The Matchmaker's Gift(40)

One Friday evening in early May, the girls at Sara’s dinner table offered her an extra ticket to a “War Show” at the Columbia University gymnasium. When Sara accepted the invitation, she’d been under the impression that the “show” was a lecture or some kind of fundraiser for the troops. She hadn’t realized it was a substitute for the annual undergraduate Varsity Show. The typically extravagant production, usually held in the Hotel Astor ballroom, had been economized on account of the war. The songs were written by a member of the class of 1916—a young man by the name of Oscar Hammerstein.

Sara was unprepared for the crowd—almost eight hundred students filled the gym—but she was even more surprised by the show itself. The characters were played by Columbia students—even the romantic female roles. Sara had never seen anything so ridiculous—nor could she remember ever laughing so hard. The girls who invited her looked on approvingly as she howled along with the rest of the audience.

When the show was over, the orchestra kept playing. Young men cleared away the seats, and the theatergoers began to dance. Sara found herself uncharacteristically swept along with the others until, one by one, the girls she had come with were cut in on by groups of young men they knew. Sara took a seat in a corner of the room to watch the couples on the floor. Though the gym was too warm and the music too loud, she was utterly mesmerized by the sight. After months of spending her evenings alone, cramming her head with impractical knowledge, she found the burst of vitality infectious. She should have felt awkward, sitting by herself, but she was too enthralled by the dancers to care. Once or twice, she noticed a stray beam of light connecting this or that woman to this or that man, but she put the visions out of her head, determined to appreciate the moment.

As one song ended and another began, a young man she did not recognize made his way toward her. It was too loud to hear what he was saying, but it was clear that he was asking for a dance. She tried to tell him she didn’t know how, but either he couldn’t hear or he pretended not to.

He was good-natured enough to smile when she faltered and to laugh when she stepped on both of his feet. He was handsome enough to make her stand straighter and to wish she had worn a different dress. He was enough of a mensch to put her at ease on an evening when everything she thought she knew about what she wanted from college had shifted on its axis. When the music stopped, he put her out of her misery and led her outside so they could hear each other speak. When she told him her name, he wrapped his hand around hers.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sara. I’m Nathan Weisman.”





TEN

ABBY




1994




Dr. Cooper called back on Saturday morning. What kind of doctor returns calls on a weekend? “I was surprised to hear from you so soon,” she said. “I know how difficult the funeral must have been, but I’m thrilled that you’re ready to talk.”

The comment was puzzling. She was thrilled? Why did she think Abby had called? What did the two of them have to talk about? After a lengthy, awkward pause, the doctor continued. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Have I misunderstood? You did leave me a message yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Abby said. “I was calling to ask for some medical advice.”

“Oh,” Dr. Cooper mumbled. “Oh. Did you … want to come in for an eye exam?” The ophthalmologist sounded disappointed.

“Not exactly,” Abby said. “I was actually calling about one of my clients—a woman in her sixties, with some vision issues. But … I guess I could use a checkup, too. I haven’t gotten a new prescription for years. So. Why not? We can kill two birds with one stone.”

Dr. Cooper sounded relieved. “How does Monday morning sound? I’m booked all day, but I can squeeze you in early. Would eight o’clock be all right?”

“Perfect,” Abby said. “See you then.”



* * *



Jessica Cooper’s office was on Sixty-Third and Madison, a nice walk from where Abby worked on Sixth Avenue. The patient waiting room was spotless and sleek, with black leather furniture and bright white walls. A series of framed black-and-white photographs were hung in groups above the chairs.

The doctor was waiting for her. “My receptionist and nurse don’t come in until nine,” she said. She led Abby down a carpeted hallway into a small interior room. On one end sat a complicated ergonomic chair alongside the standard ophthalmology equipment. On the other end, a screen hung down from the ceiling, with an eye chart projected onto its surface.

“Thanks for coming in so early,” Abby said.

“No problem at all. Anything for Sara Glikman’s granddaughter.”

Abby took a seat in the chair. “Sara Auerbach,” she corrected. “How do you know my grandmother’s maiden name?”

The ophthalmologist flashed her a sheepish smile. “Believe it or not, our grandparents knew each other. Your grandmother was the one who figured it out—she recognized my grandfather from a photograph in the waiting room. That’s how she and I became so close. Your grandmother was more than just a patient to me. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even exist.”

“Oh my God,” Abby said. “Did she … was she your grandfather’s matchmaker?”