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“No. I just . . . well, wait a second. Are you two getting divorced? Because that might be something you’d think about before you get all involved with another man, you know.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think maybe you and I are thinking of different things. I’m seeing dating as something that’d just be for fun. You know. Dates. Dinner. Movies. Outings.”
“I hear all the time that dating is awful. Like, seriously, ninety-three out of a hundred people will tell you it’s horrible, ridiculous, painful, and excruciating.”
“Not if you haven’t done it in forty years.”
“I think it doesn’t exactly improve with age. And people expect it to lead to . . . well, sex. Maybe love.”
“Oh, you,” she says. “I think you’re being naive. People can have little nonsexual dalliances. And that’s what I want: some fun. And if I fall in love—well then, I’ll make some necessary changes. It’s really not something I’m deciding right now. Did I mention to you that your father hasn’t noticed any haircut of mine in five years? Does that sound even slightly acceptable to you? I could use a little bit of matchmaking help.”
“Mom.”
“Millie. Can’t you call me Millie?”
“I’m trying. It’s just that I don’t really see you as somebody who needs matchmaking. Not even if Dad never mentions another haircut of yours in your whole life. And by the way, if you need him to notice, I think you should tell him. You don’t leave a man for not mentioning a haircut. I’m sorry if that—”
“It’s not just the haircuts. You know that,” she says. “I need more out of my life.” She stops walking, so I do, too. She’s standing there on the sidewalk, with her hair all fluffed up and her eyes full of sadness, and she looks like somebody that anyone could love. Full of the dickens, really. My mother, I realize, is actually cute.
“I’m invisible to him,” she says sadly. “He doesn’t even see me, much less appreciate anything about me anymore.”
“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry you feel that way.”
“Which is why I feel like I need a fling. A little one. So how do you do this matchmaking bit, anyway? Is it always about making people fall in love with each other?”
“Making them? No. You can’t make people do anything, in my experience.”
“Well, that’s for damn sure! So—then what? You see these sparkles around a person, and then how do you find the person they match up to?”
I sigh. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but when I read your energy, what I see is that deep down you’re in love with Dad.”
“You may be reading an old edition of me. The updated edition is available online.”
“Really? You don’t think you still love him?”
“Let me put it this way: I’m completely exasperated with him.”
“Well, but don’t you think exasperation can mean love, too? Love doesn’t always dance around in its bright party dress, you know. Sometimes it means you’re working on stuff with the person. I think as long as you’re not completely indifferent to him, then I’m pretty sure it’s still love.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I told you: I want a fling. I need to be seen by somebody before I get too old to care anymore.”
I brush back a piece of her blonde hair that’s blowing onto her face. “Can you . . . not? Can you remember that you love him and try to work it out? He still loves you. I’m sure of that.”
“I don’t think I even know what love is anymore. And I’m quite sure he doesn’t.”
“Jeez, Mom. You had forty years with the guy and about a hundred million dinners and breakfasts. You have two kids, two grandkids, a paid-off mortgage, traditions—”
She draws herself up. “Listen, you don’t have to help me if you don’t want to. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself,” she says.
That night, after Patrick and I have gotten Fritzie and Mister Swoony tucked into bed, telling her more times than ever just how much we love her, and after Patrick has eaten his dinner in silence and then slouched off to the studio, my mom and I sit down in front of the computer. She wants me to look at her dating profile.
I groan.
“I just want you to look at it,” she says. “You don’t have to participate or change anything. Ariana’s helping me with all that. Just let’s see if anybody has answered me.”
Naturally she has some prospects.
There’s Hiram Putnam who is eighty-one and would love to meet a nice “young gal” and he hopes she’ll click on him. He has just a couple of tiny health problems, but he sees himself square-dancing well into the 2020s. “God bless him,” says my mother.
Then there’s Joseph Cranston, who posts a picture of himself smiling into the camera in his bathroom mirror. He likes walks on the beach and values a sense of humor and a woman who is “fit.”
“Red flag! Fit means skinny,” I say. I have heard some things around Best Buds about the code words. “You don’t want to go out with a guy who thinks that way.”
“But I am skinny,” says my mom, which is true.
“Yes, but you don’t want that to be the thing he cares most about, do you? Monitoring your ice cream consumption? Counting your calories? Also, the bathroom mirror photo is a real turn-off. Shows a kind of cheapness. Or at the very least in this case, an ugly bathroom.”
“You’re tough,” she says, patting my arm, “which is why I need you here with me.”
Elliott Chase is an attorney whose wife died in a car crash five months ago.
“Too soon,” I tell her.
“But he’s handsome. Maybe he needs cheering up.”
“Not your job. Nope, nope, nope.”
“God, you’re tough. If you ever lose Patrick, I don’t see how you’re going to get another one, not with these standards.”
“I’m not losing Patrick,” I say.
She’s scrolling through more prospects, not looking at me. And that’s when it hits me, like a blow to the stomach: Wait a minute, I am losing Patrick. I may have already lost him. I think of how he looked at me so grudgingly when he shuffled off to his studio after dinner, and how unmoved he is when I talk to him, and how he can’t wait each day to go back over there. To be all alone. I’m the one who forces the Conjugal Visits. Who tries to make things okay for him.
But he’s gone.
There’s an ache already spreading through me, skittering across my nerve endings.
“While we’re on that topic,” my mom says, “if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you ever marry this guy? It’s not like you to not want to get things in writing.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Well, do you love him?” She types something on the keyboard. A checkmark.
“Yes. Yes! I do love him.”
“Do you? Then get married to him, why don’t you? Frankly, you and Patrick might as well be married, with the way you’re living. He’s vulnerable and sweet, and you want a baby, and you’re raising Fritzie and apparently a couple of teenagers, too, so I don’t see what the hell the difference is. Maybe it would make him happy.”
o;No. I just . . . well, wait a second. Are you two getting divorced? Because that might be something you’d think about before you get all involved with another man, you know.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think maybe you and I are thinking of different things. I’m seeing dating as something that’d just be for fun. You know. Dates. Dinner. Movies. Outings.”
“I hear all the time that dating is awful. Like, seriously, ninety-three out of a hundred people will tell you it’s horrible, ridiculous, painful, and excruciating.”
“Not if you haven’t done it in forty years.”
“I think it doesn’t exactly improve with age. And people expect it to lead to . . . well, sex. Maybe love.”
“Oh, you,” she says. “I think you’re being naive. People can have little nonsexual dalliances. And that’s what I want: some fun. And if I fall in love—well then, I’ll make some necessary changes. It’s really not something I’m deciding right now. Did I mention to you that your father hasn’t noticed any haircut of mine in five years? Does that sound even slightly acceptable to you? I could use a little bit of matchmaking help.”
“Mom.”
“Millie. Can’t you call me Millie?”
“I’m trying. It’s just that I don’t really see you as somebody who needs matchmaking. Not even if Dad never mentions another haircut of yours in your whole life. And by the way, if you need him to notice, I think you should tell him. You don’t leave a man for not mentioning a haircut. I’m sorry if that—”
“It’s not just the haircuts. You know that,” she says. “I need more out of my life.” She stops walking, so I do, too. She’s standing there on the sidewalk, with her hair all fluffed up and her eyes full of sadness, and she looks like somebody that anyone could love. Full of the dickens, really. My mother, I realize, is actually cute.
“I’m invisible to him,” she says sadly. “He doesn’t even see me, much less appreciate anything about me anymore.”
“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry you feel that way.”
“Which is why I feel like I need a fling. A little one. So how do you do this matchmaking bit, anyway? Is it always about making people fall in love with each other?”
“Making them? No. You can’t make people do anything, in my experience.”
“Well, that’s for damn sure! So—then what? You see these sparkles around a person, and then how do you find the person they match up to?”
I sigh. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but when I read your energy, what I see is that deep down you’re in love with Dad.”
“You may be reading an old edition of me. The updated edition is available online.”
“Really? You don’t think you still love him?”
“Let me put it this way: I’m completely exasperated with him.”
“Well, but don’t you think exasperation can mean love, too? Love doesn’t always dance around in its bright party dress, you know. Sometimes it means you’re working on stuff with the person. I think as long as you’re not completely indifferent to him, then I’m pretty sure it’s still love.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I told you: I want a fling. I need to be seen by somebody before I get too old to care anymore.”
I brush back a piece of her blonde hair that’s blowing onto her face. “Can you . . . not? Can you remember that you love him and try to work it out? He still loves you. I’m sure of that.”
“I don’t think I even know what love is anymore. And I’m quite sure he doesn’t.”
“Jeez, Mom. You had forty years with the guy and about a hundred million dinners and breakfasts. You have two kids, two grandkids, a paid-off mortgage, traditions—”
She draws herself up. “Listen, you don’t have to help me if you don’t want to. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself,” she says.
That night, after Patrick and I have gotten Fritzie and Mister Swoony tucked into bed, telling her more times than ever just how much we love her, and after Patrick has eaten his dinner in silence and then slouched off to the studio, my mom and I sit down in front of the computer. She wants me to look at her dating profile.
I groan.
“I just want you to look at it,” she says. “You don’t have to participate or change anything. Ariana’s helping me with all that. Just let’s see if anybody has answered me.”
Naturally she has some prospects.
There’s Hiram Putnam who is eighty-one and would love to meet a nice “young gal” and he hopes she’ll click on him. He has just a couple of tiny health problems, but he sees himself square-dancing well into the 2020s. “God bless him,” says my mother.
Then there’s Joseph Cranston, who posts a picture of himself smiling into the camera in his bathroom mirror. He likes walks on the beach and values a sense of humor and a woman who is “fit.”
“Red flag! Fit means skinny,” I say. I have heard some things around Best Buds about the code words. “You don’t want to go out with a guy who thinks that way.”
“But I am skinny,” says my mom, which is true.
“Yes, but you don’t want that to be the thing he cares most about, do you? Monitoring your ice cream consumption? Counting your calories? Also, the bathroom mirror photo is a real turn-off. Shows a kind of cheapness. Or at the very least in this case, an ugly bathroom.”
“You’re tough,” she says, patting my arm, “which is why I need you here with me.”
Elliott Chase is an attorney whose wife died in a car crash five months ago.
“Too soon,” I tell her.
“But he’s handsome. Maybe he needs cheering up.”
“Not your job. Nope, nope, nope.”
“God, you’re tough. If you ever lose Patrick, I don’t see how you’re going to get another one, not with these standards.”
“I’m not losing Patrick,” I say.
She’s scrolling through more prospects, not looking at me. And that’s when it hits me, like a blow to the stomach: Wait a minute, I am losing Patrick. I may have already lost him. I think of how he looked at me so grudgingly when he shuffled off to his studio after dinner, and how unmoved he is when I talk to him, and how he can’t wait each day to go back over there. To be all alone. I’m the one who forces the Conjugal Visits. Who tries to make things okay for him.
But he’s gone.
There’s an ache already spreading through me, skittering across my nerve endings.
“While we’re on that topic,” my mom says, “if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you ever marry this guy? It’s not like you to not want to get things in writing.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Well, do you love him?” She types something on the keyboard. A checkmark.
“Yes. Yes! I do love him.”
“Do you? Then get married to him, why don’t you? Frankly, you and Patrick might as well be married, with the way you’re living. He’s vulnerable and sweet, and you want a baby, and you’re raising Fritzie and apparently a couple of teenagers, too, so I don’t see what the hell the difference is. Maybe it would make him happy.”
