“Oh?”
“Yes. I usually run the stretch from Oak Street Beach to Belmont, and so I actually recognized you before you came in.”
“Really?” His notice makes me stand a little taller, but also take a step back. Guess I do stand out from the other Lululemon-ponytail-swinging thirty-somethings out there after all, if Eric could distinguish me from the rest. “So now who’s stalking who here?”
He shrugs and gives a shy smile. “Coffee?”
With my bookstore latte kicking in and remembering my self-reflection mission and not wanting to journal in public (baby steps), I shake my head. “No, thanks. I just wanted to let you know about the scone, which I just did, but now I better get some work done.”
He nods, keeping eye contact. “Got it. Thanks for the review.”
“Anytime.” I wave goodbye and head home, surprised to feel a bit of a blush coming on. It’s stupid since he probably wasn’t flirting. He thinks I’m engaged after all. Plus, he owns the coffeehouse where I’m a customer, so he needs to be friendly. Suddenly, his coffee with a question mark reveals itself for what it was—wanting to sell me a cup of coffee, not an invitation to have coffee with him. What I thought was flirtation was really only small talk; but the takeaway here is that I’m still attracted to the opposite sex even though one wronged me in the worst way. Perhaps there’s still hope for me yet.
BEFORE I GET down to the business of confronting my existential crisis, I need to confront dealing with my mother. I can’t avoid her forever. After my brief email yesterday, she responded with a million voicemails, texts, and emails, and I really need to let her see me so that hopefully she can stop worrying. My parents offered to come downtown to take me out to dinner, but I said I had plans tonight (they don’t need to know it’s with a journal) and suggested I visit them at the house for lunch, a much quicker meal. Plus, I like the idea of having my getaway car.
Although I’m looking forward to lunch as much as I would a root canal, the car ride will do me good. My parents’ house is about twenty miles outside the city, and after spending most of my time cooped up in my condo, the change in scenery can only be a positive.
When I turn off on the exit at Roosevelt Road, I make my way through the western burbs until I reach their house, an imposing red brick colonial. Still feeling good about my new “rules” plan, I say to myself, I can do this, before opening up my car door and walking up the path to the front door.
I ring the doorbell and my dad opens the door. “Hi, honey,” he says, holding the door open for me.
He’s in his weekend uniform of crewneck sweater, chinos, and Rockports. The sunlight catches his hair, and I notice that it’s grayer than the light brown I remember.
“Hi, Dad.” I step inside and drop my purse on the ornate chest in the entryway.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” he says, and gives me a hug.
“Thanks. Me too.”
His wool pullover scratches my cheek but feels comforting just the same. After a second, he gives me a pat on my shoulder, conveying that he knows I’ll get through this, and we pull apart. This is the first time I’ve actually talked to my dad since the wedding has been canceled. There is no “I want to punch that guy” or any other outward signs of emotion from him, which is in keeping with his quiet nature. But contrasted with my mom’s constant concern, I’m grateful for his emotional brevity on my situation.
“Your mother is in the kitchen,” he says.
I brace myself thinking I can do this again, and then walk down the hall into the kitchen with my dad behind me.
My mom is at the sink filling a teapot.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Allison, honey.” She turns off the water and sets down the pot. She comes over to give me a hug, though it is still just more of a light touching, a semblance of a hug. “How are you doing?”
I want to say, I’m a mess, Mom. But our previous lunch and her callous advice to get couples counseling make me decide not to open any floodgates yet, and I say, “I’m doing well.”
I’m expecting her to say something about Neil and the wedding, but instead she says, “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
My dad goes off to pick up lunch from a new salad place nearby, and my mother and I carry our tea to the sunroom where we look out over the backyard. The tulips that I planted as a teenager are all in full bloom. The old trees have all their majestic foliage. There’s a hum of a lawnmower in the distance. Normally I would enjoy this peaceful suburban atmosphere, but my mom’s calm demeanor is too unnerving. When I realize the slight buzzing sound I’m hearing isn’t from insects, but is coming from my head, I blurt out, “So, what did you think of Neil’s email?”
“Rude. So rude.” She shakes her head. “My phone was ringing off the hook, and I didn’t know what to say to people.”
“How about ‘what an asshole?’”
There’s a pause and I’m expecting her to say something like, language. Instead, she reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s okay, honey. You have other options.”
It’s an odd choice of wording, and I nod.
“Have you thought about your next steps?” she asks.
“Well, sure. I mean, now that the wedding’s canceled, I can fully focus on my job search. My resume is with recruiters right now, but I’ve also been thinking that maybe I might want to change careers.”
“Uh-huh. But what about babies, dear? You’re thirty-five and single.”
Here we go. “True, but I’ve only been single a couple weeks and I’m not exactly ready to jump back into the dating pool.”
“Of course. But when you do and when you’re ready to settle down again, you might be thirty-eight or thirty-nine.”
I squirm in my seat. My dad seems to be taking a long time to get lunch.
“Thanks for that reminder.” Way to kick me when I’m down, Mom.
She sets down her tea and looks at me, “Have you thought more about freezing your eggs?”
Ah-ha! I knew something was brewing in her mind. The details of our lunch at Restoration Hardware are coming back to me. She wanted me to work it out with Neil, not because she thought we were meant to be a couple, but because she was willing to sacrifice my happiness for her getting grandchildren.
“Not recently,” I say tightly. Why would I? I was on schedule to start trying during my honeymoon.
“You should be thinking about it now. I’ve been reading about this and age is not on your side here. At thirty-two your egg count starts to decline. Then at thirty-five, it goes down even more. At thirty-seven it decreases again. And the longer you wait, the fewer eggs you have.”
While I’m well aware of this, the timing of this conversation is insensitive on so many levels. “It’s also really expensive, and I’m currently unemployed,” I say. “So thank you for your concern, but I need to table this issue at the moment.”
She sits up straighter and leans forward, her eyes sparkling. “If it’s the expense that’s stopping you, then don’t worry about that. Your father and I would pay. You wouldn’t let us contribute to the wedding, so let us do this.”