The Matchmaker's Gift(3)
“Joke if you want, but yes, that’s my opinion. I’m old, but my instincts are still good.”
When Abby didn’t answer, her grandmother continued. “For instance, I know when my granddaughter isn’t happy.”
“Grandma, stop. I’m perfectly happy. I already told you, everything is fine. I like my apartment, I have nice friends, and I’m really lucky to have such a good job.”
“Lucky is when you win the lottery. Not when you work eighty hours a week.”
Abby sighed. “Not my hours again, please—”
“You can’t do a job like that forever. Every day, another kick in the kishkes…”
“No one is kicking my kishkes, Grandma. Yes, I work very hard. Yes, it’s not always the most … uplifting work. But it’s important to me.”
“Who’s saying your work isn’t important? I’m all for divorce—it’s a necessary thing. Not just for people like your parents—for other people, too. People even less lucky…” She paused for a moment. “Of course, none of my matches ever needed a divorce.”
“That doesn’t mean all of them were happy. Times have changed.”
Her grandmother took Abby’s hand in her own, squeezed it gently, and pressed it to her cheek. “Listen to me, sweetheart. Some things never change. Don’t you remember the stories I used to tell you? I should have made you listen better.” Sara leaned closer to Abby and sighed. “One day, my brilliant skeptic, I’ll be gone, and all of my stories will belong to you. When the time comes, try to remember what I taught you. Who knows? Maybe you’ll make a few love matches of your own.”
Love. “Grandma, you know how I feel about this. After everything my mom went through, I just don’t believe in marriage.”
“I know, I know. But listen to me, sweetheart. What happened between your parents wasn’t love. That was a match that never should have been made.”
* * *
Abby’s mother and father broke the news of their divorce to their daughters over hot fudge sundaes on Central Park South. Tucked inside a corner of the Hotel St. Moritz, Rumpelmayer’s was well-known for its ice-cream confections, elaborate pastries, and fanciful décor. Abby’s little sister was delighted with all of it—the teddy bears on the tables, the pale pink walls. The visit to the restaurant was their father’s idea, but Abby was not fooled by his subterfuge. She was twelve years old, and she paid attention. She had seen her mother’s tear-streaked cheeks. She had heard the late-night arguments coming from her parents’ bedroom. Worst of all, she had smelled the unfamiliar perfume—a dense combination of musk and burnt rose petals—that clung to the lapels of her father’s trench coat. None of the scents that swirled around the café—cocoa and butter, vanilla and cinnamon—could erase the one that lingered in Abby’s mind.
Abby had no power to refuse the family outing, but her father could not force her to enjoy herself. She watched, unsmiling, as the sundae he ordered for her softened and melted to soup in its dish. The unyielding leather of her shoes pinched at her toes and the backs of her heels. The barrettes holding back her dark, rowdy curls bit into her scalp like miniature teeth. Why had they gotten dressed up for this? Why were they pretending that they had something to celebrate? Everything about the day was wrong.
Abby was certain her mother felt the same way. Petite and pale, Beverly was nursing a cup of black coffee—a suitable drink for a somber occasion. Abby’s father had ordered an oversized ice-cream soda, slathered with whipped cream and topped with a cherry. There was something obscene about the way he devoured it. Normally, her father skipped dessert, but today, he insisted, was a “special occasion.”
“Girls,” their mother began, ignoring his slurping. “Your father and I have something we want to talk to you about.”
“Hold on, Bev.” He sucked the last of the soda through the pink-and-white-striped straw and pulled two velvet boxes from the pocket of his jacket. “I have a few presents for them first.” Hannah squealed when she saw the silver heart-shaped locket, but Abby frowned and left her box on the table.
“Phil,” their mother said through gritted teeth. “We talked about this. We agreed that gifts were not appropriate today.”
He smirked and lifted his hands to his shoulders, palms facing outward, as if he were being arrested. “You caught me,” he said. “Guess I broke the rules.”
“Don’t make me the bad guy,” Abby’s mother whispered. “You’re the one who wanted this.”
Abby searched her father’s face for answers. She knew many people considered him to be handsome—that all the pieces (his height, his chiseled jaw, his dark hair) added up to an attractive forty-two-year-old man. But lately, she’d noticed the hidden, ugly parts: the eyebrows raised in mockery, the sneering lips. He had begun to look like a different sort of person.
Hannah was still too young to notice, but Abby had been paying enough attention for both of them. She had seen the recent changes in her father’s behavior, the sudden way his moods shifted, like a boat thrown off course. She had kept track of the nights he’d come home late from work, until there’d been so many that the counting turned pointless.
“You want a divorce, don’t you?” Abby asked. When her father didn’t answer, she repeated the question.