Emily's Reasons Why Not

by Carrie Gerlach

  I am working hard at the office from 8:00 A.M. to 8:00 P.M., only deviating to take Sam to the latest specialist of the month. I wonder how it is that I seem to be relatively sensible on the outside. Yet inside I am irrational and crazy. I mechanically move through the day like a robot with most of its guts pulled out. Frayed wires shoot every which way, starting small electrical fires inside of me every so often, triggered by a song on the radio. Little tantrums that flare up, sparking and arcing and shooting through what’s left of my heart. The fires are made of questions all starting with why. Why?

  Why is it that the one thing that isn’t working is 95 percent of my pie in life? Why is it that Reese still consumes every other one of my thoughts? Why couldn’t I focus on the good things in my life? My work, my new house? The cute guys at the beach? Why must I constantly wonder where he is, how he is doing, who he is with?

  I am living in the memory of him, the possibility of him, because the present sucks. I wonder if all women slip into some sort of vulnerable position of fear postrelationship they really wanted to work. Do we all lash out, mainly at ourselves, when it slowly slips away?

  I think it was the not knowing that made me batty.

  I head into the house with Sam at my heels. He whimpers as he lies down at my feet. I reach down and give him an understanding look and scratch him on his muzzle. I pour myself another glass and shut my refrigerator door. I stand looking at the frozen images of my life stuck to the fridge with magnets. Grace, Reilly, Mom, Josh, Sam … and a small picture of my dad and me when I was five. I study the photo of myself in pigtails and a flowery green dress. He holds me in his arms, and I long for that time long ago. My eyes drift to a picture of Reese and me at his house in Phoenix in the front yard. I am smiling and happy. Then, as if my eyes are playing tricks on me, he fades out and I am standing there alone.

  But I am not alone.

  I take the picture of Reese and me off the fridge and toss it in the garbage. I open the freezer door and pull out the vanilla ice cream and proceed to give Sam a bowlful. I lay down on the hardwood floor next to him, stroking his fur as he laps up the entire bowl. When the bowl is empty he licks me on the side of the face, and I can’t help but bawl.

  Reason #10: It doesn’t matter what is happening, it only matters how you feel.

  Dr. D. was right. I did have needs. Wants. Desires. At thirty-two, it was about time I started acknowledging them.

  Reason #10: It doesn’t matter what is happening, it only matters how you feel.

  Reason #9: When they ask you to hang on, it’ll feel like you’re hanging from your neck.

  Reason #8: They absolutely must be willing to fight for you because if you’re fighting every battle yourself, then you’re still alone.

  Reason #7: Hold on to reality or you’re choosing insanity.

  Reason #6: When things go bad you see the real man.

  Reason #5: If he’s always leaving, he has to go.

  Reason #4: Never listen to a man who says he “knows you” when he doesn’t. He knows what he wants to know.

  Reason #3: If and when a guy who completely wrecked you shows up again and wants back in, he must be willing to work extra hard to get you back. He can’t just slip away like a shadow at dusk. He must be tenacious, must prove that he will never, never, never do whatever he did again and that this time it will be different.

  Reason #2: If there was a reason you left, remember what it was. At some point, if you take them back, they will leave you or you’ll leave them AGAIN and probably for the same reasons you left in the first place.

  Reason #1: If it feels like a test, it probably will be.

  Chapter eight

  Good-bye to a Friend

  SUBJECT: His Time

  Date: Thursday, Sept 8, 2002

  From: EmilyS@AOL.com

  To: Distribution:

  Grace, Reilly, Josh, Mom, Jeff, JJ….

  Dear Friends:

  My heart is breaking.

  I have made the decision to put Sam down tomorrow.

  The time I have shared with him. The stories, howls, walks, hikes, cuddles, and knowing that he is always here to love me have given me great joy over the last eight years. I will miss him deeply.

  I know that his quality of life is no longer dignified or pleasant. I know that he suffers daily from hip, stomach, and skin pain. I know that he is exhausted from seeing every specialist in L.A. and being poked and pricked. I know that he looks at me every day before I leave and every night before I go to bed with sad eyes as I slip his cone over his head to stop him from biting himself. I know in my heart, although I tried to ignore it, that he is ready.

  Tonight I will feed him steak and ice cream and all of the wonderful people food he has never been able to stomach. I will take him for a long walk without his leash and let him smell all of the flowers, grass, and trees he has marked. I will roll in the yard with him and hug him for hours. He’ll rest his fuzzy muzzle on my bed with his huge yellow-green and brown eyes and watch me fall asleep. Then I’ll hear the click of his nails on the hardwood floor as he checks the house and eventually comes into my room and settles in his bed at the side of my bed and falls asleep.

  Tomorrow morning he will wake, we’ll walk, and then he will no longer suffer. The vet is coming to the house at 7:00 A.M. to do it here so it is less traumatic for him. He will go to heaven from the safety of his own house. Surrounded by his friends, family, and me.

  Anyone who ever spent time with Sam knows that he is a special dog who came into my life when I needed something to love, and he needed kindness, comfort, and safety. We have taken care of each other and given each other boundless joy and love.

  In the afternoon, after he is gone, I will wander around aimlessly for a while picking up his toys, beds, and bowls and know that his spirit is with me and will always be near to protect me.

  Please say a little prayer for him, and for me, tonight.

  It is so hard to let go of something so beautiful, magical, and something that I truly love so very much, really, truly heart-wrenching … but I know he will be chasing bunnies in heaven and waiting for me to join him someday.

  He’s been a good ol’ pup.

  Emily.

  Chapter nine

  Don’t Date Your Dad

  Sitting at my desk in my office, overlooking my back yard, the Pacific Ocean, I review the press list for an upcoming MTV party. We’re handling the PR. Business is good and this account is going to put me on the map with the cable industry. We need it. I look at my name on the bottom of a press list. CONTACT: Emily Sanders … President … impressive. I feel like one of those Virginia Slims ads from the eighties.

  I can still feel the dull aching hole that Sam once filled. The silence in the house without him is deafening. It hasn’t left for even an instant. But is it slightly less razor-sharp every morning.

  I wonder if I am grieving over the loss of my pup or still grieving over the possibility of the happily-ever-after life that never was, with Reese. I think it is both. I know for sure that I am hiding from the knowledge that at some point I will have to go out there again and try.

  The last seven months feel like a trip over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Everyone I know has been hard-selling me the hope of “new love.” I go out with the girls and end up chatting about spring training and the upcoming baseball season with the bartender. I made it through the holiday season staring up from the murky depths of an eggnog bowl.

  I have given up waiting for love, believing in love, or hoping for it. Once upon a time I bought into Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a father who said he’d be there on my birthday. It was hard to see them for what they were, but new confidence replaced the old wonder-eyed amazement. I am a big girl and don’t need to believe in such nonsense.

  As a bonus, I have gotten on the bandwagon and joined a book club, and all we read is the latest kitschy novels about how GREAT it is to be single. They are witty and sassy and full of great stories, but you know wh
at? I like having someone to hold my hand. I guess that’s why they call it fiction.

  What exactly is love, anyway? I love my friends. I love my family. I loved my dog. I just don’t know if I can love a man, or if maybe they can love me. And what happens if they do? I am now approaching the age when the “I do,” is quickly followed by a year of fertility tests, injections, and drugs that will hopefully help us produce two kids before he goes off to play golf. Forever.

  I have decided that men, for now, are a waste of time and energy. I am embracing the single life. Does that make me bitter? I am tired of hoping, fixing, being patient, being there … when at the end of the day I am really alone. There’s that word again.

  A lone soldier like, what was her name … the nineteen-year-old virgin they burned at the stake. Hmm, I am … Joan of Arc. Emily D’Singleville. Doomed to fight the question asked by all, including me: “Why do I sleep alone?”

  Will I be one of those women sitting in the bar when they’re fifty, bashing men? I’m not a man-basher. I love men, the way they smell, their forearms, their teeth, the way they give me the flutter, flutter.

  That’s it. My flutter meter is off. It definitely got dulled, bent, bashed, and twisted, like the rest of me, by Reese. Maybe it finally just turned off. After all, the flutter is what always gets me into trouble. Maybe Dr. D. is right. The flutter is my warning system, not my love meter. So far, every wrong guy has had the flutter in common.

  The phone rings in the office and my assistant, Karen, a twenty-two-year-old UCLA grad, answers, “It’s Grace.”

  I push the speakerphone and that dear, trusted voice rings through. “Okay, I’m in.”

  “You’re in?” I say, excited. “‘Cause it’s really a big deal for my company. You know landing MTV was huge. This launch party is the kickoff for my national promotion campaign.”

  “It’ll be great. You’ll be great. You know Reilly and I will be there for you! A fun girls’ night out. Gotta run.” Grace hangs up.

  That night at my party for MTV, I stand with my girls on the balcony looking out onto the garden. From here it looks almost make-believe, with its fairy twinkle lights shining off the passing silver trays.

  “Look, look … it’s Britney,” Grace whispers in Reilly’s ear.

  “C’mon, I’ve got to get back,” I say as we walk down the stairs into the main party room, which is covered wall-to-wall with video screens, rock stars, music executives, composers, and record-label types, music blaring, shrimp on cocktail trays, memorabilia from rock over the last thirty-five years, champagne, and caviar.

  My eyes dart across the party and I smile at the marketing executive from MTV, who gives a nod of approval.

  I feel relieved and happily reach for my first glass of champagne. “Well, this month’s house payment is made.”

  “And then some,” Reilly says.

  “Bar’s open,” I say, grabbing my girls’ hands. We glide across the living room, through a sunken billiards room past Luke Wilson playing George Clooney. George gives me a “hello” wink, as he doesn’t know my name, but has seen me enough over the past five years to not be a stranger. Funny how times have changed—although he is still uberhot!

  “There’s that guy, the guy who dated Sheryl Crow. He sang that song …” Reilly ponders.

  “AH! ‘Tears in Heaven,’ yeah, ‘Tears in Heaven.’ What’s his name?” Grace continues.

  “Eric Clapton,” a man in front of me at the bar with a lovely British accent says, without turning around.

  Nice shoes, black trousers, black T-shirt, with camel-colored suede jacket … can’t quite see his face. “Citron martini,” the still-mysterious gray-haired guy says to the bartender.

  “Two.” I saddle up for a better look at the mystery guy.

  “Make that three,” Grace pipes in as Mr. Mysterious turns around and looks at us and smiles at me with his full lips and white teeth shining.

  Flutter, flutter.

  Damn it! Just when I thought my flutter was dead. Now the question is, to risk or run? Sweet green eyes, strong jaw, over six foot, and definitely over fifty. Strong, deep laugh lines around the eyes and mouth. Hair short, all gray, and slight gray stubble on the chin. Sexy. Very sexy.

  He hands me my martini with some good long eye contact, hands Grace hers, and Reilly steps up already holding one. “Three women who like martinis,” he says with his European charm. Babe, older-guy babe.

  Reason #1: If his age is old enough to notice, it’s old enough to matter.

  Maybe an older guy is what I need. Someone more mature, someone who can spark my intellectual curiosity. Someone who’s learned the lessons of life. I’ll benefit from all the shit that he has had to go through with maybe an ex-wife or two. Maybe he’s had a couple of relationships where he was actually schooled on how to treat a woman.

  When is an older guy too old? It seems when you are younger, say sixteen, eighteen seems too old. When you reach twenty-one, thirty may be too old, and at thirty-two, fifty-seven is way too old. Wow, did he just say he was fifty-seven? That’s what fifty-seven looks like? Maybe it’s the music business, maybe it’s the clothes, or maybe he’s had some work done, but he looks like an older, gray-haired Tom Selleck. Tom Selleck, who will always be the hottest TV actor of the eighties. Even now, that frame, hair, smile. I have my fifty-seven-year-old Magnum standing in front of me.

  “He’s cute, kind of weathered, but cute,” Grace says as we get the Rover from the valet.

  “Is he too weathered? I mean, do you think he is too old for me?” I look at Reilly for any support that he is indeed too old and I should continue my weekends as a safe shut-in.

  “Em, I always pictured you with an older guy. You need someone who gets you, appreciates the humor, and isn’t afraid that you have an opinion, a career, a house. Plus, you’re young enough that the old guy is going to worship you. What the hell is wrong with that?” Reilly digs in her purse for a cigarette.

  I hand the valet five dollars and climb into the Rover.

  “You need to get back out there,” Grace pipes in.

  “That’s really easy for you to say now that you have passed your first wedding anniversary with Mr. Normal, good job, happy, stable thirty-six-year-old. I just don’t want to be the girl dating the ‘old guy’ because I can’t find anyone my own age.”

  “You can’t,” Reilly says while expertly lining her lips. I hit the gas a little and the liner runs off her lip. She turns and gives me one of those “piss off” looks before continuing, “What I meant was, you don’t want a guy like,” she looks at Grace and they both say in a hushed tone, “… Reese.”

  I squint my eyes at her and grit my teeth. “You know you’re not supposed to say that name!”

  Reason #2: If you’re not over your ex, you’re not ready, no matter how old you are.

  Grace continues, “Let me expand … Some jerk who doesn’t appreciate you is all she meant. But you do need the excitement and you want the fun.”

  “You’re right,” I mumble.

  “The good news is, maybe old guy … what’s his name?” Reilly questions.

  “Charlie,” I say.

  “Maybe Charlie is still cool enough and young enough to give you what you’re looking for. He did give you the …” Reilly pantomimes quotation marks with her fingers “…. flutter, flutter.”

  Reason #3: Compromise is compromise no matter what season of life you’re in.

  My friends, as gentle and amusing as they can be … are telling me to go for it. I hear it. But I believe it is their silent fear that I may never try again after becoming a crash dummy and being dragged for fifty miles on open asphalt behind Reese’s Range Rover of faux love that is making them so encouraging. I hear their not-so-silent excuse for why I should just go ahead and try.

  Date number one with Charlie, aka Magnum, sitting on the beach, under my umbrella, slathered in sunscreen. We are in Maui, yes, Maui. I sip a rum-and-pineapple drink with a colorful umbrella in it, as I watch hi
m snorkel in the clear blue water. It’s funny that our first date would be a weekend in Maui at his house on a private cove at the north end of the island. I just couldn’t resist. Why say no? How many chances does a woman get to be dropped off on a tropical island for her first date. I have my own room. Own life. Ability to fly home. What is the worst that can happen? Nothing. I will drink enough champagne and eat enough caviar to make even Robin Leach jealous.

  Okay, reasons I told Dr. D. I was going: (1) I have never flown on a private corporate jet. Very cool. (2) I have never stayed in a house with servants. (3) I have never had anyone be this nice and generous. (4) I certainly haven’t had the full treatment. (5) He is old enough not to reopen my wounds. Am I a bad person for soooo loving this pampering? Don’t we all really deserve it—all of us? As my Magnum gets out of the blue water and walks toward me I notice something strange on his body … skin, weird skin that appears to be loose.

  Look away. Now it’s not fat, because he’s in shape, it’s just the skin isn’t staying where it should—above his knees and a little on the under part of his arms. He has a body that looks like Clint Eastwood now … not Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry. Oh, shit. I am so judgmental. Stop. Stop judging. Start enjoying. Keep drinking.

  I pour the entire rum drink down my throat in one gulp. He sits next to me on a lounge chair and readjusts the umbrella a little to cover his face. Hey! I need that protection myself. “How ya doin’, beautiful?” he asks with that yummy accent as he looks at me, all the while toweling off his big muscles and old skin.

  Ah, beautiful, I like that. I like a man who thinks I am beautiful, tells me I am beautiful. “It’s hard not to be good in paradise.”

  “I’m happy you came with me. Hope you don’t feel too awkward. Did you get settled into your room okay?”

  He pulls out a vial of ginseng and downs it with a champagne chaser.

  “Yeah, it’s really lovely and I appreciate that you let me stay in my own, well, room and all.” I look away.

  “What did you think, that I was going to take you to my place in Hawaii and lavish luxury upon luxury on you just so you’d shag me?” he laughs.