How Do You Know? Page 3

  His face despondent, Doug frowns and slowly shakes his head. “No. I can’t say I am. But I guess you are?”

  The waitress has placed a few of our dishes on the table, and I absently shove a stuffed date in my mouth. It might as well be dirt. Knowing it’s too late to seamlessly change the subject, I dip my chin downward. “I think I’m feeling stressed about getting older and wondering if I should be more settled by now.” I face Doug again. “I always thought I’d be married and finished having kids at this stage of my life. Forty seemed so old when I was younger, and here it is—looming.”

  Doug takes a long sip of his drink. “Do you want to get married, Mags? You drop the subject whenever I bring it up.”

  “I do want to get married. And that’s what concerns me. Why do I keep changing the subject? Why is it I’m living with such an amazing man who loves me so much, and yet I don’t have a secret stash of Bride Magazine under our bed like most girls who’ve been living with their boyfriends for two years?”

  “You mean you don’t?” Doug jokes.

  I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood, but I know this won’t end well. “I worry if this…” I point at him, and then at me. “If you and me are right, I shouldn’t have these doubts.” I see the sadness in Doug’s eyes and fight the urge to stab myself with a fork for hurting him.

  He scratches his head. “What do you want to do about it? Do you want to break up?”

  I sit up straight in my chair. “No.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how to respond to this, Maggie.”

  “I don’t want to break up,” I say as an alternative solution percolates in my mind. “But a time-out might not be a bad idea. Maybe I should take the next year to figure out what I want so I can have all of my ducks in a row by the time I turn forty. That way, I’ll be sure.” I wonder why I didn’t think of this earlier. It’s a fabulous idea.

  When Doug jerks his head back at my suggestion, I have a feeling it means he doesn’t think it’s fabulous at all. Keeping his stare on me, he says, “Let me get this straight. You want to take a year hiatus to decide what you want to do about us. And I’m supposed to wait to see what you decide?”

  It seemed like a good idea in my head, but when he puts it that way, it sounds really one-sided. “If I take time now to confirm my wavering is simply me being stupid and not based on something solid, we can move forward free of doubts.”

  “What about what I want?” Doug asks.

  “What do you want?” I whisper.

  “I want you to be sure about us now. I want to pretend this conversation never happened.”

  I nod. “Let’s do that.” I raise my glass and clink it against his. “Cheers.” I smile even as I feel tears brimming in my eyes. There is no way we can erase this conversation from our memories, unless he is Jim Carrey and I am Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and we both know it.

  Doug shakes his head. “If only it was that easy.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Doug stands up, and for a second, I think he is going to walk out on me. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  I watch his back as he walks away. When I can’t see him anymore, I reach into my bag and pull out the two Excedrin I always keep in my purse in case of a headache. I swallow the pills down with my Cava and grimace as the fizz from the drink burns my throat. Afterwards, I stare at the uneaten plates of food on the table. What a waste. When I look up, Doug is walking toward me with watery eyes. He sits down without saying anything. I am about to break the silence with some stupid joke when he says, “I love you, Maggie.”

  “I love you too,” I say, meaning it.

  “But you’re not in love with me.” He doesn’t ask it as much as state it as fact.

  “I am in love with you, Doug. I just—”

  “You just what?” he interrupts, sounding angry.

  I whisper, “I worry it’s not enough.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth.

  “I think we should break up, Maggie.”

  My body involuntarily jerks at his words, and I grip the table for support. “You mean permanently or a temporary break?”

  “It’s been three years, Maggie. If you’re not sure I’m the one by now, chances are I’m not. I don’t want to waste more of your time.” He pauses. “Or mine. I’ll hunt for a new apartment.”

  I swallow back my tears. This is not how I imagined the night would unfold. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Doug gives a slight shake of his head. “I’m sure I don’t want to do this. But I’m also sure I have to. I’ll stay with Connor tonight and pack up some of my stuff while you’re at your mom’s tomorrow night.”

  I try to imagine my family’s reaction to hearing Doug and I broke up, and that he moved out to live with his older brother. I can’t. I’m pretty certain my own reaction will be delayed since I currently feel like this is happening to someone else.

  Doug continues speaking. “I’ll take care of the bill. You should get out of here.”

  “I can’t let you pay for all of this.” I point at the uneaten food. “I ruined my birthday, and now you’re going to pay for it?”

  Doug drops his credit card on the table. “Your birthday was Tuesday so, no, you didn’t ruin it. But you did break my heart.”

  “Doug…”

  Not meeting my gaze, he says, “Just go, Maggie.”

  I stand up but linger. I don’t want it to end this way.

  “Please, Maggie. Go.”

  And so I leave.

  I barely feel my feet touch the ground as I weave my way through the crowded bar. When I reach the exit, I turn around and contemplate running back to Doug to tell him it was all a big mistake. A tear drops onto my cheek, and I wipe it away as I momentarily observe the happy people drinking at the bar. There are several groups of female friends gabbing amongst themselves while stealing surreptitious glances towards the handful of guys at the bar. Unfortunately for them, most of the men appear to be on dates. I wonder if any of them will break up before the night is over, like Doug and me. Since I have no idea what I would say to Doug if I went back to the table, or if I even want to say anything at all, I turn around and walk out onto 10th Street. A cab immediately stops in front of the restaurant, almost like Doug personally phoned in the request to get me as far away from him as possible, as soon as possible. I step into the cab, say, “Twenty-seventh and third,” and shut the door. Then I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes.

  Later that night, after I go through the motions of getting ready for bed—change out of my clothes, wash my face and brush my teeth—as if the night is no different than any other, I slip between the crisp eight-hundred thread count sheets Doug and I splurged on at Bed Bath & Beyond and bring the upper sheet to my chin despite it being eighty-five degrees outside. I take a deep inhale expecting to smell Doug, but since I put on clean sheets that morning, his scent has been completely washed away.

  When my eyes open the next morning, my body feels cold despite it being the height of summer. I flip over and move closer to Doug, whose skin is always warm. But I’m alone in the bed. As the events of the night before come back to me, I bury myself under my covers and weep until the alert of a text message entices me to come out from hiding. My heart beats rapidly, wondering if it’s Doug saying he’s changed his mind.

  It’s Cheryl. She’s asking when I’m planning to arrive at my mom’s house for dinner. She’s hoping to get there around five and wants to make sure she won’t have to wait around without me there. I completely forgot about the dinner. Funny how only a few days prior, I was so excited for lamb chops and an evening with my family, and now I’d almost prefer to go to the gynecologist. Almost. I would definitely prefer to go to the dentist, though, and that says something.

  I’m going to have to explain Doug’s absence, and I’m
not sure they’ll understand. I debate making up some excuse as to why Doug can’t make it, but my family is well aware of my lack of talent in the lying department. I text back to Cheryl that I will try to be there as close to five as possible. We love our mothers, but their endless questions about our personal lives are easier to take when we team up, and the distraction of Cheryl’s children is never enough. They are completely capable of asking how Cheryl’s husband’s business is doing, and if the recession has affected the garment district while painting little Cady’s toenails. And they have no problem asking when Doug is going to pop the question while helping three-year-old Michael create a plane with Legos. I am positive they’ve already discussed the possibility of Doug proposing on my birthday as they had the year before and even the year before that, and they’re hoping for the big announcement tonight. They will get a big announcement, all right, but it won’t be the one they expect.

  I make myself a cup of coffee with the Keurig Doug had insisted we buy instead of spending money getting my daily coffee at Starbucks. As I bring the hot cup to my mouth and inhale the hazelnut aroma, I recall with fondness the many times over the years Doug did the leg work to save us money because I was too comfortable with the status quo or just too lazy to switch cable and internet providers or apply for credit cards that give rewards for spending. But I was the one who planned our vacations, scoped out new restaurants, and was his personal director of recreation. We made a good team and with one confession of doubt, we are over. It doesn’t feel real.

  I let my head rest on the table for a few moments while breathing in and out through my nose. Finally, I sit up with renewed determination. I told Doug I needed time to think and he’s given it to me. Despite his refusal to make it a temporary break, I know we’ll find our way back to each other if it’s meant to be. For now, the time I desperately need to get my ducks in a row is upon me, and I’m not going to waste it.

  I step off the train in Peekskill, a suburb about forty-five minutes outside of the city—where I grew up and where my mom still lives—and walk up the hill to the house my mom purchased after I went away to college.

  I’m cautiously optimistic my break with Doug is for the best, but I’m also not deluded regarding the persuasive powers of my family to make me doubt every single decision I make. My mother’s support is important to me, but in this instance, I’m craving Cheryl’s reassurance I did the right thing by being honest with Doug about my concerns. I know she loves Doug and would be ecstatic if the two of us tied the knot and started a family, but even more than that, I know she loves me and wants me to be happy. If my happiness doesn’t coincide with letting things play out with Doug, she will support our break (or breakup) wholeheartedly. I want to get her alone and in my corner before I spill my guts to my mom and Aunt Helen, but I know the likelihood of getting Cheryl into the bathroom for a pow-wow before my mom asks Doug’s whereabouts is pretty much impossible. I’m going to be on my own.

  I knock on the door, my heart slamming against my chest. Even the inviting smell of potato soufflé with cooked onions wafting onto the front porch does nothing to wipe away my apprehension over facing my family as a single, thirty-nine-year-old woman.

  The door opens, and my mom’s smiling face beams at me across the threshold. She opens her arms and brings me into her fold. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She kisses me on the cheek, no doubt leaving a hot pink stain in the shape of her lips.

  I squeeze her back and hold tight. “Thanks, Mom,” I say into her strawberry-scented hair before stepping into the house. I wave at Aunt Helen as she stuffs a cracker with chopped liver into her mouth.

  My mom peeks over my shoulder. “Where’s Doug?”

  Totally prepared to tell my mother I will explain later, I blurt out, “He’s not feeling well. He wanted me to send his apologies and begged me to bring home a doggie platter.” Without taking a breath, I continue with my lies. “Don’t blame him. I insisted he rest and avoid the germs he’d face on the train.” I simper. “We might have partied a bit too hard last night for my birthday.” I push past my mom and walk farther into the house, willing my pulse to stop racing. I don’t recognize the lying alien who has taken control of my body. As I make my way to Aunt Helen, I announce, “More food for us.”

  While hugging Aunt Helen, I browse the room, noting the box of Legos and Dr. Seuss books. Cheryl had obviously been there at some point, but there is no sign of her now. Aunt Helen, who bears a strong resemblance to my mother with short hair colored ash-blond straight from a bottle of Clairol, light blue eyes matching mine, and a stocky body, gives me a kiss before releasing me. “Happy Birthday, honey. How does it feel to have only one year left of your thirties?”

  I offer a fake smile. I hate when people say things that are obviously of a sensitive nature in the guise of being funny or helpful—something my aunt is famous for. Experience has taught me not to complain about it, get defensive, or even acknowledge being offended because it will only encourage more of the same. “Feels fine, thanks. Where are Cheryl and the kids?”

  At that, the front door opens, and Cady and Michael race toward me with Cheryl following behind with a bag of groceries. Cheryl’s shoulder-length, dark-chocolate hair shows no trace of gray, her subtle makeup application is flawless—emphasizing her almond-shaped brown eyes—and her black skinny pants and zebra-printed cashmere sweater fit her slender figure perfectly. She could easily pass for a wealthy housewife of New York whose children are raised by a nanny while she lunches with the Junior League. In reality, she works a full-time job as a certified medical assistant on top of caring for a husband and two young children. Unlike me, she didn’t go through an awkward phase in middle school complete with braces and zits on her chin. Her natural beauty is one of the many reasons I idolized her growing up.

  “Hi Aunt Maggie,” Cady says, throwing her chubby arms around my legs. Michael stands back and waves shyly. “Hi Aunt Maggie,” he says.

  I’m technically their cousin, but when Cheryl and I were teenagers, we decided our children would refer to us as Aunt Maggie or Aunt Cheryl respectively. Only time will tell if anyone will call Cheryl “Aunt,” since that is dependent on whether anyone will call me “Mommy.” I lean down and kiss Cady’s hair. Like my mother’s, her hair smells like strawberries. I walk over to Michael with Cady still attached to my leg and ruffle his hair. “Hi there, buddy boy. Been discovered by Hollywood yet?”

  Blushing, Michael shakes his body from side to side. “No,” he says shyly. I peep over his head at Cheryl and give her a knowing smile. With his doe eyes, olive complexion, and thick head of chestnut hair, Michael is the spitting image of Cheryl and breathtakingly gorgeous. Cady, on the other hand, looks freakishly similar to her aunt Maggie with strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Cady’s delivery took twenty-nine hours and, according to Cheryl, it was the most horrifyingly painful experience of her life. When people comment on Cady’s likeness to me, Cheryl often jokes, “She’s definitely mine, and if she’s not, I want those twenty-nine hours back.”

  I give Cheryl a kiss on the cheek and a light hug. “Hey,” I say and follow her into the kitchen where she drops the groceries on the counter.

  “Happy Birthday, Magpie. Where’s Doug?”

  “Sick.” I lift the layer of aluminum foil off a platter and take a peek at my mom’s noodle casserole. “Where’s Jim?”

  “Working. I’m starving. Dinner almost ready?”

  I stifle a giggle. Cheryl and I are all about the food.

  My mother walks into the kitchen and lights the stove. “Hold your horses. I’m heating up the soup now.”

  I wonder if other families regularly eat soup for dinner in the summer. Not gazpacho, vichyssoise, or cold cucumber soups as seen on many New York City restaurant week menus, but my mother’s specialty, hot matzo ball soup. It doesn’t matter if it’s one hundred and six degrees outside, the air conditioner is blasting, and the
guests are wearing next to nothing, if my mother is making dinner, matzo ball soup will be on the menu, especially if we’re celebrating a birthday.

  Hoping to avoid an extended one-on-one conversation with Cheryl within earshot of my mother and Aunt Helen, I waste some time finding an available outlet to charge my phone and then go to the bathroom. A few minutes later, I’m sitting at the dinner table, all of us in our usual spots: my niece and nephew on either side of me, and Cheryl directly across.

  “Did your father call to wish you a happy birthday?” my mom asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised that deadbeat even remembers your birthday,” Aunt Helen mutters into her soup.

  “He sent me a card too,” I say loudly. Aunt Helen helped nurse my mother’s broken heart after the divorce, and her hatred of my father does not appear to have waned at all in the last thirty years. I’m not prone to defend my father, whose role in my life has been one step above that of an anonymous sperm donor, but I don’t like when Aunt Helen disparages him in front of me. He’s still my dad. Therapy in my twenties enabled me to overcome my daddy issues and accept his paternal limitations. Mostly.

  My mom smiles at me across the table. “How is he?” Unlike her sister, my mother encourages me to nourish the limited relationship I have with my father despite their past.

  “Same old. He mentioned something about a possible business trip to New York later this year.” I use air quotes when I say “business trip,” because the details on how my father makes a living are sketchy. My gut tells me I’m better off not knowing.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Cheryl asks.

  I shrug, staring down at my bowl of soup. “Five or six years ago.” My gaze meets hers briefly, and I see the pity in her chocolate eyes. Growing up, Cheryl was right there with me each time my father cancelled plans or stood me up. I wasted hours staring out the window waiting for his car to pull up the driveway, and it was Cheryl’s shoulder I cried on when I didn’t want to burden my mother with my grief.