Matchmaking for Beginners(29)

For a moment, it seems simply a fascinating discussion, as though they’re talking about somebody else, or the Theory of Big Blows. I would love to join in. Do I need more emotional rehabilitation or to get back on the horse? What could be the point of either? What does the research say about such things? Fight or flight? Rest or work?

“You know what she needs,” my mother says in that voice of certainty she uses. “She needs to find a man to go out with.”

“Millie, for God’s sake, that is the last thing she needs! Why do you always act like that’s going to solve any problems whatsoever? She needs to find herself first! And why am I the only feminist in this conversation? The girl needs a career. Then, if she wants to, she can find a man.”

“You don’t know anything. She needs love.”

“Well, fine. Maybe she’ll meet a nice guy at work. But first she has to get a job.”

“Listen,” my mother says, and I’m surprised by the sudden intensity in her voice. “Don’t you dare take this away from me! Ted, right now we have two daughters in town, and I want to keep it that way! Imagine how nice life would be if both of them could live in the neighborhood permanently and have nice husbands, and then their children could grow up as cousins, and they’ll all be best friends, and they’d all come over on Sunday afternoons, and we could eventually put in a swimming pool—”

“A swimming pool?” he says.

“—and a swing set, and we could babysit for the kids, you and I. And I think we can get Marnie to stay here, unless you start pressuring her to get a job! She’ll go off on her own once again, and we’ll just have to worry about her like I did every single night while she was in California. Every single night, Ted, I worried! But—if she meets a guy here, then maybe they’ll both stay.”

“Oh my lord God in heaven. You are out of your mind.”

“No! I’m right about this, Ted MacGraw. It’s happened over and over and over again to my friends. If your kids fall in love with a local person, they stick around. It’s love, not work that keeps a person nearby.”

“And how do you plan to make this happen?”

“Well, that’s just it. I can’t.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Turn off the light, will you? I’ve got to get up in the morning. Somebody in this house has to work.”

I am getting to my feet, about to depart for the couch so I can think this over more comfortably, when she says quietly, “I did hear something interesting today.”

I stop in my tracks.

“I cannot even imagine what that might have been.”

“If you’re going to be like that, then I won’t tell you.”

“It seems I am going to be like this. Please, I’m begging you, turn off the light. You’ve already got my blood pressure so high, I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Good night. I hope you have very pleasant dreams.”

“Thank you. I am certainly going to try.”

“And when our daughter moves away because you push her to work—”

“Ah, Millie, you are driving me crazy; do you know that? Go ahead and tell me, so we can both get some sleep.”

It’s fortunate he says that, because I’m thinking I’m going to have to pound on the door and demand that she tell all of us.

“Jeremy’s back in town,” she says. She starts talking very, very fast before he can stop her: “He came back six months ago when his mom got sick, and now he’s a physical therapist with a real practice, and he’s living with his mother. And he’s a nice guy, and she liked him a lot, and I think this could be just the answer we’re looking for.”

“Who’s looking for?” says my father. “No, really, Millie, who?”

The couch is calling me. I stand up and tiptoe away before I have to hear my mother explain to my father her very misguided notion of my love life.

Okay, so Jeremy Sanders was my boyfriend during our senior year of high school, which is the very first year when boyfriends might start to mean something—like they could very well be a real part of your future. My parents certainly thought so, anyway. Even though Jeremy and I didn’t have a whole, huge, madly passionate thing going, we were good together, that kind of good—companionly, sweet, adorable—that parents think is going to be enough for your whole life.

He was sarcastic and smart, and so was I, and because neither of us fit in with the desirables, we had a great time making fun of everything the popular kids cared about. We made it through high school on our snark alone.

And then one day, after we’d done nothing more than routine kissing for months and months, he said, “I think we should take our friendship to the next level.”

I was only moderately cute back then. He was cute, too, in a kind of understated way: he had dark hair and nice eyes and a slight mustache that clearly needed years to grow into something better, and I didn’t understand why he wasn’t embarrassed enough at its scraggliness to shave it off until it could be magnificent. But that’s the way Jeremy was. He shrugged off imperfections. He was kind of too normal, was the truth of it. Besides that inadequate mustache, he had a standard-issue nonathlete boy’s body—a little too plump—and hands that sweated when I held them, oily hair, and pimples on his cheeks. Not that I was so dazzling in the looks department, you understand. I had blonde hair that had a definite greenish cast to it from the chlorine in the pool, and I wore both a dental retainer and glasses. I thought my knees were too sharp and bony, my feet too big.