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They flew in so I could meet him. Emily hasn't
been this bubbly since junior high. She's so quick
to laugh at his unfunny jokes. She's hanging on
every word, and now looks at me with a goofy glow
I haven’t seen in a long time. She catches
my eye, wanting me to see what she sees. I'm smiling.
I haven't stopped smiling since I picked them both
up at the airport.
He's a dud. Passive. Feels gloomy to me. I wonder
what his
parents are like? I hope I don't find out. What
do I say? I look at her, beautiful, smart, mistaken.
She thinks his passivity is sweetness. She thinks
his gloom is depth. I know this, I know this too
well.
Can I say get rid of him? Of course I can say it.
She'll be furious, dig herself in, defend her poor
misunderstood man. Then she's at war with me, something
she knows too well. She'll love him more, the object
of my derision. Did my mother bite her tongue?
Some things have changed. My mother would have
served pot roast. I made a wonderful African stew,
with a peanut butter and cumin sauce over couscous.
The loser likes it. Emily's too nervous to eat.
What’s she saying? She doesn't want a ring.
It's a silly, expensive ritual. Does she remember
that's what I told her, when she wondered why I
didn't wear a diamond? Take something from him,
Emmy. It's the last thing you'll ever get.
She was always such a funny one around presents.
Sweet and easily satisfied. I worried she'd be disappointed,
but she never was. Really. Till she was about nine,
she wanted to be given surprise gifts. As she got
older, she'd give me a short list of tapes, and
then CD's, only three or four titles. We'd try to
think up something additional, something extravagant.
Some years we could, a bicycle, her own phone, but
how many bicycles does a child need? I'd get her
some extra books or clothes. She'd be pleased. Not
effusive, but I knew they pleased her. She was so
easily pleased.
How could Emily not recognize the signs of despair?
Limited eye contact, flat voice pattern. What do
I say? What do I tell her? He seems nice. Nice is
a clue. Nice is not what you want to hear. She knows
me, nice is not enough. No Mom, what do you really
think? Then what do I say?
"You remind me of Emily's father." Is
that warning enough?
"Really, you think so?" She pauses. "Maybe
a little. I think they would have liked each other."
Two root vegetables in the same row.
"My dad was a really sweet man. Very mellow,
calm."
I leave the room. It's a better choice than throwing
the couscous across the table.
At her age I didn't understand about depression.
Angst was sexy until it went on, forever. Years
of analysis then humanistic psychotherapy, Gestalt,
hypnosis, and acupuncture. Elavil, Tofranil, desiprimine,
of course Prozac with it's over cooked broccoli
effect. Then ll the MAO inhibitors which eliminates
wine, soy sauce and adult cheeses from a diet. Tinkering
with the dosages; spiking it with lithium, Ritalin,
thyroid hormone; take half in the morning, half
after supper, take it all before bed. He tried,
each new solution a moment of hope, then back into
his shroud. It wasn't until I was forty-six, twenty-three
years after our wedding, that I said aloud to him,
to myself, to our therapist, "This isn't changing.
This is it."
Why'd it take me so long?
I made banana pudding for dessert. It's wrong.
Too much like the couscous. I must have wanted the
comfort of not having to chew. My daughter wants
to marry a man who won't look her in the eye.
I used to ride the subway and watch couples. It
wasn't the smooching couples I envied, it was the
couples who watched each other, nodded while they
listened and smiled. I'd move away so I could watch
them more boldly. The stories being told weren't
important, though one time I couldn't budge away
from a young punk couple, both dressed in leather
and chains, he with a green Mohawk and she with
spiked blue hair saying, "I'll buy something
for dinner, but could you pick up a new sponge for
the mop. The kitchen's grossing me out."
Each time I saw a couple laughing together, I'd
resolve to leave my husband. But the resolve evaporated
when I'd get home, surrounded by the familiar and
comforting. It was on the subway, the perfect place
to eavesdrop, that I realized it's not all men who
don't smile. It was a revelation. How could I have
not known this for so many years?
I have some biscotti, the crunch is good with this
banana mush. I carry them back into the dining room
on a tray with bowls and spoons. They've both turned
their chairs toward each other. They are touching
fingertips and staring into each other’s eyes,
alternately nodding as the other speaks in fragments.
My own eyes tear up, just like I'm watching a couple
on the subway. They don't see me and I realize that
he's shy and I'm formidable. What has she told him?
His smile widens as he takes away one hand to push
her hair back, just like I used to do. I notice
he's got a gap between his two front teeth. She's
got a soft smile. I haven't seen her so at ease
since I watched her sleep. Her Dad would have wanted
to see this. He would have wanted to know she was
happy.
"She's found her one," I tell him silently.
"She won't relive our demons."
I watch him rub her neck.
"I hope you're happier, too."
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