Matchmaking for Beginners
Page 58
I feel I am seeing the truth of things. Everybody tried to tell me that she didn’t mean to leave the place to Noah, that she didn’t want him here. And somehow I dismissed everything they said.
But now here it is, in her own words. The day before she died.
He stops and stares at me, and a grin spreads across his face. “Hey! What are you doing?” he says. “What’s going on?” And for some reason, his eyes drift over to the bookshelf. Maybe I’ve run from there so fast that a trail is still visible.
MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!
“Nothing. Just fixing up a few things. Cleaning a little bit. This place gets so dirty!”
He laughs, then comes over and puts his arms around me. I feel myself bristle, but he pulls me to him, presses my face against his chest.
“No, really. What’s with you? Did I scare you when I came in?”
“No,” I say into his shirt.
“God, you look sexy today.” He kisses the top of my head. “Soooo . . . whattya say we go downstairs and have sex? I just got done with my paper, it’s the weekend, and I feel like celebrating. Especially when you look so hot! Did you do something to your hair?”
“Nothing. It’s just uncombed. And actually I was about to go out.”
“Yeah? Where to?”
“Um, I was going to see Lola, see how she’s doing.”
“She just left. I saw her when I was coming in. Leaving with that man again.”
“Really?” I pull away from him. “The New Jersey guy?”
“I didn’t exactly talk to him to find out where he’s from.”
“His car has out-of-state plates. If you looked at them, you’d know.”
He laughs. “What do I care what the license plates say?”
“I bet it was him. Which is great. But never mind.”
“Anyway,” he says. He points to himself and to me, tries to take me in his arms again. “So . . .”
I don’t want to have sex with him. I do not want to have sex with him. I manage to extricate myself and go over to the sink and turn on the tap. I’ll water the plants; that’s right.
“Actually, I can’t just now. After I finish up in here, I’m going out.”
“Mmm. So you said. But Lola’s gone.”
“Yeah?”
“I told you. She left with the guy, and you said that was great news. What’s up with you anyway? Are you all right?”
“Tell me something. What was Blix like when you got here?”
I walk carefully to the window with the water glass. I can feel him looking at me as I drizzle some water over the roses and then the chamomile.
“She was dying,” he says after a moment. “I got here a week before she died.”
“And, tell me the truth . . . did she want you here?”
“Are you kidding? She said I was the one who could help her make the transition to the other side.” He comes over and takes the glass out of my hand, puts it on the table, and holds on to both my arms. “What. Is. Going. On?” He leans closer, starts running his lips down across my jaw.
I pull back and look at his face. “Nothing. I was just thinking how it must have been very hard for you. To see her that way. Dying.”
He flushes. “You know what was hard? It was hard that she wouldn’t do anything to help herself get well. God forbid anybody call a doctor. I wanted to help her, but she just wanted me to sit there and watch her die.”
I pull away from him. “But she had the right to do it her way.”
“Well, sure. But my point is, why was I the guy who had to watch it happen? That’s what hospitals are for! But whatever. I did it anyway. For her. And then . . . she goes and leaves her place to you.” He gives a short, bitter little laugh.
“I don’t think her death was about you.”
“Well, whatever. It’s done. I did what she wanted. Case closed. It’s all good.” He runs his eyes over me and holds out his arms, smiling. “Why are we talking about this anyway? Let’s go make ourselves happy. You and me? Downstairs?” He motions with his head toward the door.
But I can’t. In fact, looking at him right now, I can’t believe I ever let myself get involved with such a self-absorbed, egotistical child. Who can only see things from his own perspective. I actually feel a little sick.
“No,” I say. I swallow, trying to locate some moisture in my mouth because it has suddenly gone dry. “Actually, I have to tell you that this isn’t really working for me anymore.”
“What?”
“I feel weird about what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be with you like this when I’m getting married to someone else. I feel guilty. This is a terrible thing I’m doing.”
He looks shocked for a moment and then he smiles and revs up the charm machine.
“Ah, guilt! It’s a terrible thing when guilt gets in the way of fun, isn’t it? But here’s what I think. We shouldn’t feel guilty because in the grand scheme of things, you and me having sex is not taking anything away from your boyfriend. I’m no threat to your relationship because, one, I’m a known quantity and, two, I’m screwed up and can’t maintain a decent relationship. You’re his, as far as I’m concerned. This is all recreational. Look at it this way: I am strictly for fun.”
“I don’t work that way, unfortunately,” I say.
“Yes, you do. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing, having fun. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry I ever started. So please respect my wishes on this.”
He gives me a sideways look. I know I’m sounding weird—so stiff and formal, but I can’t help it. I’m still shaking. He goes over and opens the refrigerator, stares into it, and finally gets out a beer. I know he’s playing for time, waiting to see if I come to my senses. When I don’t say anything else, he finally lets out a big breath, takes a swig of the beer, and says, “Okay. Have it your way. I’ll respect your wishes, and we’ll chill on the sex, but I have to stay here until the semester’s over.”
“No. I want you to leave.”
“Marnie! Fuck! What is this?”
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, shaking my head, standing my ground. It feels like Blix and everybody who loved her is standing right there alongside me.
“No. I can’t have you here. You have to leave.”
He stares at me, and for a moment I think he’ll challenge me, or refuse, or even throw a fit. But then he laughs, takes another big drink of beer, and shakes his head as though this is the most insane request he’s ever heard. He picks up his backpack and goes downstairs. I hear the shower running. Soon after, there’s the sound of drawers banging shut, and his footsteps in the hallway, and then the front door slams. I watch from the window as he heads down the street, talking on his phone.
That night I take the book of spells down to my room and lie in bed, anxious to get back to Blix’s journal. I love how she filled pages with stars and filigrees and comets. I love the stories of little glimmers she felt as she watched people falling in love around her. She wrote that she sometimes sent out messages and energy through the atmosphere and saw people turn in surprise when they got zapped with love.
She was a person like no one I ever met.
Then I smile, remembering the engagement party and how we surrounded a red-haired woman with white light. And for a moment, I feel her there with me in the room.
I read lists of things she was grateful for: the random heart-shaped leaves on the sidewalk; the pigeons who talked to her from the windowsill; her kantha quilt; Patrick’s sculptures with their grace and power; the way she and Houndy would sit by the fire pit on snowy nights, curled up together under fleece blankets; Sammy’s smile.
How important it was to add to every spell, “For the good of all and free will of all.”
And then, in the very back of the book, on the very last page, she’d made a list, called “My Projects.”
JESSICA AND ANDREW.
LOLA AND WILLIAM.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
But now here it is, in her own words. The day before she died.
He stops and stares at me, and a grin spreads across his face. “Hey! What are you doing?” he says. “What’s going on?” And for some reason, his eyes drift over to the bookshelf. Maybe I’ve run from there so fast that a trail is still visible.
MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!
“Nothing. Just fixing up a few things. Cleaning a little bit. This place gets so dirty!”
He laughs, then comes over and puts his arms around me. I feel myself bristle, but he pulls me to him, presses my face against his chest.
“No, really. What’s with you? Did I scare you when I came in?”
“No,” I say into his shirt.
“God, you look sexy today.” He kisses the top of my head. “Soooo . . . whattya say we go downstairs and have sex? I just got done with my paper, it’s the weekend, and I feel like celebrating. Especially when you look so hot! Did you do something to your hair?”
“Nothing. It’s just uncombed. And actually I was about to go out.”
“Yeah? Where to?”
“Um, I was going to see Lola, see how she’s doing.”
“She just left. I saw her when I was coming in. Leaving with that man again.”
“Really?” I pull away from him. “The New Jersey guy?”
“I didn’t exactly talk to him to find out where he’s from.”
“His car has out-of-state plates. If you looked at them, you’d know.”
He laughs. “What do I care what the license plates say?”
“I bet it was him. Which is great. But never mind.”
“Anyway,” he says. He points to himself and to me, tries to take me in his arms again. “So . . .”
I don’t want to have sex with him. I do not want to have sex with him. I manage to extricate myself and go over to the sink and turn on the tap. I’ll water the plants; that’s right.
“Actually, I can’t just now. After I finish up in here, I’m going out.”
“Mmm. So you said. But Lola’s gone.”
“Yeah?”
“I told you. She left with the guy, and you said that was great news. What’s up with you anyway? Are you all right?”
“Tell me something. What was Blix like when you got here?”
I walk carefully to the window with the water glass. I can feel him looking at me as I drizzle some water over the roses and then the chamomile.
“She was dying,” he says after a moment. “I got here a week before she died.”
“And, tell me the truth . . . did she want you here?”
“Are you kidding? She said I was the one who could help her make the transition to the other side.” He comes over and takes the glass out of my hand, puts it on the table, and holds on to both my arms. “What. Is. Going. On?” He leans closer, starts running his lips down across my jaw.
I pull back and look at his face. “Nothing. I was just thinking how it must have been very hard for you. To see her that way. Dying.”
He flushes. “You know what was hard? It was hard that she wouldn’t do anything to help herself get well. God forbid anybody call a doctor. I wanted to help her, but she just wanted me to sit there and watch her die.”
I pull away from him. “But she had the right to do it her way.”
“Well, sure. But my point is, why was I the guy who had to watch it happen? That’s what hospitals are for! But whatever. I did it anyway. For her. And then . . . she goes and leaves her place to you.” He gives a short, bitter little laugh.
“I don’t think her death was about you.”
“Well, whatever. It’s done. I did what she wanted. Case closed. It’s all good.” He runs his eyes over me and holds out his arms, smiling. “Why are we talking about this anyway? Let’s go make ourselves happy. You and me? Downstairs?” He motions with his head toward the door.
But I can’t. In fact, looking at him right now, I can’t believe I ever let myself get involved with such a self-absorbed, egotistical child. Who can only see things from his own perspective. I actually feel a little sick.
“No,” I say. I swallow, trying to locate some moisture in my mouth because it has suddenly gone dry. “Actually, I have to tell you that this isn’t really working for me anymore.”
“What?”
“I feel weird about what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be with you like this when I’m getting married to someone else. I feel guilty. This is a terrible thing I’m doing.”
He looks shocked for a moment and then he smiles and revs up the charm machine.
“Ah, guilt! It’s a terrible thing when guilt gets in the way of fun, isn’t it? But here’s what I think. We shouldn’t feel guilty because in the grand scheme of things, you and me having sex is not taking anything away from your boyfriend. I’m no threat to your relationship because, one, I’m a known quantity and, two, I’m screwed up and can’t maintain a decent relationship. You’re his, as far as I’m concerned. This is all recreational. Look at it this way: I am strictly for fun.”
“I don’t work that way, unfortunately,” I say.
“Yes, you do. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing, having fun. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry I ever started. So please respect my wishes on this.”
He gives me a sideways look. I know I’m sounding weird—so stiff and formal, but I can’t help it. I’m still shaking. He goes over and opens the refrigerator, stares into it, and finally gets out a beer. I know he’s playing for time, waiting to see if I come to my senses. When I don’t say anything else, he finally lets out a big breath, takes a swig of the beer, and says, “Okay. Have it your way. I’ll respect your wishes, and we’ll chill on the sex, but I have to stay here until the semester’s over.”
“No. I want you to leave.”
“Marnie! Fuck! What is this?”
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, shaking my head, standing my ground. It feels like Blix and everybody who loved her is standing right there alongside me.
“No. I can’t have you here. You have to leave.”
He stares at me, and for a moment I think he’ll challenge me, or refuse, or even throw a fit. But then he laughs, takes another big drink of beer, and shakes his head as though this is the most insane request he’s ever heard. He picks up his backpack and goes downstairs. I hear the shower running. Soon after, there’s the sound of drawers banging shut, and his footsteps in the hallway, and then the front door slams. I watch from the window as he heads down the street, talking on his phone.
That night I take the book of spells down to my room and lie in bed, anxious to get back to Blix’s journal. I love how she filled pages with stars and filigrees and comets. I love the stories of little glimmers she felt as she watched people falling in love around her. She wrote that she sometimes sent out messages and energy through the atmosphere and saw people turn in surprise when they got zapped with love.
She was a person like no one I ever met.
Then I smile, remembering the engagement party and how we surrounded a red-haired woman with white light. And for a moment, I feel her there with me in the room.
I read lists of things she was grateful for: the random heart-shaped leaves on the sidewalk; the pigeons who talked to her from the windowsill; her kantha quilt; Patrick’s sculptures with their grace and power; the way she and Houndy would sit by the fire pit on snowy nights, curled up together under fleece blankets; Sammy’s smile.
How important it was to add to every spell, “For the good of all and free will of all.”
And then, in the very back of the book, on the very last page, she’d made a list, called “My Projects.”
JESSICA AND ANDREW.
LOLA AND WILLIAM.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
