Loves Me, Loves Me Not Page 23

  “Oh?” he asks, and I can hear the gears turning. Birthday? When’s her birthday?

  So I throw him a bone, just to make him feel bad for forgetting the day. “Yeah, she couldn’t come over today because of some appointment or something.”

  Now he knows today’s the day. Still a chance to get those earrings, Hen. I’ve seen them in the window of the estate jewelry store on Charles Street.

  When Henry comes home tonight, he is carrying a bouquet of striped carnations, which mean “refusal” but send a different signal to me—he picked them up quickly on his way home from some corner vendor. In his other hand is a small box that he sheepishly gives me. It is professionally wrapped in silver paper and matching ribbon artfully curled. No card accompanies it.

  Although the box is too big for jewelry, I’m thinking that an estate jewelry store might really cushion their stuff with extra layers of cardboard and tissue, so I’m hopeful as I tear away the lid. When I finally do get it open, I couldn’t be more surprised.

  No earrings. A digital camera instead.

  Henry grins from ear to ear, proud of himself. “You like it?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s great!” I say with phony cheer. Yeah, I know a digital camera is a nice gift. And any other time I’d be happy as all get out to receive one. But I was so sure Gina’s technique had a chance, even with Henry originally forgetting what the day was.

  “I figured you needed one because I saw those lousy photos you’ve left around—couldn’t quite get the picture right.” He picks up this camera and proceeds to demonstrate its superior focusing capability.

  While I pretend to pay attention, my Inner Feminista is laughing hysterically. Henry got the hint all right, just the wrong one. Wait till I tell Gina.

  He takes me out to dinner to a beautiful and wildly expensive restaurant near the water. While I appreciate the gesture, it’s a French restaurant and I’m in the mood for Greek food. I would have preferred a less-extravagant place, a bistro or café. But I let Henry fete me in his way, and thus feel oddly unsatisfied after his gifts and gestures.

  When I tell Gina about it the next day, she is ecstatic.

  “He shows promise,” she tells me.

  “But he didn’t even remember it was my birthday until I reminded him.”

  “Yeah, but he tried to think of what you would want.”

  “And completely missed the mark.”

  “Next time he’ll do better.”

  Wendy forgot my birthday as well, but her I forgive. She has someone else on her mind, after all, and it’s not the same thing.

  Henry might have tried to make me happy on my birthday, but he continues to do the meetings several times a week which makes me unhappy, and I know he’s sending flowers because I see his credit card bill one day when I’m dusting. It’s on his dresser and the envelope accidentally falls to the floor, and when I pick it up, the bill magically slips out and unfolds in my hand. Five orders. Yellow roses each time.

  As I finish cleaning that day, I feel lonely and hurt. No more flowers for me, but yellow roses galore for new babes he meets. Prospective clients, my ass. More like “backups if this thing with Amy goes south.”

  This sets up a silent battle of wills. Wendy thinks I should just ask him not to send flowers to these women if it bothers me so much. She thinks I should be honest with him and tell him I care about him and it hurts me to think he’s using his seductive charm on other women when he should be saving it all for me. Well, she didn’t say it in those exact words, but you get the point.

  I, however, prefer a more nuanced approach. When I do the grocery shopping now, I’m always sure to buy several things I know he can’t stand—coffee ice cream, anchovies, frozen pizza. The message should be clear, right? You send flowers to babes, I buy stuff you don’t like. Except for an occasional wide-eyed look in the fridge, he doesn’t say a word.

  The good news is that I get some job interviews at last.

  I give up on the cover letter and start using the press-release-as-cover-letter for every inquiry I make and it’s paying off.

  I interview for a museum job and for public relations director at a local Catholic college that, unlike Our Lady of the Air Freshener, has a good reputation and a promising future.

  The museum interview is a peach. They love me. I love them.

  They give the job to an “internal candidate.”

  At least it’s quick. I get that rejection letter in a week.

  The college interview is less chipper. First, I’m interviewed by the Human Resources director, an older woman with boyish white hair who is dressed in a navy-blue suit. Since it’s a Catholic college, I can’t figure out if she’s a nun. At least Sister Mary Altamont wore a veil to let you know she wasn’t a civilian. (I’m going to burn my own navy suit after this experience, by the way.)

  Not knowing if this woman is a nun throws me off kilter for the whole interview and I feel like I answer all her questions too cautiously, afraid I’m going to say something sacrilegious. She probably thinks I’m hiding something.

  As careful as I am in her interview, I’m three sheets to the wind in the interview with the actual VP under whom the PR director works. This fellow, Brian Ripton, is just a little older than I am, cheerful, outgoing, with an iron-fisted handshake. He makes me feel so comfortable that by the end of the forty-minute session I’ve told him why I don’t like coconut and how long it took me to recover after Rick’s death. Note to self: do not leave prospective employers with the impression that they should ask for your release papers.

  Needless to say, I don’t get that job.

  By the beginning of August, I have four more interviews, three of which offer the position to a “well-qualified” candidate while they “wish me well” in my job search. One snooty trade organization veep sends me a form rejection (after no interview) with a hastily scrawled note on the bottom: “I would advise you to lose the press release gimmick. It’s unprofessional and sends the wrong message.”

  Maybe to you, buster, but it gets me in the door at a half dozen other places, and obviously acts as a screening device for me. If you don’t like the press release, I probably won’t like you.

  Whenever I schedule an interview, I okay it with Henry so I can borrow his car. On those days, I drop him at the office first thing in the morning and pick him up at six or later. I like those days because I know I’ll be able to count on him not scheduling any after-work appointments.

  After all my effort, one prospect finally shows promise—a job with a city nonprofit, a tutoring program for kids in bad schools. The pay’s not great but the job appeals to the idealist in me and, unlike the Our Lady of the Air Freshener job, it would be a good first step back into the nine-to-five world. The interview goes well and they ask to keep the samples of my work I bring with me, so they can show them to the board subcommittee that will ultimately sign off on the decision. When I leave their office, I’m about as positive as I can be that I’ve landed the position.

  It’s a Friday and I’m euphoric. I stand in the sunshine on Howard Street, smelling the city perfumes of fried food and smoke and pollution and garbage, and I love it. I get this job and I can walk to work. I get this job and I can be human again, instead of this needy bundle of worry I’ve become.

  And this job is in the bag. I can feel it in my bones.

  Wendy’s been pressuring me about the trip to France and I’m thinking that if I get this job, maybe what I’ll do is go over with her for two weeks and then come back and start work and start over.

  Even start over with Henry, too. I’m tired of playing cat and mouse. Gina’s right. Wendy’s right. If I want something, I should come out and say what I want. And what I want is a serious relationship, maybe one that will lead to commitment. If I’m back on my feet again, I can have that talk with Henry, and know I can move out if it doesn’t go well. In fact, maybe I should move out, anyway, so we can really start over.

  On the walk back to the condo, I buy a bottle o
f champagne as well as some pimento-stuffed olives (Henry hates these), and pick up carryout pizza (Henry likes that).

  Knowing I want this job, Henry had told me to call him to let him know how the interview went, so I do and am put through right away. After I prattle on about every detail of the session, including what I read into my interviewer’s body language, Henry gives me a pep talk on how a positive attitude probably made the difference, and what great news this is, and what a great gal I am. Then he proceeds to splash bad news on me.

  “I’ll be late tonight.”

  Uh-oh. Late? Client meeting on a Friday night? Who has business meetings on a Friday night?

  “Oh, darn. I wanted to celebrate. I bought some champagne. And pizza from Denitis.”

  “Well, hold that thought. I need to meet with someone about settling her parents’ estate.”

  Okay, rewind. Her? As in “female client?” Henry!

  “Can’t you do it next week?”

  “She’s going out of town next week.”

  “What about the week after?”

  “She won’t be back until the end of September.”

  “What if I meet you at your office after the meeting and we can go out together?”

  “I’m not meeting her here.”

  Major lump in dry throat. Not meeting her there? This is the first time since we’ve been together that Henry has missed a Friday night with me. He might take the prospective clients out other nights of the week, but Fridays are for us. Bottle of wine over dinner, quiet conversation, maybe rent a DVD and end up in bed. Occasionally, we go out. But mostly, we stay in.

  “Uh…where are you meeting her?”

  “A bistro near her place. Benedict’s.”

  A wolf howls and wind shakes the house.

  Or at least it feels that way to me. Benedict’s is a new French restaurant near Charles Street and University Parkway. Tess Wintergarten is the client.

  “Why don’t you bring her here?” I improvise. “I could make dinner.”

  He is silent for a moment, then finds his excuse. “I don’t want anything long and drawn out, conchita. I’ll meet her, take care of business, then come home.”

  I’m left wondering if I’m the one he doesn’t want to have anything long and drawn out with.

  “Well, don’t rush on my account,” I snap. “I might go visit Wendy and celebrate with her.” I get off the phone after an abrupt goodbye and feel like he hung up on me.

  Who knows if he’s seen Tess in the past? He’s never revealed to me the names of the babes who’ve received the flowers. For all I know, Tess could be a regular on his “wine and dine and send flowers to” list. Speaking of flowers, except for my first week with him and my birthday (which I don’t count since he obviously forgot about it), Henry has not so much as dropped a petal on me since we’ve been living together.

  Within a few seconds of setting the phone down, it rings. Elation! It must be Henry calling me back to say he’s changed his plans.

  But it’s Wendy, a near-hysterical Wendy. She’s sobbing so hard I can only make out that she’s in trouble and would like to see me.

  I grab my bottle of champagne and head outside. Forget about city smells making me happy. It’s blistering hot and humid—a lovely combination that leaves you breathless and limp within a matter of seconds. Wendy’s apartment is a looooooonnnnnng walk away. To hell with that. I get to Pratt Street and splurge on a taxi. I’ll be flush soon once I get that job. Within moments I am deposited in front of Wendy’s high-rise near the Basilica.

  By the time I buzz her apartment, I’m sure she’s had some fresh run-in with Sam and I’m all prepared to give her a severe talking-to that will once and for all curtail these Sam urges. I have a list of things to say, some of them hurtful, some of them even untrue, but I’m prepared to fight to the death. The death of this Sam thing, that is. Cruel to be kind, that’s my battle cry.

  Upstairs, she lets me in and I start in immediately.

  “You’ve got to stop this,” I tell her, standing in the foyer, looking disgustedly at the crumpled tissue in her hand.

  “What?”

  “Stop seeing Sam.”

  “Fuck you, Amy!” she cries. “I’m not seeing Sam! I’m having a miscarriage.” She storms back to her living room and plops on the sofa.

  I want to slap myself. I want to inflict physical pain in a public place so that she can witness my humiliation. How could I be so dumb, so heartless? My own troubles evaporate compared to hers. I follow her into the living room and sit next to her.

  “I’m so sorry. I thought…” I thought she was still an idiot. Instead, she’s merely experiencing a tragedy. I’m the idiot.

  “He couldn’t find a heartbeat,” she sobs into her tissue.

  “Oh, my God, sweetie.” I hug her then.

  “It was strong every other time. He even felt it early.”

  I remember her telling me this.

  “So when he didn’t hear it today he gave me a sonogram right away.” She gulps in air between sobs.

  “And?” And I think I know what comes after that “and.” I grow cold.

  “And he says he thinks the fetus died.” She bawls full force—messy, sucking, hiccupping cries of grief and I can do nothing to staunch the flow except to hold her and murmur “Oh, honey” over and over again mixed with “I’m so sorry.” And mentally, I’m bludgeoning myself for compounding her grief by hurling accusations about Sam at her as soon as she opened the door.

  After she gains control, I get her a glass of water and new tissues. “What are you supposed to do?”

  “He told me to go home and rest and to come in on Monday, unless I have contractions in which case I should go to the hospital.”

  “Okay. So you wait until Monday. I can stay with you. At least you’re not having contractions, right? There still could be a chance.”

  Slowly she shakes her head back and forth.

  “You’re having contractions?” My voice rises. “Now?”

  She nods. “They started as soon as I got home. I think the internal examination might have triggered them.”

  “We need to call the doctor! Get you to the hospital.”

  “That’s why I called you.”

  “Have you called the doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said what I told you—meet him at the hospital.”

  “Where are your keys? I’ll drive.”

  After she tells me what she needs, I finish packing her bag and grab her keys. Then I help her downstairs with my arm under her arms holding her up. By now, the contractions are stronger and she’s punchy from the pain, moaning and then laughing hysterically at how “bad it hurts.” She seems surprised by the pain, as if her body’s playing a bad joke on her.

  I drive wildly up Charles Street, past Tess’s house without even caring, and into the county. Wendy’s doctor is at Greater Baltimore Medical Center, and by the time we hit the entrance to the hospital she’s taken her seat belt off and is balled up on the floor of the front seat in wrenching agony. It’s no longer funny and I’m afraid.

  Just like my sister did with me a couple months ago, I pull into a handicapped spot near the door and get an attendant to help me get Wendy into the E.R. Her doctor, a man named Eric Bernstein, has already told them to expect her so she’s whisked into a cubicle while I go move the car.

  Everything is happening in a rush with no time to think so I’m dulled to pain. I hope Wendy feels the same way now. When I get back from the parking lot, nurses are already prepping her to go to a room. In addition to cramping, she’s bleeding now—profusely. The nurses give each other knowing looks that tell me they don’t like this. I follow Wendy up to a room and sit by her side while the nurses do the hundred little jobs to connect a patient to the hospital’s life force. Tubes here, monitors there, pills down the hatch.

  The pills and the IV make the pain wane, so Wendy’s main problem now seems to be the b
leeding. After waiting a half hour in the room, I get restless and seek out a nurse at the brightly lit nurses’ station.

  “Isn’t Dr. Bernstein supposed to be here?” I ask.

  “He’s on his way, hon,” she says.

  Back in the room, Wendy dozes. The room is dim and gray and I spend the time sucking in the air-conditioning and looking out a fogged window over the verdant hills of Towson. Towson, with its neat upscale houses and shopping malls and preppy schools. I console myself by imagining happy families in some of those homes, kids going out on weekend dates and parents settling down to watch TV with their bowls of microwaved popcorn. And then I start thinking of my own Friday night ritual with Henry, which was ruined tonight by his “business meeting” with Tess. Sure, it would have been ruined, anyway, by Wendy’s call. But that’s a real emergency. Henry’s meeting with Tess is not.

  Why did I ever hook up with him? Since the moment I met him in the flower shop, I should have known that he wasn’t good for me. And he’s the one who’s given me the key. He said I had to be confident. How can I be confident living with a man who uses his sex appeal to get clients?

  “What time is it?” Wendy murmurs.

  “After eight,” I turn and tell her. Standing by her bed, I decide to grab her lucid moments and work with them. “I should call your parents.”

  “No,” she says groggily. “Don’t. It’s only a miscarriage.”

  Only a miscarriage. Yup. Only an atom bomb to your heart.

  “Where’s the doctor?” she asks.

  “They said he’s on his way in.” But I’m pissed he’s not here and I search out the nurses again. A sweet-looking uniformed girl, who looks about sixteen, is writing something on a chart at her station.

  “I’m with Wendy Jackson,” I tell her. “They told us Dr. Bernstein was on his way in a half hour ago. Where’s he coming in from—Kajeekistan?”

  She titters. “Didn’t anyone tell you? He had an emergency C-section just after he arrived. He’ll see her as soon as he’s done. It won’t be long. I’ll come check on your friend for you, though.”

  She follows me back to the room and goes through the routine—blood pressure, temp, pulse, bleeding.