Me for You Page 7

  The simple implications of this presence of others hit Sasha on her first night on her own. She took a taxi to a hotel, to flee from Gabor’s drunken rage, but she wanted to call someone to let them know she’d arrived safely and to say good night. She wanted to call Gabor—how stupid! This was still what she disliked most about being single.

  But as Gabor had turned to drink, his love turned to possessiveness. He wanted her home every night cooking supper. At first she liked this feeling of being needed, even if it was in a more menial than sensual way. Her husband wanted her home, with dinner on the table, the red potatoes peeled in stripes. Never peeled all the way or left with all of the skin. But pared and peeled just so, with the eyes nicked out and the nice skin left on. Sasha hadn’t minded these demands, because it was her cooking Gabor craved. Gabor was convinced he couldn’t do the potatoes himself, that not even his mother had made them so well. That gave her a sense of pride that she would define as a sort of security, albeit simple. Then Gabor’s possessiveness morphed into a sort of bossy ownership. At first this possessive behavior seemed like love, Sasha realized, but then she came to her senses, realizing it was unhealthy.

  Even though she wanted nothing but to be freed from this alcoholic, the anxiety of his drinking had been replaced with the anxiety of being alone in the world. And then came the physical pain; after their fall on the ice, her back had never been the same. One morning she was simply making her bed, snapping the Ikea comforter up and out like a sail, and the next thing she couldn’t move. She walked like a hunchbacked old man, and the MRI revealed bulging disks and a stenosis. The doctor recommended an epidural, which he did admit would be painful, but when she saw the length of the needle and felt the initial sear of pain, she fainted so quickly she didn’t experience any other sensation. The shot helped for a long while, until it didn’t and the pain came back. It was like a neighbor upstairs playing music, at first not too bad, then the bass thumping relentlessly in her back: pain, pain, pain. The pain pills dulled the discomfort, made it seem faraway, in another building . . . several streets over . . . and sometimes it even took it away. Heat, ice, heat, ice, and then the pills: at first one, and then two, with a strong cup of tea and a piece of toast with cinnamon and sugar—the way her mother had made it when she was a girl. The pain dulled, then lifted, and then went away, and with it the worry went, too.

  Suddenly she was filled with a sense of security she hadn’t known since she and Gabor were newlyweds and he’d pick her up in his arms and rub his thick bristly vegetable-brush mustache against her stomach and carry her to bed and lay her across the comforter and cover her with a blanket and run her a bath. Or was that her mother? It seemed she wanted someone to help her, to take care of her just a little bit. But things weren’t as bad as she thought, the pain pills said, as she munched her toast and sipped her tea. She had a job! She had health insurance! People knew where she was and what she was doing when she was at work. If she didn’t report to work, how long would it be before they came to look for her? She might be out cold under the kitchen table having fallen, her hair in her buttery toast. Honestly, though, she was a young, perfectly fit woman and she had girlfriends. She had a telephone, and in this country they had 911 and 411 and dial zero for operator. And even the Ask-a-Nurse line at her doctor’s office. The pain pills say this was enough.

  One night at three in the morning—that awful doldrums stretch when it was too late to be up and too early to get up—she had called the nurse to ask her if she could take the extra half tablet, and that’s when the nurse suggested warm milk and a plain ibuprofen, talking to her in a kind, soothing voice. The woman had taken down enough of Sasha’s information to suggest that she did know where Sasha was and what she was doing—drinking milk!—and not in a ditch. Not taking extra pain pills anymore. Sasha would have liked to call this Ask-a-Nurse every night to say good night.

  For that’s what she wanted more than a fancy date with a steak dinner. Those little bits of dialogue: Good morning, good night, I’m going out, I’ll be back at four, Hello, I’m home! Gabor had stopped saying these things for the most part. Stopped telling Sasha that he loved her. He had taken to grunting more than speaking. Of course, now the memory of him caring about his pared, striped potatoes and the recollection of his begging her not to divorce him were a comfort that made no sense.

  And now, Sasha suspected that Rudy was beginning to care for her more than just as a work friend. That he would truly be worried if she didn’t show up for work and hadn’t called in sick. His increasing attentiveness, their chats, made it seem as though he would know in a matter of hours if she were stranded somewhere. He would get to the bottom of things and find her!

  Perhaps Rudy would be pleased to learn that Sasha needed so little. Hello, I’m home! I’m going out for a bit! Good morning, good night. A hug. A kiss. That’s all, really. No diamonds or cars or furs. Maybe a little lovemaking and a big pot of soup on Sundays, with bread baked and rolled in cornmeal with big slabs of real butter. Yet it seemed to her that most men didn’t understand this. They made a woman wanting to be with them seem like such a death sentence. They didn’t realize there were many women, such as Sasha, who wanted her partner’s shoes by the door as much as anything. It was the implicitness of another—that solace in knowing you weren’t alone.

  Her mother used to say that Sasha had attachment issues. (Her father was the softy.) This from one of her mum’s hokey self-help books. No, Sasha thought. If you craved air, food, water, and a blanket, did that mean that you had attachment issues? Because, for Sasha, these longings were as fundamental as oxygen.

  She thought back to her mother’s words: “You have a deep need to feel loved,” she said, as though this were a medical diagnosis. To be loved, Sasha thought. A simple need, really. Shoes by the door. A thing missing in her life that was simple when you got right down to it, yet frustratingly unattainable, especially if you didn’t want to go on x Internet coffee dates in y weeks. Sasha seemed alone in thinking this was a ridiculous algebraic approach to romance.

  9

  Since their food-court lunch, Rudy had not been able to stop thinking about Sasha. It had been a nice date, right? A date! It had felt easy, simple, and yet it filled Rudy with anticipation. He kept having half visions of their future dates. Real restaurants with white tablecloths, the reflections of tea candles in wineglasses. But then Rudy made the mistake of telling CeCe about Sasha, his enthusiasm clearly unnerving his daughter. She declared that it was too soon and sudden for Rudy to start seeing one woman exclusively. Since when was CeCe an expert on dating? In a flash, CeCe was at his laptop at the breakfast bar, building him a profile on Match.com.

  “This is great. This means you can start braving more coffee dates,” his daughter gushed. Rudy couldn’t imagine from where she’d gleaned this knowledge of Internet dating sites. Her divorced girlfriends?

  “Getting to know Sasha has not been sudden,” Rudy protested. He pulled a stool up to the breakfast bar, nervously peering over his daughter’s hunched shoulders as her fingers flew and clacked over the computer keys, as though she were booking an international flight and seat assignments. “It happened over the course of many months and started as a true friendship—”

  “Well, one person, without meeting anyone else . . . I don’t know. My friend Sandra told me you really should meet a number of people.”

  “Why don’t I just go on The Dating Game?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Exactly.”

  While entering this world was Rudy’s worst nightmare, caving in to his daughter’s frenzied idea, letting her continue to tap away, was easier than arguing, and perhaps even letting her down. He was a crap widower. He sighed so heavily, CeCe stopped typing to ask if he needed a few aspirin.

  “There’s no medicine for dread,” Rudy replied, hoping he wasn’t exuding self-pity.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get this set up, and if you don’t like it, we’ll change it later.” CeCe patted h
is leg.

  “What are your passions?”

  Sasha, he thought. “Opera,” he answered.

  CeCe scrunched up her freckled nose. “A little nerdy?”

  “Plebe.”

  She frowned at the computer. “What about hiking?”

  Rudy couldn’t help notice how his daughter looked like her mother—the heart shape that her face formed with its small, rounded chin, with a tiny dimple.

  “Bird-watching!” CeCe exclaimed, as if that were any less nerdy than opera.

  “I have a club for that.” Rudy imagined the satisfying feeling of ticking off the species on his Audubon card as he crackled through the dry brush—pine siskins and Tweety Bird yellow warblers. “And I hardly want to advertise being a bird-nerd!” Not that anyone would read this, Rudy knew. He would take it down as soon as CeCe left the house.

  “Okay, opera,” CeCe conceded.

  It was “opera” that led Rudy to his first Internet date after all. Before he had a chance to take down the profile, replies flooded in and he found himself, at his daughter’s insistence, off to meet a strange woman at a hotel bar near the airport. (Weird choice. Warning sign?) He lamented that he was too embarrassed to tell Sasha about this first-in-his-lifetime event. Certainly they’d have a laugh about it. Even though they’d only had one lunch—a daytime excursion!—Rudy felt like he was betraying Sasha. But he hadn’t even told her about the profile.

  When he arrived at the bar, Rudy waited a full twelve minutes, then became convinced, with joy, that he’d been stood up. It was the great childhood feeling of a snow day from school or perhaps a prize won on a game show.

  This woman, Barbara, was an opera buff three years Rudy’s senior, according to her profile (he certainly didn’t mind that—but it had creeped him out how young some of these bald old men expected their dates to be). Rudy hadn’t exactly been dreading the rendezvous, because their online discussion of opera had made Barbara sound like a potentially good show companion, at least. He had tired of attending the performances alone. Dressing up, driving to the city, eating a little something, taking his seat. And worst of all: watching some couple’s bored college son whom Rudy despised for taking Bethany’s seat. He was also a bit mortified by going alone. At first he even wore his wedding ring. But perhaps Barbara would change all that. Even if they didn’t hit it off romantically, they might become opera partners? He’d rather take Sasha.

  Another five minutes. He ordered a club soda, and tasted the metallic soda tap in the bubbles as he looked around the room. Potted palms, brass railings, too-thin flowered carpet, the faint odor of pine cleaner. Another few minutes waiting and Rudy could ditch this joint. He glanced around the bar. The only other person occupying a stool was a woman in her mid to late seventies, with hair that was stacked like bluish-pink cotton candy atop her head.

  She had her back to him, laughing and waving a hand at something the bartender had said. She wore a brightly colored suit—with a loud pattern of hot pink, lighter pink, and lime-green flowers—white stockings, and hot pink shoes. The color combination was like that of a petit four.

  Suddenly, she turned to face Rudy. “Rudolph?” she said in a tremulous but teasing voice.

  Be cheerful, Rudy thought. He had no idea what was going on here, but there was no need for the irritation he felt. He smiled wearily.

  Barbara didn’t look dressed so much as upholstered. Something about the fabric of her suit—it was a suit as far as he could tell—made her seem like a sofa that should have matching Laura Ashley draperies with a valance. Well, he heard Bethany’s voice chide him, who is it that knows the words Laura Ashley and valance? Hmm?

  “Hullo.” Rudy gave the little bow of his head that he gave passersby at the piano at work, then politely shook her delicate onion-skin hand. He took a seat beside her and abandoned his club soda for a gin and tonic with two limes. Maybe the summery drink would do something about his perspiring. And the limes might clear out the pine cleaner and mildew in his nostrils.

  “How nice to meet you.” Barbara’s voice was soft-spoken and playful, but a bit gravelly. An ozone-crippling quantity of hairspray caused her hair and head to move in unison. Rudy had the urge to share this detail with Sasha. Barbara’s eyes were somewhat hard to find, nestled as they were between what seemed to be a lot of wrinkles for fifty-seven. A life full of laughter and smiles—Rudy tried to find the bright side. He was terrible at guessing ages, and he hated to be ageist, but upon a close-up look, Barbara had to be over seventy.

  “Any trouble finding the place?” she trilled.

  “None at all.” Rudy tried to brighten his demeanor as he gazed around the hotel bar. He had honored whatever choice a woman would make—probably based on safety and comfort level. Perhaps she lived in the city and this was equidistant. The place certainly was dark and dank compared to Barbara’s garden-party getup. Her suit was adorned with big faux pearl buttons circled with gold. She wore a matching double string of pearls, as well as a lime-green scarf that covered her neck right up to her chin. Rudy wondered if her head, so stiff as she turned from side to side, might be sewed on. Mean! Bethany chided. We women hate our necks after forty. After thirty-five! Everything but Barbara’s hands and face were covered, despite the warm temperature outside.

  Barbara giggled. “Say, my friends call me Babs. I was named after Ms. Streisand.”

  Rudy thought Babs was awfully close in age to Ms. Streisand to be named after her. In fact, Babs looked quite a bit younger, at least on-screen. No matter. Barbara was a stocky woman. Not heavy, but solid. Rudy felt shallow for being disappointed in her ankles, nobby and thick, her feet disappearing into low pumps that were surprisingly . . . geriatric. She was festive, Rudy had to give her that. Almost like a float in a parade. Her nails were painted the same hot pink as her shoes.

  “You know,” she said, placing a bumpy, age-speckled hand over Rudy’s on the bar, “you sly dog—you look remarkably young for a man your age. Wanting to date a seventy-seven-year-old woman! I assume it’s our shared love for the opera!”

  Rudy choked on a bit of the pulp from his lime. It slid sideways down the wrong pipe, burning his throat, sending him into a coughing fit. “Opera!” he agreed, his eyes watering. “Opera!” He nodded his head ferociously, not wanting to hurt Barbara’s feelings with the confession that he’d had no idea that she was more than twenty years his senior. Something between him and CeCe and the dating site had gone terribly wrong. Calm down, he heard Bethany say. Live in the moment.

  What the hell, they had three drinks each, nibbling at not-very-good club sandwiches, drinking their alcohol more leisurely as the evening progressed, sharing their stories of being widowed when they were younger. They launched into an ebullient, detailed discussion of their favorite operas.

  “Oh,” Barbara sighed. “None of my friends enjoy the opera. At least, none of my friends who are still alive.” She looked woefully at her drink, a sidecar, then excused herself for a trip to powder her nose.

  When she returned from the restroom, she’d newly applied a streak of bright pink lipstick. Oh! A smudge of the lipstick had found its way outside the lines of her mouth. Her thick foundation creased like rainwater on clay.

  The booze loosened Rudy into an open-minded reverie. As much as he wouldn’t mind a friendship with an older woman who shared his love of opera and who was kind and outgoing, he wanted to share everything he loved with Sasha. Barbara was great, but she deserved a gentleman her own age to escort her on special outings. Still, he didn’t have the heart to suggest this. Vexed, he shooed away a fly hovering by his unfinished sandwich. The bartender cleared away their plates.

  “This has been nice.” Rudy patted his lips with his napkin. “We both have season tickets, perhaps we could work it out so we don’t have to go to the opera alone every time.”

  “Yes,” Barbara agreed, fanning herself with a cardboard coaster. “Let’s agree to go once, and then I think you need to find a young lady closer to your age.”


  Rudy did not share the fact that he hadn’t known about their age disparity before their meeting.

  Barbara finished her drink, chewed the cherry. “I just wander those crazy dating sites—even the seniors’ one!—searching for opera lovers. I adore opera. I have no one to go with.”

  “You can’t talk about it on the ride home,” Rudy agreed. “And going out to dinner beforehand. Who wants to do that alone?”

  Babs nodded enthusiastically.

  “Marriage of Figaro?” Rudy asked. “I think I can get us two tickets together.” Maybe he could buy the couple’s insolent son’s ticket. If it worked out, they might be relieved to unload the seat. The tickets were expensive.

  Rudy couldn’t wait to tell CeCe about this. He’d obeyed her orders, kept up the profile, gone on a date, and would go on another to the opera. With a lovely grandma. So there.

  Rudy’s sympathy for Barbara softened him. They were both in the same boat, weren’t they? Lonesome. Looking for love. Sure, but also companionship.

  “I can get you a discount at Nordstrom,” Rudy was surprised to hear himself say. Maybe it was the gin.

  Barbara’s eyes brightened. “Really?”