Matchmaking for Beginners
Page 11
Ah, love. Why does it have to get all convoluted? I’ve been eighty-five years on this planet, and I still think the universe could have worked out a better system than this stumbling mess we find ourselves in.
I kiss Sammy on the top of his delicious little head and tell him I’ll see him later; I squeeze Jessica’s arm—and then they’re off, but first she turns and gives me a look, a tearful look that says all is lost.
All is not lost, I beam to her.
I’m always beaming love messages and light over to Jessica, but Lola, next door, who is keeping score, says that Jessica’s negative vibes are so far winning against my efforts. Lola jokingly claims to have an Excel spreadsheet on what she calls my Human Being Projects and that she can tell me just how all of them are going on any given date. The numbers would show, she says, that my Jessica Project might be a little bit lacking in success, which doesn’t mean a thing, of course, because, as I’ve explained to Lola, everything can reverse in an instant when the vibes change.
And if you want to know the truth, my Lola Project might need some tending, too. She’s been a widow forever, which she claims is fine, but I happen to know that, with just a tiny bit of courage, she could be having the time of her life and could love again. I keep calling for the universe to send her love, doing little love spells here and there when I think of them. But Lola—she can’t see it.
So I have Jessica and Lola . . . and now I also have Marnie.
And oh yes, then there’s Patrick.
Houndy comes into the kitchen, scratching his huge, round belly and smiling. “Is that our boy off to school already?”
“Yep, and today’s the day he’s going away for a month to see his dad.”
“Oh, no! I’ve got to tell him good-bye!”
“You’ll see him later. We’re—”
But Houndy’s already bounding off, going out the back door and down the stairs, and I hear him reach Sammy and Jessica, and hear them all talking at once. And then after a bit, he comes clomping back up the stairs, winded as hell, with Lola following him, wearing her lavender housedress and carrying a cardboard tray of cups filled with iced coffee that she goes and buys every morning even though it makes no sense at all. We can make our own coffee. But that’s Lola; she’s been my best friend forever, in this life and probably about five lives before this one, if you believe in that sort of thing and I do, so I don’t question her. I start throwing fruit into the blender to make us our daily kale-strawberry smoothies, and Lola gets out the frying pan to fix the eggs for the mushroom omelet that we’ll take up onto the roof. We all have our jobs to do to get breakfast going.
“By the way,” says Houndy while he’s collecting the plates and silverware. “I told Jessica she might as well come up after work. Have a glass of wine so she just doesn’t go home and cry herself to sleep. That girl—she always looks like she’s going to fall apart.”
The phone rings just then, and it’s Patrick. The phone seems to ring in an altogether different tone when it’s him.
He lives in the basement apartment—the one that’s almost completely underground, which he claims suits him perfectly—and he’s calling to find out if a package was delivered for him yesterday. I tell him no but invite him up for eggs and mushrooms anyway. He’s an introvert of the highest order, and so he hesitates and says he might come, only first he’s got to write all the symptoms of all the diseases that have ever been recorded and invent a computer program that will cure Alzheimer’s, so he’ll probably be busy for a while getting that done.
I laugh. “Get on up here, you big galoot. You can save the world from illness after breakfast,” I tell him, and he sighs.
Which means he’s not coming.
“Come on,” I say. “We’ll sit up on the roof, just the four of us.”
“Um, I’d have to take a shower first.”
“No, you don’t. We’ll be on the roof. The fresh air will blow the stink off you.”
“My hair isn’t good. I should at least wash that.”
“Put on your hat. You’re always wearing a hat.” I get out the cloth napkins and put them on the tray. I’m distracted suddenly by a dust mote that seems lit up in a sunbeam. My hairline is tingling just a little.
“And I should cut my toenails maybe.”
“Now you’re just toying with me.”
“Get up here!” yells Houndy from across the room. “We need more representation by testosterone. Don’t make me cope with these women by myself!”
Patrick says something about how he’s already eaten breakfast, and he really does have a lot of work to do. And also he’s waiting on a package. He’s lobbing excuses like they’re pebbles and he’s laughing while he does it, knowing that I understand that he can’t come. It’s not one of the days when Patrick can do stuff.
If I squint, I suddenly see little points of light everywhere. My head feels funny, like something is trying to signal me.
“I have to sit down,” I whisper to Lola, and she gives me an odd look. Houndy has taken the tray and gone on upstairs to the roof, and I hear the door slam behind him, feel how the whole building shakes, like it’s answering him.
“Are you dizzy?” she says.
“No . . .”
“Maybe you need some water instead of coffee. Here.” She turns to the sink and runs the tap.
“That’s . . . not . . .”
And then I know what it is.
Marnie. Patrick needs Marnie.
They are a match.
So much clicks into place—why it was essential for me to go to my niece’s Christmas party in Virginia even though my family drives me nuts, why I needed to meet Marnie, and why Noah hooked up with a woman that he isn’t going to keep loving . . . oh my God. As though we’ve all come together in some kind of elaborate dance. For Patrick and Marnie.
Patrick and Marnie. Old souls who need to find each other.
I love when it happens this way. Even now I feel my body, tired and creaky as it is, running with energy.
Lola is looking at me closely. “Oh boy,” she says. “I know what it means when you look like this. Something is happening.”
“Later I’ll tell you,” I say. “Right now I need to think.”
And she and I go up to the roof, and we look out over the city and soak up the early summer morning light while we eat. It is so beautiful here, and life is so full of possibilities, even though I’m not going to be here for much longer.
How can I bear to leave knowing there is so much undone? I have to trust the universe to make it all work out for them.
I watch the doorway, but Patrick does not come upstairs to the rooftop. He’s downstairs pounding away on his computer keyboard, trapped by his own demons. And Marnie—Marnie’s heart is being broken somewhere far away. I can feel it.
You are going to be okay, I beam to her. And then to them both: Be brave. Be brave.
There is so much fear to wade through before you get to love.
SIX
MARNIE
Natalie texts me two days into my honeymoon: Is honeymoon Noah behaving better than wedding Noah?
MUCH BETTER, I write back. #ALLGOOD. WHEW! THANK GOODNESS.
And then I look across the table at my handsome, tousled husband, who is sipping his Bloody Mary and gazing out through his Ray-Ban sunglasses at the turquoise sea just beyond the jungle. He looks like an ad for the tropics. We are having a perfectly normal late breakfast on the hotel restaurant’s deck after having perfectly normal honeymoon sex last night, and I’m glad to report that Noah looks tanned and well rested and not anxious at all. There is just one tiny little thing: underneath the table, his knee is bouncing up and down like it’s connected to an unseen metronome.
He feels me concentrating on him and looks at me. We both smile, and I turn back to my eggs quickly before I have to see his smile fading.
Jesus.
He is going to break up with me. He’s just waiting for the right moment.
Which is probably why I’ve had a headache practically the entire time we’ve been here. I feel that my smile must look like a rictus grin, something you’d see on a skeleton. No wonder the waiter put our food on the table and backed away fast.
I kiss Sammy on the top of his delicious little head and tell him I’ll see him later; I squeeze Jessica’s arm—and then they’re off, but first she turns and gives me a look, a tearful look that says all is lost.
All is not lost, I beam to her.
I’m always beaming love messages and light over to Jessica, but Lola, next door, who is keeping score, says that Jessica’s negative vibes are so far winning against my efforts. Lola jokingly claims to have an Excel spreadsheet on what she calls my Human Being Projects and that she can tell me just how all of them are going on any given date. The numbers would show, she says, that my Jessica Project might be a little bit lacking in success, which doesn’t mean a thing, of course, because, as I’ve explained to Lola, everything can reverse in an instant when the vibes change.
And if you want to know the truth, my Lola Project might need some tending, too. She’s been a widow forever, which she claims is fine, but I happen to know that, with just a tiny bit of courage, she could be having the time of her life and could love again. I keep calling for the universe to send her love, doing little love spells here and there when I think of them. But Lola—she can’t see it.
So I have Jessica and Lola . . . and now I also have Marnie.
And oh yes, then there’s Patrick.
Houndy comes into the kitchen, scratching his huge, round belly and smiling. “Is that our boy off to school already?”
“Yep, and today’s the day he’s going away for a month to see his dad.”
“Oh, no! I’ve got to tell him good-bye!”
“You’ll see him later. We’re—”
But Houndy’s already bounding off, going out the back door and down the stairs, and I hear him reach Sammy and Jessica, and hear them all talking at once. And then after a bit, he comes clomping back up the stairs, winded as hell, with Lola following him, wearing her lavender housedress and carrying a cardboard tray of cups filled with iced coffee that she goes and buys every morning even though it makes no sense at all. We can make our own coffee. But that’s Lola; she’s been my best friend forever, in this life and probably about five lives before this one, if you believe in that sort of thing and I do, so I don’t question her. I start throwing fruit into the blender to make us our daily kale-strawberry smoothies, and Lola gets out the frying pan to fix the eggs for the mushroom omelet that we’ll take up onto the roof. We all have our jobs to do to get breakfast going.
“By the way,” says Houndy while he’s collecting the plates and silverware. “I told Jessica she might as well come up after work. Have a glass of wine so she just doesn’t go home and cry herself to sleep. That girl—she always looks like she’s going to fall apart.”
The phone rings just then, and it’s Patrick. The phone seems to ring in an altogether different tone when it’s him.
He lives in the basement apartment—the one that’s almost completely underground, which he claims suits him perfectly—and he’s calling to find out if a package was delivered for him yesterday. I tell him no but invite him up for eggs and mushrooms anyway. He’s an introvert of the highest order, and so he hesitates and says he might come, only first he’s got to write all the symptoms of all the diseases that have ever been recorded and invent a computer program that will cure Alzheimer’s, so he’ll probably be busy for a while getting that done.
I laugh. “Get on up here, you big galoot. You can save the world from illness after breakfast,” I tell him, and he sighs.
Which means he’s not coming.
“Come on,” I say. “We’ll sit up on the roof, just the four of us.”
“Um, I’d have to take a shower first.”
“No, you don’t. We’ll be on the roof. The fresh air will blow the stink off you.”
“My hair isn’t good. I should at least wash that.”
“Put on your hat. You’re always wearing a hat.” I get out the cloth napkins and put them on the tray. I’m distracted suddenly by a dust mote that seems lit up in a sunbeam. My hairline is tingling just a little.
“And I should cut my toenails maybe.”
“Now you’re just toying with me.”
“Get up here!” yells Houndy from across the room. “We need more representation by testosterone. Don’t make me cope with these women by myself!”
Patrick says something about how he’s already eaten breakfast, and he really does have a lot of work to do. And also he’s waiting on a package. He’s lobbing excuses like they’re pebbles and he’s laughing while he does it, knowing that I understand that he can’t come. It’s not one of the days when Patrick can do stuff.
If I squint, I suddenly see little points of light everywhere. My head feels funny, like something is trying to signal me.
“I have to sit down,” I whisper to Lola, and she gives me an odd look. Houndy has taken the tray and gone on upstairs to the roof, and I hear the door slam behind him, feel how the whole building shakes, like it’s answering him.
“Are you dizzy?” she says.
“No . . .”
“Maybe you need some water instead of coffee. Here.” She turns to the sink and runs the tap.
“That’s . . . not . . .”
And then I know what it is.
Marnie. Patrick needs Marnie.
They are a match.
So much clicks into place—why it was essential for me to go to my niece’s Christmas party in Virginia even though my family drives me nuts, why I needed to meet Marnie, and why Noah hooked up with a woman that he isn’t going to keep loving . . . oh my God. As though we’ve all come together in some kind of elaborate dance. For Patrick and Marnie.
Patrick and Marnie. Old souls who need to find each other.
I love when it happens this way. Even now I feel my body, tired and creaky as it is, running with energy.
Lola is looking at me closely. “Oh boy,” she says. “I know what it means when you look like this. Something is happening.”
“Later I’ll tell you,” I say. “Right now I need to think.”
And she and I go up to the roof, and we look out over the city and soak up the early summer morning light while we eat. It is so beautiful here, and life is so full of possibilities, even though I’m not going to be here for much longer.
How can I bear to leave knowing there is so much undone? I have to trust the universe to make it all work out for them.
I watch the doorway, but Patrick does not come upstairs to the rooftop. He’s downstairs pounding away on his computer keyboard, trapped by his own demons. And Marnie—Marnie’s heart is being broken somewhere far away. I can feel it.
You are going to be okay, I beam to her. And then to them both: Be brave. Be brave.
There is so much fear to wade through before you get to love.
SIX
MARNIE
Natalie texts me two days into my honeymoon: Is honeymoon Noah behaving better than wedding Noah?
MUCH BETTER, I write back. #ALLGOOD. WHEW! THANK GOODNESS.
And then I look across the table at my handsome, tousled husband, who is sipping his Bloody Mary and gazing out through his Ray-Ban sunglasses at the turquoise sea just beyond the jungle. He looks like an ad for the tropics. We are having a perfectly normal late breakfast on the hotel restaurant’s deck after having perfectly normal honeymoon sex last night, and I’m glad to report that Noah looks tanned and well rested and not anxious at all. There is just one tiny little thing: underneath the table, his knee is bouncing up and down like it’s connected to an unseen metronome.
He feels me concentrating on him and looks at me. We both smile, and I turn back to my eggs quickly before I have to see his smile fading.
Jesus.
He is going to break up with me. He’s just waiting for the right moment.
Which is probably why I’ve had a headache practically the entire time we’ve been here. I feel that my smile must look like a rictus grin, something you’d see on a skeleton. No wonder the waiter put our food on the table and backed away fast.
