He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by Trish Ryan

  “WHEN ARE YOU pretty girls going to get married?” one of the elderly ladies in our building asked Celia and me (week after week after week).

  “As soon as the right guys come along, Mrs. Karamakis,” we’d reply dutifully. “As soon as they get here, we’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t wait forever,” she warned ominously. “You won’t always be young and pretty!”

  Heeding this warning, Celia and I arranged our furniture and plied our spiritual wares, desperate for the day when we’d have a better answer for her. Strangely, we were not dissuaded by our obvious lack of progress. Knowing these spiritual principles—the Course, feng shui, astrology—made us feel special, like we were privy to secret sources of information other people passed by. It also gave us something to do while we waited for our dream men to arrive, a way to feel like we were in control, that we weren’t just waiting around hoping something might happen.

  “We just need to change our energy,” Celia encouraged me. “We need to cleanse our auras and fill our space with more positivity.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “We attract people and experiences into our lives for a reason,” I recited, parroting one of Jayme’s lectures. “It’s a basic metaphysical principle. We just have to affirm that the next guys we meet will be better.”

  It never occurred to us that these “glitches”—Drew, Celia’s trombone man—were any bigger than our crossing the paths of the wrong men (and our subsequent decisions to date them); we never considered that our spiritual foundation might be unstable. Celia dated an older man from work who’d stop by our apartment at midnight to say hello. I dated a younger man from work who’d come over whenever I told him to. Somehow, though, it still didn’t seem like this intentional attraction thing was working. But our reaction to these misfires was to reassure one another that things had to get better soon. Then we’d “smudge” the negative energy out of our apartment by swirling a burning hunk of sage throughout our apartment, repeating a Native American incantation to ward off evil spirits. It smelled terrible, and it didn’t seem to work.

  What would Jayme do differently? I wondered.

  Chapter Six

  Some Who Wander Are Really Lost

  Later that summer, after the fishbowl and the atheist minister and the lovebirds guarding the energy of my romance corner, I learned from Jayme’s Web site that she would be leading a spiritual pilgrimage to Greece that August. This is it! I thought. My chance to see her in action! The trip sounded amazing: touring Athena’s temple and Minoan ruins, exploring sacred sites under Jayme’s tutelage, gleaning their power through her insight and wisdom. Unfortunately, the price tag was equally amazing. I signed off and hopped in the shower, exchanging my dreams of world travel for the mundane reality of the day ahead.

  As I washed my hair, a voice in my head said, Write to her—ask if she needs an assistant.

  That’s ridiculous, I thought. Who writes to celebrities and asks for a free trip to Europe?

  An hour later, as if propelled by some unseen force, I was walking to the mailbox with an audacious letter addressed to Jayme, introducing myself as a lawyer who admired her work and offering to accompany her to Greece as a personal assistant. I even claimed to make great coffee—If she’ll take me to Greece, I thought, I’ll learn!

  Two weeks later, Celia brought the phone to me, cradling it in both hands like a holy relic. “It’s Jayme Brass . . . for you . . .”

  It was, indeed, Jayme Brass. She did not need an assistant for her upcoming trip, but she wanted someone to help with her eight-year-old daughter while they travelled—would I be interested in that instead?

  “Of course!” I blurted. “I mean, I’d be honored.”

  “Wonderful,” Jayme replied. “I’ll be in Washington next month giving a lecture on Capitol Hill—perhaps we could meet for lunch?”

  SITTING AT LUNCH a few weeks later, stirring sugar into my iced tea as Jayme perused the menu, I tried not to stare. She seemed so real. I braced myself for a hard-hitting interview to determine my fitness for the position, and asked if I could answer any questions or offer her a list of people to vouch for my character.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure you and Sara will get along famously.” I was unnerved by her nonchalance.

  “You’ll be fine,” she insisted. “Now tell me about yourself—what are your dreams?” I was stunned. Jayme wanted to know about me? Not as a babysitter, but as a person? “What do you plan to do with your life, your education, your intelligence?” she prompted. Surprised by her directness, I stuttered my replies. I knew what I hoped to do with my life, my education, my intelligence—I wanted to be like her. Having no idea how to say this, however, I choked out a condensed version of my grad school application essay, something about “wanting to be at the intersection of spirituality and political justice.”

  I was astonished to be lunching with Jayme Brass; that she was interested in me was too much to fathom. She was different from what I’d expected. She wasn’t like the Dalai Lama, wearing robes declaring her spiritual preeminence; she didn’t punctuate every sentence with relevant spiritual quotes, or regale me with tales of her pious hours of prayer and meditation. And when she corrected the way her young daughter used her utensils, there was no deep spiritual underpinning to the correction.

  After hugging her and Sara good-bye, I spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. I had Jayme Brass’s home phone number in my cell phone, and a ticket to accompany her and her daughter to Greece in my pocket. Suddenly, my life was a whole lot more interesting; I couldn’t wait to see where this new road would lead.

  TWO MONTHS LATER, on our first full day in Delphi, we pilgrims—all ninety of us—gathered in the midst of a stream of water thought to be a source of prophetic power. Jayme stood high atop a rock like an ancient priestess, and began teaching us about the mysteries and sacred essence of this place. As she spoke, we trailed fingers in the shallow waters and dangled our toes in its clear current. I removed the gold cross I was wearing and dipped it into the water, hoping, I guess, that this gesture might imbue the charm with some power, prophetic or otherwise, that would give direction to my life. I looked up to see a plump young woman from our group stripped down to her underwear (full coverage briefs and a pointy support bra), sitting right in the middle of the shallow current, struggling to immerse herself in those six inches of water. It was an odd sight, but as a spiritually correct new age follower, I tried to look beyond her doughy nakedness, willing myself to be impressed by her open quest for insight. Inside, though, I cringed. Is that what it takes to make this work? I worried. This fear stayed with me for the rest of the trip, taunting me that the breakthrough I hoped for was just beyond my reach. I guess I’m still unenlightened, I thought sadly.

  When our spiritual adventure drew to a close nine days later, I struggled to hide my disappointment. Despite my close proximity to Jayme, and the hours of meditation, contemplation, and endless circular discussions of spiritual principles, I still had no idea how to make this stuff work. I still didn’t understand how Jayme managed her real life, how she applied the spiritual power she exuded in her talks and writing.

  On the long flight home, Jayme and I talked for hours about politics and spirituality, and she asked me to be the new director of her nonprofit organization. Thrilled, I jumped at the chance. Rather than going home to my mundane life, I’d have a new job, and another chance to observe Jayme firsthand—an apprenticeship, of sorts. I could learn from her, and see how she applied the Course’s principles to her everyday life.

  FROM THE MOMENT we stepped off the plane, I was enfolded into Jayme’s whirlwind lifestyle, living out of a suitcase in her guest room and participating in everything she did. She treated her massive bed as a command center, and soon I was sprawled out on her silk comforter surrounded by phones, books, papers, and laptops. CNN streamed from an enormous television in the corner of the room, and I stared in awe as her coterie of people wandered in and out and arou
nd us—bringing food, cleaning the bathroom, assessing logistics for Jayme’s upcoming engagements. We’d spend the morning recruiting a board of directors that read like a who’s who list of New York Times spiritual best-selling authors, then sit down for an afternoon snack and talk about astrology and men.

  The next two months were like a surreal fantasy: I attended Washington meetings on Jayme’s behalf, networked with publicists, lobbyists, and wealthy spiritual seekers who desired her attention in exchange for their support, and waded through the never-ending list of people who wanted to hitch their wagon to Jayme’s train. In a way, it was a dream come true, my opportunity to travel and tell the world about spiritual things at the side of my mentor; witnessing firsthand how she navigated the ups and downs of her very public spiritual life. But my close proximity to her private life revealed something that I’d never imagined.

  Despite her bestseller status, it appeared Jayme had no more idea of how to make a relationship work than I did. She told me stories of the men she’d dated over the years, men impressed with her success and drawn to her charisma. They came, and then they left. It seemed she had no hope that there was a special—single—man for her, and so she availed herself of those who wandered by. She used the Course’s principles of formless love to justify these dalliances, never recognizing how empty—and alone—these choices left her. Despite her convictions about the generous provision of the universe, Jayme was, I realized, even more likely to settle for whoever came along than I was.

  Her stories shook me. Here was a beautiful, successful woman—the epitome of what I hoped to be—and she was alone. I was stunned to see that Jayme’s advice, the words that sounded so beautiful and true in her books, didn’t seem to be working in her life, just as they hadn’t worked in mine. I looked into my future and was unnerved by what I saw: another two decades of relationship disappointment, eroding my hopes and leaving me willing to compromise everything for scraps of attention from men who took my love but gave nothing but baubles and fading memories in return. It was as if God was putting a giant, flashing sign in front of my nose: This Is Where You’re Headed! Turn Around! Turn Around!

  After three months, unable to reconcile the spiritual promises I’d read with the emptiness of what I’d witnessed, I resigned. And suddenly, for the first time in almost a decade, I had nothing to lean on, no spiritual mooring to keep me from drifting out to sea. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I’d made my way to the Emerald City, only to pull back the curtain and find that my wizard had no magic. It seemed clear that I’d been wrong as a child: God couldn’t be counted on to provide the life I dreamed of. So I returned to my other object of devotion and worship: men. Walking down the street one day, I announced to the universe: “I am so tired of having boyfriend problems! I am ready to have husband problems!”

  And somewhere out there, some malevolent force rubbed his palms together in glee and said, I’m so glad you asked . . .

  Chapter Seven

  What About That?

  Right on cue, the universe acknowledged my request: I met a man who embodied each and every item on my wish list (tall, good looking, athletic, ready to get married, willing to marry me). It works! I thought delightedly, waltzing into my newly manifested love. But the problem with giving the universe a wish list, I’d soon discover, isn’t what you ask for—it’s what you forget to mention.

  WE MET AT a mutual friend’s boat launch party. I didn’t care for him much at first—he was cocky, the slightest bit too anxious to show off his status as an eligible bachelor. As he drove away that evening, something in me said, That guy is bad news. Watch out for him. I didn’t pay much attention to that voice, though; it never occurred to me that I’d see him again.

  A few weeks later he called and asked me out. I was horrified by his audacity—I’d dated one of his friends (albeit briefly); weren’t there rules against such things? “Just meet me for a cup of coffee,” he said. “No obligation.”

  “Fine,” I agreed, not wanting to offend him. We made plans to meet at a coffee shop that Sunday afternoon.

  He’s better looking than I remember, I thought, seeing him walk toward me. We sat down, started talking, and the warning words I’d issued myself faded slowly into the background as I relaxed into our conversation. He told me about the two daughters he was raising, the business he had built, and how much he relied on God to hold it all together. He was eleven years older than me, but as the minutes ticked by, this revelation shape-shifted from a red flag into a green light, as a romantic picture of wisdom and security flooded my mind. What might life be like with a man who is truly grown up? I wondered. A man who wants to be married again because he understands how much better life is when you approach it as a team? When he asked me if I’d consider a real date with him, I relented. What if this unlikely man might indeed be my Prince Charming? I vowed not to blow it this time, not to judge him unfairly or be overly critical. I promised myself that no matter what happened, I’d keep an open mind.

  He gave me a gold bracelet on our first official date, slipping the long velvet box into my hands as I slid into his front seat. “You have beautiful hands,” he said. “They should be shown off. Have you ever thought of getting a manicure?”

  That’s offensive, I thought, before pushing the negativity aside. I turned my wrist back and forth, watching the late-evening sun shimmer off of the golden links.

  “I want to take care of you,” he told me later that night. “Let me buy you a spa package—you deserve it.”

  He wants to take care of me! I thought. “Yes,” I agreed blissfully, “I would love to get my nails done.”

  “What’s up with that color?” he demanded harshly when I walked out of the salon waving my new French manicure. “Did you choose that or did they force it on you?” I stared at him in shock, putting my hands behind me in shame.

  “I thought it was pretty,” I confessed. “You know—kind of elegant.”

  “You’re better than that,” he said. “Next time, I’ll go in with you.”

  He just wants to take care of me, I told myself glumly. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.

  FOR OUR NEXT date, he brought flowers, a toy for my dog, and a necklace. We dined by the river and spent the evening watching the stars from the docks. It was perfect. Well, almost. Every once in a while something awkward popped up: his ongoing litigation with his ex-wives (there was not one, I learned, but two), a critical comment about something I wore, hints that he wasn’t particularly skilled at controlling his anger. He needs a lot of attention, I thought. Don’t judge! I countered quickly, reminding myself not to be so picky.

  Our dates rolled by like a fairy tale, albeit one in need of a little editing. For the most part, this relationship was everything I’d dreamed of: he was devoted to me, he made grand pronouncements of love and adoration. And while these factors were sometimes tinged by the occasional dig or social gaffe, these were easy to overlook, quickly forgotten in the shower of extravagant gifts and ever-growing plans for our future. He wanted to get married as soon as possible. It was the first such offer I’d had in almost a decade; as far as I was concerned, we couldn’t walk down the aisle fast enough.

  SIX MONTHS LATER, he took me to New York City to buy an engagement ring. He picked out a breathtaking solitaire diamond set between two smaller pear-shaped stones. My mind swam, barely able to grasp the idea that I would get to wear this ring, every day, for the rest of my life. I felt like Cinderella.

  “It looks so beautiful on you, baby,” he enthused.

  He paused, then went on. “You know what? It would probably be best if we used your credit card to pay for this, so we can keep my debts low for when we buy our new house.” We’d been looking at property for a new home the weekend before; my dream of finally settling down into a real life was becoming a reality.

  “That sounds smart,” I responded, never taking my eyes off of my sparkling left hand as I opened my wallet and handed him the card.

  WE DEC
IDED NOT to have a big wedding. My new fiancé did not get along with his family, and had few friends of his own. Part of me wanted to wear a white dress and walk down the aisle, but I happily sacrificed this dream for the chance to finally be married—to get the completer set for my engagement ring and no longer be the “still single” cousin at family gatherings. We eloped on a Wednesday afternoon in the mauve-and-teal living room of a justice of the peace, after which I went home and he went back to work. Overnight I morphed from single girl in the city to suburban housewife, complete with two stepdaughters, a new four-bedroom house, and two luxury cars in the driveway. On paper, it all looked so, soooo good. Like a dream, in fact. Like my destiny.

  But as I dug into my dream life, it was hard to ignore that my tall, good-looking husband had an emerging anger management problem. What had appeared to be a slight tendency to overreact during our months of dating now expanded into regular full-blown episodes. I won’t belabor the point except to say that ups and downs of our new marriage proved a bit more difficult—“volatile” would be the proper word—than the usual tiffs and challenges associated with the first year of wedded bliss.

  He found fault with unexpected things—I put the soda away on the wrong side of the refrigerator, I was out too long walking the dog. “Why don’t you dye your hair darker?” he asked me sharply one day at lunch. “You’d look better with dark hair.” I didn’t have any friends in our new community—he didn’t think we had time for that. He took me on a romantic trip that fall—a belated honeymoon, he called it. The first night, after our dinner waiter smiled at me and took my order first, my new husband flew into a rage, a furious storm that lasted for seven hours. “You knew what you were doing,” he accused me again and again. “You made him smile at you.”