Page 36 of A Happy Catastrophe

But back to Ariana, who is now spinning out a tale of woe. “So I tell my dad this, thinking that he’ll be happy that I want to help people talk about their lives—and instead I get met with this resistance.” She makes a mean face. “Like, he doesn’t respect creativity at all.”

“Well,” I say. “I mean, if you wouldn’t mind spelling it out for me, what exactly is the creative thing you and Justin are making?”

She gives me a look of strained patience. “I told you! Videos! Podcasts! I want to give people hope, like you do. And so part of it would be just letting people tell us about the things that they believe in. Like what gives them hope.”

I can’t take my eyes off her. She has just a little dusting of rainbow glitter across her face today, and she obviously dipped her hair in purple Kool-Aid. While she talks, she’s fidgeting and spinning some of the ten different rings she’s wearing. And her eyes are glowing like crazy. I can see how her father must be out of his mind at hearing that his daughter wants to head across country with a long-haired, jeans-wearing eighteen-year-old guy with a scruffy beard and a porkpie hat and some microphones.

Then she says, “So, this is super obnoxious probably and you can say no, but do you think I could come and stay at your house? I could help you with Fritzie, and I can clean house, and I’m really quiet and my mom says it’s okay if I find someplace for a while, until my dad cools off and this blows over.”

“Oh, honey,” I say. “Of course you can.”

She lights up. “Seriously? For reals?”

“Yes. Totally. Let’s just make sure it’s for reals okay with your mom first.”

“Believe me, she’ll be grateful for the peace and quiet.”

“Is she on your side, do you think?”

“She doesn’t like to rock the boat. Last night she came in my room and said that I should just go to college and do my video thing on my own time, and that my dad wouldn’t have to know. I should go to college for the financial security it’ll bring, she said. But why should I have to go to some stupid college and hang out with kids who are drinking and doing drugs and wasting their parents’ money, just because my dad thinks that’s what I should be doing? I’ll get my degree after all this.”

So I talk to Ariana’s mother, Rebecca, on the phone, and I tell her we might need some help around the house with our eight-year-old, especially where Common Core math is concerned, as well as some afternoon pickups, and we’d love to have Ariana stay at our house.

Rebecca is filled with relief and gratitude. “Teenagers!” she says. “You think you’re going to be so good at raising them, and that you’re such cool parents, but then—bam!—the very thing you didn’t expect hits you right between the eyes!” Then she lowers her voice. “And have you heard that her friend Janelle is pregnant? We found that out by accident. It just seems that in this day and age, when they have birth control, when they have every advantage—sex education, understanding parents—no kid would have to go through this. And yet they do. I guess some things never change.” She laughs a little bit. “So if it’s not too much to ask, it would be much appreciated if you somehow forbade Ariana from getting pregnant while she’s staying at your house. We like this boyfriend of hers all right, but I’ll like him even better if they don’t get pregnant for ten more years.”

“Your mom says you can stay with us,” I say when I get off the phone. “But she’d rather you didn’t get pregnant at my house. I said I thought we could all agree that would be best.”

“My mom is unreal,” says Ariana. “Like she doesn’t even know that I don’t think I ever want to get pregnant. Janelle is, like, sick all the time, and it’s like she thought it was going to be so super glamorous or grown-up or something, and now it just sucks for her. She’s so tired and she doesn’t want to hang out anymore. I videotaped her the other day, and all she wanted to do was cry.” Then she covers her mouth with her hand. “Oooh, I shouldn’t say that because you and Patrick are trying, aren’t you? How’s that going, or is that a rude question?”

“Nothing happening so far,” I say. And then I get very busy doing paperwork, not looking up, and after a while of aimless wandering around, Ariana says she’s going home to pack up some stuff and she’ll be at my house for dinner. Is this really okay, if we start today? And do we need her to bring stuff? Should she live in the basement apartment, or sleep on the couch? Or in Fritzie’s room? Anything is fine by her, just so I know. And by the way, is it really true that we need help with Fritzie’s Common Core math problems, because if so, she is so on it.

“This is going to work out great!” are the last words she says as she disappears out the front door. Along with her she takes a whole bunch of the happy vibe of the place, and the happy vibe doesn’t come back until an hour or so later when I look up to see a man and woman holding hands and smiling at me. The place is practically iridescent with sparkles all over the place.

“Marnie?” says the woman. She has long red hair, and she is beaming. “Do you remember me? I’m Winnie.”

Of course! It’s the woman from the restaurant, and next to her, smiling goofily, is Graham, still in his fedora with the feather. “Hey, how are you guys? And how’s your mom?” I say. “Still in Florida, using alcohol to solve people’s laundry problems?”

“We’re great,” he says, flushing a little. “And—well, we wanted you to be the first to know, after our parents of course—we got engaged last night!”

Of course they did. “Oh, your mother must be so thrilled for you.”

“She’s over the moon,” he says. “Told me to thank you for spilling that wine on your skirt, or maybe none of this would have happened.”

“And shall we tell her . . . ?” asks Winnie, tipping her head up and smiling at him.

But they don’t have to tell me. I know. They’re having a baby. You can just tell sometimes. Their auras are all crazy happy. I come around the counter and hug them, and then I pick out some yellow roses for them to celebrate everything. And they say that I must come to their wedding, and please to bring Patrick, too.

Of course, of course, I say. Sometimes being a matchmaker is just the best thing there is.

“Blix?” I say, after I watch them leave. “When is something going to happen for me?”

From up around the cooler, Blix says, Just wait. Don’t freak out. Just wait. And by the way, nice work with that Ariana. College would be a waste for her right now.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PATRICK

The doorbell rings, and something about the insistent ringing sound makes Patrick shake himself loose from the painting he’s doing. This requires Anneliese to withdraw. I’m sorry, but it’s only momentarily, not for good. I am still painting what you say, he feels himself saying to her. She’s now his full-time muse, after all. Some days it’s as though she’s taken over all the rest of him, too.

Normally he has a self-protective policy of ignoring all doorbells while he’s working, but today he’s not completely settled in. He’s having trouble sleeping, is the truth of it, so he’s extra tired. At the startling sound of the doorbell, he goes over to the window and looks down at the stoop. There’s a young woman with hair that looks like it was dipped in purple ink, standing there in a thin sweater, leggings, and Ugg boots, stamping her feet and looking around her.

ack to Ariana, who is now spinning out a tale of woe. “So I tell my dad this, thinking that he’ll be happy that I want to help people talk about their lives—and instead I get met with this resistance.” She makes a mean face. “Like, he doesn’t respect creativity at all.”

“Well,” I say. “I mean, if you wouldn’t mind spelling it out for me, what exactly is the creative thing you and Justin are making?”

She gives me a look of strained patience. “I told you! Videos! Podcasts! I want to give people hope, like you do. And so part of it would be just letting people tell us about the things that they believe in. Like what gives them hope.”

I can’t take my eyes off her. She has just a little dusting of rainbow glitter across her face today, and she obviously dipped her hair in purple Kool-Aid. While she talks, she’s fidgeting and spinning some of the ten different rings she’s wearing. And her eyes are glowing like crazy. I can see how her father must be out of his mind at hearing that his daughter wants to head across country with a long-haired, jeans-wearing eighteen-year-old guy with a scruffy beard and a porkpie hat and some microphones.

Then she says, “So, this is super obnoxious probably and you can say no, but do you think I could come and stay at your house? I could help you with Fritzie, and I can clean house, and I’m really quiet and my mom says it’s okay if I find someplace for a while, until my dad cools off and this blows over.”

“Oh, honey,” I say. “Of course you can.”

She lights up. “Seriously? For reals?”

“Yes. Totally. Let’s just make sure it’s for reals okay with your mom first.”

“Believe me, she’ll be grateful for the peace and quiet.”

“Is she on your side, do you think?”

“She doesn’t like to rock the boat. Last night she came in my room and said that I should just go to college and do my video thing on my own time, and that my dad wouldn’t have to know. I should go to college for the financial security it’ll bring, she said. But why should I have to go to some stupid college and hang out with kids who are drinking and doing drugs and wasting their parents’ money, just because my dad thinks that’s what I should be doing? I’ll get my degree after all this.”

So I talk to Ariana’s mother, Rebecca, on the phone, and I tell her we might need some help around the house with our eight-year-old, especially where Common Core math is concerned, as well as some afternoon pickups, and we’d love to have Ariana stay at our house.

Rebecca is filled with relief and gratitude. “Teenagers!” she says. “You think you’re going to be so good at raising them, and that you’re such cool parents, but then—bam!—the very thing you didn’t expect hits you right between the eyes!” Then she lowers her voice. “And have you heard that her friend Janelle is pregnant? We found that out by accident. It just seems that in this day and age, when they have birth control, when they have every advantage—sex education, understanding parents—no kid would have to go through this. And yet they do. I guess some things never change.” She laughs a little bit. “So if it’s not too much to ask, it would be much appreciated if you somehow forbade Ariana from getting pregnant while she’s staying at your house. We like this boyfriend of hers all right, but I’ll like him even better if they don’t get pregnant for ten more years.”

“Your mom says you can stay with us,” I say when I get off the phone. “But she’d rather you didn’t get pregnant at my house. I said I thought we could all agree that would be best.”

“My mom is unreal,” says Ariana. “Like she doesn’t even know that I don’t think I ever want to get pregnant. Janelle is, like, sick all the time, and it’s like she thought it was going to be so super glamorous or grown-up or something, and now it just sucks for her. She’s so tired and she doesn’t want to hang out anymore. I videotaped her the other day, and all she wanted to do was cry.” Then she covers her mouth with her hand. “Oooh, I shouldn’t say that because you and Patrick are trying, aren’t you? How’s that going, or is that a rude question?”

“Nothing happening so far,” I say. And then I get very busy doing paperwork, not looking up, and after a while of aimless wandering around, Ariana says she’s going home to pack up some stuff and she’ll be at my house for dinner. Is this really okay, if we start today? And do we need her to bring stuff? Should she live in the basement apartment, or sleep on the couch? Or in Fritzie’s room? Anything is fine by her, just so I know. And by the way, is it really true that we need help with Fritzie’s Common Core math problems, because if so, she is so on it.

“This is going to work out great!” are the last words she says as she disappears out the front door. Along with her she takes a whole bunch of the happy vibe of the place, and the happy vibe doesn’t come back until an hour or so later when I look up to see a man and woman holding hands and smiling at me. The place is practically iridescent with sparkles all over the place.

“Marnie?” says the woman. She has long red hair, and she is beaming. “Do you remember me? I’m Winnie.”

Of course! It’s the woman from the restaurant, and next to her, smiling goofily, is Graham, still in his fedora with the feather. “Hey, how are you guys? And how’s your mom?” I say. “Still in Florida, using alcohol to solve people’s laundry problems?”

“We’re great,” he says, flushing a little. “And—well, we wanted you to be the first to know, after our parents of course—we got engaged last night!”

Of course they did. “Oh, your mother must be so thrilled for you.”

“She’s over the moon,” he says. “Told me to thank you for spilling that wine on your skirt, or maybe none of this would have happened.”

“And shall we tell her . . . ?” asks Winnie, tipping her head up and smiling at him.

But they don’t have to tell me. I know. They’re having a baby. You can just tell sometimes. Their auras are all crazy happy. I come around the counter and hug them, and then I pick out some yellow roses for them to celebrate everything. And they say that I must come to their wedding, and please to bring Patrick, too.

Of course, of course, I say. Sometimes being a matchmaker is just the best thing there is.

“Blix?” I say, after I watch them leave. “When is something going to happen for me?”

From up around the cooler, Blix says, Just wait. Don’t freak out. Just wait. And by the way, nice work with that Ariana. College would be a waste for her right now.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PATRICK

The doorbell rings, and something about the insistent ringing sound makes Patrick shake himself loose from the painting he’s doing. This requires Anneliese to withdraw. I’m sorry, but it’s only momentarily, not for good. I am still painting what you say, he feels himself saying to her. She’s now his full-time muse, after all. Some days it’s as though she’s taken over all the rest of him, too.

Normally he has a self-protective policy of ignoring all doorbells while he’s working, but today he’s not completely settled in. He’s having trouble sleeping, is the truth of it, so he’s extra tired. At the startling sound of the doorbell, he goes over to the window and looks down at the stoop. There’s a young woman with hair that looks like it was dipped in purple ink, standing there in a thin sweater, leggings, and Ugg boots, stamping her feet and looking around her.

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