Page 83 of A Happy Catastrophe

I shiver, suddenly aroused by him, and he feels it, and smiles.

“Um, we’ll get to that in a minute,” he says. “A couple more things you need to know. I never stopped loving you. I just stopped feeling like my love could make you happy. But I’m ready to feel pleasure in things again. I’d like to sign up for a few remedial courses from the happiness genius. And—” He sucks in his breath, waits a beat, and then says, “Well, maybe I’m a big idiot to mention this now, when it’s so soon, but I’m thinking I’d like to tell Tessa I want to keep Fritzie full-time. Would you . . . want to be here with me for that? I mean, could we raise her together, do you think?”

I turn to look at his eyes. They are holding mine, like this is the most important question ever.

“You really think we could keep her?” I say.

“I think Tessa would be only too happy to have that be the case. I know this is going to feel like a complete reversal for me, but I’m ready for a family. I don’t think I can give her up at this point. And I think I want the whole nine yards—the boppers and the sippies and the stroller and the . . .”

“Fritzie is too old for a sippy cup.”

“I know,” he says. “Funny you should mention that. Because there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” He turns me around gently now so I’m facing him. I can see his Adam’s apple going up and down. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes so hard that I can’t look away. His beautiful, luminous face—the face I’ve missed so much—brings tears to my eyes.

“This is the thing I want to tell you,” he says. “I love you, Marnie MacGraw, and I want to spend my life with you, and I want us to have a baby. But seeing as we can’t have our own DNA do that little trick for us, I have another plan.” He swallows, closes his eyes. “Sooo I talked to Janelle . . .”

I can barely breathe. “Janelle,” I say.

“Yes, and she wants to give us her baby in an open adoption—that is, if you want to do that,” he says. “She and I have talked about it, and we’ve already got somebody in mind who can help us draw up the papers—that is, if you agree. This is all a big shock, I know, and maybe you want to think about it. We have some time. Her baby isn’t due until May . . .” He goes on for a bit about the legality and how he came to this decision, and what it might mean for Janelle and what it would mean for us. But my head is spinning, and all my thoughts are so loud that I can’t take in all this extraneous stuff because I’m thinking, I am going to be the mother of a baby. Patrick and I are going to have a baby.

He finally stops talking because I’m crying so hard and hugging him, and he puts his forehead against mine and we stare into each other’s eyes, except we’re so close it looks like he has one giant eyeball. One giant, all-seeing, all-knowing, unblinking eyeball.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, unable to stop crying and unable to pull away and blow my nose, so my whole face is ridiculously gross.

“Are you sure?” he whispers back. “Because I also think we should make ourselves official and get married . . . if we’re going to have all these children, you know.”

“But, Patrick, there’s just one thing that makes us not quite the perfect fit,” I say. I wipe my nose on the washcloth.

He groans. “Name it. Please.”

“Perhaps you’re not aware that I’m going to need a wedding that has actual people attending it.”

“I want that,” he says, so quickly that I laugh.

“And not just a ceremony at city hall. I want a wedding on our rooftop.”

“Yes.”

“With guests. And lots of different kinds of cakes.”

“All the people we want who can fit on our rooftop. Or, wait, would you rather hold it at Yankee Stadium?”

“Our rooftop will be sufficient.”

“And how many cakes? A hundred?”

“Just sixteen. I want sixteen cakes, and I want everybody we know to come and dance with us. Will you dance?”

“I will dance. Can one of the cakes be a banana cream pie, and that’s the one you and I will eat together after everyone has gone?”

“Are you serious? Because I am very, very serious about this.”

He shrugs. “As long as we’re dreaming, I didn’t think it would hurt to get in there that I want banana cream pie, too. With a little bride and groom standing in the whipped cream.”

“Well, sure. I want them up to their knees in whipped cream.”

He kisses me for a long time. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Can we adjourn this official meeting and get on with the important stuff in our bed right this second?”

Indeed, he says, we can. He thought I’d never ask.

And, well, after the important stuff—which, believe me, could not have waited thirty more seconds—well, we lie together, my head on his shoulder, until very late, talking about babies and little girls and what it’s going to feel like to cuddle our daughters—our daughters, plural!—and we talk about everything we can think of. The big stuff and the little stuff, down to what kind of stroller makes the most sense and which of us should make the Saturday morning pancakes, and at some point we’re so tired and delirious that the words all flow together, and then we get so tired we can’t even form sentences anymore, and I fall asleep hearing my heart calling out into the darkness, and being answered back: yes yes yes yes.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MARNIE

Blix told me over and over again that I was going to have a big, big life.

I never knew what that meant, of course. Was I supposed to be working at the United Nations or becoming an ambassador to some third world country? Was I meant to join the space program? Perform miracles? What the heck would be considered big?

All I ever wanted, I told her, was a husband and children, a house, some bikes and strollers in the front hall, maybe some mittens I’d knit when I learned how. That didn’t sound like a life anybody might describe with even one big—much less two.

But now—well, now I know what a big life is. It’s a feeling more than a thing. You don’t have to go up in space or even stand on a big stage or run for office. It can be something as small as seeing shimmers in the air and convincing two strangers they need to get to know each other. And it can be as routine as a man rubbing your toes in a claw-foot bathtub, a child drawing pictures at the kitchen table, and a baby girl sleeping on your chest. Throw in some music playing in the background, the sound of people walking by in the street, and the fragrance of a Thursday night meat loaf in the oven—and that’s about all the miracles I need.

It’s a year later, and I guess I should explain what’s happened.

Fritzie was delighted when we asked if she’d like to live with us full-time, and armed with the knowledge that we were doing the right thing for everybody, we easily worked out details with Tessa and Richard, who decided they wanted to stay in Europe for another year anyway before coming back to the States. She’ll go visit them, and they’re making arrangements to come and stay with us for a week sometime soon. Patrick says they’ve unwittingly become part of my plan to turn everybody I know into one big, happy family, and that I won’t be content until I have all my loved ones under one roof for every single holiday.

ver, suddenly aroused by him, and he feels it, and smiles.

“Um, we’ll get to that in a minute,” he says. “A couple more things you need to know. I never stopped loving you. I just stopped feeling like my love could make you happy. But I’m ready to feel pleasure in things again. I’d like to sign up for a few remedial courses from the happiness genius. And—” He sucks in his breath, waits a beat, and then says, “Well, maybe I’m a big idiot to mention this now, when it’s so soon, but I’m thinking I’d like to tell Tessa I want to keep Fritzie full-time. Would you . . . want to be here with me for that? I mean, could we raise her together, do you think?”

I turn to look at his eyes. They are holding mine, like this is the most important question ever.

“You really think we could keep her?” I say.

“I think Tessa would be only too happy to have that be the case. I know this is going to feel like a complete reversal for me, but I’m ready for a family. I don’t think I can give her up at this point. And I think I want the whole nine yards—the boppers and the sippies and the stroller and the . . .”

“Fritzie is too old for a sippy cup.”

“I know,” he says. “Funny you should mention that. Because there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” He turns me around gently now so I’m facing him. I can see his Adam’s apple going up and down. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes so hard that I can’t look away. His beautiful, luminous face—the face I’ve missed so much—brings tears to my eyes.

“This is the thing I want to tell you,” he says. “I love you, Marnie MacGraw, and I want to spend my life with you, and I want us to have a baby. But seeing as we can’t have our own DNA do that little trick for us, I have another plan.” He swallows, closes his eyes. “Sooo I talked to Janelle . . .”

I can barely breathe. “Janelle,” I say.

“Yes, and she wants to give us her baby in an open adoption—that is, if you want to do that,” he says. “She and I have talked about it, and we’ve already got somebody in mind who can help us draw up the papers—that is, if you agree. This is all a big shock, I know, and maybe you want to think about it. We have some time. Her baby isn’t due until May . . .” He goes on for a bit about the legality and how he came to this decision, and what it might mean for Janelle and what it would mean for us. But my head is spinning, and all my thoughts are so loud that I can’t take in all this extraneous stuff because I’m thinking, I am going to be the mother of a baby. Patrick and I are going to have a baby.

He finally stops talking because I’m crying so hard and hugging him, and he puts his forehead against mine and we stare into each other’s eyes, except we’re so close it looks like he has one giant eyeball. One giant, all-seeing, all-knowing, unblinking eyeball.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, unable to stop crying and unable to pull away and blow my nose, so my whole face is ridiculously gross.

“Are you sure?” he whispers back. “Because I also think we should make ourselves official and get married . . . if we’re going to have all these children, you know.”

“But, Patrick, there’s just one thing that makes us not quite the perfect fit,” I say. I wipe my nose on the washcloth.

He groans. “Name it. Please.”

“Perhaps you’re not aware that I’m going to need a wedding that has actual people attending it.”

“I want that,” he says, so quickly that I laugh.

“And not just a ceremony at city hall. I want a wedding on our rooftop.”

“Yes.”

“With guests. And lots of different kinds of cakes.”

“All the people we want who can fit on our rooftop. Or, wait, would you rather hold it at Yankee Stadium?”

“Our rooftop will be sufficient.”

“And how many cakes? A hundred?”

“Just sixteen. I want sixteen cakes, and I want everybody we know to come and dance with us. Will you dance?”

“I will dance. Can one of the cakes be a banana cream pie, and that’s the one you and I will eat together after everyone has gone?”

“Are you serious? Because I am very, very serious about this.”

He shrugs. “As long as we’re dreaming, I didn’t think it would hurt to get in there that I want banana cream pie, too. With a little bride and groom standing in the whipped cream.”

“Well, sure. I want them up to their knees in whipped cream.”

He kisses me for a long time. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Can we adjourn this official meeting and get on with the important stuff in our bed right this second?”

Indeed, he says, we can. He thought I’d never ask.

And, well, after the important stuff—which, believe me, could not have waited thirty more seconds—well, we lie together, my head on his shoulder, until very late, talking about babies and little girls and what it’s going to feel like to cuddle our daughters—our daughters, plural!—and we talk about everything we can think of. The big stuff and the little stuff, down to what kind of stroller makes the most sense and which of us should make the Saturday morning pancakes, and at some point we’re so tired and delirious that the words all flow together, and then we get so tired we can’t even form sentences anymore, and I fall asleep hearing my heart calling out into the darkness, and being answered back: yes yes yes yes.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MARNIE

Blix told me over and over again that I was going to have a big, big life.

I never knew what that meant, of course. Was I supposed to be working at the United Nations or becoming an ambassador to some third world country? Was I meant to join the space program? Perform miracles? What the heck would be considered big?

All I ever wanted, I told her, was a husband and children, a house, some bikes and strollers in the front hall, maybe some mittens I’d knit when I learned how. That didn’t sound like a life anybody might describe with even one big—much less two.

But now—well, now I know what a big life is. It’s a feeling more than a thing. You don’t have to go up in space or even stand on a big stage or run for office. It can be something as small as seeing shimmers in the air and convincing two strangers they need to get to know each other. And it can be as routine as a man rubbing your toes in a claw-foot bathtub, a child drawing pictures at the kitchen table, and a baby girl sleeping on your chest. Throw in some music playing in the background, the sound of people walking by in the street, and the fragrance of a Thursday night meat loaf in the oven—and that’s about all the miracles I need.

It’s a year later, and I guess I should explain what’s happened.

Fritzie was delighted when we asked if she’d like to live with us full-time, and armed with the knowledge that we were doing the right thing for everybody, we easily worked out details with Tessa and Richard, who decided they wanted to stay in Europe for another year anyway before coming back to the States. She’ll go visit them, and they’re making arrangements to come and stay with us for a week sometime soon. Patrick says they’ve unwittingly become part of my plan to turn everybody I know into one big, happy family, and that I won’t be content until I have all my loved ones under one roof for every single holiday.

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