And he sighed and said, “What can I say? It will require nothing of me.”
But it is not Henry on the phone. It’s John.
“Hi!” Irene says, so pleased to hear his voice. “How are you?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Actually, I’m lying down.”
“Even better.”
Oh, she thinks.
She takes in a breath, then says, brightly, “You’re getting married. Are you getting married?”
“I am. I guess it’s kind of sudden, but I’m not getting any younger. And anyway, it runs in the family these days, right?”
“Well. Congratulations.” Very quietly, she clears her throat.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“You mean about your getting married? Of course I am. I’m happy for you.”
She thinks she knows exactly what he looks like, right now. Like a little kid wondering if he’s in trouble. His eyebrows furrowed, his cowlick standing at attention.
“Really, I am,” she says.
“Things good with you and Jeffrey?”
“Uh-huh.” No. After a month with him, she’s back to being a computer jockey. But no need to spoil this moment for John. She hesitates, then says, “I had a dream about you last night.”
“Tell me, but don’t expect me to interpret it.”
“It was really strange. I was moving all over the country, and everywhere I went, I kept seeing you. Once I was driving down a road somewhere in the mountains; they were very high mountains and a truck passed me on the other side of the road. It was a flatbed, really long, carrying lumber, and you were sitting at the end of the flatbed, next to a red caution flag. Although you weren’t being very cautious, sitting there that way, your legs dangling down. And you were so young, you were young again, you had black hair and that mustache you used to have. And I was struck by how young you were and I looked in the mirror to see if I was young, too, but I wasn’t. I was even older than I am now. I had all these wrinkles, like a really old lady.”
John is quiet, and then he says, “You’re not so old, yet. And it’s time to throw caution to the wind.”
“You’re interpreting after all.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Did you tell Sadie, yet, about getting married?”
“No, I wanted to tell you first. She’ll be a little sad, I think. You know how kids always kind of fantasize that their parents will get back together.”
“Yes. They do.”
“I’m a little sad, too.”
Irene laughs. “I know. But mostly you’re happy. And mostly I am, too. And Sadie will be.”
“She’ll need a little time.”
“Probably so.”
“But you’ll be there to help her.”
“You will be, too, John. As you always have been.”
“Is she as happy as she sounds?”
“She seems to be. She really does. She loves college, she loves being married. I had them over for dinner last night, Huguette, too. We tested a bunch of new recipes: Tater Tot meat loaf got an A, all around. An A-plus from Ron, actually.”
“Irene? I want to ask you something. Amy and I are getting married in three weeks. I want Sadie to come.”
“Of course!”
“Okay. Well, I guess …” He falls silent, and she tightens her grip on the phone, holding back the feeling she knows is imminent for her, too.
“I’m going to hang up, now,” he says.
“I know.” Here it comes. Her throat begins to ache.
“You knew I was going to hang up?”
“I know it’s hard for you to tell me this. But I really am happy for you, John.”
“Thank you … Irene.”
His voice is so soft now, overly familiar in a way that tears at her. She hangs up and sits still for a moment, then goes to her closet and takes down her wedding album. She looks through it again, and then she wraps it up tighter in the little blanket she used for Sadie when she was a newborn, and puts it back on the high shelf.
She turns the computer on, waits for it to boot up. On her desk, she has framed a picture of a cowgirl that Valerie affixed to a birthday present she gave her many years ago, knowing that Irene loved cowgirls, that she used to want to be one. The woman is rosy-cheeked, clear-eyed, and curly-haired, whirling a lasso over her head in order to catch whatever it is she’s after. Irene studies the way the woman stands up in her stirrups, leaning into the wind. Then she gently takes the frame apart, careful not to tear the thin paper of the picture. She lays it on her bed, goes to the closet, gets down her wedding album, and brings it to the bed. Stuck between the last two pages is the picture of the little wooden house she’d told John about, isolated, buried in snowdrifts. She meant to ball that picture up and throw it away. But now she finds she cannot do it. There is a truth in it, a history of her and John that she regrets but wants nonetheless to honor. So she puts the picture of the little house back in the album, beneath a sheet of plastic, so it won’t fall out again. But she also positions the picture of the cowgirl next to the house as though she’s riding purposefully away from it.
She stares at the image, the cowgirl in her brown boots and blue skirt, her red blouse with the sleeves rolled up, her black hat tipped back far on her head, her intention fierce in her eyes.
Irene shuts her computer off. She moves to the chair in the corner of her bedroom. She puts her hands on her knees and closes her eyes and tries to empty her mind. Valerie told her recently that she does this every day: sits in silence, her mind empty, waiting for the spirit to come. “Sometimes it happens; sometimes it doesn’t,” she told Irene. “But it’s always good for me to think of nothing, that way.”
Irene waits. She does not think of nothing. She thinks of how her catering company will have the best mashed potatoes on earth. She thinks of how she needs coffee. She thinks of the blouses she needs to pick up at the cleaners, the bills she needs to pay. She thinks of how she will fly Ron out to Minnesota to John’s wedding, if he’d like to go. It might be nice for him to see the place where Sadie was born. And then she remembers a conversation she and Valerie had after one of Irene’s many breakups. Valerie had said that maybe Irene should take a little breather from trying to find someone, maybe she needed to do something else. “Like what?” Irene had said. “Love is the answer. Didn’t you pay attention in hippie school?”
“Love is the answer,” Valerie had said. “But sometimes love isn’t what you think it is. Sometimes, it’s … I don’t know, for you? For you, I think love is a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I mean that it doesn’t have to be so hard, Irene. Look closer.
“Remember how I always used to have that E. M. Forster quote taped to my computer? For so many years, I looked at those words every day: Only connect. But then I thought, No. Only connect presumes something on someone else’s part. It creates an expectation, a need to get something back from someone else. And what does that set you up for? I also used to think the idea of nonattachment was bullshit. Was wrong. But now I see the wisdom of it. You put something out for your own sake, instead of having everything rest on what you get in exchange. So I changed Only connect to Only love.”
“Yeah, I don’t do so well with love,” Irene had said.
“You don’t do so well with marriage,” Valerie had said. “I don’t think you’ve even begun to realize all there is for you to love. And I know you better than anyone, and here’s what I know about you: You have so much love to give! But I feel like you’re all the time digging in the tomato bin, saying, ‘Where are the apples?’ ”
Irene sits longer. She closes her eyes tighter, breathes in more deeply.
The spirit does not come. Joy does not come. Illumination does not. But something does. Irene goes to the window and looks out onto the street, down at the people walking below. Some walk purposefully, sure of where they are going. Some walk aimlessly, in no hurry to get anywhere. Others are frankly lost. She goes for her keys, then heads out the d
oor to join them.
Acknowledgments
My thanks, as always, to my editor, Kate Medina, to whom this book is dedicated. Her encouragement and support began in 1992 and has never wavered. I also want to thank others who do such good work on my behalf at Random House: Lindsey Schwoeri, Beth Pearson, Ashley Gratz-Collier, and Barbara Fillon.
At William Morris Endeavor, I am indebted to Suzanne Gluck and her assistants Caroline Donofrio and Mina Shaghaghi. Thanks also to Alicia Gordon in movieland; Cathryn Summerhayes in the U.K.; Laura Bonner, who handles foreign rights; and Claudia Ballard, who takes care of me and the magazines.
Many friends lent a hand in writing this book: Ross Mitchell talked to me about the complex feelings of children diagnosed with cancer, Jeff Appleman explained certain legalities involved with kidnapping, and John Rupp, my friend since we were eighteen years old, served as a model for John Marsh’s love of architecture, restoration, and the beautiful city of St. Paul, Minnesota. Elizabeth Cox convinced me of the value of sitting in silence. My writing group provided valuable support and insight, as always: champagne cocktails for Veronica Chapa, Arlene Manlinowski, Pam Todd, and Michele Weldon. Also, they were an appreciative audience to my chicken show, soon to be reprised, though in a safer venue. Finally, a huge thank-you to Phyllis Florin, who reads things for me practically every day of the week and never, ever lies.
About the Author
ELIZABETH BERG is the author of many bestselling novels, including The Last Time I Saw You, Home Safe, The Year of Pleasures, and Dream When You’re Feeling Blue, as well as two collections of short stories and two works of nonfiction. Open House was an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Durable Goods and Joy School were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, Talk Before Sleep was short-listed for an ABBY Award. Berg adapted The Pull of the Moon into a play. She has been honored by both the Boston Public Library and the Chicago Public Library and is a popular speaker at venues around the country. Her work has been translated into twenty-seven languages. She lives near Chicago.
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Elizabeth Berg, Once Upon a Time, There Was You
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