, ever possibly call, no matter what. But there’s still the other one, and thinking about him makes me smile. Kevin, the first boy I ever kissed.
“Oh, there’s someone,” I say vaguely. “A guy I haven’t seen since high school. But I had the biggest crush on him.”
Just then a Starbucks barista comes by with a tray of samples. “Would you like to try our new Green Tea Wild Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino?” he asks, holding out a shot-glass-size plastic cup. “Or maybe a lemon poppy seed ginger low-fat scone?”
I like this place. You just sit here and they give you free food. I’m not thirsty, but I do accept his complimentary pastry.
Bellini reaches a manicured hand for the cup, and as she takes a sip from the tiny straw, she winks flirtatiously at the barista who—in Bellini’s defense—at least has a name tag that says “Assistant Manager.”
“Mmm, yummy,” she says to him. “Did you make this yourself?”
He smiles. “Yes, with my very own hands.”
“Nice hands,” she says, batting her eyes.
He puts down the tray and pulls up a chair. “Mind if I sit down?” he asks.
I stand up abruptly. I’m getting out of here, but I’ve got to admire Bellini. The blind date might not have panned out, but the lunch-date concept was on target. Damned if she didn’t meet someone over a muffin.
Since Adam had the good sense to have his birthday fall on a Saturday this year, I can spend the whole day with him. Well, until five o’clock, anyway. He has someplace he needs to go tonight. He hedged when I asked him the details, but I’m sure it’s a date with that girl he’s been telling me about.
I drove up early, and now as we walk across the Dartmouth campus, I try to figure out which of the perky, adorable friends who call out “Hi, Adam!” could be his current crush, Mandy. It’s chilly in New Hampshire, and even though I keep tugging my oversize wool cardigan tighter around me, the hot-blooded college girls all seem to be prancing around in cutoffs and midriff tops. To get into this Ivy League school, you obviously need an A average and goose bump–proof skin.
So far the day’s been perfect. We’ve hung out at Adam’s dorm, had lunch, and opened his birthday presents. Adam liked the new digital camera I bought him, but he laughed when he saw the Swiss Army watch. I guess he’ll put it in the drawer with the Timex and the fake Rolex, not to mention the Seiko, the Skagen and the Swatch I bought him in previous years. Eventually I’ll have to accept that the new sundial is a cell phone. Time marches on, but without Bulova.
Adam eagerly takes me to the physics building and leads me to the lab where he’s doing a research project with an esteemed professor. He tells me their work involves searching for neutrinos.
“You might find those in the breakfast aisle in the supermarket,” I say.
“Is that a joke, Mom?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course, honey.” Though the truth is I could be chatting with a neutrino right now and not know the difference.
Adam gives me a little smile and launches into a detailed explanation of neutrinos, ghostly particles which can pass through metal as easily as we walk through air. Apparently, they’re quite different from Cheerios after all.
“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him, as we stroll outside again. And I am. It’s nice when your children are young and the only things they know are what you’ve taught them. But it’s even better when they grow up and can teach you.
Adam drapes his arm around my shoulder, and I’m pleased to realize that my grown-up son isn’t embarrassed to be seen with his mother. We walk through a grassy courtyard where students are enjoying the sunshine. Blankets are spread everywhere, and some of the kids lying on them are reading and others are studying. Then I notice one young couple sitting close, gazing into each other’s eyes. The boy’s hands gently glide across his girlfriend’s arms, he kisses her sweetly, and she melts into him. For a moment, I imagine how deliciously enraptured she feels. I sigh a little too loudly.
“What’s wrong, mom?” Adam asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Just all this young love on campus.”
Adam kicks a stone that just barely misses the kissing couple. “Young love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he says.
“Having a problem with Mandy?” I ask, daring to go where mothers never should.
“Not a problem, really. I broke up with her two days ago.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You broke up with her over nothing?” I ask, trying to keep my voice in check.
“Yeah,” Adam says. “Can we talk about something else?”
“No, we can’t,” I say petulantly. “This is important.”
“What’s so important? She was my girlfriend, now she’s not my girlfriend. End of story.”
“Adam! How can you be so flippant! I’m sure you hurt her terribly. I brought you up to behave better than that.” I take a deep breath before continuing my rant. “Mandy deserved a little more from you.” I’ve never even meet this girl, an
d already I’m taking her side over my son. Sisterhood is powerful, and all that. Or is it just that as a woman recently scorned, I’m feeling a tad sensitive?
“Mom, relax. Don’t you think you’re being a little O.T.T.?”
“I’m not being O.T.T.,” I say huffily. Because how could I be when I don’t even know what O.T.T. is?
“Geez, you’re being just like Mandy. Over the top,” he says, defining his terms. Look at that. If you just listen, you find out what you need to know.
We walk in silence for a minute. I’m thinking that I want to tell my son not to use Bill for a role model on how to handle a relationship. But I decide to be a little more even tempered.
“I just hate the thought of your trampling on anybody else’s feelings,” I say, with my familiar mantra. I’ve been repeating Mom’s Three Rules of Dating forever. One: Emotions count. Two: Always consider the other person’s feelings. And three: When it’s time to get physical, make sure she wants to go ahead as much as you do. We had some confusion about that last one when Adam was five and wouldn’t play soft-ball with a girl named Lizzy because he worried that she didn’t want to as much as he did. Maybe I started teaching about the birds and the bees too soon. On the other hand, my son may be the only genius nuclear physicist who actually goes out on dates.
“Why do you assume I’m the one who did the trampling?” he asks, irritated.
“Because men can be a little cavalier about these things,” I say. And then I notice the chagrined look on my son’s face.
“Okay, if you want to know, we were at a party and I caught Mandy kissing another guy in the bathroom.” Adam shakes his head. “I can’t stand cheating. I’d never do it myself, and I’m not going to let anybody do it to me.”
I squeeze his hand. So Adam isn’t Bill, after all. Or else he really is using his father as a role model. A reverse role model. And I’ve just made a bad mistake.
“I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Forgive me. I should know my son would never behave badly.”
He gives me a faint smile. “Of course not. I was raised well. And you made me read The Feminine Mystique when I was fourteen.”
“Which, as I recall, you hid inside your Sports Illustrated .” I give him a little hug. “Break ups are hard, honey, however they happen. Trust me. I know. If you need to talk about it, I can stay as long as you want tonight.”
“Thanks, Mom. That’s okay.” Adam pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time. “You should go pretty soon,” he adds, with a slightly anxious edge to his voice.
Why does he want me to leave? Now that I know he’s not going out with Mandy, I wonder what he is doing tonight. I mean, it’s his birthday. Adam’s always made a big deal about being with family on his birthday.
Family. I should have thought of that. All of a sudden, I’m pretty sure I know why Adam’s worried about my hanging around. Mom for birthday lunch, Dad for dinner. Everybody gets a little bit of him, and never the twain shall meet.
But my moment of clarity comes just a little too late. Because the twain are about to come into a head-on collision. About a hundred yards away, I get a glimpse of Bill. He’s spotted us, too, and is now cheerfully striding across the field.
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Bill sings out as he gets closer.
“Oh, shit,” mutters Adam under his breath.
Poor kid, everything has suddenly gone wrong. Mandy cheated. His parents are about to confront each other. And his father never could sing on key. And then it just gets worse, because a bunch of kids who’ve been playing touch football nearby stop their game and decide to join the festivities.
“Hey, Adam, who knew?” calls out one, who looks like a linebacker. And then he, too, breaks into a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” joined by his rowdy teammates.
“These your ’rents?” asks the linebacker coming over, tossing his ball from hand to hand.
“They were,” mumbles Adam.
“What’s the matter, you divorcing them?” asks the linebacker.
“No, they’re doing that themselves,” says Adam.
“Whoa, man,” says the football player, raising his arms as if trying to block a pass—or, in this case, any more information. “Heavy, dude. Gotta go. Happy birthday. Wanna get drunk later?”
He’s off before my dear Adam can tell him that he’s only turning twenty and so wouldn’t dream of letting a sip of Bud Lite pass his lips. As his mom, I’m sure he hardly even touches apple cider.
Meanwhile, Bill has taken the opportunity to put one arm around Adam and the other around me. “Hey, this is terrific. I didn’t know we were all going to be together.”
“I didn’t either,” says Adam.
“Great surprise to see you here, Hallie,” Bill says jovially. He sounds a little too happy. Maybe I should let him know right now that he can stop trying so hard. I don’t have the Knicks tickets with me.
“So,” says Adam, “as long as we’re all here, what do you guys want to do?”
I want to strangle Bill. I want to make Adam start wearing a watch. I want to head for the hills, or at least the highway.
“I think I’m going to get going,” I say. “I don’t want to hit a lot of traffic.”
“Never any traffic in New Hampshire. It’s not even deer season,” says Bill, who doesn’t seem to see anything awkward in our all being together.
I’m feeling incredibly awkward. But maybe leaving at this point would be even worse. Besides, this could be an opportunity to show Adam how mature his ’rents really are.
Both my men are looking at me expectantly. “Hallie, come on and hang out with us,” Bill says. “It’ll be like old times. When was the last time we celebrated Adam’s birthday together?”
“A year ago,” I say tersely.
Bill laughs a little too loudly, and punches Adam’s arm. “What do you say, huh? Your mom has quite a sense of humor, doesn’t she?”
“She’s great,” says Adam, kicking a stone again. “I wish you knew that.”
“I do know that,” says Bill. He turns to me, and now he punches my arm. “You’re still great, Hallie.”
I punch him back, harder than I’d intended. And then I punch him again.
“That’s healthy, Mom,” says Adam, who’s taking a psychology class. “It’s good to get out your pent-up aggression.”
“I don’t have any pent-up aggression,” I say, punching Bill once more, just for emphasis. I seem to be developing quite a left hook. “Why would I have any aggression against a lying, deceiving, unethical, vile, contemptible, depraved, despicable, abominable, loathsome”—I can’t help it; the adjectives keep coming as if I swallowed a thesaurus— “horrid, horrible man?”
Adam clears his throat. “He’s my dad.”
I close my eyes for a second to pull myself back together. Bill has come up to celebrate Adam’s birthday. I came up for the same reason. Having his parents fighting in front of him is exactly what Adam was trying to avoid. I’m not going to do that to him.
“He is your dad,” I say quietly. “And he’s a great dad. I’m sorry, Adam.” Second apology to my son of the day.
Adam nods. “It’s okay.”
“How about if we all go out for ice cream before I leave?” I ask, figuring that I can make myself be nice for the duration of a medium-size Rocky Road cone.
“Great!” says Adam, cheering up a little.
“Great!” echoes Bill, looking relieved.
We head into the little town, where a crowd of students are lined up outside the ice cream shop. In Hanover, this forty-five-degree weather is practically a beach day. I manage to keep up a cheerful stream of conversation, and Bill and Adam both seem grateful. Before long, we’re all telling stories—and I’m actually starting to relax and enjoy myself a little.
When we finally get to the counter, I decide to go for broke and order a large-size cup with whipped cream. I can keep up these good spirits long enough to work m
y way through a double scoop.
Or so I think.
We sit down on high stools and Adam is telling us that his research professor may include his name on a paper he’s about to publish. Bill and I can’t help catching each other’s eyes. We’re both proud of our son. Whatever’s happened to our relationship now, we did a good job together raising our kids.
Bill’s joking around, asking if there might be an investment market in neutrinos when I notice someone familiar waiting in the line for ice cream. Who could I possibly know in Hanover? I can’t place her, but for some reason she’s looking curiously at me, too. Bill has his back to the woman, but as she moves her gaze from me to Bill and Adam, a flash of understanding crosses her eyes. She tries to sidle toward the door, but a new crowd of ice cream-seeking students has come in, and she’s trapped.
So am I. I’ve never seen the woman dressed before, but I know exactly who she is.
“Ashlee,” I blurt out.
Bill looks at me, annoyed. “We’re not discussing that now,” he says.
“Then you shouldn’t have brought her here,” I grumble.
“I didn’t,” says Bill. He turns his palms upwards, gesturing toward Adam and me. “Just our little family threesome. Do you see anybody else here?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I say, and I point an accusing finger at the young woman in the doorway, who is slumping her shoulders now and trying to make herself disappear. But a couple of guys who’ve come in behind her give her a little push forward.
“You’re next in line,” one of them says.
Ashlee’s self-assurance seems to have drained out of her. She was a lot more poised when I saw her naked.
Bill turns around, his eyes following the path of my finger.
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 10
