Loves Me, Loves Me Not Read online

  And in a few moments, in a blinding, screeching crash, he had stopped living altogether.

  When I awoke the next day and my sister broke the news to me that he was dead, I didn’t believe her. Of course, I didn’t say it at first. I listened to her, I saw her mouth moving. I heard the words “Rick didn’t make it, honey,” and I fell asleep, muffled by drugs and pain, so sure that God wouldn’t take him and leave me with no recourse, no second chance to prove I was right for him and Sally wasn’t, that he’d just been suffering from prewedding jitters, that everything would be okay again if I just got enough sleep.

  When the news sank in, my reaction changed to “so, there, take that, you heartbreaker!” Because I’d been hurt so badly, not by the accident, but by Rick. And it was awful, but I felt, at first, that he’d gotten what he deserved, and when I cried, they were tears of vengeance and wrath, not sorrow. They were sobs of retribution and anger, followed by silent, steady tears of guilt for feeling that way, as if the accident really had been my fault because, for a fleeting moment, I was glad he was dead. Cause and effect.

  The memory strangles me. For a moment, I can’t speak. I stare at the wheel while tears cascade down my face.

  “What?” Henry asks, confused.

  “You heard me. He broke up with me.” Not looking at Henry, I continue softly. “What do you want from me, Henry? An apology? Well, okay, I’m sorry—I’m sorry I was ever engaged to Rick Squires. And I’m sorry that he was killed in an accident. And I’m sorry I was driving. And most of all, I’m sorry I ever met you.”

  “Amy…” he interrupts, but I don’t let him.

  “Have as many women over as you like. Send them all flowers! Tell Squires you threw me out once you saw how bad it made him feel!”

  As soon as I say it, relief washes over me. I knew our relationship would come to this eventually. Better to get it over with, right? And since this is a night of heartbreak all round, it’s sort of like a two-for-one deal at the grocery store, a discount on grief.

  “I’m going to Wendy’s to get some things for her. I’ll stay there. You don’t want to keep Tess waiting,” I say, and put the car in Reverse, cutting him off. He steps completely away and puts his hands in his pockets. I don’t wave goodbye and neither does he.

  chapter 20

  Yellow rose: Jealousy or decrease of love

  When I now examine my life with Rick through the magnifying glass of hindsight, the clues are obvious. I see the long nights at the office, the decreased lovemaking, the increased disinterest in my family and friends, all accumulating over time like evidence in a case. Remember the night Rick gave me roses because I was jealous of his new colleague? If only I had known then what those flowers signified. They were a peace offering, all right, but a peace offering for a war being fought on a battlefield unbeknownst to me—Rick’s heart. Rick’s affection for me had waned long before the night he broke the news that he wanted to stop the wedding. He was good at hiding his deepest thoughts, a skill he’d learned growing up in a quiet household. Thank God Henry never gave me yellow roses, or I’d have never gotten involved with him…but then again, maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad thing. Not getting involved again, that is. The best summer of my life was when I wasn’t involved with anyone, the summer of Sheila’s pool.

  So Henry now knows my secret. Rick didn’t just die on me. He broke my heart first. Talk about two-for-one deals.

  Rick and I had been at a dinner party in Potomac, a suburb of D.C. Some lawyer friend of his threw it and it was fun—glittering laughter, clinking glasses, expensive food served in a lavishly decorated McMansion. I felt like Cinderella that night. Poor girl makes good. Raised in the middle-class outskirts of Baltimore, I was rubbing shoulders with the upper-class of the D.C. legal circuit. I’d smiled so much that night, my face hurt.

  But Rick had been quiet, which he attributed to a headache. However, he drank an awful lot, which I remember thinking was odd. Hard liquor, too, which he didn’t usually go for. He was a fine-wine guy. But that night he’d had two Glenlivets, neat. And a couple more glasses of an Australian merlot. And even a glass of Courvoisier right before we hit the road, which is why I asked for the keys and offered to drive.

  Little did I know he’d been screwing up his courage to break up with me. Poor fellow. He must have been elated to have me take the wheel. He knew I wouldn’t be able to look at him too much when he plunged the dagger into my soul.

  After I gained complete consciousness in the hospital, it quickly became clear he hadn’t told anyone else about his intentions. Hell, he’d barely had the fortitude to tell me. And how could I tell anyone? They were all offering their condolences. So sorry to hear about your fiancé, dear. Rick was such a sweet boy, dear. We’re just ripped up about your loss, dear.

  What was I supposed to say? Wait, you’re wrong, he wasn’t sweet, and technically, he wasn’t my fiancé any longer, but if you’re sorry for my breakup, I’ll take it?

  No, better to keep it quiet, my own private humiliating pain. Better to remember only the good parts about Rick and think that he would have quickly changed his mind about the break. He would have laughed and hit his head and said, “wow, was that ever a dumb idea, huh, honey? Sally was never right for me,” as soon as his hangover passed. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  Now I tell myself that what I will miss most about Henry is the sex. On Saturday, I awaken early, feeling like I have a hangover. Every footfall outside Wendy’s apartment makes me think it’s an early-riser floral deliveryman, bringing me a nice little raspberry bush (remorse) from Henry. Or even a small but elegant bunch of pine (pity). One of those miniature trees would do just fine—the kind that look like they belong in a bonsai garden.

  No delivery comes.

  The weather cooperates with my mood and Saturday is gray and misty. I don’t think I or Wendy could have taken one of those in-your-face happy days with blue skies and sun screaming “up with people” stuff at us.

  He doesn’t call. While I bump around Wendy’s apartment, I keep thinking back to our conversation in the parking lot and replaying it. Not once did he say anything remotely resembling consolation or comfort. Instead, he had been more concerned about how my not telling him had embarrassed him at work.

  What a guy. I had him pegged from the beginning, didn’t I? He might not be a schmuck like Sam, but he’s a schmuck-in-training. Give him a few years and he’ll be cheating on his wife like the best of them. Or at least breaking up with me.

  Ouch. Cheating on his wife. The thought of Henry with some snazzy bride sends a twinge of hurt through me that zaps the anger away. It’s just because I don’t want him to be happy, right? I want him to suffer. Like me.

  And I am suffering. I’m having boyfriend-withdrawal, made worse by the fact that my best friend is in the hospital so I don’t have her shoulder to cry on. And if I’m honest, her shoulder isn’t going to be available for some time after what she’s just been through.

  What did I do before I had a boyfriend? How did I fill the time? Oh, that’s right—self-pity. Hmm…and that’s what I’m doing now, engaging in self-pity. Funny how it feels different.

  Since I woke up early—well, I kind of didn’t really sleep much at all—I spend the time cleaning Wendy’s apartment for two hours until it’s a decent time to go visit her. I change her sheets and straighten her dresser. I empty her hamper and wash her clothes in the basement laundry. I even manage to bake some brownies—from scratch, not from some box mix—which I arrange on an Italian pottery dish she has in the back of her cabinet. Looking at its festive colors makes me sad. It’s a recent purchase—the tag is still glued to the bottom—and my guess is she picked it up one afternoon when hope was still in her heart about Sam.

  At last, I head to the hospital, stopping in the lobby gift shop to pick up some flowers and a balloon. But all they have are bouquets of carnations, roses or daises. I opt for the daises, which mean “innocence.”

  When I walk into her r
oom, Wendy’s pushing a fork at some breakfast. Or at least that’s what I think is on her tray. Maybe it’s really Play-Doh or some arts-and-crafts paste for therapy.

  She smiles when she sees me, but it’s a phony smile that doesn’t take long to crack. Her lips are chapped and her eyes have large circles under them. Still, she has a classic beauty, like a figure from a medieval painting, all white skin and feathery hair. How could any man pass her up?

  “Thought these would cheer you,” I say as I look around for a vase. Finding none, I stand holding them out to her.

  “Those are lovely. What do they mean?”

  “Uh…happiness is over the horizon,” I make up. Just then a nurse comes in the room and admires the flowers as well while she checks Wendy’s blood pressure and temperature.

  “I can get you a vase for those,” she offers.

  But Wendy, who has a thermometer sticking out of her mouth, shakes her head. When it’s removed, she says, “I’ll be going home today. It’s probably not worth it.”

  “So soon?” I ask, looking at the nurse.

  “As soon as Dr. Bernstein discharges her. And he should be by any minute. He had a delivery this morning.” The nurse leaves the room, blithely unaware of the dart she’s thrown at Wendy’s psyche.

  There’s no point in hiding it, so I tell Wendy about Henry and me breaking up. In a strange way, I figure it might make her feel better to know that someone else is hurting, too. She listens with creased brows, then bites her lower lip.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” But her voice is less sympathetic than resigned. As if she’s given up on expecting good things from men. “If you need a place to stay, you can crash with me.”

  “Just temporarily,” I say, and she smiles. Temporarily has been going on for several months now with me.

  “You know, Ame, why don’t you come to Europe,” she says after I sit in the chair next to the bed.

  “You’re not still thinking of going. What for? You need to recover!”

  “I can recover over there as much as I can over here. And I can’t face my parents just yet. I need a breather. I was really looking forward to the trip.” Her eyes get watery. She’d looked forward to other things, too. “Besides, you still have your passport, right?”

  My passport—Rick and I were going to Greece for our honeymoon.

  “I have to find a job, Wen. I might even have one. I did a terrific interview yester—last week.” I don’t want to mention yesterday. Maybe it will just go away, be wiped off the calendars.

  She lets out a long sigh and doesn’t look at me. “You can look for a job when you get back. It’s not like anyone’s been beating down your door.”

  I’m surprised at her cruel bluntness, but I ascribe it to her pain. We spend an hour watching television together, just news, and then some cooking shows, but she dozes most of the time. Dr. Bernstein doesn’t show up and when I go ask the nurse where he is, she tells me quite merrily that he had another birth and “this one is just popping out!” She laughs while she says it. I feel like punching her.

  When I see that Wendy is still asleep, I decide to spend the time grocery shopping at a nearby Giant superstore, so I tell the nurse to let Wendy know I’ll be back.

  Hooray for corporate supermarkets. This one not only has tomato soup, it carries toaster strudel, Pillsbury cinnamon buns, and Marie Callendar’s chocolate cream pie.

  Back in the hospital, Wendy’s lunch arrives before Dr. Bernstein. We wile away the hours complaining to each other about the Gelman Agency, retreading material we’ve discussed a thousand times. It feels good to talk about something familiar and relatively harmless. We don’t discuss her miscarriage or Henry at all. But both of us are wounded souls who need to recuperate.

  Finally, after two, Dr. Bernstein comes in and I almost don’t recognize him without the shower cap. He is nearly bald and what hair he does have is shaved close to the scalp. He looks oddly vulnerable. He’s pleased with all her vital signs but urges her to take it easy when she gets home.

  “You lost a lot of blood, Mrs. Jackson,” he says to her, momentarily slipping and thinking she’s married. “But you’ll bounce back. Did the nurses go over with you all the things to look for?”

  Wendy nods yes, but he goes over them, anyway—how to tell if something untoward is happening, when to make her follow-up appointment, how many weeks to wait before having sex. No problem there.

  After he leaves, I help Wendy into a Laura Ashley-type dress, the only thing I could find in her closet that would be loose and comfortable. When she sees it, she laughs ironically, but doesn’t protest as I slip it over her head and knot the ties in the back. I even attach the balloon to her wheelchair when we roll her out to the car. It says “Going home!”

  At her apartment, I help her to bed and fix some dinner. Nothing fancy. Meat loaf and potatoes and green beans. Comfort food. I serve the brownies for dessert. She doesn’t eat much or say much and later when I check on her in her bedroom, I see a pile of bunched-up tissues in the trash can next to her bed. Poor Wendy.

  I spend Saturday night watching television alone in her living room and wondering what Henry is doing. And I start planning how to get my stuff and looking forward to the call I’ll have to make to retrieve it. This and my lack of sleep from the night before have me conked out before ten. I fall asleep in my clothes and don’t wake up until two in the morning. Then I panic, not remembering where I am, trying to figure out why Henry’s not here and why he dumped me on this lumpy sofa.

  Slowly, it comes back to me. He didn’t dump me anywhere. I dumped him. A preemptive dump. My heart stops thudding, my breath slows down. Fear recedes, replaced by that dull after-breakup ache. I wonder how long it will last. I check on Wendy, who is sleeping soundly, and I go back to sleep myself. No use changing. I don’t have anything to change into anyway.

  On Sunday, I borrow some clothes from Wendy and fix a big Sunday dinner of pork roast and mashed potatoes and corn. After dinner, we eat pie, and Wendy gets up to clear the table.

  “Sit back down,” I tell her. “The doctor said rest.”

  “I’m feeling better,” she says. “Besides, you can’t play nursemaid forever.”

  After she puts things in the sink, I take over while she sits at the little table.

  “If I get the okay, I can still go to France in September,” she says, looking at me intently. “And I’d really like you to go with me, Ame. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I haven’t ruled it out. I just need to…” I need to talk to Henry. “I need to check on a few things,” I say.

  “If you take a break now, you can look for a job when you get back,” she says. “I’ll help you. I’ll send out letters for you and everything. It’s not like I’ll be doing much else.”

  “You’ll go back to work. And my guess is you’ll be run down for a while.”

  “I might not go back to work right away.” The way she says it, I feel like she’s holding out.

  “Are you thinking of quitting?” I ask, placing a pot in the dish drainer.

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about,” she says defensively.

  “What would you do?”

  “Stay with my parents for a while. I was going to do that anyway. After the baby.” Her voice trembles.

  “But you go crazy when you’re with them.” And without a baby as a buffer, she’ll be a lunatic before you can say “Mommy dearest.”

  Now she shrugs, with irritation. “They’re not so bad.” She stands, stretches and yawns. “If you want to get a good airfare, you should try to decide in a week or two. But I really hope you decide to go. It would mean a lot to me.” She shuffles off to her bedroom and closes the door. My guess is she’s taking her crying jag now. Sort of like taking a pill or a dose of medicine. She needs it to recover as much as any pharmaceutical on the market.

  As I finish the pots, I feel guilty (for not being a good friend and jumping at the chance to go with her), an
xious (that I’d get a job offer right before we took off) and sad (Henry) all at the same time. But mostly sad.

  Henry. Do I wish he would call? You bet I do. I yearn for him to call. I dream of it. I hear him saying, “Conchita, I’m sorry. You suffered a great loss two years ago and I had no right to consider anyone’s feelings but your own when it came to the accident. Please come back.”

  I would even be happy to hear him call and say simply, “Hey. What’s up?”

  In fact, all I can think of Sunday night is Henry. I want him to call me now so I don’t have to call him first, and I do need to call him. I want to ask him to take care of Trixie, at least until I find a new place to live, because Wendy’s allergic to her. I start to look forward to calling him, so I concoct games to keep myself from placing too much emphasis on it. I hoped he would call me—surely he must be wondering when I’ll get my stuff. But as I drape the towel through the refrigerator door handle, I have an awful simmer-inducing thought. What if he just throws my stuff on the sidewalk in front of his condo?

  Naw. I don’t see it. There’s probably some sort of covenant rule against it.

  Disappointed that the phone isn’t ringing, I make plans to talk to him on Monday. He’ll be at work, and he can never talk long at work. Business setting for a businesslike call, right? He won’t possibly be able to interpret my calling him as needing him.

  But when Monday rolls around, I can hardly keep myself from rushing Wendy through breakfast so she’ll hop in the shower and I can have the phone in privacy.

  At eight-fifty-five, I have my chance. While the steady hum of spraying water comes from the bathroom, I grab the cordless and punch in the Squires number, asking for Henry in a low, conspiratorial voice. I’m put through to his secretary, then hit a roadblock.

  “He’s not in this morning. Can I take a message?”

  For a brief, exhilarating moment, I imagine Henry so tormented over our breakup that he couldn’t drag himself into the office, and I’m ashamed to admit that this scenario makes me very, very happy.